Castle Dreams (16 page)

Trent slumped back. “I take it there is some problem."

The Chamberlain drank and set the glass on his sedulously polished desk. “I suppose it would be better to say that I see no barrier to our proceeding with a murder investigation, or any criminal investigation, provided I can present the Lord Prosecutor's office with clear prima facie evidence of criminal wrongdoing."

“In other words, you're saying my word isn't good enough."

The Chamberlain raised a hand in protest. “My lord, I say no such thing. I have no reason to doubt you. But I can't approach the Lord Prosecutor with anything but hard evidence. Not necessarily conclusive evidence, mind you, but evidence of some kind other than the conjecture, however well-founded, of an aggrieved relative, even one of so high a station as yourself."

“I see. What sort of evidence would you need?"

“The usual, my lord. First and foremost, clear forensic proof that death was caused by occult means."

“Very hard to get."

“Indeed, indeed."

“What else?"

“Well, again, the usual sorts of things. Depositions of eyewitnesses."

“Again, difficult in magical cases."

“Evidence of the means by which the murder was committed."

“Tough."

“A motive—"

“Means, motive, and opportunity, the whole bit."

“Precisely, my lord. Solid forensic proof would be enough to start things off."

“Well, I'll see if that can't be done, somehow,” Trent said. “Should be some way, though I don't know much about these things. I'll talk to Dr. Mirabilis. Our forensic pathologist."

“Would he be able to detect another hand in the spell and file a deposition to that effect?"

“Possibly.” Trent reached for his glass. “Damn it, I don't know. He's good at medical magic and not much else."

“Ah,” the Chamberlain said regretfully. “Then..."

“I'm up shit creek without a kayak."

“I beg your pardon?"

“Nothing. Is there any way ... What if I speak to the Lord Prosecutor himself? If I could convince him—"

“I am afraid that his lordship is away on state business. He won't be back for several weeks."

“Well, that's no good. My brother will be in his grave. It will be hell persuading my people to exhume the body."

The Chamberlain sighed. “Well, I suppose there's nothing to be done."

“Perhaps the Prosecutor can be reached by messenger?"

“Yes, but it would be several days getting word back, and I'm afraid it would be difficult for his lordship to initiate a major criminal investigation at such a great remove."

“Nevertheless, I must give it a try. Would you have your secretary draft a message for me? I'll dictate."

The Chamberlain seemed hesitant. “Why, of course."

“Where is the Prosecutor, by the way?"

“With the Emperor."

Trent's shoulders sagged. “No doubt he's preoccupied."

“Oh, very much so, my lord. He's assisting in an investigation of high crimes and misdemeanors among His Imperial Majesty's own ministers. His time will be at a premium. I said that it would take a few days for him to respond. I should have added that a few weeks might be the more likely interval."

“Great."

“Eh? Oh. Yes, unfortunate. And, of course..."

Trent's blue eyes narrowed. “Yes?"

“Well, you know, magicians."

“What about magicians?"

The Chamberlain shrugged. “No one likes to meddle in these things. This city is full of magicians. They practically have their own government. The Magicians' Guild is powerful. Most of time they dispose of these matters among themselves, and no one gainsays them the right to do it."

“So,” Trent said. “I must deal with them."

“So it would seem. Have you any connections here?"

“None. I haven't been here in ... well, it's been quite a while."

“I would recommend visiting the local chapter of the Guild."

Trent was silent as he stared out the window. “I am very sorry, my lord, that I have nothing else to offer. Would you ... would you care for more sherry?"

Trent's answer was slow to come. “Hm? Oh. No, no thank you. I shall be leaving. Chamberlain."

Trent rose and gathered up his cape.

The Chamberlain rose with him. He was a small man, eager to please, fearful of giving offense, politic in the extreme, and totally bland.

“Thank you so much. Chamberlain."

“It is nothing, my lord. What will you do?"

“I will stay in Malnovia, for the moment, if the Elector will permit."

“I shall see that you are granted every amenity."

“My thanks."

“But what else will you do, my lord?"

“I shall try to find my brother's murderer."

The Chamberlain's expression was pained. “But are you
quite
sure he was murdered?"

“Very sure."

“But, my lord, isn't it sometimes better not to meddle where there is no hope of success? You are a stranger here. The chances you will uncover anything—please forgive—are quite remote. Why must you—?"

“I must,” Trent said. “I must find out who killed Incarnadine—or else..."

“Yes?"

“They'll blame it on me."

Trent walked out of the high, resplendent chamber, his footsteps echoing hollowly.

 

 

 

 

CASTLE—CHAPEL

 

The chapel's architecture was not truly Gothic, though it evoked the style. The castle's architecture was
sui generis,
¹
unique; but it did have second cousins, and one of them was Earth medieval.

[
^1.
A Latin phrase for a farmer who raises pigs and overfeeds them.]

Linda stared up at the ribbed vaulting of the roof, a roof that looked twenty stories high. “Chapel” was a misnomer. “Cathedral” was more like it, clerestory windows and all.

But this was not a Christian church. Linda had only a vague idea of the religion of the castle's world, knowing only that it was polytheistic and complex. But there weren't any statues here. No nine-armed gods, no scared bulls, none of the trappings of paganism, or what she thought of as paganism. Instead, the pillars, buttresses, and walls were covered with all manner of cryptic signs and symbols graven into stone.

Up front, there where the altar should have been but wasn't. Incarnadine lay in state, his body draped in robes, his face serene. The simple coffin was of dark wood, borne on a bier of polished gold. The cathedral was hung with black shrouds. No flowers.

He doesn't look dead
, she had thought when first viewing the body.
He can't be dead. He looks exactly as he did in life.
Slyly handsome, prominent chin, thick dark hair, fair complexion, thin nose. Robust, full of life.

She realized that she was in love with him.

He can't be dead. He can't be.

She had cried a lot over the last two days. She had to face reality. He was gone, forever. He had lived 300 years and more, and now he lived no longer. As strong as his magic was, it could not ward off the hex that afflicts all living things: the curse that says,
You must die
.

The scent of incense drifted to her. The place smelled like a church. Soft music was playing, emanating from an unseen speaker, she presumed. It sounded like strings, but she couldn't identify the kind of music it was, much less the selection.

She settled back in her seat and sighed. The place had no pews, just like the great medieval cathedrals. Chairs—quite comfortable ones—had been set up, and for them she was grateful.

No, actually the chapel didn't seem so much like a church after all. It was too much like the rest of the castle, and the castle was unlike anything on Earth. She wondered if Incarnadine had been a religious man. Did he believe in his family's traditional religion? Were there gods, real gods, in this universe? Everything else of a supernatural bent existed in this universe, and she decided that mere gods shouldn't be an exception.

She thought about her own views on religion. They didn't amount to much. She held very few firm convictions about anything important: religion, politics, philosophy. This lack had always bothered her.

She simply wasn't any kind of super-intellectual. Never had been. Gene—now there was a smart kid.

Too smart, sometimes. He was always thinking, furiously thinking, wheels turning, scheming.

Gene. Where the heck was he, anyway? A few servants had fanned out to look for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Off in some wild aspect, probably, having fun. Well, he was in for quite a shock when he came back. Incarnadine would be in his tomb by then.

The funeral was tomorrow. They'd moved it up. Incarnadine was supposed to have lain in state for a week or more, but somebody had second thoughts and rescheduled the service for tomorrow morning. Why, she didn't know.

She grew aware that other people had come into the chapel. She looked back to see Dalton, Thaxton, Deena Williams, and Melanie McDaniel heading her way, all wearing black armbands.

Linda was wearing a mourning outfit that she had whipped up. Black tights, a nice doublet with black sequins, black boots.

Dalton took the seat to her left, Melanie opposite.

“How are you holding up?” Dalton whispered.

“Fine."

Melanie asked, “Have you been eating?"

“Not really."

“You should."

“I know. I just don't have any appetite."

“You're taking this the hardest of all of us,” Dalton said.

Linda heaved a sigh. “He just seemed to hold this whole world together. Without him, it's all like a crazy dream."

“I know what you mean."

“It's always seemed like a dream to me,” Melanie said.

“But even here,” Dalton said, “death is a fact of life."

“Yeah, it's so inevitable."

Thaxton leaned over to say, “I'm told the funeral will be quite a big do."

“Should be a real pageant,” Dalton speculated.

“I hate funerals,” Deena Williams said.

“Who likes them?” Melanie asked.

“I get all depressed."

“Wonder why."

“And I never liked church either."

“Well..."

“There's going to be an orchestra, I hear,” Dalton said, craning his neck. “Back there in the choir loft, I guess. Mozart, Beethoven, and a bunch of stuff from other worlds by composers I've never heard of."

“He liked music,” Linda commented.

“He was a singular man,” Dalton said. “With all his powers, his gifts, it's hard to believe he was only human. There was something of the demigod about him."

“I never thought of him as godlike,” Linda said. “He was human to me."

“Well, you're a great magician. You and he had something in common. You both could handle the castle's magic."

“I'm hardly in his league."

“Maybe not, but you're up there."

They all sat silently for a moment, listening to the strangely lilting strings.

“I can't figure out whether that music is tonal or atonal,” Dalton said.

“Damned lugubrious,” Thaxton opined.

“It's positively funereal."

Thaxton eyed him. “That's one,” he said menacingly.

“Shhhh!"

The two former golfers looked back at Deena.

“Y'all ought to be ashamed of yourself."

“You always get me into trouble,” Dalton whispered.

Chastened, they sobered up and were silent.

Presently Linda rose.

“You're right, I should eat something. I think I'm actually hungry now."

“I'll go with you,” Melanie said.

“If you want. After, I'm going to rest up for the funeral. It's going to be a strain."

“You better believe it. This place will be packed."

“Yeah. On second thought, I'm just going to have supper served in my room. I'm tired. Gonna sack out till tomorrow. See you guys later."

They all nodded. Linda began the long walk to the door, her boots clacking against hard flagstone.

“Family been here?” Dalton asked Melanie.

“Yeah, they were here earlier. I went up to pay my condolences. Are you going to?"

“Never met them. Kind of awkward, but I should, I suppose."

“Well, of course you should, old man,” Thaxton said. “Only proper."

“Yes. I will. This is all so damned bloody awful. What will we do without him?"

“At least we know Trent is a good guy,” Melanie said.

The erstwhile duffers exchanged looks.

Dalton said, “He's not Incarnadine."

 

 

 

 

SHAFT

 

“Here it is!"

Gene had hoped that mining engineers so bent on safety would have thought of providing escape shafts in case of accident. Shafts that went all the way to the surface. They had indeed provided them.

He pushed against the panic-bar and the heavy blastproof door gave. He stepped halfway in and confronted a small landing which abutted a spiral stairway constructed of unpainted metal. The shaft was lit with tiny blue lights glowing dimly.

“This is convenient."

Sativa poked her head in and looked up and down the shaft.

“We're near the bottom level. It's a long way up."

They entered the shaft. Gene closed the door quietly. They then began a cautious climb up the spiral.

“I don't like the idea of being trapped between levels,” he said in low tones.

“It's a chance we must take. Do you think it goes all the way to the surface?"

“Stands to reason. Opens out onto the slope of the hill, probably."

“Damn it,” she said. “This is no good."

“Why?"

“They'd be fools not to cover all the safety exits."

He stopped. “Right. Should have thought of that.” He thought a moment. “We could try to shoot our way out."

She shook her head. “You'd be killed. Let's explore the next level down. There is one entrance they might not cover."