Castle Spellbound (6 page)

He decided to put it down to castle strangeness. Yes. The storeroom was located in one of the more unstable areas of the fortress, and that meant that anything could happen. The floor could disappear beneath your feet. Walls could shift and slide. And baffling, anomalous things could happen, including a room deciding to tidy itself up.

Yes, that must be it. Castle strangeness. Put it down to that and forget it. Well, he must give some thought to relocating his stash. That would be a bother, yes. But think on it he must. To say the least. In fact, moving would be the prudent thing to do in any case. But why in the name of all the gods...?

Yes, the vagaries of living in Castle Perilous. The uncertainties, the risks. He looked about him. Aye, and the rewards.

When he'd first blundered into Perilous he was shocked by the alien strangeness of the place. The stuff of legend and myth. After recovering from this initial disorientation, he began to cast his thieving eyes about for professional opportunities, for all castles worth their salt had treasure rooms. Knowing this, he looked high and low.

And had come up empty-handed. If the castle had a treasure house it had eluded Kwip completely. And well it might, for the castle was enchanted beyond his powers of comprehension, and any valuables therein would doubtless be under magical protection.

So, he had widened his search for loot into the sundry magical worlds of the castle's aspects. All this booty had come from forays into other realms, into myriad fairy kingdoms and countless enchanted lands. He had traveled far and wide and come back laden each trip. And he'd dumped the stuff here.

To what purpose, though? What would he do with it all?

He'd often asked himself that. Perhaps he simply needed something to do. Perhaps ... just to keep his hand in his trade?

No matter. Whatever the reason, stealing was his profession, the only one he knew.

Something nettled him. This damned business. He flatly didn't believe the castle theory. Someone had been in here, someone now knew of his doings. He had to find out who that person was.

But first, he had to move all the swag. A major effort. He picked up an inlaid box of trinkets and tucked it under his arm, then thought better of it and set it back down. No, he would find a new place first, then come back and begin making trips.

But what if the intruder returned? Unsettling possibility. Perhaps he went to fetch help, confederates. There was too much loot for one man. Yes, that was it. The thieves would be back in force. Well, he'd simply wait for them.

But ... what if there were too many of them?

He picked up the inlaid box again. First, get the stuff out of here, as fast as possible. Shove it all in his room in the Guest wing. Under the bed, in the wardrobe, closets, whatever. Fast.
Now
. Then ... well, then he'd think what to do next. The important thing was speed.

He put the box down yet again and began filling his pockets with the loose stuff.

Club Sheila

The party had wound down. The bartenders were washing glasses, the caterers busy cleaning scraps off the food tables. The moon hung low in the sky, hiding under drooping palms, as the night grew ever older. The big Victorian-style hotel was dark and quiet, the sound of the breaking surf muffled by a rising night breeze.

A group of castle Guests were still at it, though, sitting in lawn chairs by the pool, quietly drinking—among them Deena Williams, a black woman from Brooklyn. She was dressed in a bright orange chemise and had her hair done in an acorn cut.

Barnaby Walsh occupied the chaise next to her. Plump and pale of face, he sat raptly listening to Melanie Mc-Daniel's guitar variations on an Irish folk melody.

Everyone else was talking.

“I'm through drinkin',” Deena said, setting her Mai Tai down on the umbrella table next to her. “I'm over my limit now."

“You don't seem intoxicated,” the man everyone called M. DuQuesne told her. He was in evening dress: black tie, boiled shirt, patent leather pumps. Which wasn't unusual for him; in fact, he always dressed formally. He spoke English fluently but with a heavy accent. “What is your limit, by the way?"

“Six."

“Six Mai Tais?"

“Six of anything. Six beers, even."

“Well, it's been a nice affair. I quite enjoyed myself."

“I didn't say I didn't enjoy myself. If I have another Mai Tai, I'm gonna have to be towed back to the castle."

“No, I was just commenting, dear.” M. DuQuesne looked around. “Seems everyone has left. Almost everyone, anyway."

“I wonder what time it is, castle time. I don't feel sleepy."

DuQuesne looked at his watch. “Good reason. It's rather late in the afternoon at the castle."

“Is that all? Hell, I might as well have another drink. Waiter!"

“You haven't finished that one,” DuQuesne said, pointing.

Deena looked. “Oh.” She picked up the glass and drank.

A man with a German accent sitting next to DuQuesne said, “Perhaps you should switch to something less sweet, Deena. That is a very fancy concoction to be drinking so many of."

“I like ‘em. Can't be too sweet for me. I got a sweet tooth."

Thaxton and Dalton came walking across the tennis courts. Thaxton had to be steered a bit.

“Hey,” Deena called. “How'd your moonlight swim go?"

“Excellent,” Dalton said. “His lordship passed out on the beach."

“Didn't so much pass out, old boy, as took a bit of a nap."

“Right."

Deena asked, “Where're your lady friends?"

“Don't quite know,” Dalton said. “They seem to have left us."

“Swam away, they did,” Thaxton contended as he slumped to a deck chair. “Mermaids. Lovely sea horses. Sea mares. Farewell, farewell."

“Boy, he's flyin',” Deena said.

“He's cruising at about thirty-five thousand feet,” Dalton confirmed.

“Perfectly sober, old boy. Perfectly sober."

“Perfectly smashed,” Deena countered.

“Nonsense. By the way, can a fellow get a drink in this place?” Thaxton turned and called, “
Garçon
!"

Deena asked, “Who's this Garson guy people been callin’ all night?"

“No, my dear, that's French for—"

Deena shot daggers at DuQuesne. “It's a
joke
, stupid. Don't you think I know that?"

M. DuQuesne was somewhat flustered. “Very sorry, my dear."

“Forget it.” Deena leaned back wearily. “Uh-oh."

“What, Deena?"

“I'm turnin’ into a mean drunk. When that happens, I
gotta
stop drinkin'.” Deena set her glass aside.

“Don't worry about it,” M. DuQuesne said.

“No, no matter what time it is, I gotta get me some sleep. Hey, who's heading back to the castle?"

Melanie stopped playing. “Me. Party's just about over, looks like.” She reached for her guitar case.

“I will say good night,” the German-speaking gentleman said. He got up and walked off. “Very glad to see you all. Nice party."

“Goo’ night, Karl baby,” Deena said. “Nice talkin’ with ya, honey."

“Good night."

“Here comes old Gene,” Dalton observed.

Hands in his pockets, Gene came walking through the courts to join the group.

“Yo,” he said.

“Gene, where you been?” Deena asked. “Takin’ a moonlight swim with some new hot momma?"

“Sure.” Gene sat in one of the deck chairs.

“Where's Linda?"

“Don't know."

“Where'd she get to, anyhow? I ain't seen her in a while."

“We saw her last with Gene on the beach,” Dalton tattled.

“What? Gene, was you out there skinny dippin’ with Linda?"

Gene shook his head. “Nope. She went back to the castle a while ago."

“You was, you gonna have to answer to me."

“No such luck."

“They were wrestling in the sand,” Dalton said. “I think that's what they were doing."

“What the hell you talkin’ about? Him and
Linda
? You crazy."

“All in fun,” Gene said.

“Must be, ‘cause Linda don't fool around with nobody."

“Nope.” Gene sighed.

“She got principles."

“Yup."

“She don't go sleepin’ around."

Gene's chin sank to his chest. “Negative."

“How come you never asked me?"

Gene jerked his head up. “Huh?"

“You go takin’ after Linda. You go takin’ after everybody, this universe, that universe, boppin’ ‘em over, one, two, three, draggin’ ‘em back by the hair. And here I have to sleep alone. Shit.” Deena reached and had another go at her Mai Tai.

“Had I known—” Gene began.

“Had you known shit, fool.” Deena gave her head a quick shake. “Man, I must be flyin’ myself."

Melanie had to suppress a giggle.

“Well, I'm going to head back to the castle,” Barnaby Walsh announced.

“Don't
you
talk to me, either."

“Who's talking to you?"

Deena told everyone, “Last time he left his shoes under my bed he was wearin’ baby sneakers."

“Deena, you're smashed."

“Don't I know it. I'm gonna regret it in the mornin'."

“I'm regretting it now,” Barnaby said, getting up.

“Where's that bloody waiter?” Thaxton demanded to know.

“Is Lord Peter a mean drunk, too?” Deena asked suspiciously.

“I've never seen him drunk before,” Dalton said. “A bit tipsy, perhaps."

“I'm not drunk!” Thaxton insisted. “Where is that—? Oh, well, finally."

A white-jacketed waiter came over. “Yes, sir?"

“I'd like a bottle of your finest plonk—Chateau Fleet Street will do nicely."

“Sir, I'm afraid you've had enough for the evening."

Thaxton bristled. “I
beg
your pardon?"

“Sorry, sir. You're intoxicated and I can't serve you. Hotel policy. Insurance regulations, sir."

“Excuse me. What is your name?"

“Fenton, sir."

“Tell me this, Fenton. Are you a real flesh-and-blood human being, or are you simply part of the window dressing here?"

“Sir?"

“You know very well what I'm talking about. Are you real or are you not?"

“Well, I suppose ... not quite, sir."

“Ah. Not quite. And you—a bloody phantasm conjured out of the ether by some bloody mumbo jumbo—are presuming to tell me when and how much I can drink?"

“Sir, I am. Lady Sheila's orders, sir."

The wind spilled out of Thaxton's sails. “Blast. Oh, bugger all, get me a cup of coffee, then."

“Right away, sir.” Fenton spun on his heel and left.

Dalton regarded Thaxton archly. “Do you want me to send for the pukka boy now so you can whip him?"

“Well, he was impertinent!"

“These aren't the great days of the Raj, Thaxton, old boy."

“Never bloody said they were."

Deena cranked her tired body upward. “Come on, everybody ...
uhhh
... let's head back.” She got to her feet, teetering.

Rising, M. DuQuesne said, “Good idea."

“Let's go, Colonel-sahib,” Dalton said with a squeeze to Thaxton's shoulder.

“But my coffee—?"

“We'll drop into the dining hall for a late snack,” Dalton said, looking at his watch, “or actually tea, to be more precise. It's about five P.M. castle time."

“I could eat again,” Deena said. “Count me in."

Thaxton in tow, they all trooped into the hotel, making a ragged beeline for the elevators.

“Well, I wasn't being nasty at all, so far as I can see,” Thaxton was arguing as they all emerged from the lift and stepped into the stone stronghold of the castle keep. “Just asserting my rights."

“You were downright beastly,” Dalton scolded, “and I'm calling you on it."

“See here, that's hardly a fair characterization of the incident,” Thaxton said, the hint of a petulant whine to his voice.

“Let's drop it."

“I'm more than willing."

“This group better stay away from alcohol,” Deena said as they walked along the corridor. “You guys and booze don't mix."

“Demon rum,” Gene mused.

“Yeah, that ol’ demon'll getcha every time."

They passed through an intersecting corridor. No one saw the odd gnomish creature as it crossed behind them, broom in hand.

“Actually, I rarely drink,” Gene said. “Just on social occasions."

“I like bein’ social."

“A social drinker. Actually, I'm a socialist drinker."

Deena shot him a curious look. “What the hell's a socialist drinker?"

“One who believes in the collective ownership of the means of distillation."

“Damn, there he goes again. Talkin’ crazy."

Dalton said, “Quite a novel political concept you have there, Gene."

“Yeah, but I don't advocate the violent overthrow of the existing distillation system. That's what separates a gradualist like me from—"

Gene stopped in his tracks at the sight of the approaching apparition: a broom-bearing gnome in bib overalls. Everyone halted with him.

They all stood watching as the creature passed. It moved with a curious bobbing gait, head swaying, its misshapen eyes averted.

When it turned a corner and was gone, Deena said, “What the
hell
was that?"

Dalton rubbed his sharp chin. “You know, I've seen all manner of strange critters in this place. But there's something about that one, something odd."

“Yeah,” Barnaby Walsh said. “What do you think it was?"

“A homunculus,” Gene replied. “Horrible little malformed thing. Reminds me of a film producer I once knew."

“Dwarf, gnome,” Dalton offered.

“Hobbit?” Gene ventured. “No, its feet weren't hairy."

“No, you're right. ‘Homunculus’ is
le mot juste
."

“What's the problem?” Thaxton wanted to know. “As you said yourself, Dalton, old boy, not a day goes by when we don't see some abomination in the castle. Frightful beasties at every turn."

“But that thing is
passing
strange,” Dalton insisted.

“Wouldn't have given it a second thought if you hadn't—"

Yet another homunculus, pink and bald and dressed in blue bib overalls, turned the corner ahead and came toward them.

Dalton said, “You were saying?"