Castle Dreams (21 page)

“You sucker-punched him."

The man laughed. “It worked."

“But—” Trent had to laugh, too. He began a tour of the room, reading book spines and examining curios. Mostly there were books; stuffed shelves reached to the ceiling and blanketed the walls. It wasn't a bad collection, mostly on the occult.

An old Victrola was scratchily playing the “Moonlight."

The man said, “By the way, the name is Ruthven."

“So, Ruthven,” Trent said. “Let me guess. You do most of your business running the little con. F'rinstance, you hex a field of barley and then hoodwink the poor farmer into hiring you to ward off the evil spirits causing the blight."

“That one's older than dirt."

“Or put the kibosh on a tinker's business and sell him liability insurance, so to speak."

“Always a good one. You're right, the standard scams. I like to keep to basics. I make a fair living."

Trent gestured toward the table. “But this ...
this
, for all its primitivism, is rather ambitious."

“Yeah.” Ruthven played another card. “I want to retire soon. I don't have much money saved. I like the ladies, if you know what I mean. I like a good time. So I've been something less than prudent. Consequently, when someone at the castle came to me with a proposition, I jumped at the chance."

“Someone at the castle,” Trent mused, still strolling. As he passed by a closet he reached out and yanked the door open, and continued on.

“These are modern times, Tragg. Come out of the closet."

A timorous, worried Lord Tragg came out of his hiding place.

“It wasn't my idea!"

Ruthven chortled at that.

“No?” Trent kept on peering at book titles. “Whose, then?"

“This man!” Tragg pointed at his accomplice. “He came to me!"

“Give it up, Tragg,” Ruthven said. “You're no actor.” Tragg sniffed. “Oh, I admit I wanted Incarnadine out of the way. Our enmity goes back centuries. He's done me no end of wrong. He cuckolded me, once, long ago. My first wife."

“Doesn't sound like Inky,” Trent said. “But anyway, go on."

“Well, my wife and I weren't married at the time, but—"

“Then your terminology is a little skewed."

“But that was only one of the slights he paid me, a single instance of the wrongs that he has done me."

“I'm still listening."

“Why, he once sued my estate for back taxes that nearly ruined me!"

“And he probably never collected. He's too easy on tax dodgers and scofflaws. That's one of my beefs about Inky. But, continue, please."

“I won't recite the litany. Suffice it to say that I have ample and sufficient justification—"

“You have bupkis."

“I
beg
your pardon, sir. This coarse phraseology you tend to use is most indecorous. Really, sir!"

“Tragg, shut up."

Tragg did.

Trent circled back to the table. “So, Inky's not dead."

“He won't last long in a sealed sarcophagus,” Ruthven told him. “Takes only half an hour or so. Even if he has air, he won't last long."

“Very slick. A sleeping spell. One that induces a sleep deep enough to pass for death."

“It does pass easily enough,” Ruthven said. “There are signs to look for, tip-offs, but you have to know what they are. Most doctors would sign the death certificate without question."

“You fooled Mirabilis,” Trent said. “And he's good."

“I knew it would work,” Ruthven said. “But I wasn't sure how long it would last. With anyone else, I wouldn't have worried. But when you deal with a magician as powerful as your brother, there's every chance that he could break the spell and come out of the sleep. So I had the castle undertaker—one of Tragg's buddies—pretend he couldn't cast the preservation spell. Of course, this tipped you off—"

“WHAT!” Tragg was astounded. “You had Miron spill the beans? Of all the harebrained..."

“I
told
you,” Ruthven said irritably. “His lying in state for ten days was way too risky. He would have come to and then our gooses would have been done to a turn. I had to shorten the whole process and that was the only way to do it."

“But, letting
him
find out. That's insane!"

“Is it?” Ruthven looked at Trent. “You know, Trent, this is redounding to your benefit. You're Regent because of me. I did for you what you once tried to do for yourself. And if you stick with me, I can make you King of Perilous. Permanent."

“Do away with Brandon."

“And nobody will know. Nobody. It's a good scam, Your Excellency. I'm willing to cut you in for a piece of the action."

Trent smiled. “What about your buddy Tragg, here?"

“Tragg's about as much good to me as mammaries on a satyr."

Tragg began to turn a distinct shade of magenta.

Ruthven went on, “I was going to approach you, but I didn't know you. You're royalty and you'd hardly have deigned to team up with the likes of me. So I used Tragg as a cat's-paw."

“And you figured that when I copped to this setup I'd throw in with you."

“That's the way I figured it. Did I figure right?"

“What's in it for you?"

“Like I said, I want to retire. I want to live in Perilous. Not the castle itself, or course. Drafty old barn. I want to be set up in my own world. A nice situation. A little palace, mostly women servants, hand-picked. You get the picture. Some comfort in my old age. Everything I've ever wanted."

“I see.” Trent nodded slowly. “I see.” He took a deep breath. “Ruthven, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you. No deal."

Tragg seemed relieved.

“Mind telling me why?” Ruthven asked as he went back to his game of solitaire.

“No, not at all. If you had asked me fifty, a hundred years ago, I might have taken you up on it. But things change, people change. I no longer want the throne."

Tragg was surprised. “But in Privy Council chambers you were adamant—"

“I've been at the job two days and I'm sure I don't want it. If I'd known long ago what the job entailed I would have given up all interest then. But I didn't. I probably never really was interested. It's probably some kind of psychological quirk and very likely has something to do with my relationship with my father. But all that is entirely beside the point. I'm not going to murder Inky."

“You really disappoint me, Trent,” Ruthven said.

“You'll address me as ‘Your Royal Highness.'”

“So, sorry. But you really do. Here I thought you were a smart guy."

“I am a smart guy. I'm also a lazy guy. I like boating, swimming, and making love on the beach at night. You can have castles and dungeons and the whole bit. Not my cup of tea."

“That's too bad. We could have made a great team."

“I'm not a team player, Ruthven."

“Like I said, too bad."

“So, I'm afraid your little project is over,” Trent told him, reaching for the block of Plexiglas ... or was it Lucite?

“Not so fast,” Ruthven said. He had an enormous pistol in his hand. “I can't let you do that."

“You
must
not break the spell!” Tragg shouted.

“Why not?” Trent asked innocently, his hand poised above the curious artifact.

“If the spell is abrogated prematurely, the spirits we've evoked and compacted with will have leave to tear us to bits!"

“Sorry. That's hardly my worry."

Ruthven cocked the pistol. “I'm warning you. Hands off."

“Ruthven, you're not even a rat. You're a mouse going to rat night-school."

“Okay, my friend. You asked for it."

From the pistol there came a popping sound. Ruthven's eyes widened in utter astonishment as a rod extruded from the end of the barrel. From around it a square of cloth unfurled. On the cloth was lettering: BANG!!

“What the blazes—?"

Trent grabbed the transparent block. A loud snapping sound was heard.

Tragg gasped, “The spell!"

Trent examined the block. “It is Lucite, isn't it? You know, I ought to give this to Inky as a present next Solstice. He's a science-fiction writer. He ought to appreciate a totally worthless block of Lucite."
¹

[
^1.
Sorry, one more thing. The publisher has requested clarification of this in-joke. The comment about the block of worthless Lucite is a clear dig at the annual Nebula Awards, given by the SFWA (the Science Fiction Writers of America) for the best published science fiction of the year. The artifact itself is a transparent rectangular block in which has been suspended traces of an unspecified glittery material in a vague pinwheel configuration, thus suggesting the astronomical. That the author has never won a Nebula should not be taken as an indication that this sardonic aside results from any bitterness on his part; nor should it be taken as a comment on the frauds and scribblers who have inexplicably captured this award in years past.]

“You've done it!” Tragg shrieked. “You've killed us both! We'll die horrible deaths!"

“Well, it's a problem I have,” Trent said. “I've got sensitivity. Busy working on that. I've done pretty well with raising my consciousness, but I've got problems with compassion. I just can't seem to work any up."

The front window had darkened. Ferocious yowling came from somewhere outside. The house began to shake.

The color drained from Tragg's face. “No!"

Ruthven sat down heavily. “Boy, have I been taken to the cleaners."

“You scammed yourself,” Trent said.

Ruthven nodded ruefully.

Tragg bolted from the room.

“Don't leave the Circle!” Ruthven warned. “It'll just be worse."

But Tragg was already out the door.

The shaking increased as did the usual demonic sound effects.

“I'm not finished yet,” Ruthven said.

“Oh?"

“Now that I have power freed up..."

A hideous scream came from downstairs.

“Good luck,” Trent said on his way out the door.

 

He had to step over something very distasteful in the vestibule. It was quite a mess.

Outside, the street looked the same. The beech trees were budding. It was early spring, and the air was kind.

“It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” he said as he walked back to the main street.

 

 

 

 

CHAPEL

 

The music swelled to a crescendo, the sopranos in the chorus hitting the highest note in the symphony, the Mahler No. 2.
¹

[
^1.
Of course the second Mahler symphony bears the traditional subtitle “Music for Dead People.” Sorry. This
will
be the last footnote. Promise.]

The funeral had been going on for some time and people were getting fidgety. Nobody really understood why the musical program had to drag on so long. The music was fine, true; but there can be too much of the finer things of life....

However, that's the way the king had wanted it. His will and testament contained detailed plans for his funeral, and they were being followed to the letter.

Everyone was in attendance: the castle nobility—lords and ladies all, arrayed in their finest mourning, mostly black with a flash of color accent here and there.

The family: Incarnadine's legal wife, Zafra, unveiled and in white, and her two children, Brandon and Belicia. (Zafra was not Queen, though Incarnadine had championed her cause in chancery court. The case had been pending for twelve years. Zafra was a commoner and—well, there was no end of legal bones of contention here. Still, the marriage was licit, and Brandon was heir apparent.)

And of course, the castle Guests. There were many, including a few of questionable humanity. Costumes ran the gamut from medieval to futuristic.

The castle staff: cooks, chambermaids, footmen, valets, scullery maids, the lot.

The castle tradespeople: smiths and cordwainers and seamstresses and such.

The professionals: librarians, solicitors, physicians, and scribes.

And functionaries and bureaucrats and those sorts.

The odd unclassifiable.

They were all there. The chapel was stuffed from nave to apse, with standing-room-only in the transepts.

And of course, the priests. Seventy acolytes assisted twelve High Priests as they all sang and chanted, knelt and invoked, recited and mumbled. Clouds of incense reached the roof timbers, and galaxies of candles blazed.

It was a very elaborate affair. Very nice. The corpse looked so natural. You could hardly believe he was dead. Nice job the undertaker did, wasn't it? The music was beautiful (Is this the last movement?).

Suddenly, amidst all this pageantry, the corpse sat bolt upright.

First came a shocked silence. The orchestra played on for a few more measures—the chorus cut out first, then the choirmaster craned his head around and fell off the podium.

There began some screaming. Women, mostly. Some fainted. A few men screamed and fainted. One of the High Priests fell over backwards, knocked over two smoking braziers, causing a minor fire.

The corpse—the king—rubbed his eyes. He looked down at himself and the casket he was sitting in. Then he stared around: at the priests, at the congregation, up at the choir loft, and back to the congregation.

And he said, with considerable pique, “
Ye gods! Can't a fellow take a little nap around here?
"

 

 

 

 

GAMING HALL

 

Dalton and lord peter were at it again, at odds over a charming little endgame, one worthy of Russian chess masters. Lord Peter had castled early; Dalton had fortified himself with a Sicilian defense. It was a defensive game; and, as a pitching duel in baseball, it was academically interesting—very admirable, but not a lot of fun.

Linda was settled in a wing chair, doing cross-stitch and absently watching flames blazing in the fireplace. Seated in the chair opposite was Melanie McDaniel, stringing her guitar.