Castle Kidnapped (12 page)

He missed her, and Linda, too. Two powerful magicians, those girls.

Again, Gene felt an unfocused resentment that his powers were relatively feeble, and only came on him inside the castle. But why? What was different about his case? It wasn't fair.

He rejected that note of defeatism as well. Fair, hell. The universe—the
universes
weren't fair. If he could only summon the will, the power. He knew what he felt like when the gift was upon him. If he could re-create that feeling in himself, perhaps the power of suggestion...

Yerga's renewed attacks brought him back to the task at hand. Gene fought back strongly, gaining confidence and power with every stroke. Maybe Yerga was showing his age, or maybe it was just the fortunes of war, but the tide of battle seemed to be shifting. Yerga's smile was gone, replaced by a look of grim concern.

The mortal combat went on and on, its deadly choreography carrying them across the length and breadth of the camp. Gene's swordsmanship continued to improve, and Yerga's confidence eroded precipitously.

At length, Yerga knew he was bested, and seemed to give up except for desperate parrying and backstepping. Gene maneuvered him toward a latrine. Yerga looked behind at the last second, tried to leap backward over it. His foot slipped into the hole and he fell, slamming his head against the side of the ditch.

Gene waded into the filth of the latrine and stood over him. Yerga was out cold.

The fight was over. Now all that remained was delivering the coup de grace. Gene raised his sword.

Then lowered it. He couldn't do it, but not out of any feeling for Yerga. It was just not Gene's style.

Of course, a refusal to slit Yerga's throat might itself cause another loss of face. But he'd have to risk that.

He looked toward the mouth of the cave. Queen Vaya, the High Mistress, had been watching with regal detachment, and now she regarded Gene with questioning eyes that seemed to ask.
Why do you wait?

Gene's command of the language was still shaky, even with Zond's help. But he summoned all he knew and spoke.

“In the land of my birth, it is wrong for a man to take the life of another. I cannot do this thing. High Mistress, I beg your permission to spare my comrade-in-arms."

And he thought, Jesus, I sound like a B movie character. But, hell, I'm m a B movie! I can smell the frigging popcorn!

The High Mistress gave it some thought, then nodded, shrugging. Okay, don't kill the worthless jerk. Use him for hrunt bait, what do I give a shit.

She turned abruptly and went back into her palace.

Gene exhaled and slipped his copper sword into his belt. He fetched a waterskin and doused Yerga with its contents. Yerga's eyes fluttered, and he came to.

He sat up, disoriented, then looked around. Titters rippled through the crowd of tribespeople. Then laughter came in waves.

Yerga looked up at the victor, his eyes radiating hatred. Gene suddenly realized that killing Yerga would have been the more charitable act.

You can't fight city hall, Gene thought, and you can't change the laws of a given universe, human or otherwise.

Live and learn.

 

 

 

Desert Island

 

“Isn't there a TV game show where they ask you who you'd like to be marooned on a desert island with?"

Trent finished laying another layer of palm leaves on the roof and stepped back from his handiwork. It wasn't a proper grass hut, more of a lean-to, but it would do in a pinch, or in a light rain shower. Major precipitation would be another matter. Sooner or later they'd have to move off the beach and seek shelter in the hills. Can't live on raw shellfish and quasi-breadfruit forever.

“Maybe a parlor game,” he said. “Why?"

Sheila turned over on her stomach and bunched up a pile of leaves for use as a pillow. She was getting a terrific body tan. “Well, I can't think of anyone I'd more like to be stranded with."

“Than little ol' me?"

“Than little ol' you. Your Royal Highness, darling."

“'Nice of you to say.” He knelt and kissed the spot between her shoulder blades. “Goes double for me. Besides you, all I need is Mozart, Rachmaninoff, a little Mahler, and a couple of Stephen King books. And some good sour-mash whiskey."

“You don't need much. Are those your favorite things?"

“Well, romantic Rachmaninoff relieves classical Mozart, and Mahler makes you sober up after listening to Mozart and Rachmaninoff. You could also do a Beethoven-Chopin-Stravinsky thing. And Stephen King is always good for a yuck in the middle of the night."

“Well, King is fun, but I don't know much about classical music,” Sheila said. “Maybe we're not so compatible. I'm more at home with, you know, Billy Joel."

“He's okay, too,” Trent said. “Besides, who needs compatibility when you have great sex."

She laughed, then stretched dreamily. “You know, you were talking in your sleep last night. You woke me up."

“I wasn't sleeping."

She giggled. “Then who were you talking to?"

“Incarnadine."

Sheila sat up quickly. “What?"

“I think."

“You think? Well, were you? Can he—?"

“I didn't want to get your hopes up I think it was Incarnadine trying to contact me. Something prevented it, I don't know what. Some sort of interference. I told him our predicament. I have a feeling I didn't get through."

Sheila looked deflated. “We'll never get out of here."

“Don't despair. Something's obviously going on. When it's over, he'll get us out."

“But we're on the other side of a wild portal. How will he even know where to look?"

“There are ways. He could get a fix on us, then drive a tunnel through to this universe, pick us right up."

“He can do that?"

Trent sat down in the sand, picked up a shell. “Anything's possible in the castle. He could teleport us back to the castle. Summon us, conjure us."

Sheila was amazed. “No kidding? I was always under the impression that there was no way to travel between universes except by using the castle's portals."

“Well, for the most part, that's true. But with virtually unlimited energy, which the castle has, anything's possible. Like conjuring. I know Incarnadine can reach out and snatch things from other universes. Fetch them. He has all kinds of junk that he's filched. Strange artifacts, gizmos, art pieces, books, you name it. There's no reason he couldn't snatch a person—or two.” Trent considered it. “Unless there's some technical barrier. Maybe the spell doesn't work with live organisms.” He shook his head. “I don't know. But as I said, anything's possible."

“That makes me feel better,” Sheila said.

“Incarnadine has any number of tricks up his sleeve. He's very creative, magically speaking. So is ... was my sister Ferne."

“Did you like her?"

“Respected her, yes. Liked her?” Trent let a cascade of sand fall from the shell. “Hard to say. Beautiful she was. But infinitely crafty. And clever. The thing was, she was reckless. She'd try anything. I don't know how many spells she tried that could have blown up in her face. Some of them did. Once she tried tapping interstitial etherium."

“What's that?"

“It's energy that's stuffed into the ‘space' between the various universes. Acts as a buffer, keeps them from bumping into each other. Hard concept to grasp, really, because it's really negative energy, which suddenly reverses polarity when you—well, never mind about that. Anyway, all I know is Ferne tried it, and something hit her and knocked her across the room. Out cold."

Sheila grimaced. “Sounds dangerous."

“It was. It is. But she survived. She always does—"

Trent stared off abstractedly for a long moment.

Sheila let him brood. Presently he came back.

“Yeah. She could do a lot of things. I don't know about traveling, but she could cast spells in one universe and have them work in another."

Sheila was impressed. “That's real magic."

“She was in a league all her own. I don't know that she was as good as Incarnadine. I don't know that anyone is.” Trent threw the seashell away. “Except maybe me."

Sheila smiled. “I believe it."

“Thanks. Actually, at the risk of sounding immodest, when you get into—well, when you start talking about magic at this level, our level—the family's—it's more a matter of style than anything. Each magician brings a certain unique talent to his work. For instance, I can tell Incarnadine's hand by a certain feeling I get when one of his spells is brewing. It's like a smell, or may be even a taste. But it's unmistakable. His spells have his signature stamped all over them."

“That's interesting."

“Same with Ferne. Same with you, for that matter, or anyone who practices the recondite arts. Every artist has his own style."

“I've never thought of myself as an artist."

“You're a damned good one, if a little inexperienced. But you were coming along very nicely."

“Until I hit this place."

Trent looked at the sky, the sea, and the sand. “Yes.” He sighed. “Right. This world is very problematical. It's flat, magically speaking. No spark in the air. No vibes. Nothing."

“Maybe it's more subtle than we realize."

“Very subtle. All worlds have magic."

“Do they really?"

“Yes, to some extent. Some more than others. This one has it, make no mistake. But they must be keeping it in cookie jars."

Sheila laughed, leaned over and kissed him.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“A little."

“Tell you what. We'll have lunch at our favorite restaurant—"

“The breadfruit tree."

“Right, and afterward we'll go for a stroll. It's about time we circumnavigated this island, see what's on the other side."

“Maybe there's a lagoon. Wouldn't that be romantic?"

“Great for fishing. But this looks like a volcanic island. Lagoons usually happen in coral formations."

“You know a lot about a lot of things."

“Are you kidding? I've had a subscription to
Reader's Digest
for fifty years."

 

Trent's guess was right. Coming around the curving shore, they were greeted by the sight of a huge volcano rising from an island that lay just on the horizon. Ash-gray and forbidding, the cone topped off at two thousand feet, as nearly as Trent could estimate.

“Extinct, maybe?” Sheila asked.

“Dormant. I dunno. I can't see any vegetation on that island. That worries me."

“It looks dead."

“Let's hope it stays that way."

Access inland was better here, grassy slopes rising gradually from the beach to an eroded peak in the center of the island. They even discovered a cave. It was full of bats and not fit for habitation.

But there was a lagoon, after all, rather a cove, a rock-rimmed pocket of calm water, good for swimming and, very likely, fishing, if some sort of tackle could be improvised.

“Or a net,” Trent mused.

“That'd be hard."

“You braid vines, strips of sapling, make rope. Then you make a net. Hard? You bet, but South Sea islanders do it all the time."

“Think I'd look good in a sarong, or maybe a grass skirt?"

“You look fine the way you are now, but we'll be needing clothes sooner or later."

“I was cold last night,” she said. “A little bit, until you covered me."

“Only proper thing to do under the circumstances. We'll have to find a source of fresh water, of course, but right now I don't see any reason why we shouldn't move to this side. Better food supply, shelter from the open sea, inland route, and other advantages, probably, that I haven't noticed yet. We'll put our house up on that knoll over there. Be a good observation point."

She laughed. “You've got this all figured out, don't you?"

He shrugged. “We must make do, somehow. We might be here for a spell."

“I'm glad we're together, Trent."

He gathered her in and held her close.

“I'm extremely glad of that myself. Cold again?"

“No, just hold me. Tight."

He did, then they lay down together on the soft bed of the beach.

 

 

 

Long Island

 

Chico's was busy that night, the dance floor a scrummage of writhing humanity. Snowclaw couldn't get over the noise in the place. It had taken some getting used to. He didn't quite understand what all the thumping and screeching was about, though he knew it had something to do with music. And the dancing was completely incomprehensible. Snowy took it to be some complex courting ritual. But what did the flashing lights have to do with anything?

It didn't matter. His job was to look after things. Check for proper dress; no jeans, no tennis shoes, no generally sloppy outfits. Chico's had to be a “class act,” was Nunzio's way of putting it. The other host, Dave, checked the little cards that the young ones held out that supposedly proved they were old enough to be admitted to these adult doings.

Snowy's proper job was throwing the drunks out. That had only happened once since he started. A bartender refused to serve a customer who had glugged a little too much swill, and the customer got a little rowdy. (Interesting sidelight here: the bartender was actually worried that the guy might go out and wreck his metal wagon and get real ticked off at the bartender
for giving the guy exactly what he was screaming for—more swill!
) Snowclaw had followed directions to the letter. First he was polite, then firmly insistent. When that didn't work, he picked the guy up, carried him out into the parking lot, and threw him in the dumpster.

That was pretty funny, Dave had told him, but basically it was overreacting.

Snowy didn't know about that. The guy had been pretty nasty. Besides, all that happened was the little creep got his pride wounded. Snowy wouldn't think of actually hurting any of these hairless humans. They were all so soft and squishy.

For all of that, though, they were feisty little devils. Like the guy he threw out, coming back with a policeman in tow, demanding that Snowy be arrested. The policeman heard Snowy's story, then told the guy to forget it. Then the guy started giving the cop all kinds of grief, so the cop and his partner beat the compost out of the little twerp and threw him in
their
metal wagon, which he didn't have to drive.