Castle Spellbound (7 page)

“Bloody hell."

As before, the creature shambled by without giving them so much as a passing glance.

“Weird shit goin’ on here,” Deena muttered. “I'm goin’ to bed. Good night, y'all.” She hurried down the corridor.

“Wait, we'll walk you,” Gene called after her.

“My room's right down the hall,” Deena told him as she paused at the next intersection to peer around the corner. She checked both directions before heading left.

The rest of the group turned right toward the Queen's Dining Hall.

“Well, it's probably nothing,” Thaxton said. “A few stray creatures fallen in from one balmy universe or another. God knows there are enough of them in this place. Balmy universes, that is."

“Nothing to it, huh?” Dalton asked as yet another homunculus crossed their path.

Thaxton stopped and put his fists to his hips. “Something is going on."

“Why brooms, do you think?” Gene wondered.

“Brooms,” Dalton pondered. “Haven't a clue."

“Could they be a new type of servant?” Melanie asked.

“Now there's a rational explanation,” Dalton said. “Maybe the Chamberlain knows something."

“Let's go up to Edwin's quarters and ask him,” Gene suggested.

“We should ask Tyrene,” Thaxton said. “If the Captain of the Guard doesn't know about this, he should be informed."

Dalton began, “I do believe—” but was interrupted by a shout.

“What's the matter?” Gene called to Deena as she came running up the corridor.

“They're in my room!” she cried out. “Little guys!"

“In your—?"

They all rushed to Deena's quarters.

The door was wide open.

“They're in there ...
cleanin
'!” Deena wailed. “They're sweepin’ up my goddamn room!"

“Maybe they're supposed to?” Dalton said, half-suggesting, half-disbelieving.

“I sure as hell don't want ‘em to! Ain't I got any say in it?"

They all peeked around the doorjamb. Sure enough, inside were four of the curious creatures, furiously but efficiently tidying up the bedroom, brooms whisking, rags snapping. The faint scent of lemon oil arose from the place.

“Damnedest thing,” Thaxton said.

Mykos

The gate to the city was an imposing structure topped by two stone lions confronting each other. The gate itself consisted of immense bronze doors that opened onto the main avenue of the citadel. The walls of Mykos were made of great blocks of stone, fitted one to another with extreme precision. From afar the buildings and temples of the city looked modern. No columns crowned with acanthus, no friezes. No statuary save for the lions. This was not a classical age. The city within the gates was the stronghold of a warlord.

The gatekeeper was a spear-carrying soldier wearing a helmet made of segments of ivory—probably boar's tusks—sewn together and stitched to a leather lining. He wore bronze greaves and a leather breastplate over his red tunic.

“Halt and state your name and your business."

“I am Trent, brother of Inkarnases the magician. Here is his signet to prove it. I am here at the behest of His Majesty the king."

The guard took one look at the ring.

“You are expected, Honorable. Please enter. If it please you, an escort will be provided to the royal palace."

“It pleases me. I thank you kindly."

Trent was waved through the gate. Inside, he was met by two more spear-carriers who bade him follow them. This he did, and found himself touring the citadel by foot.

He was still amazed at how clean and functional the architecture looked. He had half-expected porticos and Corinthian façades. But this was not Greece, nor was it an analogue to the Greece of Pericles. If this world corresponded with any earthly period, it evoked a dim past that was mostly legend. However prehistoric, though, the architecture was not primitive by any means. It was functional and graceful at the same time. Its lines were sharply geometrical, unadorned, yet comfortably human, quite unlike the rigid, uncompromising Bauhaus style of another universe and another time.

This curious style diverged from the modern in another way: the buildings were painted in very bright, sometimes gaudy colors.

A gradually rising earthen ramp gave him a sweeping view. On the city's western fringe lay a circular wall that enclosed what looked like a cemetery with huge stones marking grave sites. To the east stood an enclave of simple buildings that probably housed artisans and their workshops. Beyond them lay a section of more elaborate structures that might have been the digs of royal functionaries or perhaps the clergy.

The ramp led up to the foot of a broad stone stairway, which mounted to the summit of the eminence that commanded the plains below, and to the acropolis, whereon stood the palace and the various temples.

Trent lagged behind his escort, and they slowed their pace to accommodate him. Ancient history had never held any special attraction for him, but this milieu was greatly interesting.

One of the soldiers glanced back at him curiously, and he increased his pace. He'd be here a while; time enough later to rubberneck.

The entrance to the palace complex was a narrow gate set in a high wall enclosing a courtyard.

The palace itself was imposing, painted in bright colors that looked at once barbaric and decadent. The massive tapered columns flanking the entrance were iridescent red, banded in yellow and blue.

He followed his escort through the columns and into a spacious entry hall, where he was announced to the palace guards. These detached two of their number to lead him through high corridors and into the palace proper.

They passed through a smaller courtyard, then threaded two more huge pillars, entering another corridor, at the end of which was a vestibule that gave access to a great hall. This high chamber was done in a color scheme even more garish than that of the exterior.

Bright shades of all the primary hues were represented in stripes, bands, and zigzags. Cryptic signs and patterns abounded, among them stars, crosses, and, disconcertingly, swastikas (an ancient symbol in many worlds, it would seem). Bordered by the decorations, frescoes depicting animals and birds festooned the walls.

The roof was supported by four huge columns, decorated like those of the facade, surrounding a circular fire pit. Cut into the ceiling directly above the pit was a skylight, a canopy with open sides, intended to ward off rain, let in light, and, presumably, let out smoke. But not at the moment. The fire pit was cold and the hall was dark.

After asking Trent to wait, one of the guards continued through the room and went out a doorway at the back.

A curiously stylized seat, looking rather uncomfortable, stood against the right wall. A throne? If so, this hall was the court of Anthaemion.

The other guard smiled but said nothing. Trent smiled back, then walked a few steps to look up through the skylight. The sky was coldly blue. This was a sunny clime, but the temperature was a bit chilly today. He wrapped his cloak more closely about him.

He wondered if Incarnadine's language-infusion spell would work as well as advertised. Inky had touted it, assuring Trent that he would have no trouble understanding the local tongue or making himself understood. The exchange with the guards had been minimal, so it was still hard to gauge how much of a problem communicating would be. The audience with Anthaemion would be the test. The conversation would necessitate some subtlety, always difficult to achieve in a foreign tongue, magic or none. Nuance was the stock in trade of diplomats. He would have liked to have some idea as to how much nuance he was capable of conveying. Or would it be better to go for a more direct approach? Maybe trickery was the key. Take advantage of the language barrier and obfuscate like hell.

The unsettling thing about infused-knowledge techniques was that you sometimes didn't know what you knew.

A man in a red and yellow tunic came through the back entrance. Dark-haired and tall, he walked slowly and with aplomb. As he approached he smiled warmly.

“Greetings, Trent, brother of Inkarnases. You honor this house by your visit."

“I am honored in turn by this great house."

“His Majesty presents his compliments, and asks that you be received in his chambers. He is taking his midday meal."

“Gladly will I be received."

“I am Telamon, chamberlain to His Majesty."

Trent bowed.

Telamon seemed pleased with this gesture, though Trent was not sure it was appropriate.

“If you will walk with me...?"

They left the throne room and went through a wide corridor, at the end of which was a staircase. This they mounted to a second story.

“Your brother does not speak much of the land you hail from,” Telamon said. “I have always been curious as to what it is like there."

“It is bleak and drear, I'm afraid."

“So? Like our land, somewhat. Nothing but rocks, mountains, thin soil—aside from the plains below, from which we eke a living. This is a poor land, really."

“Yet Mykos seems affluent."

“Yes, we are supposed to be rich in gold. And we have gold, but little more than any other city of importance. We make a great show of it to impress the farmers and shepherds. But our reputation for riches and high living is for the most part undeserved. We are a simple people."

“Nevertheless I am very impressed with your city."

This also pleased Telamon. “We like it. The gods have favored us. We owe it all to them."

So far, so good, Trent thought.

Telamon asked, “Are you aware that Menoetius visits us?"

Trent thumbed through the file of names in the part of his mind that had been magically stuffed with data.

“Brother to His Majesty, and King of Lakonis. No, I was not aware. I look forward to our meeting."

“He does know Inkarnases, but not well. You are aware that it was Menoetius’ request for aid that precipitated this crisis?"

“Uh, yes. It was his wife, Queen Alena, who was abducted."

“By Pelion, son of Proetus, King of Dardania. It is the scandal of all Arkadia.” Telamon halted Trent with a gentle touch. He whispered, “And Menoetius’ shame. The gossips have it that she went willingly after falling in love with Pelion the moment she set eyes on him. I needn't warn you to refrain from characterizing it as anything but a kidnapping in Menoetius’ presence?"

“You needn't. Inkarnases has briefed me."

“I had assumed, but wanted to sound you out on the matter before your audience."

“I understand,” Trent said. “Perhaps you should test me further on my knowledge of things in general. I understand that the abduction precipitated the crisis. Menoetius appealed to Anthaemion, and the latter used his influence to forge the coalition against Dardania. This must be elementary to you, but all the information I have is raw and undigested. I am a complete stranger to your land."

“I quite understand,” Telamon said. “But your brother spoke so highly of your skills that I have every confidence that the finer points will become second nature to you before long. Besides, the situation at Piraeon—"

“Pardon, where?"

“Where the coalition fleet is anchored. As I say, the situation there is not good. Much disagreement."

“So I have heard."

“And so fortunately for you, and unfortunately for the strategic situation, we have more time than we want."

They had come to a door flanked by two sets of three guards each, spears at their sides, except for the two nearest the door, who had theirs crossed. At the sight of the two men coming down the hall, they pulled back their weapons to permit entry.

Telamon led Trent into a narrow vestibule and thence into the apartment beyond. It was a smaller version of the megaron, the great hall downstairs, but here the fire pit was blazing, and off to one side were two men in fine robes lounging on low recliners, eating an elaborate meal. The food was being served on gold dishes by a trio of female servants with dark braided hair, dressed in long layered gowns. All three were pretty. From decorated amphorae they poured thick syrupy wine into gold cups.

The older of the two men was gray-bearded and corpulent, with deep-set dark eyes and a prominent nose. The younger man resembled him, but he was thinner, and his eyes were smaller and somehow less intelligent, though he had an intense look about him.

Telamon stopped some distance away. Trent waited behind him. The men talked and ate. Presently the gray-bearded man looked up and nodded to Telamon. Telamon approached.

“Majesty, may I present Trent, brother of Inkarnases."

Trent stepped forward and bowed deeply.

The gray-bearded one—presumably Anthaemion, King of Mykos—frowned. “Trent,” he said as he picked his teeth with a fingernail. “Trent. Odd name."

“May it please His Majesty."

“It pleases me not that your brother has chosen to absent himself from my court during this crisis."

Uh-oh, Trent thought. Had Inky underestimated or dissembled?

“Uh, pressing business, Your Majesty. He said—"

“I know what he said. He is a most persuasive man. He said you would be the better military adviser. Is he right?"

“I will serve His Majesty to the utmost limit of my talents."

“If you're half as clever as your brother, you'll do fine. You've been informed of the details of our situation?"

“Yes, sire."

“Forces available, enemy tactics, that sort of thing?"

“As much as Inkarnases knows, I know."

“What he knows is considerable,” the king said. “How he knows so much is a mystery to me, but I don't presume to understand the ways of sorcerers. We did not even possess an accurate map of the Dardanian coast until he divined one. I presume you are a magician also?"

“I am, sire."

“How good a one? Can you win this war for me by simply casting a spell?"

“That would be a difficult way of going about it, sire. No one enchantment could take into account all the myriad contingencies."

“That's what your brother said. I believe him. But you can cast spells to provide favorable conditions, facilitate the happy unfolding of events, forfend hexes and other dangers—all that?"