John DeChancie - Castle Perilous 5 - Castle Murders

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Castle Murders by JohnDeChancie

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Castle Murders

John DeChancie

AN [ e - reads ] BOOK

New York, NY

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or

mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system,

without explicit permission in writing from the Author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

First e-reads publication 2002

www.e-reads.com

ISBN 0-7592-6266-

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Other works by John DeChanice

also available in e-reads editions

RED LIMIT FREEWAY

LIVING WITH ALIENS

CASTLE PERLIOUS

CASTLE FOR RENT

CASTLE KIDNAPPED

CASTLE WAR!

This book is dedicated to

Beth, Bettie, Bev, Cally (Cassy), Debbie, Deno, Jan, Jo, Kay, Leigh, Pamela, Romana, Sarah, Stephanie,

Aaron, Bill, Brian, Brion, Bud, DDB, Grant, Irv, Jim, Joel, Jon, Lawrence, Nicolai, Patrick, Pete, Roy,

Scott, Smokey, Steve, Stu, Tim, Tom, Walt, and the rest of the stalwart contributors to the Science

Fiction Echo — part of a worldwide nexus called FidoNet — cybernauts all.

:-)

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,

I love to see the look with which it braves,

— Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time —

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

— Wordsworth

Table of Contents

The Eidolons of the King: Preface to the Castle Edition

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Foreword to the Fifth Volume

One — Abelard, South Dakota

Two — Castle — Queen’s Dining Hall

Three — Keep — West Wing

Four — Conservatory

Five — Library

Six — Formal Garden

Seven — The Pelican Club

Eight — The Jaundiced Aye

Nine — Mill

Ten — Garden

Eleven — Necropolis

Twelve — Ville-Des-Morts

Thirteen — Seacoast

Fourteen — Dutchtown

Fifteen — Graving Dock

Sixteen — Peele Castle

Seventeen — Darby’s Cafe

Eighteen — Voyager

Nineteen — Castle by the Sea

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Twenty — St. Valentine’s Hospital

Twenty-one — World

Twenty-two — Peele — Dining Hall

Twenty-three — The Tweeleries

Twenty-four — City at the End of Time

Twenty-five — Castle Perilous — Apothecary

Twenty-six — Gaming Room

Twenty-seven — Administrative Offices

The Eidolons of the King: Preface to the Castle

Edition

Ordinarily an introduction or prolegomenon is expected to shed some light on the material it prefaces or

introduces, enough so that the reader may find his way through an unfamiliar literary landscape. In the

present case, however, this prefatory note to the work now known as The Eidolons of the King: Tales of

Castle Perilous can serve only to delimit areas of shadow that shroud the work in mystery.

Particularly obscure is the question of its origin and authorship. To say that its provenance is mysterious

is to put it mildly. To put the matter simply: the original paperbound volumes of the books of The

Eidolons — cheap pulp paper, hastily glued bindings, garish covers and all — were found one day in the

castle library, having been shelved among finely wrought leatherbound tomes of bardic sagas and epic

poetry. No one knows who put them there.

Would that this were the only mystery! The deeper and more fundamental question, of course, is: Who

wrote these books and how did their author come by his intimate knowledge of Castle Perilous? to say

nothing of his apparent clairvoyance in producing these accounts of the storm of recent events that have

raged round it.

Castle Perilous! At its very mention the heart skips a beat. For the benefit of the reader and especially

for those castle Guests who seek a general orientation within these pages, it might do well to pause here

and describe what the name evokes for we who make the castle our home.

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For the castle itself is a mystery. Its very existence maintained from second to second by a

transmutational spell laid long ago on a great demon, Castle Perilous is a magical construction. Its huge

bulk — far more than what mortal hands could amass piling stone upon stone — bestrides a citadel

commanding the bleak Plains of Baranthe in the Western Pale. The castle is a world in itself; but far

more than that, it contains countless worlds.

Some explication is needed. As would any structure of its size, Perilous has innumerable doors and

windows; but the anomaly is that some of these are portals to other worlds. Pass through any of the

castle’s “aspects,” as they are called, and you cross into a strange new cosmos. There are exactly

144,000 aspects in the castle. Any resident or Guest of the castle can describe the sensation of wonder

engendered when, after traversing gloomy hallways, one goes through an archway or alcove and steps

out onto a vast savannah where herds of animals graze — or into a deep forest limned in cathedral light

— or onto a desolate plain whereon sits a domed city under an alien sun.

But let us return to the controversy surrounding the authorship of The Eidolons.

Who is the man whose name is emblazoned (immodestly so, if I might add) across the covers of these

“paperbacks”? Where does he live? As the language of these works is contemporary (if quasi-

grammatical) English with lapses into pseudo-Elizabethan cant, one might well conclude that the author

hails from the castle aspect known as Earth. But, truth be told, a thorough search of the appropriate

reference volumes has failed to produce any mention of either the author or his works. Moreover, no

trace can be found of the publisher whose name and address is printed on the verso of the title page!

(There are attendant minor mysteries, of which we should make passing mention. The author’s surname,

for instance. What nationality is it? English, via Anglo-Norman? French? Anglicized Italian? The name

is very possibly a pseudonym. And who are the individuals whose fawning endorsements are bruited on

and about the cover? Presumably approving critics or admiring colleagues of the author, and we would

be forced to conclude one or the other or both, were it not for the fact that no trace can be found of these

people either. Phantoms all! Then there is the matter of the cover “art.” What sort of deranged soul could

…? But let us set these relatively trivial matters aside.)

What, then, are we to make of all this? The only conjecture to acquire any currency has it that The

Eidolons originated in a world that is a variant of Earth and one in which the castle is a fiction, not the

reality we know. Here we tread disputed ground, for some hold that there are more than 144,000

universes. In fact, there may be an infinite number of them, of which the assortment provided by the

castle is only a random and constantly shifting sample. Be that as it may, the conjecture that these books

were generated in some backwater universe does not explain how they came to the castle, nor how they

were written. Indeed, it makes the issue all the more obscure, for how could a stranger to the castle, a

stranger even to the universe in which the castle exists, have produced these highly romanticized but

essentially accurate accounts, even to describing the intimate thoughts and sometimes inexplicable

actions of the master of Castle Perilous, Incarnadine, King by the grace of the gods and Lord of the

Western Pale?

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We can dismiss out of hand the notion that His Majesty penned The Eidolons, for he has categorically

denied it.

Who then? A Guest? If so, why the secrecy? What is he (or she) hiding?

I have no answers to these questions, but, as Royal Librarian, I can here offer a somewhat different

explanation for the origin of The Eidolons.

The castle’s library is an enigma in itself. Not a day goes by when the library staff is not surprised by

finding some new wonder on its shelves, books that were not even suspected to exist. Marvelous books,

strange books — even dangerous books. (One such describes the construction of a weapon so terrible

that I cannot bring myself to describe its intended effects. Another provides schematics for an infernal

device which, from what can be made of it, is intended for the express purpose of trapping a god. Which

deity is to be bagged is not specified. Needless to say, these and other dismaying oddities have been

sequestered in the Closed Stacks, where, if I have anything to say in the matter, they will remain

indefinitely.) Where do these books come from? Not even Lord Incarnadine can say. He himself has

added very few books to the collection. Thus, I am not beyond imagining that the library itself has

magically generated The Eidolons. How? I know not. Why has it chosen to do so in such a peculiar

idiom? I cannot fathom it. But the works exist, and that is enough for me. Their significance and

importance cannot be questioned.

You hold in your hand a new edition of The Eidolons, painstakingly set in movable type from the

originals, printed on vellum stock, and bound in fine-grained leather with gilt lettering and filigree. The

text is faithfully reproduced without editorial emendation or gloss.

Read The Eidolons and wonder, taking with a grain of salt its melodramatic excesses. Written in an

uneven style by turns breezy, serviceable, and sesquipedalian, these tales hew close to all the

conventions of the popular romance, and are consequently guilty of the faults and foibles that go along

with such fare. But minor narrative flaws can be ignored, as can the occasional textual solecism. (In the

first volume, “portfolio” is used where “folio” is meant. A typo, or the result of the author’s ignorance?

We will charitably opt for the former, as “folio” does appear elsewhere.) It is the story, after all, that is

of prime interest.

Above all, read the castle tales and enjoy them. The magic casements open; the perilous seas and all of

Creation lie before you.…

— Osmirik, Royal Scribe and Librarian

Foreword to the Fifth Volume

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Enigma upon enigma!

Initially only four volumes of the Castle Edition of The Eidolons were planned, for the simple reason

that only four original paperbacks were found. Now, a fifth penny dreadful (Really — how long are

these cheap books expected to last? — surely no more than a fortnight!) has appeared in its rightful

place on the shelf next to its kin.

Curiously, the “Preface” to the first edition was reproduced in this new volume, thereby giving new life

to the “inside job” theory of authorship. You may well imagine my chagrin at finding myself quoted on

the back cover. “Read the castle tales and enjoy!”, indeed.

But what is absolutely mystifying … there are no words to express the emotion … is that this very

“Foreword” appeared as well — paradoxically so, for I had not even begun to write it!

Yet here it is, written in an uncanny imitation of my own style, complete with expressions of my

astonishment at finding it.

I will not begin an attempt at explanation. The librarian proposes, the library disposes!

Read on.

— Osmirik, Ryl. Scrb. & Lbrn.

Why the vaguely Yiddish usage? Incidentally, even this footnote appears in the original.

One

Abelard, South Dakota

It was a stark and dormy night.

The campus was quiet. Northeastern State University wasn’t the liveliest of schools, and it was Monday

night, and it was snowing again, the wind howling out of the plains. Nothing to do but stay in the dorm

and study.

There was enough on Melanie McDaniel’s study agenda. Deadlines were approaching: a paper for

Philosophy 101 on Aristotle’s Ethics was due in three days, and one on Conrad’s Nostromo, for English

125 (20th Century British Novels), had been due three days ago. There was a calculus test tomorrow.

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Other stuff. But Melanie didn’t feel much like studying. She didn’t feel much like doing anything but

fiddling on her computer.

Fiddling was what it was. Melanie was on-line via modem to the campus’s computer bulletin board

system, or “BBS.” Through it she was plugged into a worldwide network of amateur computer users

called the CyberNet. The Net was a forum, a meeting place, for people who liked to gab about anything

and everything. The discussions were grouped into topic-areas, with subjects ranging from current

events to “Star Trek” to computer software. Melanie posted messages in many areas, but she particularly

liked Woman Talk: The National Women’s Forum, a cross between a slumber party and a backroom

political caucus.

The cathode-ray tube of Melanie’s IBM clone displayed:

To: Melanie McDaniel

From: Cindy Thayer

Msg

Subject: Men again!

I second the emotion. Men are congenitally polygamous, as in Higgamus Piggamus. When WE’RE

that way, we’re “sluts.” You can’t win, kid. Sorry you lost him. But there are a lot of fish in that

sea — except that they’re all kind of slimy and scaly. Keep your chin up. Bye!

Cindy

—

Origin: The Boardinghouse: Cooperstown, NY (1:398/276.9)

She looked out the window. Icy snowflakes ticked against the glass. Abelard was completely blotted out.

Nothing was visible except an outside light in the quadrangle, a yellow halo in the darkness. She thought

about Chad and about how the last thing he had said to her was that he needed “space” and that the

relationship wasn’t going anywhere and that he needed to be free of commitments in order to

concentrate on getting through a tough term on his way to his economics degree. Maybe when he was

through grad school and had his MBA he’d be ready for a serious relationship.

Yeah? So then what was he doing now, impaled as he was on the claws of Nadine Borkowski? She was

into him deep. He’d even cut his hair and sold his BMW motorcycle. She wasn’t about to ride on the

back of that thing, so what did he need it for? Yes, Nadine. Anything you say, Nadine.

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Chad wasn’t polygamous. He was just dumb. Dumb to fall for that domineering, scheming, lowborn,

vile, deceitful …

She took a deep breath. So what? She’d lost him, and that was that. Did she still love him? Of course; he

was terrifically good-looking and a lot of fun. But someone else had snared him, and Melanie was

history. Life goes on.

Yes, she was still in love with him.

Melanie typed at the keyboard, telling the BBS to search for messages with the name McDaniel in the

“To:” line. A pair popped up, and she keyed in the digits for the first one.

To: Melanie McDaniel

From: Fran DiMiro

Subject: Abortion

The Fundamentalists aren’t going to change tactics now. Sure, some recent court decisions have

been going their way, but

Melanie squelched the message. Another go-around on the abortion issue. She wasn’t in the mood for

serious discussion right now. Besides, she didn’t know how she felt about the issue any more. For years

she had harbored the suspicion, unspoken and even unrealized until very recently, that if she were

indeed ever faced with the decision of whether to have an abortion, she wouldn’t be able to go through

with it. Not because of moral qualms, but general queasiness.

Well, now she was faced with it. She was almost sure she was pregnant with Chad’s baby. You don’t

miss two periods and put it down to the whims of nature. Not if you knew your diaphragm had slipped

off on at least one occasion. There was an outside chance that the missed periods were due to something

else, but …

An abortion? She just didn’t think she could go through with it. Funny how you could intellectually

believe in a thing and not be able to accept it emotionally.

Without logging off the system, she left the desk and lay down on the bed to cry quietly for a while.

When she was done she got up and sat back down at the computer. She hoped The Blues weren’t

returning: her depression. She had suffered with it off and on since her early teens, and had once been

prescribed medication for it. Now, what with Chad and the pregnancy, a bad bout of The Blues was a

danger.

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