John Dechancie - Castle 07 - Castle Spellbound

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Castle Perilous Book 7

Castle Spellbound

John DeChancie

This book is dedicated to

Ann Cecil, Barb Carlson, Kevin, Charlene, and Sasha Riley, Glenn Chambers, Mary Tabasko,

Deborah Ayres, Don Cox, Erin Kelly, Jim Lutton, Matt Urick, Jeff Nartic, Janet Staples, Nancy

Janda, Lara VanWinkle, Don Turner, Randy Hoffman and all the members of the Pittsburgh Area

Realtime Scientifiction Enthusiasts' Club, affectionately known as PARSEC.

"Fairy fair, Fairy fair, wish thou me well; 'Gainst evil witcheries weave me a spell!"

OUR STORY BEGINS

ONCE UPON A TiME, in a great enchanted castle far, far away, there lived two apprentice

magicians, Thorsby and Fetchen by name.

They liked to party.

Drinking and wenching were their chief avocations, magic being merely something they had to

do to earn their keep. Mediocre sorcerers, they were quite adept at procrastination. In fact, at the

craft of inventing excuses to take longer than was necessary to accomplish their appointed tasks,

and in the fine art of goldbricking in general, they were past masters.

And they were continually being called on the carpet for it.

"Miserable wastrels!"

Thorsby looked up from his gin rummy hand. "Sorry, Spellmaster. What was it you said?"

"Stand to attention!"

Thorsby and Fetchen shot to their feet. Cards fluttered to the oaken floor.

"Turn around!"

Spellmaster Grosmond clasped his hands behind his back and paced back and forth in front of

them, dressing them up and down with dark, close-set hawk's-eyes. He didn't like what he saw.

He stopped before Thorsby, bringing his nose to within an inch of the apprentice's.

"Were you or were you not supposed to look after the ventilation spell in the east wing of the

keep?"

"I was, sir."

"And did you?"

"I . . . I'm afraid I haven't got to it quite yet, sir."

"Not quite yet. I see. And might I ask when you'll be troubling yourself?"

"Uh, immediately, sir. I was just going to get to it after break."

"Ah, you're on break, are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Both of you?"

"Yes, sir," Fetchen confirmed.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't you two been on break all morning?"

"No, sir!" they piped.

"I swear I walked past this ready room just after breakfast and saw the two of you fiddling with

pasteboard, just as now."

"Sir, couldn't have been us," Thorsby suggested.

"I suppose not. My mistake."

Stroking his gray beard, Grosmond sidestepped to Fetchen. "Am I again mistaken or did I see a

report about flies in the Queen's Dining Hall on this morning's task sheet?"

"You did, sir."

"And did you, Master Fetchen, as Pest-Remover-onWatch, go to the Queen's Dining Hall and

find flies?"

"Yes, sir. Swarms of them. How they got there is anyone's guess."

"I could venture one. They came through a nearby outdoor portal, caught the scent of food, and

went directly thence. Sound plausible to you?"

"Rather plausible at that, sir."

"So let me ask you this, Master Fetchen. Why are there still swarms of flies-nay, a blizzard of

them, buzzing madly about-in the Queen's Dining Hall?"

"Sir, they didn't respond to the usual fly-shooing spell."

"Oh, they didn't?"

"No, sir. These appear not to be your ordinary run of fly.

"Not your ordinary run of fly. I see, I see. And when the fly-shooing enchantment didn't work,

what did you do?"

"Well, nothing for the moment, Spellmaster, except to seek out Journeyman Quesnor and solicit

advice."

"And what advice did Journeyman Quesnor have for you?"

"None, sir. I couldn't find him."

"And?"

"'And,' sir? Well, I didn't quite know what to do then, sir."

"Oh, you didn't?"

"Uh . . . no, sir."

"I see. So you did nothing, and the king's Guests had no breakfast this morning."

"Well, there was nothing I could have done about it, sir."

"Nothing. And here you sit, playing gin."

"Uh . . . well, sir. You see, it's like this-"

"Shut that jabbering hole of yours!"

"Yes, sir."

Grosmond continued pacing, his long black robes sweeping the crumb-littered floor.

"This place is a sty," he grumbled. "Did it ever occur to any one of you apprentices to take a

whisk broom-? Ah, never mind."

He whirled on the two of them:

"Mark my words. I've had my eye on the twain of you. You're alike, two peas in a pod. Whenever

trouble arises, somehow you two turn up at the bottom of it."

Thorsby said, "Sir, you really oughtn't-"

"Silence!"

Grosmond folded his arms and tapped his right toe. "I've had enough of your lollygagging and a

bellyful of your endlessly inventive excuses. You two will either shape up or be sacked from the

apprentice program."

Fetchen piped, "You may rest assured we'll do the former, sir!"

"Oh, may I? I'm not at all sure. Well, we'll see. Meanwhile, I'm taking you off regular day shift

and putting you on special detail."

Thorsby ventured, "May I ask, Spellmaster, what special detail?"

"You may. Recently an ancient storage room was discovered in the cellar of the King's Tower.

Hadn't been entered in years. No dust spell, or the one that'd been laid on long ago had fizzled.

Consequently, the place is a mess. Have you heard of this?"

"Uh, yes, sir," Fetchen said. "They say there's many a curious artifact down there."

"Yes, possibly quite a number of historical value, once the Chamberlain can get in there to sort

things out. But he can't until the place is cleaned up."

"A dust-vanishing spell will do the trick, sir," Thorsby offered. "We can do those right well, sir."

"No vanishing spells!" Grosmond warned. "You might magick something of value into oblivion.

No, lads. Elbow grease will be your philtre, a broom your only talisman."

"Really, sir," Fetchen protested weakly.

Grosmond drew menacingly close to him. "Do I hear an objection?"

Fetchen swallowed. "None, Spellmaster Grosmond."

Grosmond smiled sweetly. "I thought not."

He turned and began walking out of the ready room. "Get down there now, and be quick about

it!" he growled over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir!" the two chorused.

When Grosmond's footsteps faded, Thorsby called out, "Ready-salute!"

Thumbs came up sharply to meet noses. They laughed.

"The old fart's losing it. He really didn't remember it was us this morning."

"And mostly every morning," Thorsby guffawed. He yawned and looked at the clock.

"Lunchtime, almost."

"Let's get down there and start," Fetchen said. "Or Grosmond'll roast our arses. We'll stop by the

kitchen and pick up grub."

"Capital idea. And a bottle of something, too."

They sauntered out of the room, leaving their gin hands to decorate the floorboards.

SHEILA'S WORLD

"TRENT? WAKE UP, DEAR."

He opened his eyes to a bright blue sky. The sun was low; it was late afternoon. A soft salt breeze

blew in from the ocean.

"Huh?"

Sheila, his wife, was bending over him, hand on his shoulder. "You were moaning. Having a bad

dream?"

He sat up on the chaise longue. Before him lay the aquamarine expanse of the hotel swimming

pool, placid in the declining tropical sun. The shadows of palm crossed its deep end.

He rubbed his eyes, then yawned.

"Are you okay?" she asked him.

"Yeah. sure. Just a dream."

"Bad one?"

"Don't quite remember. Weird . . . trees . . . just weird."

He looked at Sheila. She was tall, red-haired and beautiful, and he loved every inch of her. He

surveyed her up and down, as if for the first time. She was quite fetching, especially in this

colorful, delightfully translucent silk frock.

"Our guests are going to arrive any minute," she said.

"Guests?" He had a sense that he'd been away for some time. The dream . . .

"Our cocktail party for Incarnadine's birthday? He didn't want a fuss made, so we're throwing him

a little shindig by the pool. Remember?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sure, sure. Is Inky here yet?"

"Not yet," Sheila said, turning. "But here's Gene and Linda."

"Yo, dudes!" Gene called. "And dudesses."

"Hello?" Sheila went to greet the first of her guests.

Trent yawned again. "Man, I gotta stop eating those submarine sandwiches so late at night."

He shucked his terrycloth shirt and walked to the deep end of the pool. Mounting the diving

board, he walked to its far extremity and bounced up and down a few times, then took a few steps

back. After a moment's mental preparation, he took three even strides, jumped, and dove, his

body straight and true, his trajectory a perfect arch. He cut the surface cleanly, with minimum

splashing, like a thrown spear.

The cool chlorinated water washed the sleep from him. He stayed submerged, relishing the

hushed drone of underwater sounds and exploring the pool's bubbling blue-green depths.

Not much down here. Bare concrete below; a drain. He gave some thought to going snorkeling

soon, or at least taking the glass-bottomed tour boat out to explore the local marine life, plentiful

in this world of mostly ocean. He had always had a passing interest in marine biology.

Then again . . . to hell with it.

Of late he had found it increasingly difficult to work up enthusiasm for much of anything. Maybe

it was his job. He ran Club Sheila, which in any other world would have entailed bossing the

staff, booking blocks of rooms and function space for tours and conventions, keeping the books,

placating irate guests, and performing the hundreds of other duties that the job of running a major

resort would require. But this world was different. The hotel, the pool, the cabanas, even most of

the guests, were phantasms. Magical constructs conjured out of the occult ether by his wife, a

powerful sorceress. The place really needed no looking after. How it all worked was beyond him.

He himself-a magician of no mean talents-had never worked conjuring magic on such a scale.

Yet, here it was. Club Sheila. SheilaWorld. Real, down to its inscribed ashtrays and custom

matchbooks; real unto the satin sheets and the tiny complimentary bars of beauty soap in the

hotel's luxurious marble bathrooms.

Real down to the very swimming pool in which he was running out of breath. He angled toward

the surface.

He broke water to the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. The staff had set up tables and a

portable bar at the other end of the pool. A few more guests had arrived. Trent did a slow dog

paddle to the edge of the pool.

"What are you drinking?" Cleve Dalton asked Lord Peter Thaxton.

"Something called a Samoan Fogcutter."

"Sounds potent. What's in it?"

"Rum and a hodgepodge of sweet stuff."

Lord Peter wrinkled his nose. "Don't like drinks with little umbrellas and things in them."

"This is good."

"That? What is it?"

"Mai Tai. Rum, grenadine, and a bunch of juices."

"Heavy on the rum today, eh? Well, I'll have one of these and then switch to Scots whisky neat."

"A purist."

More guests arrived, and more exotic drinks were made and handed out. Food lay heaped on a

nearby table, the theme Polynesian: pineapple and roast pig and fire-baked fish and steamed

seafood and tropical fruit in dozens of dishes.

"What kind of drink is that?" Linda asked Melanie McDaniel. "Looks strange."

"A Blue Lagoon," freckle-faced Melanie told her. "I asked for something really different, and I

got something blue."

"What's in it?"

"I don't know."

The bartender-a thin young man who looked a bit like a young Elisha Cooke, Jr.-said, "Blue

curaqao, ma'am, along with Triple Sec, vodka, and pineapple juice."

"Tastes pretty good," Melanie said after taking a sip.

Gene Ferraro sidled over and put his arm around Melanie's thinning waist (she'd had twins not

long ago). "Drink four of those and come up and see my etchings."

She bumped him away with her hip. "You old tease. You talk a great line but you never deliver."

"Why, that's not true. I used to have a paper route."

"Phooey."

Linda said, "Gene leads his love life outside the castle."

"Yeah, I'm a regular Don Juan in the real world. Here I can't get arrested."

"I'll arrest you," Melanie offered.

"Oooh, with handcuffs? Now who's teasing?"

Melanie giggled. Linda motioned toward Gene's drink. "What's that?"

"Iced Tea."

"You on the wagon?"

"It's a drink. Rum, vodka, gin, Triple Sec, sour mix . . . and, uh . . . '

"Orange juice and cola, sir," the bartender supplied.

"Right."

"Heavens, that sounds dangerous," Linda said, wide-eyed. "Rum and vodka and gin?"

"Oh, my."

"His Majesty, the king!"

All eyes swiveled to the French doors on the patio. Through them strode Incarnadine, Lord of the

Western Pale, and by the grace of the gods, King of the Realms Perilous. His yellow T-shirt bore

magenta lettering that read: DEATH'S A BITCH-THEN YOU'RE REINCARNATED. He wore

mirror shades, electric-green Bermudas, pink-accented LA Gears, and a big Panama hat with a

purple hatband. "Hey, gang, I'm ready to howl."

Women curtsied, men bowed.

"Tut, tut." He waved his indulgence. "Where can I get a drink? Oh, there." He went straight to the

bar.

"What will it be, Your Majesty?"

"Ahhh . . . recommend something."

"Planter's Punch?"

"Nah."

"Rum Runner?"

"Nope."

"Perhaps a Kamikaze?"

"What's in it?"

"Vodka, gin, sake, peach schnapps, and lime juice."

"Sounds suicidal, all right. Can you make an Alabama Slammer?"

"Uh, Southern Comfort, orange juice . . . and-?"

"Amaretto and sloe gin."

"Right, sir. Yes, sir, coming right up."

The king turned his head. "Trent!"

His brother stepped up to the bar. Incarnadine took his outstretched hand.

"Your Majesty. Happy birthday."

"Thank you muchly. Sheila. Long time no see."

"Welcome!" Sheila said as she gave the king a hug. "You haven't been here in so long!"

"The press of business. I do need a vacation. Maybe I'll stay on a few days."

"The royal suite is always ready."

"Some deep-sea fishing, maybe."

"We have a fleet of boats that sits around."

"There's a funny kind of, sort of, marlin out there," Trent told him. "A real terror to land."

"Oh? sounds interesting."

"Poisonous spines."

"Sounds like fun."

"I'll take you out."

"It's a date. Tomorrow."

"Great," Trent said. "How's Zafra and the kids?"

"Wonderful, wonderful. You two seem to be doing fine. All sun-bronzed and healthy."

"Oh, this climate agrees with me, all right," Sheila said. "but I still get burned a lot. Even my

spells don't keep the sun off."

Squinting one eye. Incarnadine held up his right hand and slowly waved two-fingers. "Hmmm.

Strange magic."

"Only Sheila's been able to deal with it so far," Trent said. "I have a devil of a time."

"I suspect I would, too. But maybe a simple forfending spell would take care of the sunburn?"

"Tried it," Sheila said. "It kept up a shield all right, but it kept air out, too."

"Hardly practical. Let me see . . ."

"It's tricky, Inky."

Incarnadine nodded. "I see what you mean. Spells here tend to have unexpected consequences."

"All spells spin off unwanted side-effects," Trent said, but here they sometimes run rampant."

"Take this hotel, for instance," Sheila said. "All I wanted to conjure was a hut. And look what I

got."

The three of them took in the rococo elegance of Hotel Sheila.

"Remarkable," Incarnadine said. "I don't think I could do as good a job."

"It's not me, it's the magic here."

"It's you," Trent assured her. "You're a sorceress of the first magnitude."

"Well, maybe here I am."

Incarnadine asked, "What've you been up to, Trent?"

Trent accepted a Singapore Sling from one of the bartenders and shrugged. "Not much. Just

running this place."

"Like it?"

"Like it fine."

"Don't have a hankering to get back to Earth?"

Trent shook his head. "No. Still have the estate on Long Island, but I've put it in mothballs, pretty

much."

"Going to retire here?"

"Hell, I'm only three hundred forty-six years old. Give me a break."

Sheila rolled her eyes. "Only three hundred forty-six, he says. And he doesn't look a day over

forty."

"Really?" Trent said, feigning pique. "And here thought I could pass for thirty-five on a good

day."

"A young forty," Sheila amended.

Incarnadine persisted. "So what do you want to do with the rest of your allotted three score years

and five hundred?"

Trent jerked one shoulder. "Who knows. I'll find something to arouse my interest."

"Want to fight a war?"

"Eh?"

"I'm serious, I've got two on my hands. And although I could contrive, by magical means, of

course, to be two places at once, you can't really divide your attentions that way. I need a good

strategist, and you're one of the best I know of."

"I don't think I like this," Sheila said.

Incarnadine laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, my dear. He'll be well behind

the front lines. In fact, he can do all his operational planning here and messenger orders to the

front, through the castle. He'll be quiet safe.",

"Oh," Sheila said. "Well, in that case . . ."

"In other words, I wouldn't have actual command," Trent said.

"I need a plan for a lightning offensive. I want to get the war over quick, very quick. Minimum

casualties."

"What's the milieu?"

"Late Bronze Age."

Trent laughed. "Good luck. And here I was thinking laser-guided missiles."

"I'm of a mind that it can be done at any level of technological development."

"Well, I'm of a mind to agree with you, but the strategic situation has to be just right."

"This one is near perfect. We have naval superiority, slightly superior numbers, and better-trained

soldiers."

Trent asked, "Then why do you need me, particularly?"

"As I said, I want minimum casualties. What this world lacks is superior military science. Things

are fairly primitive on that score. Wars tend to be long and bloody. I want this one to be short

and, while I can't hope for zero casualties, I want the body count to be as low as possible."

Trent nodded. "Gotcha. What's the mission objective?"

"Reducing a fortified town near the sea. You won't be able to lay siege immediately, though,

because they can field a pretty good army. Once you reduce their numbers, they'll use the town as

a redoubt. . . ." Incarnadine smiled. "Do I detect a note of interest?"

Trent half-smiled, "Perhaps you do."

"Well, let's delay the briefing. This is a party, no shoptalk allowed."

"I still don't quite like the idea of Trent fighting a war," Sheila said.

"More like a war game," Trent remarked, "judging from the sound of it. At least it'll be such to

me, sitting in my den with maps and unit markers."

"Still . . ." Sheila remained unconvinced.

"Think it over," Incarnadine said. "Let me know. We have some time in that theater. In the other

one, things are a bit more critical."

"Oh? What's the milieu there?"

"Muskets and cavalry charges."

"Sounds more like my line of work."

"Sorry, that one I have to handle myself. Still interested?"

Trent took a long drink, then said, "Yes. Yes, I think I am.

"I'll have my operational staff brief you in the morning. Okay?"

"Okay. And thanks, Inky-

"You look like you need something to get the blood rushing. Besides, you're getting a paunch."

Sheila shook her head. "You two keep talking as though he's going to be fighting this war."

Trent pulled his wife closer. "Woman, you are not to worry, hear? This is strictly a desk job.

Right, Inky?"

"Right."

"Though I might have to pay a few visits to this world to get the feel of things," Trent

dissembled.

"He won't have to go anywhere near the actual fracas," Incarnadine lied blackly.

"Right."

"Well, okay," Sheila said dubiously.

A band struck up a Caribbean beat. Couples took to dancing.

"Let's dance," Sheila said, dragging her husband away.

"Sure. See you later, Inky."

"Have a good time."

The king slurped up the last of his Slammer and turned back to the bar.

"I think I will try a Kamikaze."

"You're quite sure, my liege lord?"

"Banzai!"

KING'S TOWER - CELLAR

THORSBY TOOK ANOTHER PULL On the bottle of cooking sherry and put a foot up on the

old carved table at which he sat. He belched loudly.

Not far away, Fetchen swept the floor desultorily, pushing dust back and forth.

"You missed a spot," Thorsby told him, pointing.

"Up yours," Fetchen said pleasantly.

Thorsby laughed. Then he yawned. "I never seem to get enough sleep," he complained. "Think I

might bed down on that old settee over there, catch a wink."

"You could sweep just a little." Thorsby looked around. "Well, there's only one broom, isn't

there?"

"Now that's a fix." Fetchen threw the broom at him.

Grinning, Thorsby caught it neatly and laid it aside. "Sit down," he said. "Take a load off."

Fetchen came over and snagged the bottle from him. "You've just about drunk the whole bloody

thing."

"Wasn't much left."

Fetchen guzzled the dregs of the sherry and tossed the bottle among some heaped rags and boxes

in a corner.

"Look at him making a filthy mess."

Fetchen glanced around at the piles of crates, stacks of musty books, battered antique furniture,

and other junk. "What are you puling about?"

Thorsby belched again. Then he farted.

"First intelligent comment we've had out of you all day."

"Shut your hole. I need a drink."

"That sherry's bleeding awful."

"Yes, quite. Let's conjure something."

"You do awful stuff. Undrinkable."

"Well, it's alcohol, isn't it?"

"Marsh water."

"You do it, then." Fetchen scowled.

Thorsby chuckled. "Not so easy, eh? Food magic's hard enough, but drink magic-well, now."

"Wait a minute." Fetchen got up, crossed the crypt, and began rummaging in a pile of debris.

"Saw something when I moved this stuff . . . now, where did I-? Oh, here it is."

He returned bearing a tattered leatherbound book, which he set on the table in front of Thorsby.

"Have a look at that."

"An old grimoire," Thorsby said after glancing at it. So?"

"Read the title."

Thorsby wiped the dust away. "The Delights of the Flesh." He sat up. "Ye gods."

"There's one the Royal Librarian keeps under lock and key."

"I should say so." Thorsby opened the book and began leafing through it.

Fetchen moved his chair. "A houri."

"Ah. Two of them."

"Imagine being crushed between two sets of-"

"Oh, look at her."

"Gods, look at that one."

"They have names. Fatima . . . Jalila . . . Layla . . . Safa-"

"Who cares a fig for their names?"

"And here are the spells to conjure 'em with."

"Dare we? I remember warnings about this book."

"Can you resist that?"

Fetchen slavered at the full-page engraving. "Not for long."

Thorsby flipped more pages. "There's everything here. Food spells, love charms, all manner of

opiates and philtres-"

"Drink. Let's have a drink."

"All right, then. Where's the incantation?"

"No, you have to do the thing in the front of the book first. The general invocation and pact."

"Exactly who and what are we invoking? What kind of magic is this?"

"It's ancient, and very tricky."

"Not the sort of stuff you learn in school, is it?"

"It's on the Index of Proscribed Books. I remember it."

"Who cares. We can handle it."

Fetchen made a dubious face.

Thorsby winked. "Come on, then. Just a few of the more innocuous spells. Can't hurt, can it?"

"I dunno."

"Are you game or are you not, Fetchen?"

Fetchen thought about it, then replied, "I'm game."

It took a good hour to clear away debris, sweep the floor clean, and inscribe magical symbols on

it. The pattern was a set of interlocking geometric figures. None were traditional pentacles.

"Odd," Thorsby opined.

"That's it, then. All done."

"What now? Incantations?"

"None. `Upon the completion of these devices, the pact is sealed thereon."' Fetchen threw the

book down. "Now we get everything we wish for."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"All right, then. Give us a bottle of wine."

A bottle appeared in the air not far from Thorsby's head, hung for a split second, then dropped.

Delighted, Thorsby caught it. "That's the ticket! Oh, look, it's bubbly."

"Let's have two bottles," Fetchen said, and another instantly appeared.

Thorsby worked the cork up on his and popped it. He upended the bottle and drank deeply.

Swallowing, he regarded his partner with a look of disbelief. "That's . . . it's delicious! I've never-

Fetchen drank from his. "It can't be just wine."

"Ambrosia!"

"The nectar of the gods!"

"Let's have more!" Thorsby commanded. "And food. Lots of food. A kingly feast!"

"And the women to serve us."

"Gods yes, the women," Thorsby said, rushing to the discarded book. He picked it up and

frantically paged. "This one . . . and this one. Oh, can't forget her."

"For you? Three?"

"Why not? You can have four if you want. Five."

"Three's all I can handle. Until I get drunk."

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