Castle for Rent (13 page)

Someone seized her wrist and spun her around. It was a Blueface, sword raised and ready to strike. Sheila stood transfixed, hypnotized by the gleaming blade above her. She had never really considered what it would be like to be struck by a sword. The blade was huge and looked wickedly sharp, sharper than the Japanese knife in those ubiquitous TV commercials where the guy cuts a beer can open and then dices an avocado. She was now up against the awful prospect, the impending reality, of having that blade slice through her flesh. The amazing thing was that she couldn't scream. She simply stood there in this frozen instant, acutely conscious of her fate, almost dispassionately wondering if there would be much pain.

She never got the opportunity to find out. Another blade flashed round from behind and took the creature's head clean off, leaving its neck a pulsing fountain of purple blood. Almost in slow motion, the body dropped at her feet. Snowclaw—which one?—grabbed her arm and shoved her in the direction of the portal.

“Move, Sheila!"

She ran, but more fighting blocked her way. She cut to the right, sidestepped left, then stooped and ducked between the legs of a strange giant creature covered in yellow feathers. The incongruous thought of
Sesame Street's
Big Bird came to her, unbidden, as she caught sight of an opening and sprinted for the portal.

She tripped over something and fell. A man in tunic and crested bronze helmet helped her to her feet, then saluted with his sword, turned, and rejoined the fighting. Sheila looked down at the body she had tripped over.

It was Gene, and he was dead, his skull split open and a huge gash in his neck. Sheila screamed and kept screaming.

Someone took her arm and shook her violently.

It was Gene. “Let's go!"

Dumbfounded, she swung her gaze back and forth between Gene's twin bodies, living and dead.

“Forget it!” he said. “Come on!"

As she was being dragged down the corridor, she couldn't take her eyes off Gene's paradoxical dead body. But she soon lost sight of it as the battle closed in around her. The next few seconds were lost to complete disorientation. Then there was light and a sudden wave of heat—it was like running out of an air-conditioned building on a blistering-hot day. The castle was gone and she was outside, in the middle of a humid and fragrant rain forest. The portal was an upright rectangle, like an odd movie screen, standing in the undergrowth, and through it she could see inside the castle. The fighting raged on.

“Run! Hide!"

Gene was shaking her, yelling into her ear.

“Get lost! Run!"

She was about to ask about Linda when she was rendered speechless by the sight of Gene's form suddenly growing blurred and indistinct. Then he disappeared altogether, and she was left standing alone. Astonished, she whirled around, again and again, her bewildered eyes searching frantically for any sight of him.

But he was gone. He had simply vanished.

He reappeared just as quickly. He and Linda came through the gateway at a run.

But before Sheila could register shock, they disappeared as inexplicably as the first Gene had done.

They were followed by Snowclaw, who also vanished without fanfare and without a trace. Two more of Snowclaw's doppelgangers repeated the trick, each blinking out of existence shortly after crossing the threshold.

Then another Gene-and-Linda set came through. This one did not disappear.

“Here she is!” Gene yelled as he ran by. “Let's go, Sheila!"

He grabbed Sheila's arm and dragged her along. Sheila tripped, staggered, then found her footing. Gene let go of her arm and she ran after them.

Eventually they pulled ahead and she lost them in the sea of vegetation. She dashed on through the thick undergrowth, leafy tentacles grabbing at her feet, overhanging vines whipping at her face and snagging her clothing. She stopped and looked wildly about. Someone grabbed her sleeve and yanked her down.

It was Gene, crouched with Linda behind some bushes.

“Shhh!"

Sheila peered back at the portal. As she watched, several Bluefaces crossed over and promptly dematerialized. Then Snowclaw came running through. Apparently he was the genuine article. He stayed hugely real.

Gene jumped up and waved at him, whistling.

Snowclaw caught sight of Gene and started forward. A Blueface came charging out of the portal, saw Snowclaw, and jumped him from behind. Snowclaw rolled to the ground to avoid a wicked slash, and in so doing, shot out a foot to trip the creature up. The Blueface went down. There was a brief scuffle on the ground, then both creatures sprang to their feet, swords flashing in the tropical sunlight.

By the time Gene got there to help, the Blueface lay on the ground, wanting the top half of its skull. Gene led Snowy back to the hiding spot.

The foursome watched the portal for five full minutes. No one else came out. All was quiet.

“Maybe that last one was the only survivor,” Gene said. “The only real one, that is.” He found a tree trunk and leaned against it. “How are you guys?"

Linda said, “I wasn't in much danger. That Blueface was a strong magician, though. If we hadn't ducked out, I don't know.” She shook her head ruefully.

“Sheila?"

Horror-struck, she was staring at Gene. “Gene, I ... I
saw
you. You were—"

“Yeah, I know. It was pretty interesting."

Sheila's mouth hung open. She worked her jaws, trying to form words in reply.

Gene shrugged. “Well, philosophically speaking—"

Sheila burst into tears, and presently she found that Gene was holding her. She hugged him, pressing her face against the braided leather of his breastplate.

“It's okay, it's okay,” Gene was saying, but she knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

“Oh, no!"

Blinking back tears, Sheila looked at Linda.

Linda's face was ashen. “The portal's gone,” she said.

 

 

 

East 64th and Lexington

 

Trent's Mercedes swooped to the curb and halted beneath a sign that read no stopping anytime. Trent got out and opened the trunk. Incarnadine threw his luggage in; then they both got in the car.

It was about three-thirty on a Friday afternoon, and traffic was already congealing into a hopeless clot. Trent drove south on Lexington to 58th Street and turned west.

“Think we can get through the Lincoln Tunnel in under an hour?” Incarnadine asked.

“Sure, no problem,” Trent answered with the casual self-confidence that only a New Yorker can muster in the face of impending gridlock.

“I'd be willing to bet we never make it to the tunnel. This town was always bad, traffic-wise, but the situation seems to have reached absurd proportions."

“Come now, you're exaggerating."

Incarnadine laughed. “You really have become a native."

Trent shrugged. “Maybe.” He dodged and weaved expertly through the taxi-thick rush, applying the car's horn in liberal doses. “Tell me again why I should help you."

Incarnadine sighed and leaned back in the leather seat. “I don't think I want to go through it again. If you can't marshal enough reasons on your own, your heart's probably not in it. If that's the case, let me off here, and we'll say no more about it."

“Hold your horses, I'm not backing out. I just want to hear again why I should take your side against Ferne. And Deems, though I don't hold a brief for him."

“I'm not asking you to take my side. I'm enlisting your aid in a campaign to save Perilous from the irresponsible machinations of our crazy sister. She's really gone off the deep end this time, Trent."

“You say she has something else in mind besides sharing power with you and Deems?"

“She wants to be nothing less than mistress of Perilous. She's wanted it for years, and has stated so to me on a number of occasions. Always with a laugh, mind you, and a pretty smile, as if she didn't mean it."

“Always. That's our Ferne. But who am I to thwart her ambitions? Look, Inky. I've lived in this culture long enough to have been influenced by certain so-called progressive ideas. In our world, as in this one, women traditionally get the short end of the stick when it comes to things like royal succession. She's older than you, but you are a male, and she was passed over. You inherited the Seat Perilous, the crown, and the castle. She's pissed about that, as rightly she should be."

“In the moral universe you're delineating, our sister Dorcas, as oldest sibling, should have taken the throne upon Dad's death."

“Dorcas is traditional-minded as hell, and you know it. She'd be on your side, for Christ's sake. Let's forget hypotheticals. It's Ferne who thinks she has a civil rights case."

“Ferne may have a case, but the way she's going about redressing her grievance is guaranteed to put more than Castle Perilous in jeopardy."

“Not if you gave in a little and let her share power."

“Can't be done, Trent. I mean, we're not talking about political power in the traditional sense here, are we?"

“Well, not exactly,” Trent said. “As far as Perilous' local situation is concerned, the Pale is a Wasteland, and has been for centuries. Is there anyone at all living out there on the plains these days?"

“There are about two hundred tenant farmers and their families left, scraping by as always. They won't live in the castle for religious reasons."

“Only two hundred? Gods! Then the Pale is virtually deserted outside the castle. No, we're not speaking of governing a few hundred square
zeln
of marginal farmland. It's a matter of controlling whole worlds—at least potentially."

“Trent, you know Perilous can't control worlds. Not very well, at any rate. For instance, take this one. Could we rule Earth from Perilous?"

“Maybe not a complex, heavily populated world where magic is problematical. But other, simpler aspects where the ground rules are a trifle more liberal? Yes indeedy. We could run worlds like those."

“Why? To what purpose?"

Trent swerved to avoid a cab that had cut in front to pick up a fare. He chuckled. “Why? Something to do. Something different. A new kick. A little excitement to leaven the boredom that's inevitable in the lives of long-lived sorts such as we."

“You might take up batiking. Or beer can collecting. How about aerobics? Maybe holistic medicine?"

“Okay, okay. I was simply dying to see it from Ferne's point of view."

“I think I know what her point of view is,” Incarnadine said. “She's nuts. Gone round the bend. Crackers."

“What makes you think that?"

“I'm pretty sure she intends to make a deal with the Hosts of Hell."

Trent honked angrily at a brave pedestrian, a man in a trench coat and wool cap, who had stepped out in front of the car. The man jumped back to the curb in the nick of time as Trent roared by. Incarnadine heard shouted obscenities dwindling in the car's wake.

“How do you know?” Trent said.

“I don't, for sure,” Incarnadine answered, “but I'm fairly sure she tried to have me killed, and that means she's not dealing squarely with Deems. I don't think Deems would go along with assassinating me."

“Unless he is as desperate as Ferne said he was."

“Possibly. But I don't think Ferne wants to share power with anyone, let alone Deems, let alone me. She needs allies to take and hold the castle, and I think she thinks that only supernatural allies will do. She's probably right. Alone, she'd have to face her subjects, to say nothing of the Guard. And there's always the Guests as a wild card. And all of them are magicians, to varying degrees. That's what makes Perilous a fun place and makes plotters toss and turn all night. I do myself, sometimes."

“This all sounds complicated,” Trent said uneasily. “Why is she stringing Deems along? Why does she need him?"

“If she had simply summoned the Hosts of Hell to take over the castle, Deems would have thrown in with me to fight them off. So would Dorcas, and, I think, even you."

Trent seemed to be grinning in spite of himself. “But I was stranded here, remember? Still am, as a matter of fact."

“Bullshit, Trent. I never believed it for one minute."

Trent laughed. “Okay, I never was good at keeping secrets."

“You shouldn't have shown off at dinner, when you let me see how you do your aging act. Obviously you've learned to adapt to this universe. How long did it take you to learn how to summon the gateway?"

“Oh, about five years, as I said. But once I could do if, I had no interest in going back to Perilous, or in living in any other universe but this one. I simply had settled down here and wasn't about to move. I have friends here, you know. I've put down roots."

Incarnadine nodded, looking out the window. Traffic thickened up even more as they reached the West Side.

“I still don't quite understand it,” Trent said. “Okay, she wouldn't have won any popularity contests by teaming up with a bunch of demons. But can any of us prevail against the Hosts of Hell, singly or combined?"

“I don't know. The Hosts of Hell are a troublesome bunch."

“That's putting it mildly. If Dad feared anything at all, it was those guys. He warned us about them more than once."

“Dad knew their power. It's not for nothing that the strongest containment spell in the castle is the one blocking their aspect.” Incarnadine rubbed his dark beard. He was glad not to have to go about in makeup all the time. Only his C. Wainwright Smithton persona required his looking elderly. “As I said, I don't know exactly what Ferne's up to. But I'm sure I'll find out sooner or later. As I take my dying breath, maybe.” He opened his coat and loosened the collar of his shin. “Tell me this. Why
are
you helping me? Or are you?"

Trent took a long breath. “I guess it's occurred to you that I could be behind all this."

“Yes, it has. Forget it. That's a possibility I'll have to live with. I'm betting you aren't. Granted that you're not conspiring with Ferne or running her, why help me find the portal and get back to Perilous?"