Castle for Rent (4 page)

Snowy couldn't recall ever hearing of a jhalrakk big enough to lift an ice floe; a good-size one could overturn a large boat, for sure. But a huge, weighty mass of ice? It was ridiculous.

He swam back to the floe and climbed painfully back up on the ice. The wind hit him, making his waterlogged hide feel like a suit of fire. He pulled in the line, only to discover that he'd lost his best harpoon. With a savage growl, he yanked out the spike and threw it and the line as far as he could out to sea.

 

Some time later, grumbling, cursing, and generally bad-mouthing the world and everything that crawled or swam or walked in it, Snowclaw waded through deep drifts on his way to the only really warm spot he knew. He hadn't thought he would ever go back, but he was at the end of his tether. Maybe the time he'd spent away had made him go soft. He was losing his touch. You couldn't have asked for a more perfect setup shot on that jhalrakk. And he'd missed. Blown it completely.

He was just about frozen through, and could barely move, his fur a stiff mat of ice. The wind was howling out of the north throwing light snow, and night was falling. He could barely see through the icy rime forming over the fur around his eyes.

He found the crevasse and the steps he'd cut out of the ice going down into it. Minding where he put his feet, he descended the treacherous staircase.

The mouth of the cave was only a few steps from the bottom of the stairway. He went in, and the temperature immediately rose a few degrees. A few more steps inside the cave brought a warm draft from within. It felt like heaven.

There was a Gothic arch at the end of the tunnel, passing him through to a stone-walled corridor.

He was back in Castle Perilous.

The first time he'd stumbled in here, he and his hairless buddy Gene had met up and trooped around together. They'd wandered through the damn place for weeks, hopelessly lost. But after a while they'd become seasoned Guests of the castle, acquiring a sixth sense that allowed them to navigate the vast edifice with a reasonable chance of at least finding a way to the lavatory.

He made a series of lefts and rights, moving through bare hallways lit by jewel-tipped light fixtures in their wrought-iron mounts.

At length he smelled food: human food, which ordinarily he found rather tasteless. But if he talked nice to the cooks, they would whip up something more to his liking. If Linda was around, she'd do it for him no questions asked.

He found the Queen's dining room and walked in. There were a number of hairless types—humans—at the table, his old friends among them.

“Snowclaw!"

Linda jumped up, ran over, and hugged him. He hugged back, careful not to crush the little human female, of whom he was greatly fond.

“Snowy, you're soaking wet!"

“Yeah, I been swimming."

Gene Ferraro thumped him on the back. “I
knew
you'd come back."

“You knew something I didn't,” Snowclaw said. “Not that I didn't miss you, Gene, old buddy. How's it going?"

“Oh, been pretty quiet around here."

“Find a way back to your world yet?"

“Nope,” Gene said. “Still working on it."

“That's too bad. We'll have to mount a search party. After all, you helped me find my aspect."

“It was nothing. Yours is one of the stable ones."

“So far. You know what they say, though. Any aspect can close up on you, anytime."

“Yeah, but I wouldn't worry about it."

Linda asked, “Why did you come back, Snowy?"

“Couldn't make it in the real world. I'm hungry."

Snowclaw scanned the table for anything he could eat. He grabbed a candle out of its sconce, dipped it into gooey white salad dressing, and took a bite. The thin man sitting in front of the empty sconce looked up and smiled bleakly at him.

“Sorry, pal,” Snowclaw said. “Was that yours?"

“No, quite all right. You ought to try the silverware."

Gene said, “I'm glad you showed up, Snowy. I've been giving some thought to going exploring. Just picking an interesting aspect and heading off into it. Feel like going with me?"

“Sure, let's go. Just so it's someplace warm."

“I thought you didn't take to heat."

“I'm slowly becoming a convert to your way of thinking."

“Well, let me finish breakfast, and we'll scout around and see if we can find something interesting. Have a seat, Snowy."

Snowy said, “Linda, can I talk you into whipping up some grub for me?"

“Sure thing. What would you like?"

“Oh, the usual."

“You mean that fishmeal mush you like? The icky green stuff?"

“If it won't make you puke."

“Don't be silly. You have to eat the food your body needs. Hold on a minute."

Linda closed her eyes briefly, extending her right hand palm-down over the table. A large wooden bowl materialized under her hand. It was filled with icky green stuff.

“Thanks, Linda,” Snowclaw said, taking the bowl and scooping out a gob of mush with his fingers. His fierce yellow eyes lit up as he sat down and began to eat in earnest.

“I don't know about you two running off like that,” Linda said. “I'm going to worry about you."

“We'll be fine,” Gene said, helping himself to more chicken a la king.

Snowclaw had sat down next to a chubby young man with a straggly beard who was staring at him with a mixture of awe and repugnance. Snowclaw caught his stare.

“Something bothering you, friend?"

“Huh?” The young man's face turned a shade paler. “No! Not a thing. Really. Uh..."

Linda intervened with, “Snowy, this is Barnaby Walsh. He's a new Guest. Barnaby, I'd like you to meet our friend, Snowclaw."

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Snowclaw."

“Same here. Pass that salt, would you?"

“Certainly. Here you are."

“Thanks."

Linda said, “Barnaby is an American, just like us."

“That's real nice."

“Uh...” Barnaby smiled sheepishly. “I don't understand. I mean, obviously Mr. Snowclaw is ... well, he's not a human being. But I can understand him perfectly. He even sounds American! But how could that be?"

“The translation spell,” Gene said.

“The what?"

“It's operative throughout the entire castle. It's a magic spell that gives you an instantaneous running translation of any language. Snowy's speaking in his own tongue, just like everybody else here. Take Mr. Hoffmann over there, for example. He's German, and he speaks no English. Right, Mr. Hoffmann?"

“That's right."

“I don't get it,” Walsh said. “He just spoke English."

“No, he didn't. He said it in German. Didn't you, Mr. Hoffmann?"

“Ja."

“Well, I heard it that time,” Walsh said.

“You can turn the translation off if you want to. For instance, just listen to the sound of Snowy's voice for a while. He grunts and barks and growls, but you understand him perfectly."

“But how?"

“It's magic!” everyone at the table chorused. Then they all laughed, except Walsh.

“I think I'm going insane,” Walsh said, covering his face with his chubby hands.

Linda reached out a hand. “Now, Barnaby, don't lose it. Come on. If I could adjust, so can you. I was in worse shape than you when I wandered in here."

“It's just all so fantastic. So unbelievable."

“It's real. Just go with it. Don't fight it. It's fun, mostly. Things can get a little dangerous sometimes, but magic is the rule here. Anything goes."

“Do you really think...” Barnaby steadied himself with a gulp of coffee. “Will I really develop magic powers?"

“Everyone who becomes a Guest does. Castle Perilous is like a big dynamo, spinning off this fantastic energy. We act sort of like conductors. But each person's powers are unique. Everyone can do something different."

“You mean I might not be able to materialize things, like you, but I'll get some other power?"

“Right. For instance, Snowy here can teleport like a champ."

“Really? No kidding."

Snowclaw nodded. “Yeah, I can zip all over the damn place just by thinking about it."

“And Gene is the greatest swordsman in this and a few other worlds."

“Zat is becawse ah am French."

“You're French?"

“Of course. Why else would ah have zis ridiculous accent, eh?"

“French accents are not necessarily ridiculous,” said a gentleman named DuQuesne. “I wish you could hear what most Americans sound like when they try to speak French."

“Whoops, looks like I put my foot in it again,” Gene said. “Sorry, Monsieur DuQuesne."

M. DuQuesne laughed. “I was teasing you, Gene."

“Well, I don't mean to go treading on nationalist feelings. I mean, we've all got—” Gene caught sight of something and trailed off.

He was staring over Linda's head. Linda turned to see three blue-skinned creatures enter the dining room and stop to survey it imperiously. They could have been the same three who had shown up on the picnic grounds.

They sauntered over to the table. One of them looked over the wide selection of comestibles spread from one end of the table to the other.

“Scavenger leavings,” it said with disgust. “Garbage."

No one argued with the creature.

The middle one had picked up a turkey leg to sniff. The creature tossed the thing over its shoulder contemptuously.

“If you speak to the cook,” Gene suggested to the first creature, “I'm sure you'll be taken care of."

The creature didn't answer. It stalked the length of the long table, sizing everyone up. It stopped at a place opposite Gene and stood arms akimbo, glaring, flashing its gleaming teeth. “What if I think your cook is garbage as well?"

“Then you'll starve, pal.” Gene shrugged. “Those are the breaks."

“Breaks?” The creature's head turned slightly to one side, as if giving ear to an unseen interpreter. Then it nodded. “Understand. Yes. Luck. You are lucky I am under orders. I will not kill you now. But I might take some pleasure kicking your miserable carcass about this room."

“You'll take pleasure in this first, friend,” Gene said, laying a hand on the hilt of his sword. His heart was jumping into his mouth as he said it.

“
That
would give me immense pleasure."

“Suits me,” Gene said. “And now suits me as well as later."

The creature smiled the wickedest, toothiest smile Gene had ever seen or could ever have imagined. “You are brave. Surprising, inasmuch as your race is so cravenly peaceful."

Gene laughed. “He don't know humans very well, do he?"

Nobody else laughed.

“Gene...” Linda's warning was also a plea.

“Reconsidering,” the creature said, “it might be worth being court-martialed to see this hovel tastefully decorated with your entrails—if you have any left after I am finished with you."

“Well, there's only one way to find out, big fella."

Snowclaw stood up. He towered at least two feet over the creature. “You're in my light, Blueface.” Snowclaw placed a hand flat against the creature's shiny green breastplate and shoved. The creature went staggering backward but managed to stay on his feet.

Gene gulped uncomfortably. Any other living thing would have gone crashing into the wall.

The three intruders drew their swords almost in unison. Gene jumped up and followed suit, as did a number of armed males at the table. Snowclaw snarled and leaped toward the first creature, coming to a karate fighting stance, milky claws at their maximum extension.

“Halt!"

The voice had come from the arched entrance to the dining hall. There stood another blue-skinned creature, scowling in the direction of the one Snowclaw had shoved.

The first creature came to attention with its sword at present-arms. The others followed suit.

“There will be none of this,” the creature at the door said.

“Yes, Squad Leader,” the first creature acknowledged.

“You will report back to headquarters immediately. Consider yourself under arrest."

“Yes, Squad Leader."

“Go."

The three soldiers left. The squad leader lingered at the doorway for a moment, its cold eyes taking the measure of the room and the beings contained therein. Then, abruptly, it turned and marched off.

Everybody breathed again.

“Gene, I don't believe you did that.” Linda rolled her eyes and put her hands to her head.

Gene looked unhappy. “It wasn't me, it was the magic. This castle turns me into a cross between John Wayne and Cyrano de Bergerac, and something compels me to act out the role. Besides, that guy was getting on my nerves."

“Yeah, they're kinda pushy, aren't they?” Snowclaw said.

“What
were
those ... things?” Barnaby Walsh asked, his face the color of Chinese bean curd.

“I don't know what you'd call them,” Gene said. “'Blueface' is as good as anything."

“Where do they come from?"

Gene shrugged. “One aspect or another."

“I've never seen them before,” Hoffmann said. “But I've heard other Guests mention seeing them."

“Still want to go exploring, Gene?” Snowclaw asked.

Gene frowned and shook his head. “Not until we find out what these blue guys are up to."

“Goody, goody. I hope there's a rip-roaring fight in it."

Barnaby Walsh gave Snowclaw a look of dismay.

“I could use a good fight,” Snowclaw told him. “I really like it when the fur flies and the guts go spilling all over the place.” Snowy licked a gob of mush from his thin pink lips. “Kinda pretty."

Walsh belched. “Excuse me,” he said, getting up from the table. “I don't feel quite—” He riffed again, tottering away.

“Was it something I said?” Snowclaw asked.

 

 

 

Long Island

 

Trent's house was of dark red brick with black wood trim, and stood on wooded grounds somewhere in the wilds of Nassau County, sea gulls pinwheeling in the sky above it. The interior was tastefully and expensively appointed. An accelerated course in the history of modern painting covered the walls, and various avant-garde sculptures graced tabletops and display pedestals. The furnishings were mostly modern, with dashes of tradition for flavor.