Castle Murders (17 page)

One dark eye found Carney.

"Be with you in a minute," he said around the cigar.

"I call," said the player beside him.

"Straight, ten high," Millington said, showing him.

"Damn!"

"I should have stayed in," said another player. "I was working on a flush. But despair's my greatest sin."

"
Ego te absolvo
," Millington said. "
Nil desperandum
."

"No capeesh. I flunked that subject, along with others."

Millington rose and picked up his cash. "Gentlemen, deal me out."

Carney and Velma had taken seats at the bar. The bartender was setting a gin-and-tonic in front of Velma when Millington arrived.

"John, nice of you to drop by."

They shook hands. "Biff, meet Velma."

Velma flashed her small even teeth.

"Hello, Velma. That's on the house."

"He's paying."

Millington blew more smoke into the smoky air. "Have a drink, John. On me. Then get the hell out."

Carney grinned. "Still sore about that brewery in Melville."

"I liked that little operation, and I didn't like having it salamandered."

"Your insurance paid off. Business, Biff, just business. Nothing personal. The profit margin didn't allow our dropping prices to match the competition. It was either fold up our tents or carry out a preemptive strike."
 

"Oh, I understand." Millington grinned back. "I simply didn't like it."

"I'll get, but first you might think about doing the unthinkable and helping me."

Millington laughed. "Oh, you lead a
rich
fantasy life, my friend."

"Don't rule it out just yet. Tweel's dengs are muscling in on everyone in town. Somebody has to put a stop to it."

"You, I suppose. Alone?"

"It's best. The other way would just kill off eighty percent of my boys. I'd win that way, too, but it'd be messy."

"You're mighty confident."

"I can't be anything else. Half the battle is the approach, the frame of mind."

Millington nodded. "True. Psychological considerations are paramount, especially in some sort of showdown. But I think you're overstretching yourself. You're a hell of a sorcerer, but maybe not enough to go up against Hell itself."
 

Carney munched some peanuts. "Funny the way you put that."

"Am I hinting that Tweel's dengs might be running him instead of vice versa? Yes, I'm hinting. They seem to have an agenda all their own." Millington puffed thoughtfully on the long green cigar. "In which case, it's inevitable that they'll be calling the shots in this town. Because if Tweel can't control them, neither can you."
 

"Maybe so," Carney said. "But I think I'll take a shot anyway. I have some experience."

Millington was dubious. "Where? When?"

"Another time, another place."

"Uh-huh. Well, there is this longstanding rumor about you, a bit of latter-day folklore, which says you're from another world. Just what other world is vague. Are you telling me it's true?"
 

"I'm not telling you it isn't. But forget that. You really think it's inevitable that they'll take over?"

Millington frowned. "I don't know. I hope not. But . . . not everyone can be big wheels. Some of us must be cogs. I know my limitations. I figure I'm a little wheel at best. But tell you what, I will think about your proposition."
 

"The dengs might shift gears and leave you spinning. If they run Necropolis, they won't need humans at the middle-management level. Or even lackeys. They have all the personnel they need. They are legion."
 

Millington regarded the ceiling, contemplating its painted stars and crescent moons.

"You have a point, much as I hate to admit it." He let out a sigh. "What do you want, John?"

"What spells are you using?"

Millington chuckled. "What fo' you wanna mess wit' colored, boss?"

"A fresh approach. An unusual angle. Unexpected."

"Yeah." Millington chuckled again. "Unexpected. Well, I'm not going to let you tap into my connection, that's for sure. You learn my charms and it's not just breweries on Great Isle that I'll be losing. But there are other consultants open for business around here. I can give you a name and an address."
 

"I'd appreciate it."

Millington took out a pen. Carney gave him a business card to write on. Millington thought first, then wrote.

"I think that's the number. Anyway it's on One Hundred Thirty-fourth Street next to a greasy spoon called Darby's Cafe."

"Much obliged," Carney said, taking the card.

"You're quite welcome, sir. I have a game to get back to. Be well, and if I don't see you in here again, it will be too damned soon."
 

The big man wheeled around and walked off a few steps before stopping and turning his head to say, "Oh, and good luck." He blended back into the crowd.
 

"Thanks."

"Nice music in there," Velma said.

"Yes. Want to dance?"

"Love to. You have the time?"

"One spin around the dance floor on our way out. Finish your drink."

She downed most of it and gave him a serious look. "You can't win against dengs. Who do you think you are? God?"

"There are those who cast out dengs in His name."

"Stow the sermons, parson."

"Not until I pass the plate. Drink up and let's get the hell out of here."

 

 

 

Graving Dock

 

"How's it coming, luster?"

Gene was on his knees, peering under the bell-shaped craft.

"It's comin'," Luster answered. On his back underneath the
Voyager
, spanner in hand, he was wrestling with a stubborn lug-nut. Dolbert was helping, manning a crescent wrench.
 

Gene got up. He had changed from the garb of Cyrano to something befitting a NASA astronaut: a sky-blue jumpsuit with velcro-sealed pockets.
 

Jeremy said, "At least the communications repairs are done. We'll be able to keep in touch by modem."

"Can't you rig voice communications some way?"

"Sorry, but there's only one channel."

"What about using magic?"

Jeremy scowled. "Hey, sending data via modem without a phone line or a radio relay is magic. And getting the signal from one universe to another is big-time magic. Whaddya want, miracles?"
 

"Sorry."

"Don't worry, we'll be in constant communication. That's an improvement over the way we've done things in the past."

Linda was eating a sandwich at a table laden with luncheon food. She had switched outfits too, dressed now in a futuristic silver-lamé two-piece utility suit with matching boots. The costume evoked 1930's-40's movie serials.
 

Snowclaw was sitting beside her, dipping citronella candles in ranch dressing. He had decided to try something new.

"Aren't you guys hungry?" Linda called. "Come and get it before it turns into pumpkins."

Gene came over with Jeremy. "I guess I should eat," Gene said, sitting down. "No telling when we'll get the chance next."

Linda said, "Jeremy, what about the locator spell?"

"Osmirik sent one down, and I fed it into the
Voyager
's computer. Whether or not it's gonna work, I don't know. But it's like radar. You punch up the display on the screen, and when you see an echo, you know you're getting close to the target."
 

"The target being Melanie."

"Right. But of course, the problem is, what's the spell supposed to look for exactly? How is it supposed to identify the target?"

"Her old clothes aren't enough?"

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do with 'em. If this were just plain magic, I guess you'd just throw an old sock into the brew, or something — like for a love potion or something corny like that. But we're using a little bit of magic and a lot of technology. That makes it tricky."
 

"We need a bloodhound," Gene said. "You'd just let it get a whiff of the stuff and off it'd go, sniffing away."

They all sat thinking. Then their gazes intersected.

"Why not get a bloodhound?" said Gene.

"Yeah," Jeremy said. "Could you whip one up, Linda?"

"A dog? Well, I can conjure almost anything. I've cloned Gene and Snowclaw, but that was working with a known model. I don't even know what a bloodhound looks like."
 

"That's never stopped you before," Gene said. "You can conjure stuff you've never laid eyes on."

"Okay, but wait a minute. Say I do produce a bloodhound. How's that going to help? We don't know what universe she's in."

"It'd have to be a bloodhound with very unusual talents," Gene said. "He'd have to be able to sniff out whole universes."

Linda shook her head. "That's a tall order. I don't know how I'd program an ability like that into anything I conjure. The best I could do would be a standard bloodhound — whatever that is."
 

Gene ruminated. "I seem to remember something about the castle having a hunt aspect."

"A hunt aspect?"

"Yeah. Riding to hounds. Fox-hunting, for the gentry. If so, there has to be a kennel. Royal hounds. Now, they'd be your basic hunting hounds — there are number of breeds — but they could certainly follow a human scent."
 

"But they'd still be just ordinary dogs," Linda said.

"Yeah, I guess." Gene took a bite of the sandwich he'd made. "But there's a kernel of an idea here somewhere. We need a natural-born tracker. A hunter."
 

Jeremy said, "How about Snowy?"

"Yeah, I can do that," Snowy said. "But I don't even really know what the heck a universe is."

"Yeah, that's no good," Gene said.

"Besides, I have a cold."

Gene said, "You get colds?"

"Sure. My nose gets all stuffed up and I can't smell a thing."

"No kidding." Gene set down his prosciutto-and-green-pepper sandwich. "What we really need is a psychic critter."

"Why not just a psychic?"

"A human one? What, are we going to look for Elvis? You want the scoop on the next stage of Jackie O's love life?"

"It was only a suggestion."

"There are castle people who have psychic powers," Linda said. "What do you call what I do?"

"Real magic."

"What's the difference?"

"There's a lot of difference. Besides, you said you can't conjure a human being."

"But there might be someone in the castle who could help."

"We need real tracking talent, not some self-styled 'psychic' who makes a hundred wild guesses, of which one might luckily pan out."
 

"Incarnadine could locate Melanie," Linda said.

"Probably, but he's not around. Want to wait for him to come back?"

"No, Melanie's in trouble. I can feel it."

"Talk about psychic vibes."

"No, I can't find her. My talent's not that way."

"Well, is there something you can remember about that wild aspect? What it looked like, anything to identify it?"

"It was just a dense forest, big trees. Looked like ordinary trees. It could have been Earth for all I know." Linda paused and thought. "There is one thing. The way Melanie moved when I saw her. She seemed to be in an old silent movie. Jerky, fast."
 

"Ah, a time-flow differential," Gene said.

"Time-flow?" Jeremy said.

"Yeah. Might be that the rate that time flows in that universe is faster than the one here. That's not so good. More time for her to get in trouble."
 

"Great," Linda said, sounding discouraged.

"But the differential doesn't appear to be too big," Gene said, wishing he hadn't brought it up. "Shouldn't be a problem."

"Anyway," Jeremy said, "the
Voyager
's a time machine."

"I guess it is," Gene said. "It travels through all the dimensions, of which time is one. We might be able to adjust for any temporal displacement." Gene himself wasn't sure exactly what he meant or what such a remedy would entail.
 

Linda stared at the table. "Boy, this is going to be fun."

"Linda, I think our best approach," Gene said, "is for you to conjure a psychic dog."

"You don't believe in human psychics, but — "

"Hell, dogs are psychic. Everybody knows that. Besides, dogs I trust. Human con-artists, no."

Linda shrugged. "Okay. This is getting even crazier than what usually goes on in this place, but what the heck. Let's give it a shot."
 

Linda stood and walked out from the table a few feet and stopped. "Psychic dog. Right." She folded her arms and closed her eyes.
 

She stood motionless, her feet wide apart. The two men and Snowclaw watched. This went on for a longish minute. Nothing happened.

Linda relaxed and opened her eyes. "This is going to be harder than I thought." She shifted her feet, then resumed her stance. Folding her arms again, she shut her eyes.
 

"Dang it, anyway!" Luster griped from across the room, frustrated by some recalcitrant grommet.

Linda rocked slightly back and forth. Gene, Jeremy, and Snowclaw didn't move. Nothing happened for about thirty seconds.

Then, with no fanfare, a huge dog materialized on the floor in front of Linda. It was lying down. Startled, it lifted its head, looked around, and sprang to its feet.
 

The animal looked to have a lot of sheepdog in its ancestry, but something had gone wrong. Its fur was a dirty white, splotched with great patches of black and rust-red in a crazy-quilt pattern. Its head was enormous and the ears were long and floppy. The right eye was brown and the other looked different; it was a little larger, and had green in it. A black ring circled the smaller eye. All in all, it was a clumsy, confused mélange of a dog, oversized and shaggy. It was male.
 

Its ears went down, and it hunkered and growled. Then it barked.

"Easy, boy," Linda said.

"That's a psychic dog? That's the goofiest-looking mutt I've ever laid eyes on," Gene complained.