Castle Spellbound (2 page)

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 I'd 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. “Oh, look at her."

“A houri."

“Ah. Two of them."

“Imagine being crushed between two sets of—"

“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.