Bride of the Castle (15 page)

“If it's the former, then the cult aspect might be involved,” Thaxton said.

“Nasty business.” Wicklow couldn't keep from staring up at the limp body, the blackened face, the contorted features.

“Nasty business,” he repeated, his voice rasping.

“Here, here,” Motherwell said, taking his shoulder. “Steady on, Mr. Wicklow. Sit down, here.”

Wicklow sat. “He . . . he was completely fine when I left him. Didn't seem in bad spirits. Last thing he said was a joke, in fact. ‘Watch out for killer cows,'he said.”

“Did he mean to make a joke about your fetching some milk?” Motherwell asked.

“Why, yes. That's the way I took it. Ghastly thing to say, under the circumstances. But I laughed in spite of myself. Bit of relief.”

“What else did you talk about when you were up here with him?”

“Not a thing, really. Nothing. Maybe a few words about the weather.”

“Nothing about the murders?”

“No. Not at all. We're all still a bit shaken by all that's happened. We didn't utter a word about it. Didn't have time, really.”

“And you say he wasn't at all despondent? He didn't appear so, or say anything to lead you to that conclusion?”

“No. In fact, as I said, he seemed in jolly good spirits.”

“Blackpool's clothesline, I'll wager,” Thaxton said, examining the taut length of cord. “Either Blackpool did it or someone stole the line out of his room.”

“Did what?” Motherwell demanded.

“Hanged Thayne-Chetwynde and forged the note.”

“Good God. What makes you say that?”

“Was Thayne-Chetwynde a navy man?”

“No,” Petheridge said. “Army.”

“Did he have a yacht?”

“Didn't care for the sea much, as I recall.”

“This knot is a bowline hitch, a kind you tie off a taut cord with. It's a seaman's knot. Someone with nautical experience tied it. Hardly the thing a desperate person would do, anyway. And in any event, it's very difficult to tie with a loose cord.”

“Another murder,” Motherwell groaned.

Thaxton scratched his head, muttering, “Three. Three murders. Now this is getting bloody unusual.”

Dalton sidled over to him and whispered, “Still think this is merry old England?”

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 

as the night wore on into morning, Max and Hochstader 3 hit dozens and dozens of alternate continua, each one with Dumbrowsky Taylor Burke or some variant smack in the middle of it.

“I can't believe it,” Max groaned, staring at the phone book in Hochstader 37's outer office.

“Again?” Hochstader 3 asked wearily.

“Again.”

Max was fascinated by the permutations on the agency's name, evidently the result of random factor at work among Max's would-be partners. There was Dumbrowsky Taylor Thompson, ditto ditto O'Hare, Dumbrowsky McNeil ditto, ditto ditto Tomassi, and even a Dumbrowsky Fenton Fineburg.

“Herb Fenton. My God, why did I go into partnership with Herb Fenton? Well, he's in this universe. Close, but no cigar.”

“No more, please,” Hochstader 3 begged.

“We have to keep looking.” Addressing Hochstader 56, Max said, “Thanks.”

“Do drop in again,” Hochstader 56 replied.

 

Later, even Max was getting tired.

“How many alternates are there that might be close to the one I want?”

“Do you know what a googol is?”

“No,” Max said.

“It's a number. A one with a crapload of zeros after it. Take that number, and raise it to the power of itself. Googol to the googol power. You get a googolplex. Don't even think about how many zeros that has. That'll give you some idea of how many worlds we're talking about.”

Max blanched. “That many?”

“It's insignificant,” Hochstader 3 said, “to the number of slow ways to kill you I've devised in the last half-hour.”

“Have you ever looked into Biodynamics? When you achieve total body-system coordination, all that tension goes away.”

“Oh, shut up.”

 

Still later, Hochstader was beside himself.

“Look, there's a limit to how many times you can de-tune a portal without losing a fix on your home world.
My
world! I'll never get back!”

“I hear that, I really do. I know I've been using you as an object, but if you try to look at it in the context of its unique situational ethics—”

“Cut the psychobabble!”

“No, really, I mean it.”

“Hail Hitler!” Hochstader 106 shouted after them as they went back to re-tune the portal.

 

Much later . . .

“I have no idea where we are!” Hochstader screamed. “You don't know what you're getting us into. There are boondock worlds you wouldn't want to be caught dead in. Some you'd wish you
were
dead in. Strange places—”

“I never saw this trough-convergence on my biorhythm chart.”

“You never . . . ? For God's sake.”

Jeremy Hochstader hit the keys furiously. Out on the floor of the lab, the Castle's mainframe computer hummed and whirred. An occasional spark snapped among the huge machines arranged along the far wall.

“Jesus, this joint is creepy,” Max said. “Who did you say owns the place again?”

“The Castle? Lord Incarnadine.”

“Lord Incarnadine.” Max shook his head. “Strange, strange.”

“Yeah, really.”

“And you live here?”

“Yeah. Please, I'm busy.”

“Sorry, but this is just so hard to believe. What's it like?”

“What's what like?”

“The Castle. Living here.”

“It's more fun than a barrel of orangutans.”

“That so?”

“Although it does get risky on occasion.”

As Hochstader worked, Max took in the lab again, still marveling. “I'd like to see the rest of the Castle.”

“It's
extremely
big. And there are portals all over the place.”

“Like this one?”

“Yes. Leading to worlds more weird than you can imagine. You think the Castle's strange. You oughta see some of those worlds. They're not just variants of Earth, like this one. Damn!”

Max was alarmed. “What?”

“I think I just . . .”

Hochstader got up and ran toward the curtain. Max began to follow but nearly ran into the little guy, who had stopped at the curtain to peer cautiously through.

“What is it?” Max demanded.

“Just checking to see if the office building is still here. Something happened.”

“What?”

“Don't know. A glitch in the program. I might have hit a wrong key. Something tweaked, but it looks okay. This is just another minor variant world, looks like. Come on.”

Max followed Hochstader through the curtain and into the back room. Hochstader was still wary, treading softly.

Max nearly bumped into him again in the outer office. And when he saw why, he nearly fell over.

Something . . . some
thing
was seated at the desk, a nightmare of multiple pincers, green chitin, and wobbling antennae. It turned many-faceted bug-eyes on its visitors.

“And . . . who . . . might . . . you . . . be?” it whirred, its horrible mouth working
clickety clickety clickety click
.

“Sorry,” Hochstader said. “A glitch. We were just leaving.”

“You . . . are . . . an . . . interesting . . . variant,” the creature said. “Are . . . you . . . edible?”

“Not very,” Hochstader temporized, backtracking. He bumped up against a transfixed Max.

“Move!” Hochstader whispered.

“Huh? What the hell
is
that?”

“Back through the curtain—now!”

“Wha—? Oh, yeah.”

They ran back into the lab. Hochstader dove for the terminal and frantically banged away at the keyboard.

Presently, he stopped typing and collapsed into his seat. “Jesus.”

Max was still looking back at the portal. “What the hell
was
that thing?”

“I dunno, but we don't want to mess with it.”

“I should say not. Any chance it'll come after us?”

“I tumbled the tuning program.”

“Eh?”

“That world isn't out there any more. In fact, I closed the portal.”

Max's pale eyebrows shot up. “You closed the—”

He dashed to the curtain and threw it aside. Behind it lay a blank stone wall.

“Hey! I gotta get back to my world!”

“Hold your friggin'horses!” Hochstader said, a placating hand extended. “I have to do some calculations first before I tune the portal again.”

“I'll tune you like a cheap boombox, you little asswipe. Why the—” Max halted. “Oh, for God's sake.”

Hochstader was puzzled. Someone had come into the lab, but he hadn't noticed until Max reacted. Following Max's gaze, he found himself confronted with yet another of his duplicates.

“What the flipping hell is going on here?” Hochstader 108 demanded.

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

the bedroom door opened. Linda Barclay stood in the doorframe, looking down the hallway outside.

“Okay, see you later!”

“You sure you're feeling better?” came Melanie's voice.

“Don't worry about me. And don't worry about Gene, either. You know how he is. He can take care of himself.”

“I won't worry if you won't. I'm more concerned about you, Linda.”

“Don't be. Did they get a room for Rance?”

“Yeah, he's okay for tonight. What do you think of him, by the way?”

“Clean him up a little and he'd be a hunk.”

“Yeah, he's cute. Rough around the edges, but—”

“Okay. Good-night.”

“Night!”

Linda waved her hand. Around the room, candles mysteriously lit themselves, throwing a warm glow against stone walls. She came in, shut the big oak door, and threw the dead bolt.

She crossed the room to the armoire and began to undress.

“Excuse me . . .”

She yelped, jumping two feet straight up.

“Oh, dear,” said the king. “Terribly sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.”

“My God! Lord Incarnadine!” Linda collapsed on the bed.

Incarnadine had been sitting on the chair next to the bed but was now on his feet with a look of alarm. “Really, I'm awfully sorry. I should have said something when you came in, but I was sure you saw me. I was sitting right here.”

Linda took a moment to catch her breath. “I must have looked right through you. I mean, you just don't expect someone to be sitting in your room—But wasn't it dark?”

“It was, I admit. I lit a candle but it must have guttered out, and I'm afraid I dozed off.”

“Ohhh—” Still pressing a hand to her heart, Linda sat up. “Don't ever do that to me again.”

“This is very embarrassing. I don't know what to say.”

“Oh . . . forget it.”

“No, I shouldn't have presumed to enter your bedroom.”

“It's okay. Think nothing of it, Your Majesty.”

“Call me Inky.”

Linda looked at him strangely. “You've never asked me to call you that before.”

“It's about time, don't you think? After all—Well, we are friends, aren't we?”

“Sure.”

Incarnadine smiled. He sat back down. “I'm glad.”

Linda asked, “Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

The king appeared uncomfortable. He looked off. “Yes, there is. Actually . . . it's rather difficult to say, now, what with this little contretemps. Perhaps I should come another time.” Incarnadine began to rise.

“No, please stay. Tell me what it was.”

“Well . . . all right, but this is going to sound funny coming from a man who just surprised a woman in her bedroom.”

“Say it.”

“Uh . . . very well.” He looked at her. “I'm in love with you.”

Linda was silent for a long moment. “You're . . . in love with me.”

“Yes, have been for quite a while. And . . . don't ask me how I know, but I do. You are in love with me.”

Linda regarded him in silence. Presently she got up and went to the window. She looked out into the night. Stars were out, a glittering array of them.

“Boy, you know how to get right to the point.”

Incarnadine chuckled. “It's best that way. Another sticky point is that you're a few days away from being married. I admit this is a rather awkward time to bring it up.”

“Rather.”

Linda turned and leaned against the wall. “Why are you bringing it up?”

“‘Speak now or forever hold your peace.'Something like that.”

“I see.” Linda shifted sideways and gazed out the window again. She brought up a hand to touch the lead tracery.

He said, “Well?”

Linda laughed. “Well!”

The king frowned. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I see I was mistaken. My apologies. I'll go now.”

“No. Wait, please.”

Linda came around the bed to him. “Another sticky thing. You're a married man.”

“Oh, yes.”

“You're asking me to be your mistress.”

Incarnadine exhaled. “Are you aware that it's a semiofficial position in the Castle? Traditionally speaking.”

“No, I wasn't. The royal mistress?”

He gave a mirthless chuckle. “It's not a title.”

“How many royal mistresses are there?”

Now his smile was sly. “State secret.”

“I see.”

“Really, I haven't exercised the privilege in—Well, let's not say how long. But it's been a very long time, Linda.”

“I'm flattered.”

“Are you, really?”

“Yes. I'm . . . well, I'm kind of flabbergasted at this. A little.”