Authors: John DeChancie
“Jain err,” Gene told the man, waving him off.
A cloud of multicolored butterflies swarmed overhead. Farther on, black butterflies congregated.
There were a few musicians left. A man bowing a rebec strolled past, followed by a woman playing an oboe d'amore. A small girl blowing an ocarina skipped by.
More animals: two ocelots, three servals, and a small herd of springbok. A pack of Dalmatians ran by, yipping and yelping.
“What weird-looking animals these are,” Snowclaw said.
Gene regarded him curiously, but said nothing.
More Dalmatians dashed by.
“This is getting to be Dalmatian Alley,” Linda said.
“Good book, terrible movie,” Gene said off-handedly.
“Hey, pal, got a light?"
It was a man in historically accurate medieval Hungarian armor, holding an unlit cigarette to his lips.
Gene stopped and searched his pockets. He shook his head.
Linda held out a flaming Zippo. The man lit his cigarette and puffed.
“Thanks,” the man said.
“Say,” Gene said, “are you in this book?"
“No, I'm just taking a shortcut to the next Steve Brust novel."
“Oh."
The man winked. “See you around."
“So long."
They watched him walk away. Gene said, “Things are getting just a mite screwy here."
“Yeah,” Linda said. She stood on tiptoe and peered above heads. “There they are."
A gang of people were waiting for elevators. Gene, Linda, and Snowclaw had to wait ten minutes for the next available one going down. When they boarded, they were surprised to discover a uniformed operator.
“Floor, please?” asked the man in the crisp maroon uniform with yellow piping.
“Basement?” Gene said.
“Basement, Thrift Shop, carpet remnants, step to the rear, please."
They did. “Thrift Shop?” Gene wondered in sotto voce puzzlement.
Linda shrugged.
Two women, decked out in colorful print dresses and expensive jewelry, boarded on the next floor down.
“So I was talking to my daughter-in-law the other day,” one of them said.
“The
shiksa?
"
“The blondie. She told me she was going to a flea market next weekend, so I tell her, ‘Listen, do me a favor, if you see a used mah-jongg set, I could use one. You know, a nice one with none of the tiles missing. If you should happen to find one, please, maybe, pick it up for me, but only if it's under twenty dollars.’ And she says to me, ‘What's a mah-jongg set?’ Can you believe it?"
The other woman said, “Ciel, listen to me.
Shiksas
in the suburbs don't know from mah-jongg. You know what I'm saying?"
“You're telling me."
“Second floor, notions, mezzanine,” the operator announced. The two women got off and several more shoppers boarded, along with a mixture of other types.
The next floor down yielded a motley bunch who began stuffing themselves into the elevator. Gene and Linda were squeezed together up against Snowclaw.
“Oh, by the way,” Gene said.
“What?” Linda said.
“I'm going to go out on a limb."
“Oh, you are, eh? How so?"
“Well, I'm going to say something."
“Say it."
“Uh, well, um ... Linda, I love you."
“You love me?"
“Yeah."
Linda smiled. “Hey, that's great. ‘Cause I love you."
“You do?” Gene said, astonished.
“Yup. Do you think we're right for each other?"
“Nope. But what the heck."
“Yeah, what the heck. So, kiss me already."
They kissed. Snowclaw watched with clinical interest.
After a minute or two Snowclaw said, “Excuse me, but what exactly is this thing you're doing? I've never seen you do it before."
“Sorry, Snowy.” Linda said, breathless. “It just shows that Gene and I like each other a lot."
“Oh. I get it. But, biting each other like that? Doesn't that hurt?"
“In a way,” Gene said.
“Really an odd practice,” Snowclaw commented.
“I suppose it is."
“Bargain basement, Thrift Shop, carpet remnants, factory glass outlet! And snack bar. Watch your step!"
A clot of humanity (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) was disgorged from the elevator's open doors. Gene and Linda found themselves carried willy-nilly along with the flow. Snowclaw started shoving hapless individuals out of the way.
“Ease off, Snowy,” Gene said.
“Whatever you say, good buddy. Can I bust maybe a few heads, though?"
“No, it's not going to do any good. Just try to keep together."
Nevertheless Snowclaw began to drift away from Gene and Linda, who held each other tight.
Linda gave a painful grunt. “God, we might get crushed to death."
“Well, that's how I always wanted to die."
“How."
“Get mashed to death while making love to a beautiful woman."
“You might get your wish, aside from the beautiful part."
“Nonsense, you're as pretty as they come."
“You'll turn my head, sir, with that ... uhhh! God damn it, somebody stepped on my toe."
“Kiss me and I'll make it better."
They kissed while the human riptide pulled them across the floor of a vast columned chamber. Linda's feet left the ground. She couldn't get them back down, so she wrapped her legs around Gene. And rather liked it.
“Looks like we're not going to accomplish much down here,” Gene said after their lips parted.
“The spell's gone absolutely out of control,” Linda said, not really caring all that much.
“We might not make it out of here,” Gene told her.
“I know. I love you, Gene, darling."
“I love you, Linda, my love. The only one I ever really loved. Let's have a kid or two."
“Okay, let's."
“Really? I mean, you really think you'd like that?"
“Yup."
“You sure?"
“Actually, I won't know until it happens. They say it hurts like hell."
“Yeah, but the castle midwife must have a spell for that."
“But we might never get the chance to have kids."
“Maybe not."
“Unless I can get these shorts off."
“In the middle of this crowd? Now, that's kinky."
“They're not really people, are they?"
“They're doing a good job faking. Hey, what's this?"
It was a large carved wooden dining table, an island in the middle of a raging sea.
“Push, Linda. Get to it."
“I can't ... quite get my legs down..."
Gene strained heroically, couldn't make headway, then redoubled his effort. Carrying Linda, he broke through the edge of the crowd.
They fell beneath the table. Feet shuffled around them, legs stamped and kicked. But they were safe for the moment. The table was of solid oak and quite massive.
“I want to make an honest woman of you."
“Meaning?"
“A wedding."
“Yes! I love weddings!"
“But shall we, you know, before, do the thing, urn...?"
“You mean make love? Of course! I want it."
“I want you, Linda."
“I love you, Gene."
And there, beneath Ervoldt the Third's ceremonial dining table (dating from the first millennium of the castle's history), on a remarkably warm stone floor, they consummated their love while the crowd surged around them, growing ever thicker, and pink giraffes cavorted with black butterflies and golden dragons up among the high, ribbed vaulting.
Belshazzar's Palace
Thorsby came to consciousness feeling nauseated, his stomach burning. He rolled off the divan into a pile of stale half-eaten food and fetid scraps. Holding his throbbing head, he rose shakily. He brushed bits of paté off his toga, then looked about the dais. It was a shambles, strewn with naked bodies, broken bottles, and general detritus.
He looked out across the chamber. There was still a lot going on, but it was all quite strange. He couldn't quite decide what it was he was looking at. Bizarre animals, to be sure, of even stranger hues. Well, they weren't quite animals, were they? After all, animals don't wear seersucker suits—like that orange moose, there. Were those moose antlers? Elk. Well, whatever. And that mauve elephant certainly looked surreal in a kimono.
And what were all these strange creatures doing out there? Some were just milling about. Others sat grouped around card tables. Poker, it looked like. A few bridge games. Yes. Some were just sitting idly by, drinking coffee.
He watched a magenta rhinoceros pour from a silver pot, filling a mug held by a purple camel in a pink pinstriped suit.
“Say when,” the rhinoceros said.
“Whoa, that's plenty,” the camel replied.
There was strangeness in the air as well. Hippos like great dirigibles floated above. Lavender, these were, escorted by squadrons of crimson bats. At slightly lower altitudes, vermilion birds soared on rising thermals.
“What in the name of heaven...?"
Suddenly ill, he bent to vomit.
When it had all come up, he staggered back to the divan. On it lay sprawled a houri smoking a cigarette. Her hair was a horror, her makeup streaked.
“What gives?” Thorsby asked.
“What's it look like? I'm bushed."
“I have to sit down,” Thorsby said.
“Pull up a wine bottle,” the houri sneered. She took a long puff and blew smoke in his direction.
“See here, you cheeky tart—"
“Up yours, dickhead!"
With sudden fury, Thorsby kicked the divan over, spilling the houri into the rubbish. Ignoring the burst of obscenity directed at him, he righted the divan and collapsed onto it.
His tongue, seeming twice as thick as normal, was coated with a velvety, bitter-tasting film. He needed a drink.
“Fetch me a ... Oh, never mind."
He struggled to his feet and wandered about the dais, rummaging through piles of refuse. He found a half-f bottle and put it to his lips. His eyes bulged. He sprayed the stuff out explosively and dropped the bottle.
“Ye gods, I'm poisoned."
He spat again and again, then wiped his mouth with his forearm. He searched further but came up empty.
The hugely muscled man in baggy pants was sitting on a corner of the dais, fanning himself with his turban, his legs dangling over the edge. Sweat glistened on his bald pate. His scimitar lay on the platform a short distance away.
“What's going on?” Thorsby wanted to know.
“Not much, pal,” the man said sourly as he brought a huge cocoa-colored cigar to his lips. He took a draw.
“But what's all this nonsense?"
The bald man blew smoke away. “Hey, I just work here,” he said irritably. “Don't ask me."
Thorsby again viewed the strangeness on the floor below and in the air above.
“Spell exhaustion,” he pronounced, nodding confidently.
The bald man gave him a sardonic leer. “You win the door prize, pal."
“About the worse case I've ever seen, too. Balmy, absolutely balmy."
The bald man guffawed. “Look who's talking. The magician who cast the flipping spell in the first place."
“Don't remind me. Gods, what have we done?"
“Ah, forget it. It was fun while it lasted. But it always comes to this."
“Oh, you're at this quite a lot, are you?"
“What are you, a wise guy? We haven't worked in centuries. It just never plays out right, that's all. All we get are jokers like you."
“Well, look,” Thorsby said, “if you'd trot out that grimoire and let us have a look at it, perhaps we could fix some things."
“Too late, pal. Can't you see the handwritin’ on the wall?"
“The what?"
The bald man pointed toward the far wall of the vast once-sumptuous but now seedy chamber. “There."
Thorsby focused his tired eyes. A disembodied hand was indeed engaged in an offbeat literary genre—writing, using its index finger as a stylus, on the marble of the pilastered wall. In fact, the hand had been at it for some time. The molding along the ceiling bore this inscription:
MENE MENE TEKEL UPHARSIN
Below it stretched a descending series of tersely wrought sentiments:
MENE MENE MINEY MOE
HEY JERK LOOK UP HERE
THE PARTY'S OVER
EVERYBODY OUT OF THE POOL
YOUR ASS IS GRASS
WARNING WILL ROBINSON!!
HEY STUPID!
WHADDYA GOTTA DO TO GET THIS CLOWN'S ATTENTION?
“Oh, dear,” Thorsby said.
“Yeah.” The bald man took a long, thoughtful puff on his cigar. “I'd say you'd better vamoose, little buddy. ‘Course—"
“What?"
Another long puff. “There's no way outta the joint until the spell completely fizzles."
“What's going to happen to me?"
“You don't wanna know, pal. My advice is, make yourself scarce. When the Grand Wazir makes his appearance, heads are gonna roll."
“The Grand W-w...?” Thorsby swallowed bile. His stomach began its acid churning again.
“Yeah.” The bald man sighed. “He don't like bein’ toyed with. Know what I mean?"
“I didn't ... we didn't—” Thorsby suddenly remembered. “Fetchen. Ye gods!"
He began running frantically about the dais, kicking through garbage, overturning bodies, unpiling piles.
“Fetchen! Fetchen, old darling!"
He pawed his way through a mound of rotting beluga caviar.
“Fetchen, speak up, old chap!"
At long last, beneath six layers of unconscious houris, under a mound of rotten fruit and decomposing food mixed with broken bottles and shards of crockery, Fetchen turned up.
Thorsby hauled him out, laid him down, and began slapping his cheeks.
“Fetchen, old chap, come round. That's it, old bean, wake up! Wake up, there's a good fellow."
Fetchen said, “Wuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh.” His lips were purple.
“There you go, good as new. Bit of a hangover, eh, old sport? Well, we've all had a bally good laugh, but now it's time to go back to work. Let's be up and doing, come on."
“Uuuuuhhhhhhhhhh,” Fetchen replied.
“There we go, there we go,"