one?”
Linda’s jaw dropped. “A sp —”
“Yeah, or a fork or something.” Gene unsheathed his sword, slid the point into the mess and ladled out a gob of gore. “Hard to eat with this thing.”
“Oh … oh —” Gagging, Linda turned and ran.
Keep — West Wing — Forebuilding
“Hell’s wizardry,” Kwip muttered as he viewed the tipping caldrons of fire. He stood at a window on the top floor of one of the many smaller structures that abutted on the keep. He could not see much over the wall of the inner ward, but the tops of the belfries were well in view, towers of flame all. He watched as soldiers, human torches, hurled themselves to the ground. The hell-sent apparitions floated above. The crucibles had turned nearly upside down and had emptied, drops of liquid fire depending from their rims. Then the disembodied hands began slowly to tilt the caldrons up again.
Awestruck, Kwip shook his head. He had seen enough; he moved away from the window.
The castle still shook and quivered, its stone blocks glowing with a faint ghost light, but things had quieted somewhat. He tried to set his mind back to business, although his hope of ever finding the treasure room had somewhat diminished over the last few hours.
Passing another window, he glanced out and came to an abrupt halt. The castle walls were out there, but no battle was in progress. The ramparts were deserted, as was the inner ward below. All was silent.
And it was raining.
Kwip scratched his black-bearded chin and shook his head. What was phantasm — the bloody conflict he had just witnessed, or this? Which window looked out on reality?
Both did, perhaps. Or perhaps neither did.
His memory was jogged just then. Windows … windows that looked out on sundry strange worlds. There was something familiar about that. Briefly, he searched his childhood memories. Images of his aunt’s face floated from the depths — a grim face, haggard and snaggletoothed. He saw her thin-lipped mouth curled with contempt — contempt for him, her sister’s bastard son. Kwip’s mother had died in childbed delivering him, and his aunt had resented the burden that he was. Kwip remembered the sting of the rod across the backs of his thighs, still heard the whistle and the crack. Unpleasant memories indeed. And the bugbears she frightened him with, the stories. She would sell him into servitude, she would, if he didn’t straighten out — sell him to an evil sorcerer-king who lived in a black castle. What was the name again? It was on the tip of his tongue.
Unspeakable harridan! May she rot in Hell.
Coming to a corner, he turned and walked the length of the forebuilding, then entered a spiral stairwell and descended until he came upon a landing with an archway leading into the keep. He went through and turned left, walking along a short hallway that terminated in a rectangular stairway. This he descended, pausing at each floor to look about. Nothing brewing. About six floors down he stepped from the raised landing and strode off to the left, following a wide hallway broken by a series of pillared archways. Here and there the walls were hung with paired weapons flanking shields upon which were emblazoned a strange heraldic device. Kwip stopped to examine one. Ostensibly, the design was of a black dragon rampant on a field of red — but was that indeed a dragon? Winged it was, yes, but far more horrific. It had three sets of legs, the front pair ending in great, clawed feline paws. The head was feline in one aspect, reptilian in another. The huge wings were tipped with spines. Even in featureless outline the image set Kwip’s spine to tingling. Something about it …
Kwip shrugged and walked on. Doubtless some mythical animal.
After wandering through a maze of corridors, he paused at a junction roofed with a groined vault. He sniffed the air. He smelled food, and realized how hungry he was. Following his nose, he soon came to a wide archway leading through to a dining hall. Inside, a few strangely dressed people were seated at a long table draped in fine white cloth and set with a wide variety of comestibles.
“Hello, there!” one of them called.
His gaze fixed on the table, Kwip approached the group.
“We’re having a bit of lunch,” a thin man with wire-rim eyeglasses said brightly. “Would you care to join us? My name is DuQuesne. This is Edmund Jacoby, and … um, is anything wrong?”
Kwip tore his eyes from the food — it was a feast fit for any manner of royal personage one could name, more food and more sorts of food than he’d ever seen in one place at one time. He suddenly felt self-conscious, despite the man’s amiable greeting, and somewhat out of place.
“Did you say …?” Kwip cleared his throat and ran his tongue over his dry lips. He managed a smile. “I am feeling a mite hollow.”
“Do sit down and help yourself, my good man.”
“You are too kind, sir.” Kwip seated himself and looked around uneasily.
“Wine?” DuQuesne asked, holding up a bottle.
Kwip nodded and watched DuQuesne fill a long-stemmed glass. He reached for it, warily raised it in salute. “To your health, sir.”
DuQuesne nodded, smiling.
Kwip drained the glass in three gulps, wiped his lips on the sleeve of his doublet, and belched loudly.
DuQuesne reached for a platter bearing a large cut of meat. He set it in front of Kwip. “The roast is especially good today.”
Kwip took out his dagger, cut off a healthy slice, and stuffed it in his mouth. He smiled and nodded in approval. He began to eat in earnest. He reached for a wheel of cheese, chopped out a wedge, and bit off half. He took a loaf of bread, wrenched off a piece and crammed that in too.
“You must have some more wine,” DuQuesne told him, refilling the glass.
Kwip smiled through his mouthful, but didn’t — and couldn’t — speak. Abruptly self-conscious again, he halted a motion to tear into the roast beef. He put down the dagger, chewed, then swallowed quickly though with some difficulty. He glanced around the table with an embarrassed smile and said, “I beg your indulgence, sirs. My swinish manners … I crave your forgiveness —”
“Tut-tut,” Jacoby said.
“Eat hearty, my friend,” DuQuesne told him. “We have a relaxed attitude toward etiquette here. Enjoy yourself.”
“You are most gracious, sir. I am not used to sitting at table with persons of quality such as yourself.”
“Oh, please,” DuQuesne protested.
“In truth, sir.”
“Hardly.”
Kwip took a sip of wine. A thought occurred to him. “Have I …?” He looked at the four men seated about the table. “Have I the honor of dining with the master of this castle?”
They all laughed.
“We are all Guests here,” Jacoby said, “as are you.”
“Ah.” Kwip took a bite of cheese and chewed thoughtfully. “Then may I ask to whom I am in debt for this repast?” He lifted the wineglass to his lips.
“His name is Incarnadine,” DuQuesne began, “and there are at least a hundred honorifics tagging after it, but we simply call him Lord … what’s the matter?”
Recovered from choking on his wine, Kwip gasped, “Did you say …? An eternity of pardon, did you say … Incarnadine?”
“Why, yes.”
Kwip sat back, rubbing his throat. He glanced around uncomfortably, then knitted his brow in troubled thought. “I see.”
“I take it you’ve heard the name,” Jacoby ventured.
“Hm?” Kwip turned to him. “Your pardon, sir. Yes. Yes, I have.”
“Oh,” DuQuesne said. “You’re a local, then?”
