Incarnadine followed after, his laughter reverberating in the stone corridor.
KEEP — EAST WING, NEAR THE SOUTHWEST TOWER
Kwip the thief stepped casually along the hallway, whistling tunelessly. He was a small man, preferring his native dress: jerkin, pantaloons, a hat not unlike a beret though larger, and soft black leather boots. He had dark eyes and dark hair and looked to be in his middle years or somewhat younger. He passed the opening to a smaller side passageway and stopped a few feet beyond.
He looked up and down the hallway, his manner still relaxed, perhaps calculatedly so. He listened.
No one about, nobody coming. He walked back to the side passageway, entered it, and covered the short distance to its end, where a stout oak door stood. After a last glance over his shoulder, he reached into a pocket on his jerkin and took out a large skeleton key.
The key was halfway into its hole when he froze. There was something amiss.
He carefully withdrew the key and grasped the door's wrought-iron handle. He pulled gently. The door eased open a few inches. He listened, heard nothing.
He stepped back and quietly drew his sword. Again taking the door handle in his free hand, he paused for a moment to draw a breath.
Then he threw the door open and charged into the secret abandoned chamber that was his storeroom, sword raised and ready to strike.
He stopped in the middle of the floor. There was no one here. But the place had changed. Poised like a heroic statue, sword still on high, he kept turning about, amazed at what he saw.
The room had been straightened up. Dust and debris were gone, and all his booty-all the fine articles of gold and silver, all the fine jewelry-was arranged in neat piles on shelves and on and about the floor. Treasure chests, jewelry boxes and other containers were arrayed in rows. Instead of a jumble of expensive junk there was now an orderly selection, as in a dealer's stall at some bazaar.
Slowly, he lowered his sword. 'What in the name of-?'
He took a quick inventory, moving about the room and sorting through everything. He opened strongboxes, used his sword to stir up the metallic stew of gold and silver coins. He counted necklaces and trinkets, gold plates and chalices, everything.
Done, he could not ascertain that there was one item missing. But he was not satisfied. He counted and sorted and itemized again.
Finally he gave up. No, nothing had been filched, not a bauble missing. All his swag was present and accounted for. He sheathed his sword, closed a trunk, and sat. He pondered long and hard. Servants? No, this was too far from the living quarters of the keep. Servants never came here. Nor did anybody, for this was one of the wilder areas of the castle.
Who, then? Why did they tidy up? Why did they not take anything?
He decided to put it down to castle strangeness. Yes. The storeroom was located in one of the more unstable areas of the fortress, and that meant that anything could happen. The floor could disappear beneath your feet. Walls could shift and slide. And baffling, anomalous things could happen, including a room deciding to tidy itself up.
Yes, that must be it. Castle strangeness. Put it down to that and forget it. Well, he must give some thought to relocating his stash. That would be a bother, yes. But think on it he must. To say the least. In fact, moving would be the prudent thing to do in any case. But why in the name of all the gods…?
Yes, the vagaries of living in Castle Perilous. The uncertainties, the risks. He looked about him. Aye, and the rewards.
When he'd first blundered into Perilous he was shocked by the alien strangeness of the place. The stuff of legend and myth. After recovering from this initial disorientation, he began to cast his thieving eyes about for professional opportunities, for all castles worth their salt had treasure rooms. Knowing this, he looked high and low.
And had come up empty-handed. If the castle had a treasure house it had eluded Kwip completely. And well it might, for the castle was enchanted beyond his powers of comprehension, and any valuables therein would doubtless be under magical protection.
So, he had widened his search for loot into the sundry magical worlds of the castle's aspects. All this booty had come from forays into other realms, into myriad fairy kingdoms and countless enchanted lands. He had traveled far and wide and come back laden each trip. And he'd dumped the stuff here.
To what purpose, though? What would he do with it all? He'd often asked himself that. Perhaps he simply needed something to do. Perhaps… just to keep his hand in his trade?
No matter. Whatever the reason, stealing was his profession, the only one he knew.
Something nettled him. This damned business. He flatly didn't believe the castle theory. Someone had been in here, someone now knew of his doings. He had to find out who that person was.
But first, he had to move all the swag. A major effort. He picked up an inlaid box of trinkets and tucked it under his arm, then thought better of it and set it back down. No, he would find a new place first, then come back and begin making trips.
But what if the intruder returned? Unsettling possibility. Perhaps he went to fetch help, confederates. There was too much loot for one man. Yes, that was it. The thieves would be back in force. Well, he'd simply wait for them.
But… what if there were too many of them?
He picked up the inlaid box again. First, get the stuff out of here, as fast as possible. Shove it all in his room in the Guest wing. Under the bed, in the wardrobe, closets, whatever. Fast. Now. Then… well, then he'd think what to do next. The important thing was speed.
He put the box down yet again and began filling his pockets with the loose stuff.
CLUB SHEILA
The party had wound down. The bartenders were washing glasses, the caterers busy cleaning scraps off the food tables. The moon hung low in the sky, hiding under drooping palms, as the night grew ever older. The big Victorian-style hotel was dark and quiet, the sound of the breaking surf muffled by a rising night breeze.
A group of castle Guests were still at it, though, sitting in lawn chairs by the pool, quietly drinking-among them Deena Williams, a black woman from Brooklyn. She was dressed in a bright orange chemise and had her hair done in an acorn cut.
Barnaby Walsh occupied the chaise next to her. Plump and pale of face, he sat raptly listening to Melanie McDaniel's guitar variations on an Irish folk melody. Everyone else was talking.
'I'm through drinkin',' Deena said, setting her Mai Tai down on the umbrella table next to her. 'I'm over my limit now.'
'You don't seem intoxicated,' the man everyone called M. DuQuesne told her. He was in evening dress: black tie, boiled shirt, patent leather pumps. Which wasn't unusual for him; in fact, he always dressed formally. He spoke English fluently but with a heavy accent. 'What is your limit, by the way?'
'Six.'
'Six Mai Tais?'
'Six of anything. Six beers, even.'
'Well, it's been a nice affair. I quite enjoyed myself.'
'I didn't say I didn't enjoy myself. If I have another Mai Tai, I'm gonna have to be towed back to the castle.'
'No, I was just commenting, dear.' M. DuQuesne looked around. 'Seems everyone has left. Almost everyone, anyway.'
