Grosmond drew menacingly close to him. 'Do I hear an objection?'
Fetchen swallowed. 'None, Spellmaster Grosmond.'
Grosmond smiled sweetly. 'I thought not.'
He turned and began walking out of the ready room. 'Get down there now, and be quick about it!' he growled over his shoulder.
'Yes, sir!' the two chorused.
When Grosmond's footsteps faded, Thorsby called out, 'Ready-salute!'
Thumbs came up sharply to meet noses. They laughed.
'The old fart's losing it. He really didn't remember it was us this morning.'
'And mostly every morning,' Thorsby guffawed. He yawned and looked at the clock. 'Lunchtime, almost.'
'Let's get down there and start,' Fetchen said. 'Or Grosmond'll roast our arses. We'll stop by the kitchen and pick up grub.'
'Capital idea. And a bottle of something, too.'
They sauntered out of the room, leaving their gin hands to decorate the floorboards.
SHEILA'S WORLD
'Trent? Wake up, dear.'
He opened his eyes to a bright blue sky. The sun was low; it was late afternoon. A soft salt breeze blew in from the ocean.
'Huh?'
Sheila, his wife, was bending over him, hand on his shoulder. 'You were moaning. Having a bad dream?'
He sat up on the chaise longue. Before him lay the aquamarine expanse of the hotel swimming pool, placid in the declining tropical sun. The shadows of palm crossed its deep end.
He rubbed his eyes, then yawned.
'Are you okay?' she asked him.
'Yeah. sure. Just a dream.'
'Bad one?'
'Don't quite remember. Weird… trees… just weird.'
He looked at Sheila. She was tall, red-haired and beautiful, and he loved every inch of her. He surveyed her up and down, as if for the first time. She was quite fetching, especially in this colorful, delightfully translucent silk frock.
'Our guests are going to arrive any minute,' she said.
'Guests?' He had a sense that he'd been away for some time. The dream…
'Our cocktail party for Incarnadine's birthday? He didn't want a fuss made, so we're throwing him a little shindig by the pool. Remember?'
'Oh. Yeah. Sure, sure. Is Inky here yet?'
'Not yet,' Sheila said, turning. 'But here's Gene and Linda.'
'Yo, dudes!' Gene called. 'And dudesses.'
'Hello?' Sheila went to greet the first of her guests.
Trent yawned again. 'Man, I gotta stop eating those submarine sandwiches so late at night.'
He shucked his terrycloth shirt and walked to the deep end of the pool. Mounting the diving board, he walked to its far extremity and bounced up and down a few times, then took a few steps back. After a moment's mental preparation, he took three even strides, jumped, and dove, his body straight and true, his trajectory a perfect arch. He cut the surface cleanly, with minimum splashing, like a thrown spear.
The cool chlorinated water washed the sleep from him. He stayed submerged, relishing the hushed drone of underwater sounds and exploring the pool's bubbling blue-green depths.
Not much down here. Bare concrete below; a drain. He gave some thought to going snorkeling soon, or at least taking the glass-bottomed tour boat out to explore the local marine life, plentiful in this world of mostly ocean. He had always had a passing interest in marine biology.
Then again… to hell with it.
Of late he had found it increasingly difficult to work up enthusiasm for much of anything. Maybe it was his job. He ran Club Sheila, which in any other world would have entailed bossing the staff, booking blocks of rooms and function space for tours and conventions, keeping the books, placating irate guests, and performing the hundreds of other duties that the job of running a major resort would require. But this world was different. The hotel, the pool, the cabanas, even most of the guests, were phantasms. Magical constructs conjured out of the occult ether by his wife, a powerful sorceress. The place really needed no looking after. How it all worked was beyond him. He himself-a magician of no mean talents-had never worked conjuring magic on such a scale.
Yet, here it was. Club Sheila. SheilaWorld. Real, down to its inscribed ashtrays and custom matchbooks; real unto the satin sheets and the tiny complimentary bars of beauty soap in the hotel's luxurious marble bathrooms.
Real down to the very swimming pool in which he was running out of breath. He angled toward the surface.
He broke water to the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. The staff had set up tables and a portable bar at the other end of the pool. A few more guests had arrived. Trent did a slow dog paddle to the edge of the pool.
'What are you drinking?' Cleve Dalton asked Lord Peter Thaxton.
'Something called a Samoan Fogcutter.'
'Sounds potent. What's in it?'
'Rum and a hodgepodge of sweet stuff.'
Lord Peter wrinkled his nose. 'Don't like drinks with little umbrellas and things in them.'
'This is good.'
'That? What is it?'
'Mai Tai. Rum, grenadine, and a bunch of juices.'
'Heavy on the rum today, eh? Well, I'll have one of these and then switch to Scots whisky neat.'
'A purist.'
More guests arrived, and more exotic drinks were made and handed out. Food lay heaped on a nearby table, the theme Polynesian: pineapple and roast pig and fire-baked fish and steamed seafood and tropical fruit in dozens of dishes.
'What kind of drink is that?' Linda asked Melanie McDaniel. 'Looks strange.'
'A Blue Lagoon,' freckle-faced Melanie told her. 'I asked for something really different, and I got something blue.'
'What's in it?'
'I don't know.'
The bartender-a thin young man who looked a bit like a young Elisha Cooke, Jr.-said, 'Blue curaqao, ma'am, along with Triple Sec, vodka, and pineapple juice.'
'Tastes pretty good,' Melanie said after taking a sip.
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?'
