Castle Spellbound

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?"

"Iced Tea."

"You on the wagon?"

"It's a drink. Rum, vodka, gin, Triple Sec, sour mix… and, uh… '

"Orange juice and cola, sir," the bartender supplied.

"Right."

"Heavens, that sounds dangerous," Linda said, wide-eyed. "Rum and vodka and gin?"

"Oh, my."

"His Majesty, the king!"

All eyes swiveled to the French doors on the patio. Through them strode Incarnadine, Lord of the Western Pale, and by the grace of the gods, King of the Realms Perilous. His yellow T-shirt bore magenta lettering that read: DEATH'S A BITCH-THEN YOU'RE REINCARNATED. He wore mirror shades, electric-green Bermudas, pink-accented LA Gears, and a big Panama hat with a purple hatband. "Hey, gang, I'm ready to howl."

Women curtsied, men bowed.

"Tut, tut." He waved his indulgence. "Where can I get a drink? Oh, there." He went straight to the bar.

"What will it be, Your Majesty?"

"Ahhh… recommend something."

"Planter's Punch?"

"Nah."

"Rum Runner?"

"Nope."

"Perhaps a Kamikaze?"

"What's in it?"

"Vodka, gin, sake, peach schnapps, and lime juice."

"Sounds suicidal, all right. Can you make an Alabama Slammer?"

"Uh, Southern Comfort, orange juice… and-?"

"Amaretto and sloe gin."

"Right, sir. Yes, sir, coming right up."

The king turned his head. "Trent!"

His brother stepped up to the bar. Incarnadine took his outstretched hand.

"Your Majesty. Happy birthday."

"Thank you muchly. Sheila. Long time no see."

"Welcome!" Sheila said as she gave the king a hug. "You haven't been here in so long!"

"The press of business. I do need a vacation. Maybe I'll stay on a few days."

"The royal suite is always ready."

"Some deep-sea fishing, maybe."

"We have a fleet of boats that sits around."

"There's a funny kind of, sort of, marlin out there," Trent told him. "A real terror to land."

"Oh? sounds interesting."

"Poisonous spines."

"Sounds like fun."

"I'll take you out."

"It's a date. Tomorrow."

"Great," Trent said. "How's Zafra and the kids?"

"Wonderful, wonderful. You two seem to be doing fine. All sun-bronzed and healthy."

"Oh, this climate agrees with me, all right," Sheila said. "but I still get burned a lot. Even my spells don't keep the sun off."

Squinting one eye. Incarnadine held up his right hand and slowly waved two-fingers. "Hmmm. Strange magic."

"Only Sheila's been able to deal with it so far," Trent said. "I have a devil of a time."

"I suspect I would, too. But maybe a simple forfending spell would take care of the sunburn?"

"Tried it," Sheila said. "It kept up a shield all right, but it kept air out, too."

"Hardly practical. Let me see…"

"It's tricky, Inky."

Incarnadine nodded. "I see what you mean. Spells here tend to have unexpected consequences."

"All spells spin off unwanted side-effects," Trent said, but here they sometimes run rampant."

"Take this hotel, for instance," Sheila said. "All I wanted to conjure was a hut. And look what I got."

The three of them took in the rococo elegance of Hotel Sheila.

"Remarkable," Incarnadine said. "I don't think I could do as good a job."

"It's not me, it's the magic here."

"It's you," Trent assured her. "You're a sorceress of the first magnitude."

"Well, maybe here I am."

Incarnadine asked, "What've you been up to, Trent?"

Trent accepted a Singapore Sling from one of the bartenders and shrugged. "Not much. Just running this place."

"Like it?"

"Like it fine."

"Don't have a hankering to get back to Earth?"

Trent shook his head. "No. Still have the estate on Long Island, but I've put it in mothballs, pretty much."

"Going to retire here?"

"Hell, I'm only three hundred forty-six years old. Give me a break."

Sheila rolled her eyes. "Only three hundred forty-six, he says. And he doesn't look a day over forty."

"Really?" Trent said, feigning pique. "And here thought I could pass for thirty-five on a good day."

"A young forty," Sheila amended.

Incarnadine persisted. "So what do you want to do with the rest of your allotted three score years and five hundred?"

Trent jerked one shoulder. "Who knows. I'll find something to arouse my interest."

"Want to fight a war?"

"Eh?"

"I'm serious, I've got two on my hands. And although I could contrive, by magical means, of course, to be two places at once, you can't really divide your attentions that way. I need a good strategist, and you're one of the best I know of."

"I don't think I like this," Sheila said.

Incarnadine laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, my dear. He'll be well behind the front lines. In fact, he can do all his operational planning here and messenger orders to the front, through the castle. He'll be quiet safe.",

"Oh," Sheila said. "Well, in that case…"

"In other words, I wouldn't have actual command," Trent said.

"I need a plan for a lightning offensive. I want to get the war over quick, very quick. Minimum casualties."

"What's the milieu?"

"Late Bronze Age."

Trent laughed. "Good luck. And here I was thinking laser-guided missiles."

"I'm of a mind that it can be done at any level of technological development."

"Well, I'm of a mind to agree with you, but the strategic situation has to be just right."

"This one is near perfect. We have naval superiority, slightly superior numbers, and better-trained soldiers."

Trent asked, "Then why do you need me, particularly?"

"As I said, I want minimum casualties. What this world lacks is superior military science. Things are fairly primitive on that score. Wars tend to be long and bloody. I want this one to be short and, while I can't hope for zero casualties, I want the body count to be as low as possible."

Trent nodded. "Gotcha. What's the mission objective?"

"Reducing a fortified town near the sea. You won't be able to lay siege immediately, though, because they can field a pretty good army. Once you reduce their numbers, they'll use the town as a redoubt…." Incarnadine smiled. "Do I detect a note of interest?"

Trent half-smiled, "Perhaps you do."

"Well, let's delay the briefing. This is a party, no shoptalk allowed."

"I still don't quite like the idea of Trent fighting a war," Sheila said.

"More like a war game," Trent remarked, "judging from the sound of it. At least it'll be such to me, sitting in my den with maps and unit markers."

"Still…" Sheila remained unconvinced.

"Think it over," Incarnadine said. "Let me know. We have some time in that theater. In the other one, things are a bit more critical."

"Oh? What's the milieu there?"

"Muskets and cavalry charges."

"Sounds more like my line of work."

"Sorry, that one I have to handle myself. Still interested?"

Trent took a long drink, then said, "Yes. Yes, I think I am.

"I'll have my operational staff brief you in the morning. Okay?"

"Okay. And thanks, Inky-

"You look like you need something to get the blood rushing. Besides, you're getting a paunch."

Sheila shook her head. "You two keep talking as though he's going to be fighting this war."

Trent pulled his wife closer. "Woman, you are not to worry, hear? This is strictly a desk job. Right, Inky?"

"Right."

"Though I might have to pay a few visits to this world to get the feel of things," Trent dissembled.

"He won't have to go anywhere near the actual fracas," Incarnadine lied blackly.

"Right."

"Well, okay," Sheila said dubiously.

A band struck up a Caribbean beat. Couples took to dancing.

"Let's dance," Sheila said, dragging her husband away.

"Sure. See you later, Inky."

"Have a good time."

The king slurped up the last of his Slammer and turned back to the bar.

"I think I will try a Kamikaze."

"You're quite sure, my liege lord?"

"Banzai!"