“You scammed yourself,” Trent said.
Ruthven nodded ruefully.
Tragg bolted from the room.
“Don’t leave the Circle!” Ruthven warned. “It’ll just be worse.”
But Tragg was already out the door.
The shaking increased as did the usual demonic sound effects.
“I’m not finished yet,” Ruthven said.
“Oh?”
“Now that I have power freed up …”
A hideous scream came from downstairs.
“Good luck,” Trent said on his way out the door.
He had to step over something very distasteful in the vestibule. It was quite a mess.
Outside, the street looked the same. The beech trees were budding. It was early spring, and the air was kind.
“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” he said as he walked back to the main street.
Twenty-seven
Chapel
The music swelled to a crescendo, the sopranos in the chorus hitting the highest note in the symphony, the Mahler No. 2.[29]
The funeral had been going on for some time and people were getting fidgety. Nobody really understood why the musical program had to drag on so long. The music was fine, true; but there can be too much of the finer things of life.…
However, that’s the way the king had wanted it. His will and testament contained detailed plans for his funeral, and they were being followed to the letter.
Everyone was in attendance: the castle nobility — lords and ladies all, arrayed in their finest mourning, mostly black with a flash of color accent here and there.
The family: Incarnadine’s legal wife, Zafra, unveiled and in white, and her two children, Brandon and Belicia. (Zafra was not Queen, though Incarnadine had championed her cause in chancery court. The case had been pending for twelve years. Zafra was a commoner and — well, there was no end of legal bones of contention here. Still, the marriage was licit, and Brandon was heir apparent.)
And of course, the castle Guests. There were many, including a few of questionable humanity. Costumes ran the gamut from medieval to futuristic.
The castle staff: cooks, chambermaids, footmen, valets, scullery maids, the lot.
The castle tradespeople: smiths and cordwainers and seamstresses and such.
The professionals: librarians, solicitors, physicians, and scribes.
And functionaries and bureaucrats and those sorts.
The odd unclassifiable.
They were all there. The chapel was stuffed from nave to apse, with standing-room-only in the transepts.
And of course, the priests. Seventy acolytes assisted twelve High Priests as they all sang and chanted, knelt and invoked, recited and mumbled. Clouds of incense reached the roof timbers, and galaxies of candles blazed.
It was a very elaborate affair. Very nice. The corpse looked so natural. You could hardly believe he was dead. Nice job the undertaker did, wasn’t it? The music was beautiful (Is this the last movement?).
Suddenly, amidst all this pageantry, the corpse sat bolt upright.
First came a shocked silence. The orchestra played on for a few more measures — the chorus cut out first, then the choirmaster craned his head around and fell off the podium.
There began some screaming. Women, mostly. Some fainted. A few men screamed and fainted. One of the High Priests fell over backwards, knocked over two smoking braziers, causing a minor fire.
The corpse — the king — rubbed his eyes. He looked down at himself and the casket he was sitting in. Then he stared around: at the priests, at the congregation, up at the choir loft, and back to the congregation.
And he said, with considerable pique,“Ye gods! Can’t a fellow take a little nap around here?”
Twenty-eight
Gaming Hall
Dalton and Lord Peter were at it again, at odds over a charming little endgame, one worthy of Russian chess masters. Lord Peter had castled early; Dalton had fortified himself with a Sicilian defense. It was a defensive game; and, as a pitching duel in baseball, it was academically interesting — very admirable, but not a lot of fun.
Linda was settled in a wing chair, doing cross-stitch and absently watching flames blazing in the fireplace. Seated in the chair opposite was Melanie McDaniel, stringing her guitar.
Snowclaw sat at a card table working a crossword puzzle. He had recently learned to read English and had become literate in an astonishingly short time. Deena sat at the same table with a fresh deck, trying to remember some card tricks she once knew.
“Damn!”
Lord Peter had just lost his queen.
“Sorry, old boy,” Dalton consoled.
Lord Peter sighed. “Should have seen that one coming across the drawbridge.”
Otherwise, the mood was subdued.
There were more Guests in the Gaming Hall. In a far corner, a few of the younger men were engaged in a fantasy role-playing game. Something about oubliettes and mythical saurians.
“Is it winter out?” Linda suddenly asked.
Melanie was busy with tightening a string. “Huh?”
“The castle’s so big sometimes you’re not even aware of what season it is.”
“I dunno. Why do you need to know? You can find any season you want inside the castle.”
“I know, but … that’s different. Somehow. It feels like winter. Does it feel like winter to you?”
“I went out into the desert today, and it was hot. That’s all I know.”
“You like deserts, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do. I lived in Phoenix when I was little. There was a lot of desert down there, then.”
“I like forest aspects best. Trees, brooks, toadstools, fresh air.”
“All that’s nice. I don’t know what it is I like about the desert. All I know is that it’s quiet and still and hot. And I like it. And I like cactuses. Cacti.”
““Cactuses’ is okay,” Linda said. “They’re sharp and prickly, though. Don’t much care for them.” Linda did a few stitches, then stopped. “I still think it’s winter out. Maybe I’ll go up into one of the turrets and look.”
“They’re too high for me. I get dizzy.”
“You afraid of heights?”
“Sort of,” Melanie said. “You going to go look and see what season it is?”
Linda thought about it. “Maybe. Tomorrow.”
“I’ll go with you if you want.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know.”
Melanie plucked the new string, then started tuning it.
Holding out a fan-spread deck to Snowclaw, Deena Williams said, “Pick a card.”
“Huh?”
“Pick a card, and I’ll show you a trick.”
“What do you mean, a trick?”
“I’ll tell you what card you picked.”
“I don’t need anyone to tell me what card I picked if I pick a card.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’ll tell you what card you picked without looking at the card.”
“You mean you want me to tell you what card it is?”
“No!I’ll tell you what card it is.”
“But I already know what card it is.”
“No, no! Snowy, listen. I’ll tell you what card it is without you tellin’ me or me lookin’ at the card. Get it?”
“How can you do that?”
“Well, I’ll show you.”
“Yeah, but it’d have to be some kind of trick.”
Deena rolled her eyes. “That’s the point, you big goofy thing. It’s a card trick.”
“Yeah, it would have to be. So, what good is it?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“If it’s a trick, then you really can’t tell me what card I picked.”
“Yes, I can!”
“But you said it’s a trick. That means you sneak a look at it or figure it out some way with numbers or something or do tricky stuff with your hands, hiding it, and sort of like that. Right?”
29
Of course the second Mahler symphony bears the traditional subtitle “Music for Dead People.” Sorry. This