"Hi, everybody!" He came over to the table and threw the broadax down, knocking over a tureen of crab bisque. "Oops, sorry."
"Think nothing of it," Thaxton said, mopping his lap with a serviette.
"Your spell wore off," Gene observed. "We'll have to stop by Sheila's world and get you fixed up."
"So, Gene," Dalton said, "you and Snowclaw are off to war and revolution. Who are you overthrowing? What sort of potentate? King, prince, sultan, pharaoh, what?"
"I'm embarrassed to say that we're aiding the royalists against an anarcho-syndicalist regime that came to power by revolution. The regime's been so monstrous and bloody that it makes a monarchy look utopian by comparison."
"I'm surprised there are any royalists left."
"There are almost none in the country itself. Most of them are émigrés in a neighboring state."
"Well, it sounds like a good cause."
"It does kind of recharge the old moral batteries," Gene acknowledged.
"How do you feel about it, Snowclaw?"
Snowclaw sat down. "Don't know about that stuff. I just like it when the fur flies and the guts go splattering all over the place."
"Energizing the ethical dry cells, as it were," Thaxton said.
Just then Linda Barclay walked in with Melanie in tow, Jeremy bringing up the rear. Introductions were made all around.
Deena asked, "How do you like it so far, Melanie?"
"Fine, so far."
"Wait till the creepy stuff starts happening."
"Uh… like what?"
Deena set her coffee cup down. "Well, let's see. A while back we had the Blue Meanies invadin'. Then the devils from Hell. But that's nothing compared to when the whole place goes crazy and the walls turn to rubber and things start shakin' and shiftin' around."
Dalton said, "The castle has been unstable at times. And there are permanent areas of instability. But you keep away from those parts."
"Oh."
"Soon you'll acquire a sixth sense about the place, and you'll be able to find your way around. And depending on what your magical talent is, you'll be able to use that to advantage as well."
"Magical talent?"
Linda explained, "Most people acquire the ability to do magic when they get to the castle."
"Most people," Gene said. "Then there are the retards, like Snowy and me."
"Don't listen to him. Gene's the best swordsman in the castle, and Snowy can teleport."
"Not very well," Snowclaw said. "Last time I tried it I slammed myself into a wall and got knocked out for an hour."
"You never mentioned it," Gene said. "That's strange."
"It hurt."
"Do you have to run to start teleporting?"
"No, I usually stay still and just think. Then I take like one or two steps, and I'm where I want to go."
"Then how did you wind up slamming into a wall?"
"You tell me."
Gene thought about it. "You must have materialized inside the wall."
Linda flinched. "Oh, my. That's a terrible thought. Don't do it again, Snowy."
"I won't. I never liked doing it."
Dalton looked at Melanie. "Most people's talents don't get them into trouble if they exercise a little discretion and watch what they're doing."
Melanie nodded. "I see. What will my talent be?"
"Oh, there's no telling. Anything from materialization to teleportation, to ―"
"Dowsing," Gene said. "Necromancy, palm-reading."
"Not that stuff," Linda jeered.
"Channeling?"
"It'll be something useful, Melanie."
"Channeling is useful," Gene said.
"Right."
"I happen to channel a thirty-thousand-year-old high priest of Lemuria."
"You do?" Melanie said, a trifle awed.
"Sure. On the astral plane he's thought of as a very wise being."
Dalton asked, "So what's the name of this wise astral being?"
"Well, if you're just going to scoff," Gene said.
"Sorry. I'm asking nicely now. Who is he?"
"No, your skeptical vibes are queering my karma."
"Oh, come on," Dalton mock-pleaded.
"Only if you're sincere."
"I'm sincere. What's the name of the entity you channel?"
"Murray."
"Murray?"
"But he likes to be called Skip."
Melanie turned to Linda. "They're kidding, right?"
"They're always kidding. Pay no attention to them."
"It's going to be a while before I get used to all this," Melanie said.
"You will," Dalton assured her.
"After lunch," Linda said, "I'll give you the Cook's tour."
"Is it lunchtime?" Melanie asked.
"Well, it's after nine P.M. Eastern, so maybe you're not hungry."
"I didn't eat dinner because I didn't have any appetite, but I'm kind of hungry now."
"Try this cheese plate," Thaxton suggested. "The Camembert is the real thing. And these truffles are authentic, if I'm any judge."
"I like this curried lobster," Deena said. "You like curry?"
"Quiche?" Dalton said, proffering a dish past Gene's nose.
"Get that wimp food out of my face," Gene said.
"A thousand pardons."
"We dashing, non-quiche-eating types stick to meat and potatoes." Gene pointed to Snowclaw. "He, on the other hand, likes beeswax candles dipped in Thousand Island dressing. But, as they say, de gustibus non disputandum est, cha-cha-cha."
"I like paraffin candles sometimes," Snowclaw said. "It depends on my mood."
Gene noticed that Melanie's green eyes had gone apprehensive. "I'm sorry. Didn't we introduce Snowclaw?"
"No," Melanie said in a small voice.
"Melanie, I want you to meet Snowclaw, a friend of ours."
"Hi, Melanie," Snowclaw said.
"Hi."
"I'm not as scary as I look, Melanie."
"Very nice to meet you, Snowclaw."
"Same here. Reason I said that was that I noticed you weren't looking at me."
"I was a little scared. I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"He's a pussycat," Gene assured her. "Really. Tell her about your hobbies, Snowy."
"My hobbies?"
"Yeah. Needlepoint, cloisonné, batiking ― a real dweeb."
"What the heck is batiking?"
Melanie giggled nervously.
"And a rabid birder," Gene went on. "You can see him every morning out in the fen, field glass in hand, lusting for a glimpse of a chaffinch, or a chevroned waxwing, or even a partridge ― a quail perhaps ― nesting in the tall gorse."
Linda rolled her eyes. "Gene, really."
"Sometimes I don't understand a word he's saying," Snowclaw said, shaking his furry head.
"Gene is our resident Wit, capital W," Linda explained.
"I'd append the prefix nit," Dalton said.
"Resident twit," Thaxton suggested.
"Thank you, thank you," Gene said, rising. With a sweeping gesture he put on his plumed hat. "And I'd love to continue this pleasant badinage, but we have a revolution to run." Left hand on the hilt of his sword, he turned to Snowclaw. "Garscon?"
"Are you talking to me?" Snowclaw said.
"_Allons, enfants de la patrie.'"
"Wrong period for the costume," Dalton said.
M. DuQuesne sang, "_Le jour de gloire est… ar-ri-vé!'"
"Let's go, D'Artagnan," Gene said, slapping Snowclaw's shoulder in passing.
Snowclaw was still shaking his head. "I dunno." He got up and shouldered his ax. "Nice meeting you, Melanie. See you around."
"Bye."
The two adventurers left the hall.
"They're interesting," Melanie said.
"Oh, decidedly so," Thaxton agreed. "They're always up to something. I, on the other hand ―"