At length he said, "Seems like cheating, though."
He continued up the stairs and exited at the next landing. Out in the hall he stood in front of a blank wall and said, "I need an elevator."
In a moment, one materialized, a section of wall to his right transmuting into metal doors that parted to reveal the interior of a modern elevator. He entered, and the doors slid shut.
"Family residence," he said to no one who could be seen.
The elevator rose, rumbling and humming.
His study was lined with books and filled with endless curios. Quaint astronomical gear occupied one corner, alchemist's paraphernalia another. Maps and star charts covered areas of wall not taken up by books. There were several desktop computers in the room, and some of these were unusual. Instead of CRT screens, they had crystal balls.
He sat at the terminal of one of these morganatic marriages of the magical and the technological and tapped out a few commands.
The ball, mounted on a wooden base sitting on top of the computer, began to glow.
He peered into it, keyed in more commands, looked again. Shadows flickered dimly in the depths of the glass.
He kept at it until he saw something come to life. He watched intently.
After a good while he sat back and grunted. He hit a key and the light inside the ball faded.
"Well now, that's interesting," he said abstractedly. "Veddy, veddy interesting."
He sat for a time thinking, absently stroking his clean-shaven chin. His hair was long and light, and his eyes were brown this month. He had a habit of changing his appearance now and then. After three hundred years one could grow tired of one's looks. He refrained from transforming his face into something unrecognizable; that would confuse the servants and Guests. But he was wont to alter his hair and eye color slightly with a simple spell. Underneath he remained the same: dark-haired, blue-eyed, strong of chin, thin blade of a nose. Generally a good face; perhaps even a handsome face, disregarding that the brow was a little low and the chin a shade too prominent.
Handsome or not, he was a lord. The peerage had devolved to him down through thousands of years. But he was also a king, and for that regal title he owed an ancestor who had got the notion that the lord of Perilous, master of thousands of worlds, should have his honorific upgraded to something more impressive. So Incarnadine was "King of the Realms Perilous," and actually did directly reign in several of the castle's domains. He had a hand in the politics of a hundred worlds, interests in thousands more. The piano-playing had been time stolen from a full schedule.
No time now.
He rose and began walking toward the door, but something rang off in a corner, and he turned and moved toward it. The device was an old-fashioned telephone, the upright kind with a conical mouthpiece and detachable earphone. Behind it, though, was a television screen, and beside that was a small device that looked like an automatic answering machine. Before he reached the desk on which all this lay, a somber recorded voice was already on the line:
You have reached Castle Perilous. We cannot answer your call at this time, but if ― and let me emphasize the _if' ― you have some matter of great moment to impart, you may leave your name at the sound of the trump. On the other hand, if your call is being made on some contrived pretext, or, worse, is in the nature of an annoying solicitation, you run a grave risk.
He sat back down, propped a hand under his chin, and watched the screen. A form wavered on it, a face.
― we do not need storm windows, we do not need aluminum siding, we most certainly do not care to be the _lucky winners' in some transparently fraudulent giveaway scheme. Let me now enumerate and quickly describe the variety of calamities that could befall you should any of the above conditions obtain. You could be incinerated on the spot ―
The image on the screen clarified and sharpened: a thin-faced man with glasses.
― colonies of fire-lice could suddenly infest your spouse's ―
He hit a switch on the answering machine and interrupted the recording, then unhooked the earpiece and put it to his ear.
"Howland, I'm here. Go ahead."
The man on the screen look relieved. "I gotta say, that is one intimidating answering-machine message."
"It screens out the bothersome calls."
"No kidding. I was half tempted to ring off myself."
"Glad you stuck it out. What's up?"
"Well, it's Tweel. He's made his move, I'm afraid. His dengs moved in on all our operations across the river ― casinos, sporting houses, joy dens, wire parlors, everything."
"A hostile takeover, eh?"
"I should say. All the upper-level managers were let go, and Tweel's creatures installed."
"Did he even try to make it legal this time?"
"Oh, sure. The stock transactions are on record. He acquired controlling interest in all the subsidiaries through the usual junk bond issue. Then he sent out his demons to do the actual dirty work and make it stick."
"Any resistance on our part? We lose anybody?"
"Yes, two of our boys bought it. Curt and Tully. A little scuffle when they moved in on the Fifty-eighth Street sporting house. Curt was feeling a little protective of one of the girls when one of the dengs tried to take her upstairs."
Incarnadine shook his head. "They had standing orders not to offer any resistance."
"Curt was a hothead, but I can't say I blame him. The girl was screaming her head off. Not that I blame her, either. Anyway, it was pretty gruesome. Tully tried to help, and both of them… well, they had to practically shovel them into the morgue wagon."
"They should have known better, but that doesn't make me feel any less awful about it." Incarnadine drummed the desk top with his fingers. "So what does Tweel expect me to do, do you think?"
"Hit back with all you have."
"What do you advise, Howie?"
"Well, as your counselor I have to advise you that if you do retaliate, we'll have a major war on our hands."
Incarnadine nodded. "That's inevitable."
"We'll lose a lotta people. And you can't kill a demon."
"Who says?"
Howland shrugged. "Unless this boils down to a shoot-out between the two of you."
"Is that what you think he has in mind?"
"I think he's setting something up like that. He knows you don't want all-out gang warfare. He's got you."
"So you figure he's calling me out."
"That's about the size of it, boss. Word has it that he holed up out in his place with extra guards ringed around it. He says he's waiting for you to make your move. Oh, by the way, I saved the worst for last. He's got Helen out there."
"She's there willingly?"
"I don't know. Boss, you know he's got her spelled somehow. I really think he loves her. Always has. Funny. He could have almost any woman he wants. But he carries a torch for the only one who ever jilted him. I know she loves you. Maybe that's why."
"I wouldn't be surprised. Anyway, so he says he's waiting for me?"
"Yeah, and he's claiming that he's the more powerful magician now. Says you're all washed up in this town." Howland pursed his lips and shook his head. "Boss, we sure could use some dengs on our side."
"You inevitably lose when you traffic in the Dark Arts."
"Pardon me, boss, but it seems like we're the ones who're losing at the moment."
"It only seems like it. But what are you advising? Cutting some sort of deal? Give up Hellgate?"
"Cut our losses," Howland said. "Get out with all the cash we can grab. We have areas of the city in which we're a lot less vulnerable."
"For how long? Tweel doesn't want any competition anywhere in the city."
"That's true."
"So, how long do you think we can hold him off?"
Howland shrugged. "I grant you there's an inevitable time factor, but buying time isn't all that bad an idea for now. Besides, boss, I don't think we have any choice."