Bride of the Castle

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Are we having fun yet?"

Gene did a classic spit take, spraying beer across the picnic bench. Then he alternated guffawing and choking.

"Only Snowclaw could say that in all seriousness," said Phil Kaufmann, wiping off his sleeve with a paper napkin.

"Well, I am serious," Snowclaw said. "This is a party, right? We're supposed to have fun, whatever that is. And since I really don't know much about human stuff, I was simply asking-"

"We know, we know," Gene said, having recovered. "And the answer is… no, we're not having a whole hell of a lot of fun yet, but give it time, give it time."

"I'm enjoying the dancing girls," Kaufmann said.

The merrymakers, all male, watched approvingly as the dancing women continued their display of terpsichorean skill. Music blared from a boom-box on the table. They were all perfunctorily clad, all beautiful, and all untouchable, protected by invisible magical screens. Not that any of the men had made advances; one of them had simply blundered too near one member of the troupe and had received a mild shock.

The party tables were set up very near the portal entrance to this world, a world that was one of many of its type: parklike, perpetually blue-skied, temperate, and safe. Expansive greenswards spread between stately trees that resembled oaks, but were not.

Gene was bored. He took another swing of beer. It was good beer. Great, in fact. But he was still bored.

"What's the matter, chum?" Snowclaw asked, scratching his white, thick-furred belly.

"Hell, not a thing."

"Explain to me again this marriage stuff."

"Snowy, it all has to do with human mating behavior. You wouldn't understand."

"Well, I know about mating behavior. But from what I understand, you and Linda have already mated. So-"

"Snowy, Jesus H. Christ."

Phil Kaufmann and a few of the other men suppressed a chuckle.

"Huh? What'd I say?"

"Nothing. You're right, we did, but now we're going to ritualize it. Celebrate it."

"Uh-huh." Snowclaw shook his huge, white ursine head. His yellow cat's-eyes looked oddly thoughtful. "I think I understand." He thought some more, then shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Don't trouble yourself about it," Gene told him. "I'm human and I don't quite understand it. It's a cultural thing."

"What's that mean?"

"Uh… Snowy, have another candle."

Gene picked up a beeswax candle, dipped it into a bowl of Thousand Island dressing, and offered it to his nonhuman friend.

"Thanks," Snowclaw said, taking it. He crunched it between his wickedly sharp teeth and swallowed it all.

"Anyone seen Dalton and Lord Peter?" Gene asked.

"They were in the Queen's Hall when I passed," said Tyrene, the captain of the castle guard.

"Lord Peter sticks to his daily schedule," Gene said, "come hell or high water."

"Aye, he does. A creature of habit. But there's nothing wrong with that."

"I guess not, but it would bore the crap out of me. Can't stand to do the same thing every day." Gene added in a mumble, "Or being married to the same woman every day."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing, Tyrene, nothing. Just thinking aloud."

Tyrene nodded and sipped at his flagon of ale. He had heard what Gene had said.

"Sure are beautiful, these girls," said another party guest appreciatively. "Excuse me, women."

"Girls… women…"

"Eh?" Snowclaw turned his snowy head toward Gene.

"Nothing."

"You sure don't seem happy."

"I'm ecstatic."

"What's that mean? Oh, it means you're really happy, doesn't it?"

"I'm really happy."

"How come you look like you lost your last friend?"

"I have a headache."

"What you need is a good scrap."

Gene drank from his beer stein. "I might at that."

"Yeah, gets the blood moving."

"Be nice to find a nice war or revolution."

"Or just a nice sword fight."

Gene shook his head. "Listen to me. I've become a warmonger. A blood-and-thunder addict. And me a longtime peace activist."

"What's a peace activist?"

"A person who professes to hate war, and disapproves of some wars, yet condones certain others."

"Doesn't make sense."

Gene nodded. "Uh-huh." He drank more beer.

The dancers danced on, circulating among the tables, showcasing their skill, and their wares. The "sun" shone down benignly. Puffed clouds moved slowly across the sky. It was a pleasant day. Very pleasant.

"Damn," Gene said for no apparent reason.

"Eh?"

"Snowy, let's get out of this joint."

"Okay by me, Gene."

Gene raised his voice. "Guys, would you mind awfully if Snowy and I take off? I hate to throw a wet blanket on the festivities…"

"Gene, it's your party," Phil said.

"Thanks. You're sure, now?"

"Go ahead. We can do quite nicely without you. We haven't even gotten to the food yet."

"Before we eat, though," someone else said, "we're going to get roaring drunk and play a little touch football. Right, guys?"

Declarations of enthusiastic agreement.

"And after the feast, poker," said Phil. "You're going to miss all the fun."

"We'll stop back," Gene said. "I gotta take care of this headache, is all. Going to go see Doc Mirabilis."

"Get lost, Gene," Phil said, raising his glass of stout. "And, again, congratulations. You're a lucky man."

"Hear, hear," came the chorus. Each man raised his glass in a toast.

"Thanks, guys. See you later. Let's go, Snowy."

"I'm with ya."

Gene and his friend, the fearsome white beast, walked out of that pleasant world and entered the castle. They came through the arch, stepping into the corridor.

Snowclaw asked, "Where are we going?"

"I dunno. Let's hunt up some danger."

"Now you are talking. That kind of fun I can understand."