Castle Murders

Four Conservatory

The concerto was drawing to a close.

The pianist was animated, beads of sweat at his brow. With masterly skill and artistry, he threw off a sparkling glissando that swept from the one end of the Bösendorfer's keyboard to the other. The flurry of notes climbed high, coalescing into a cloud of rippling chords in five-beat rhythm, sounded first in the upper registers then repeated an octave lower.

Behind him, the "orchestra" rested for the cadenza.

There were no musicians.

There were, however, many instruments. All the traditional symphonic instruments of Western (Earth) music were represented ― strings, woodwinds, brass, and percussion ― but there was only one piece for each section: one violin, one viola, one horn, and so forth, except for percussion, which had the full complement. The instruments rested on chairs or tables or, like the contrabass and cello, were propped against the wall.

The cadenza finished on the highest G octave on the keyboard. Then, with a resounding chord in C major, piano and orchestra came in together, fortissimo, restating the main theme of the third movement, which had twice before been played voluptuously, rapturously. Now, for the final time, it unfolded with grandeur and majesty, yet was still charged with an uncontainable passion.

The piano alternated massive chords and syncopated accents to the orchestra's melodic line.

Among the strings, bows bowed, held by invisible hands. Stops and valves depressed in the woodwinds and brass. Although there was only one of each kind of instrument, the sound was of a full orchestra. The conservatory reverberated to the climax of the concerto.

The main theme done, the pianist launched into technical pyrotechnics while the orchestra played staccato cadences, sharply banging out the finale. Complex stacked chords cascaded down the keyboard at a furious rate. An impossible display of virtuosity. The whirlwind of sound rose again into the rarefied reaches of the upper octaves before resolving with a crash into four final notes hammered out at the bottom of the keyboard.

Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor, Opus 18, was over.

The pianist sat back, took a cloth from an inner pocket of his doublet, and wiped his forehead.

He looked around the chamber. "What, no standing ovation?"

He waved a hand and the room erupted in tumultuous applause. He rose and bowed to the invisible audience. Turning to the orchestra, he raised his arms. The instruments rose from chair and table, standing on end. They all tilted forward in a comic semblance of a bow.

The soloist waved his hand again, and the applause cut off abruptly. The instruments settled back down.

"Thanks, guys. You can sit this next one out."

He seated himself again, rubbed his hands, dried his palms on his purple gown.

Then he essayed the lugubrious opening bars of the Beethoven Pathétique.

A servant walked in.

"Sire…"

Incarnadine ― liege lord of the Western Pale, and, by the grace of the gods, King of the Realms Perilous ― was annoyed. He lifted his hands from the keyboard.

"What is it?"

"Sire, your pardon for interrupting, but something of extreme urgency has come up."

Incarnadine's fist pounded the keyboard. "Merde!"

"Sire?"

"Dorcas's party! I forgot!" He scowled at the young page. "Why didn't you remind me?"

"Sire, I was just about to when a messenger came from Captain Tyrene."

"Oh. It had better be damned important. Where's the message?"

"It was oral, Sire. I am to tell you that the viscount Oren was found dead inside the castle, a short distance from the Garden aspect. Murdered."

Incarnadine blinked. "Did you say murdered?"

"Sire, I most certainly did."

"I see." Incarnadine rose from the piano. "Was the viscount at the party?"

"That is all there was to the message, Sire."

"I'd better get down there right away." Incarnadine took a few steps and halted. "No, wait, I want to get changed first. Tell Tyrene to start his investigation immediately, on my personal authority. Tell him I have every confidence in him."

"Yes, Sire."

Incarnadine hurried to the door, passing displays of musical instruments from hundreds of worlds. At the threshold he stopped.

"Wait, another thing. Tell Tyrene that no one at the party is to leave the Garden aspect until I get there. That includes my sister."

"Yes, Sire."

"Have to keep them contained. They're a slippery bunch."

Out in the corridor, he made a right at the first intersection, walked a few paces to a stairwell and entered it.

He climbed six stories. On his way up to the seventh he was huffing and puffing.

"Gods, I'm out of shape," he mumbled.

He stopped.

Standing in the gloom of the stairwell, he thought the problem through while he caught his breath.

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."

Incarnadine sat back. "Maybe not. Howie, you go ahead and open up negotiations with their counselor. Stall them. I'll be at the Pelican Club inside of an hour."

"What are you going to do, boss?"

"While you're negotiating, I'm going to pay Tweel a visit out at The Tweeleries."

"Are you talking alone?"

"That's what I'm talking. He wants a showdown, he's going to get one."

"You'll never get near the place, boss. He's got the boys out in force, extra dengs he's conjured up, trip spells, all kinds of devices. And that place of his is like a fortress."

"The dengs are his trump suit. The rest is just dressing. And I can deal with demons pretty well. I happen to live inside of one."

"You oughta know, boss. I'll be at the office if you need me."

"Good. Take care, Howie."

"Good luck, boss."

"Thanks."

Incarnadine hung up and the screen faded to black. He let out a breath and shook his head.

"Tyrene will have to handle it," he said. He got up and made for the door, but again was thwarted by the jangling telephone.

"Things come in threes," he murmured.

The man on the screen had his back to the camera (of which there was none anyway, but no matter).

Incarnadine picked up the earpiece.

"Yes?"

"Is this the castle?"

"Yes."

"I was told to report."

"I see. Where are you?"

"In the village. I don't understand why I was summoned, or what I'm supposed to do."

"Ah. Well, I'm sorry, there's no one here who can answer your questions at the moment."

The man sighed. "It's always like this."

"I'm so sorry."

"It matters little. Shall I call again?"

"It's up to you. By the way, who shall I say phoned?"

"Call me _K.'"

"Uh, K., listen ― again, my apologies, but we're really up to our butts in alligators here."

"I understand. I'll wait around here for a while, if you don't mind."

"As I said, it's up to you. Sorry to cut you off, but I have to run."

"Goodbye, then."

Shrugging, Incarnadine hung up.

"Trials and tribulations," he complained. "But that's to be expected."

He ran for the door.