Castle Spellbound

BELSHAZZAR 'S PALACE

Thorsby came to consciousness feeling nauseated, his stomach burning. He rolled off the divan into a pile of stale half-eaten food and fetid scraps. Holding his throbbing head, he rose shakily. He brushed bits of pate off his toga, then looked about the dais. It was a shambles, strewn with naked bodies, broken bottles, and general detritus.

He looked out across the chamber. There was still a lot going on, but it was all quite strange. He couldn't quite decide what it was he was looking at. Bizarre animals, to be sure, of even stranger hues. Well, they weren't quite animals, were they? After all, animals don't wear seersucker suitslike that orange moose, there. Were those moose antlers? Elk. Well, whatever. And that mauve elephant certainly looked surreal in a kimono.

And what were all these strange creatures doing out there? Some were just milling about. Others sat grouped around card tables. Poker, it looked like. A few bridge games. Yes. Some were just sitting idly by, drinking coffee. He watched a magenta rhinoceros pour from a silver pot, filling a mug held by a purple camel in a pink pinstriped suit.

"Say when," the rhinoceros said.

"Whoa, that's plenty," the camel replied.

There was strangeness in the air as well. Hippos like great dirigibles floated above. Lavender, these were, escorted by squadrons of crimson bats. At slightly lower altitudes, vermilion birds soared on rising thermals.

"What in the name of heaven…?" Suddenly ill, he bent to vomit.

When it had all come up, he staggered back to the divan. On it lay sprawled a houri smoking a cigarette. Her hair was a horror, her makeup streaked.

"What gives?" Thorsby asked.

"What's it look like? I'm bushed."

"I have to sit down," Thorsby said.

"Pull up a wine bottle," the houri sneered. She took a long puff and blew smoke in his direction.

"See here, you cheeky tart-"

"Up yours, dickhead!"

With sudden fury, Thorsby kicked the divan over, spilling the houri into the rubbish. Ignoring the burst of obscenity directed at him, he righted the divan and collapsed onto it.

His tongue, seeming twice as thick as normal, was coated with a velvety, bitter-tasting film. He needed a drink. "Fetch me a… Oh, never mind."

He struggled to his feet and wandered about the dais, rummaging through piles of refuse. He found a half-full bottle and put it to his lips. His eyes bulged. He sprayed the stuff out explosively and dropped the bottle.

"Ye gods, I'm poisoned."

He spat again and again, then wiped his mouth with his forearm. He searched further but came up empty.

The hugely muscled man in baggy pants was sitting on a corner of the dais, fanning himself with his turban, his legs dangling over the edge. Sweat glistened on his bald pate. His scimitar lay on the platform a short distance away. "What's going on?" Thorsby wanted to know.

"Not much, pal," the man said sourly as he brought a huge cocoa-colored cigar to his lips. He took a draw. "But what's all this nonsense?"

The bald man blew smoke away. "Hey, I just work here," he said irritably. "Don't ask me."

Thorsby again viewed the strangeness on the floor below and in the air above.

"Spell exhaustion," he pronounced, nodding confidently.

The bald man gave him a sardonic leer. "You win the door prize, pal."

"About the worse case I've ever seen, too. Balmy, absolutely balmy."

The bald man guffawed. "Look who's talking. The magician who cast the flipping spell in the first place."

"Don't remind me. Gods, what have we done?"

"Ah, forget it. It was fun while it lasted. But it always comes to this."

"Oh, you're at this quite a lot, are you?"

"What are you, a wise guy? We haven't worked in centuries. It just never plays out right, that's all. All we get are jokers like you."

"Well, look," Thorsby said, "if you'd trot out that grimoire and let us have a look at it, perhaps we could fix some things."

"Too late, pal. Can't you see the handwritin' on the wall?"

"The what?"

The bald man pointed toward the far wall of the vast once-sumptuous but now seedy chamber. "There." Thorsby focused his tired eyes. A disembodied hand was indeed engaged in an offbeat literary genre-writing, using its index finger as a stylus, on the marble of the pilastered wall. In fact, the hand had been at it for some time. The molding along the ceiling bore this inscription:

Below it stretched a descending series of tersely wrought sentiments:

"Oh, dear," Thorsby said.

"Yeah." The bald man took a long, thoughtful puff on his cigar. "I'd say you'd better vamoose, little buddy. 'Course-"

"What?"

Another long puff. "There's no way outta the joint until the spell completely fizzles."

"What's going to happen to me?"

"You don't wanna know, pal. My advice is, make yourself scarce. When the Grand Wazir makes his appearance, heads are gonna roll."

"The Grand W-w…?" Thorsby swallowed bile. His stomach began its acid churning again.

"Yeah." The bald man sighed. "He don't like bein' toyed with. Know what I mean?"

"I didn't… we didn't-" Thorsby suddenly remembered. "Fetchen. Ye gods!"

He began running frantically about the dais, kicking through garbage, overturning bodies, unpiling piles. "Fetchen! Fetchen, old darling!"

He pawed his way through a mound of rotting beluga caviar.

"Fetchen, speak up, old chap!"

At long last, beneath six layers of unconscious houris, under a mound of rotten fruit and decomposing food mixed with broken bottles and shards of crockery, Fetchen turned up.

Thorsby hauled him out, laid him down, and began slapping his cheeks.

"Fetchen, old chap, come round. That's it, old bean, wake up! Wake up, there's a good fellow."

Fetchen said, "Wuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh." His lips were purple.

"There you go, good as new. Bit of a hangover, eh, old sport? Well, we've all had a bally good laugh, but now it's time to go back to work. Let's be up and doing, come on."

"Uuuuuhhhhhhhhhh," Fetchen replied.

"There we go, there we go,"

"He's had it," came a voice behind Thorsby. It was the bald man, still smoking his noxious cigar.

"No, he hasn't!" Thorsby snapped. "He'll be just as good as new after I get some coffee in him. You there! Fetch us a cup of coffee!"

"Drop dead, jerkoff."

"Horrid little strumpet. Smelling salts! Yes, that's what we need. Please, have a little pity."

The houri chuckled her reply.

"How cruel can you be? This man's dying!"

"My heart's bleedin', honey."

"You'd let him die?"

"Betcha sweet ass."

"Better it happens now," the bald man said, turning away.