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two go for eighteen sometime?"
    Dalton raised his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. “I'd be honored, sire."
    “Though I can't promise any time soon. My schedule's fairly tight at the moment."
    “Whensoever it pleaseth His Majesty. I am at your service, good my lord."
    Incarnadine smiled. “You're getting pretty good with those Shakespearean turns. Make a habit of that ‘good my lord’ stuff and you'll be going around in tights and doublet carrying a skull. I've seen it happen to other Guests."
    “But where else do I get the chance to use all those ruffles and flourishes? It's fun."
    “Have a ball. Listen, I'm going to sidle over and try to talk to my brother. Make a golf date with my secretary and I'll try like hell to keep it. Really I will. And we won't use the public course. I have a private one. It's a little wild but a lot more fun."
    “Sounds interesting. Will do, sire."
    “See you later."
    Incarnadine strolled across the patio. His brother the prince was still at it, bantering volubly. Trent could be garrulous, especially when he was the center of attention. And charming, quite charming.
    Old Prince Charming, he of the butter-colored hair and strong jaw. Fine figure of a man, for a former nasty creep who'd caused no end of bother in his time. But no more. Trent had reformed. At least he claimed as much. And Incarnadine believed it. If Trent's recent behavior had been any indication, it was true. He was a changed man. Trent had lent a hand during the dust-up with the Hosts of Hell. Later he'd been kidnapped by them and dumped into this backwater world with Sheila, whom he eventually married. She was of common stock; moreover, she was a castle Guest. The castle nobility had just about written Trent off, but he didn't seem to care; and he did indeed appear to be free of his longtime obsession with seizing the throne, the Siege Perilous.
    All true. But it might be good insurance now and then to keep him busy. Hence this little mission. It wouldn't keep him away long.
    Just a decade or so.
    “...so the hooker said to the chicken, ‘Sure, honey, throw in ajar of mayonnaise and you got yourself a deal.’”
    A burst of laughter.
    An attendant came up bearing a tray of drinks. “A refill, sire?"
    Incarnadine shook his head and set his half-full glass on the tray.
    “That was cute,” a tall horse-faced woman told Trent. “Filthy, but cute."
    “I am nothing if not filthy but cute,” Trent said.
    She giggled. “Well, I know you're cute. Your filthiness I know only by reputation.” She batted her eyelashes.
    “Oh, so it's gotten around? I'll have to hire a PR flack to put another spin on it."
    “I bet you've given a few women a spin in your time."
    “My dear, women are like yo-yos."
    “Oh? How so?"
    “You let ‘em turn at the end of a string for a while, then you snap your wrist and they jump up into the palm of your hand."
    “What a charming metaphor."
    “Yes, rather."
    “That's sexist,” someone alleged.
    “You mean ‘sexy,'” Trent said with an evil smirk.
    “You're incorrigible,” said the horse-faced woman. “A real throwback. An atavist."
    “Attaboy, I always say."
    More giggles.
    Trent happened to glance Incarnadine's way and did a take. “Your Kinghood! Do join the party."
    “I've been watching from afar,” Incarnadine said, “making comparisons."
    “None invidious, I hope."
    “Wilde, Bernard Shaw, and their ilk spring to mind."
    “Not exactly the ilk of human kindness, but it's nice to know I'm in stellar company. Thank you, Inky."
    “Don't let it go to your head. Might I have a word with you in private, old chum?"
    “Certainly, old bean. Ladies, excuse us?"
    “Please don't keep him too long, my lord,” the woman said. “He's the life of the party."
    “And I don't even play the piano,” Trent said.
    The king led Trent over to the side of the swimming pool, now once again placid and empty of revelers.
    “What's up?” Trent asked.
    “I know it's short notice, but can you