They found a safe tree to hang from for the rest of the night, then resumed their trek in the morning. The local sticks and stones were as helpful as usual, and they located Castle Roogna without difficulty about noon. Dor was able to recognize the general lay of the land, but the vegetation was all different. There was no orchard; instead there were a number of predaceous plants. And—the Castle was only half complete.
Dor had seen Castle Roogna many times, but in this changed situation it stood out like a completely novel structure. It was large—the largest castle in all the Land of Xanth—and its outer ramparts were the tallest and most massive. It was roughly square, about a hundred feet on a side, and the walls rose thirty feet or more above the moat. It was braced by four great towers at the corners, their square outlines projecting halfway out from the main frame, enlarging it, and casting stark shadows against the recessed walls. In the center of each side of the castle was a smaller round tower, also projecting out by half its diameter, casting more subtle shadows. Solid battlements surmounted the top. There were no windows or other apertures. In Dor’s day some had been cut, but this was a more adventurous period, and the defenses had to be as strong as possible. Overall, this was as powerful and impressive an edifice as Dor cared to imagine.
But the inner structure was virtually nonexistent; the beautiful palace portion had at this stage to be a mere courtyard. And the north wall lacked its upper courses; the huge stones stair-stepped down in the center, and the round support tower was incomplete.
A herd of centaurs was laboring on this section, using hoists and massive cables and sheer brute force to draw the blocks to the top. They worked with somewhat less efficiency and conviction than Dor would have expected, based on his knowledge of the centaurs of his own day. They looked rougher, too, as if the human and equine sections were imperfectly joined. Dor was reminded that not only had new species risen in eight hundred years, the old ones had suffered refinement.
Dor marched up to the centaur supervisor, who stood outside the moat, near a crude wooden scaffold supporting the next block to be hoisted. He was sweating as he trotted back and forth, calling out instructions to the pulley crew, trying to maneuver the stone up without cracking into the existing wall. Horseflies buzzed annoyingly about his hindquarters—not the big flying-horse variety, but the little horse-biting variety. They buzzed off quickly when Jumper came near, but the centaur didn’t notice.
“Uh, where is King Roogna?” Dor inquired as the centaur paused to give him a harried glance.
“Go find him yourself!” the surly creature retorted brusquely. “Can’t you see we’re busy here?”
The centaurs of Dor’s time were generally the soul of courtesy except when aroused. One notable exception was “Uncle Chester,” sire of Dor’s centaur playmate Chet. This centaur supervisor was reminiscent of Chester, and the other members of this herd resembled him too. Chester must have been a throw-back to this original type: ugly of facial feature, handsome of posterior, powerfully constructed, surly of disposition, yet a creature of sterling qualities once his confidence was won.
Dor and his party retreated. This was obviously not the occasion to bug the centaurs. “Stone, where is King Roogna?” Dor inquired of a section of a block that had not yet been transported across the moat.
“He resides in a temporary hut south of here,” the stone responded.
As Dor had suspected. There would have to be a lot more work on the Castle before it was habitable for a King, though in the event of war the inner court should be safe enough for camping. No one would choose to live there while the centaurs were hoisting massive rocks about.
They went south. Dor was tempted to make a detour to the spot where his cottage cheese existed in his own day, but resisted; there would be nothing there.
They came across a hut adapted from a large pumpkin, set in a small but neat yard. A solid, graying man in soiled shorts was contemplating a chocolate cherry tree while chewing on the fruit: evidently a gardener sampling the product. The man hailed them without waiting for an introduction: “Welcome, travelers! Come have a cherry while they are available.”
The three stopped. Dor plucked a cherry and found it excellent: a delicious outer coating of sweet brown chocolate, a firm cherry ulterior with a liquid center. Millie liked the fruit too. “Better than candied cave-lice,” she opined. Jumper was too polite to demur, but evidently had another opinion.
“Pretend it is a swollen tick,” Dor suggested in a low voice. The spider waved a foreleg, acquiescing.
“Well, let’s try it again,” the gardener said. “I’m having some difficulty with this one.” He concentrated on the tree.
Nothing happened.
“Are you trying to do a spell?” Dor inquired, plucking another cherry. “To add fertilizer to it, or something?”
“Um, no. The centaurs provide plenty of fertilizer. As a matter of fact—“ The man’s eyes widened, startled. “Hold that cherry a moment, sir, if you please. Don’t bite into it.”
Dor paused, cherry near mouth. The first had been so good, he was a bit put out to have the gardener deny him the second so arbitrarily. He looked at the fruit. It lacked the chocolate covering, and its surface was bright red and hard. “I won’t,” he agreed. “This must be a bad one.” He flipped it away.”
“Don’t—“ the man cried, too late. “That’s a—”
There was an explosion nearby. Millie screamed. The noise was deafening, and heat blasted at them.
All four of them stumbled to the side, away from the blast.
The concussion subsided. Dor looked around dazedly. There was a wisp of smoke rising from the vicinity of the explosion. “What was that?” Dor asked, shaken. He discovered he had his sword in hand, and put it away self-consciously.
“The cherry bomb you threw,” the gardener said. “Lucky you did not bite into it.”
“The cherry—that was a chocolate cherry, from this—“ Dor looked at the tree. “Why, those are cherry bombs, now! How—?”
“This must be King Roogna,” Millie offered. “We didn’t recognize him.”
Nonplused, Dor worked it out. He had pictured King Roogna as a man somewhat like King Trent, polished, intelligent, commanding of demeanor, a man nobody would care to take lightly. But of course the folklore of eight hundred years would clothe the Magician in larger-than-life grandeur. It was not a person’s appearance that counted in Xanth, it was his magic talent So this pudgy, informal, gardener-type man with the gentle manner and thinning, graying hair and sweaty armpits, unprepossessing—this could indeed be the King. “This tree—he changed it from chocolate cherry to cherry bomb—Magician King Roogna’s talent was adapting magic to his purpose—“
“Was?” the King inquired, raising a dust-smeared eyebrow.
Dor had been thinking of the historical figure, who was of course contemporary in the tapestry world. “I, uh, is. Your Majesty. I—“ He started to bow, changed his mind in midmotion, started to kneel, changed his mind again, and found himself dissolving in confusion.
The King set a firm, friendly hand on his shoulder. “Be at ease, warrior. Had I desired obeisance, I would have made it known at the outset. It is my talent that sets me apart, rather than my office. In fact, my office is insecure at the moment. My troops are all on furlough because we have no quarters yet for them, and difficulties plague the construction of my Castle. So pretension would ill befit me, were I inclined toward it.”
“Uh, yes, Your Majesty,” Dor mumbled.
The King contemplated him. “I gather you are from Mundania, though you seem to have had some garbled account of Xanth.” He glanced at Millie. “And the young lady has the aspect of the West Stockade. They do raise some pretty fruits there.” He looked at Jumper. “And this person—I don’t believe I have encountered a jumping spider of your magnitude before, sir. Is it an enchantment?”
“He called me sir,” Jumper cluttered. “Is a King supposed to do that?”
“A King,” Roogna said firmly, “can do just about anything he chooses. Preferably he chooses to rule well. I note your voice is translated by a web on the warrior’s shoulder.” His aspect hardened, and he began to suggest the manner Dor had expected in a King. “This interests me. There appears to be unusual magic here.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Dor said quickly. “There is considerable enchantment here, but it is hard to explain.”
“All magic is hard to explain,” Roogna said.
“He makes things talk,” Millie said helpfully. “The sticks and stones don’t break his bones. They talk to him. And walls and water and things. That’s how we found our way here.”
“A Mundane Magician?” Roogna asked. “This is a virtual contradiction in terms!”
“I, uh, said it was hard to explain, Your Majesty,” Dor said awkwardly.
A figure approached: a compact squarish man of the King’s generation, with a slightly crooked smile. “Do I smell something interesting, Roogna?” he inquired.
“You do indeed, Murphy,” the King replied. “Here, let’s introduce ourselves more adequately. I am Magician Roogna, pro-tern King. My talent is the adaptation of living magic to my purpose.” He looked meaningfully at Dor.
“I, uh, I am Dor. Er, Magician Dor. My talent is communication with the inanimate.” Then, in case that wasn’t clear, he added: “I talk to things.”
The King prompted Millie with another glance. “I am Millie the maid, an innocent girl of the West Stockade village,” she said. “My talent is—“ She blushed delicately, and her talent manifested strongly. “Sex appeal.”
On around the circle: “I am Phidippus Variegatus of the family of Salticidae: Jumper the spider for short,” Jumper chittered. “My talent, like that of all my kind, is silk.”
At last it came to the-newcomer. “And I am Magician Murphy. My talent is making things go wrong. I am the chief obstacle to Roogna’s power, and his rival for dominance in Xanth.”
Dor’s mouth dropped open. “You are the Enemy Magician? Right here with the King?”
King Roogna laughed. “What better place? It is true we oppose each other, but this is a matter of politics. Magicians, as a rule, do not practice their talents directly on each other. We prefer to manifest our powers more politely. Murphy and I are two of the three Magicians extant. The third has no interest in politics, so we two are the rivals for power in Xanth. We are trying our strength in this manner: if I can succeed in completing Castle Roogna before the year is out, Murphy will yield me uncontested title to the throne. If I fail, I will abdicate the throne, and since there is no other Magician suitable for the office, the anarchy that follows will likely foster Murphy as the dominant figure. Meanwhile we share the camaraderie of our status. It is an equitable arrangement.”
“But—“ Dor was appalled; “You treat the welfare of the whole Land of Xanth as if it were a game!”
The King shook his head gravely. “No game, Magician Dor. We are absolutely serious. But we also indulge ourselves in honor. If one of us can prevail in war, he can surely do it by humane rules of conduct. This is warfare of the civilized kind.”
Jumper chittered. “There is warfare of the uncivilized kind approaching,” the web translated. “The harpies and the goblins are massing their forces to exterminate each other.”
Murphy smiled. “Ah, you betray my secret, spider!”
“If anything can go wrong, it will,” Dor said. “You mean the war between monsters is your doing?”
“By no means, Magician,” the Enemy demurred. “The war of monsters has roots going well back before our time, and no doubt will continue long after our time. My talent merely encourages the most violent outbreak at the least convenient time for Roogna.”
“And we need hardly guess where the two armies will randomly meet,” King Roogna exclaimed, his gaze turning northward toward the incomplete Castle.
“I had hoped it would be a surprise,” Murphy admitted ruefully. “That would prevent you from calling back your troops in time to defend the Castle. But for the intrusion of these visitors, it might have been unforeshadowed.”
“So your talent fouled you up, this time!” Millie said.
“Perhaps an eddy-current,” Jumper chittered.
“My talent is not proof against the influence of other Magicians,” Murphy said. “The ramifications of the talents of Magician caliber extend well beyond the apparent aspects. If another Magician were to oppose me, my talent would feel the impact, regardless of the specific nature of the opposing talent. And it seems another Magician has indeed entered the picture. It will take time to comprehend the significance of this new element.”
That was an apt remark: Dor had entered the picture literally, for this was the tapestry, the picture-world.
Murphy studied Dor with a certain disquieting intensity. “I would like to get to know you better, sir. Would you care to accept my hospitality for the duration of your stay here, or until we all hie into the Castle to avoid the ravages of the monsters? We had thought there were no unknown Magicians in Xanth at this time.”
“Sir?” Jumper chittered. He was still having a problem with this word, having seen its power.
“But you are the enemy!” Dor protested.
“Oh, go with him,” Roogna said. “I lack proper facilities for three, at the moment, though soon the Castle will be in order. The maid can stay with my wife, and the spider I daresay would be happiest hanging from a tree. I assure you Murphy will not hurt you, Dor. It is his prerogative, by the rules of our contest, to be given opportunity to fathom significant new elements, particularly if they add to the strength of my position. I have a similar privilege to inspect his allies. You may both rejoin me and your companions for the evening repast.”
Somewhat bemused, Dor went with Murphy. “I don’t understand this business, Magician. You act as if you and King Roogna are friends!”
“We are peers. That’s not the same as friends, but it will do. We have no others except the Zombie Master, and he is not one to associate with on this basis. There is of course neo-Sorceress Vadne, who would have assisted me had I agreed to marry her, but I declined and so she joined the King. But she is not a dominant figure. So if we desire the companionship of our level, we must seek it in each other. And now, it seems, in you. I am extremely curious about you, Dor.”
This was awkward. “I am from a far land.”
“Obviously. I had not been aware that any Magicians resided in Mundania.”
“Well, I’m not really from Mundania.” But could he afford to tell the whole truth?
“Don’t tell me, let me guess! Not from Mundania— so it must be somewhere in Xanth. North of the Gap?”
“You remember the Gap?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“Uh, I guess it’s all right. I—my people have trouble remembering the Gap, sometimes.”
“Strange. The Gap is most memorable. So you’re south of it?”
“Not exactly. You see, I—“
“Let’s see your talent. Can you make this jewel talk?” Murphy held up a glittering emerald.
“What is your nature?” Dor asked the stone. “What are you worth? What is your secret?”
“I am glass,” the jewel responded. “A fake. I am worth almost nothing. The Magician has dozens like me to give to greedy fools for their support.”
Murphy raised an expressive eyebrow. “But you are not fake, Dor! There must be few secrets hidden from you! A remarkable informational talent!”
“Yes.”
“So the mystery expands! How could a full Magician have remained concealed so long? Roogna and I once harnessed a magic sniffer and surveyed this whole region. That was how the site for the Castle was selected. There is a high concentration of useful magic here, and overall the effect is very strong. If the source of all magic is not in this vicinity, it cannot be far from it. So we found enchantment aplenty, but no Magicians. Yet in our experience, no really strong magic emerges from the hinterland. How could a man of Mundane aspect, with a warrior’s reflexes, turn up suddenly with such a talent? It hardly seems possible.”
Dor shrugged.
“In fact, I suspect it is impossible—or rather, it must be the result of magic beyond our present comprehension. Some special enchantment—“ He broke off, lifting one finger expressively. “An anachronism! That would account for it! You are from the Land of Xanth—in another time!”
“Uh, yes,” Dor said. Murphy was no fool!
“Not the past, surely, for there is no record of such a talent historically. Of course many of the ancient records have been lost, owing to Waves and such. Still, talents tend to grow more sophisticated with time, and yours is quite sophisticated. So it must be the future. How far?”
The truth could not be concealed from this clever man! “Eight hundred years,” Dor admitted.
They had arrived at Murphy’s tent. “Come in, have a drink of cider—a fine sweet-cider press just fruited in my yard—and tell me all about it.”
“But I’m not on your side!” Dor blurted. “I want King Roogna to win!”
“Naturally you do. All right-thinking people do. Fortunately for me, there are as many wrong-thinking people as right-thinkers. But surely you must realize that ignorance serves my purpose, not his. Only the orderly categorization of facts can promote a stable kingdom.”
“Then why do you want this information? Are you going to try to do something to me?” Dor’s hand touched his sword.
“Magicians do not act against Magicians,” Murphy reminded him. “Not directly. I mean you no personal mischief. Rather, I am trying to determine the impact and meaning of your presence here. The addition of another full Magician to the equation could change the outcome of our contest. If your force is sufficient to tip the balance in Roogna’s favor, and I cannot reverse it, then I would have to concede the throne to him without further ado, and save us all much torment. Therefore it behooves both Roogna and me to ascertain your nature, early and accurately. Why do you think he sent you with me?”
“You two are the strangest enemies I ever saw! I can’t follow the convolutions of your game.”
“We merely abide by the rules. Without rules, there is no game.” Murphy handed him a glass of cider. “Tell me the whole story, Dor, and we shall ascertain how your presence affects our situation. You will be welcome then to explain it to the King.”
Dor seemed to have no choice. He wished Jumper were here to advise him, or Grundy the golem; he just didn’t have confidence in his own judgment. Yet he always felt most at home with the truth. So he told the Enemy Magician as much of the story as he could organize: his quest to help restore a zombie, the inclusion of Jumper in the spell, the adventure within the tapestry.
“No problem about locating the Zombie Master,” Murphy said. “The problem is, he won’t help you.”
“But only he knows the secret of restoring zombies! That’s the whole purpose in my—“
“He may know,” Murphy said. “But he won’t tell. He does nothing for anyone. That is why he lives alone.”
“I still have to ask him,” Dor said stubbornly. “Meanwhile, what about you? Now that you know King Roogna did—I mean will—complete the Castle—“
“That is indeed a ponderous matter. Yet there are several considerations. One is that what you say may not be true.”
Dor was stung. His body’s hand, responsive in its fashion to his mood, reached over his shoulder for the sword.
Murphy held up a hand, unalarmed. “You sound so uncertain, yet your body reacts so aggressively! This corroborates your story, of course. Do not force me to use my magic against you. You would suffer mishap before ever you brought your weapon to bear. I did not call you a liar. I merely conjecture that you could be misinformed. History is notorious for misinformation. That castle you knew could have been built a century later and given the name of Roogna, to lend verisimilitude to the new order. How would you know?”
“Very what?” Dor asked, confused.
“Verisimilitude. Realism. To make it seem likely and true.”
Dor was startled. A Castle built much later, called Roogna. He had never thought of that.
“But there are other approaches,” Murphy continued. “Assume your version of history is accurate— as indeed it may be. Now you have returned. What can you do—except change your history? In which case your presence can at best be neutral, and at worst reverse the outcome of the present competition between Roogna and Murphy. So your excursion may be an auspicious omen for me. I hardly mean to interfere with you! I think it may be my talent that brought you here, to foul up Roogna.”
Dor was startled again. Himself, an agent of the enemy? Yet it was suddenly all too plausible!
“But I rather suspect,” Murphy continued, “that you will in fact prove unable to change history in any significant respect. I visualize it as a protean thing. Yielding to specific imperatives yet always reasserting itself when the pressure abates. I doubt anything you can do will have impact after you depart. It will be an interesting phenomenon to watch, however.”
Dor was silent. This Magician had neutralized him thoroughly, expertly, without doing a thing except talk. The worst of it was, he was very much afraid that Murphy was correct. The more Dor might try to interfere, here in the tapestry world, the more likely he was to hurt King Roogna’s chances. So Dor would have to remain as neutral as possible, lest even his help prove disastrous.
They finished their cider and returned to King Roogna. “This man is indeed a Magician,” Murphy announced. “But I deem him no threat to my designs, though he aligns himself with you. He will explain as he chooses.”
The King glanced at Dor inquiringly. “It is true,” Dor said. “He has shown me that any help I may try to render you . . . can have the opposite effect. We don’t know that for sure, but it is a risk. So I must remain neutral, to my regret.” Dor had surprised himself by making a very adult-sounding statement. Maybe it was Murphy’s influence.
“Very well,” the King said. “Murphy is many things, but his integrity is unimpeachable. Since you may not help me, may I help you?”
“Only by telling me where to find the Zombie Master.”
“Oh, you can’t get anything from him,” the King assured Dor. “He helps no one.”
“So Magician Murphy informed me. Yet it is vital that I see him, and after that I shall depart this land.”
“Then wait a few days, until I complete the present phase of the Castle. Then I can spare you a guide and guard. I owe you this in deference to your Magician status. The Zombie Master lives east of here, in the heart of the wilderness; it is difficult to pass.”
Dor chafed inwardly at the delay, but felt it best to accede. He and his friends had had too many narrow escapes already. A guide and guard would help.
They rejoined Millie and Jumper. “The King has given me a job!” Millie exclaimed immediately, bouncing and clapping her hands and swinging her hair in such a full circle that it lapped around her face, momentarily concealing it. “As soon as the Castle is complete.”
“If we have time to wait,” Jumper chittered, “I should like to recompense the King’s hospitality by offering my service for the duration of our stay here.”
“Uh—“ Dor started to protest, realizing that what applied to himself should also apply to the spider.
“That is most courteous of you,” the King said heartily. “I understand from the young lady that you are adept at hoisting and lowering objects. We have dire need of such ability at the moment. Rest tonight; tomorrow you will join my sturdy centaur crew.”
Murphy glanced meaningfully at Dor. The Enemy Magician was satisfied to make this trial of the validity of his conjecture. And Dor—had to be satisfied too. Maybe Murphy was wrong, after all. They could not afford to assume he was right, if he were not. So Dor was silent, not wanting to alarm the King or Jumper unnecessarily. Silent, but not at ease.
The King served them royally enough with pies from a pie tree he had adapted for this purpose: pizza, shepherd’s, mince, cheese, and pecan pies, washed down with excellent fruit punch from a punchfruit tree.
“In my land,” Dor remarked, “the King is a transformer. He changes living things into other living things. He can change a man into a tree, or a dragon into a toad. How does this differ from your own talent, Your Majesty?”
“A transformer,” King Roogna murmured. “That’s a potent talent! I cannot change a man into a tree! I only adapt forms of magic to other purposes—a sleep spell to a truth spell, a chocolate cherry to a cherry bomb. So I would say your King is a more powerful Magician than I am.”
Dor was abashed. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to imply—“
“You didn’t, Dor. I am not competing with your King for status. Nor am I competing with you. We Magicians have a certain camaraderie, as I mentioned; we respect each other’s talents. I’d like to meet your King sometime. After I have completed the Castle.”
“Which may be never,” Murphy said.
“Now with him I am competing,” the King said good-naturedly, and bit into another piece of pie. Dor said nothing, still having trouble accepting this friendly-rivalry facade.
In the morning Jumper reported to the Castle construction crew. Dor went along to help translate, since no one else could understand the spider’s chittering— and because he was privately concerned about Jumper’s possible influence on history. Or lack of it. If anything Dor or Jumper did could affect King Roogna’s success—
Dor shook his head uneasily. King Roogna was busy today, adapting new spells to preserve the roof of the Castle—once the construction reached that stage. The magic, it seemed, had to be built right into the Castle; otherwise it would not endure. This business of adapting spells, such as the one a water dragon used to prevent the water from dousing its flame—converting that to make an unleakable roof—well, that was certainly something a transformer couldn’t do! So King Roogna had no reason to be modest. It was very difficult to compare the strength of talents. But if Jumper’s offer of help were only to hurt—
They approached the same centaur supervisor who had brushed them off before. It seemed he had charge of the north wall, the one still under construction. The creature was pacing and fretting about the arrival of additional blocks of stone; it seemed the quarriers had fouled up a spell or two and were running behind schedule.
“King Roogna would like to have my friend help,” Dor said. “He can lift stones into place with his silken lines, or climb sheer walls to—“
“A giant bug?” the centaur demanded, swishing his tail rapidly back and forth. “We don’t want his kind among us!”
“But he’s here to help!”
Now the other centaur workers were dismounting from the wall and crowding in close. They loomed uncomfortably large. A centaur standing the height of a man actually had about six times the mass of a man, and these stood somewhat taller than Dor—whose present body was a giant among men. “We don’t associate with no bugs!” one cried. “Get that weirdo out of here!”
Nonplused, Dor turned to Jumper. “I—they don’t—“
“I understand,” Jumper chittered. “I am not their kind.”
Dor eyed the massed centaurs, who seemed eager for any pretext to take time off from their labors. “I don’t understand! You can do so much—“
“We don’t care if he can throw droppings at the big green moon!” one yelled. “Get him out of here before we fetch a fly swatter!”
Dor got angry. “You shouldn’t talk to him like that! Juniper’s not a fly; he eats flies! He can keep all the horseflies away—“
“Bug-lover!” the supervisor snapped. “You’re as bad as he is! Now watch I don’t pound you both into the ground!”
“Yeah! Yeah!” the other centaurs agreed, stomping their hooves.
Jumper chittered. “These creatures are hostile. We shall depart.” He started off.
Dor followed him, but not with docility. With each step he took his anger grew. “They had no right to do that! The King needs help!” Yet at the same time he wondered whether this were not for the best. If Jumper were not allowed to participate, Murphy’s curse couldn’t operate, could it? They would not change history.
Soon they were back at the royal tent. The King was outdoors beside a pond, where a small water dragon was captive. The thing was snorting smoke angrily and lashing up a froth with its tail, but Roogna seemed not to be concerned. “Now climb up on this roofing material,” he was telling the dragon. “Propinquity facilitates adaptation.” Then he looked up and spied Dor and Jumper. “Some problem at the construction site?”
Dor tried to be civilized, but it burst out of him. “The centaurs won’t let Jumper work! They say he’s ... different!”
“So I am,” Jumper chittered.
King Roogna had seemed like an even-tempered, harmless sort of man. Now that changed. He stood up straight and his jaw hardened. “I will not have this attitude in my kingdom!” He snapped his fingers, and in a moment a flying dragon arrived: a beautiful creature armored in stainless steel, with burnished talons and a long snout suitable for aiming a jet of fire accurately from a distance. “Dragon, it seems my work crew is getting balky. Fetch your contingent and—“
Jumper chittered violently. “No, Your Majesty!” the web translated, almost shredding itself in its effort to transmit the force of the spider’s conviction. “Do not chastise your workers. They are no more ignorant than my own kind, and they are doing necessary work. I regret I caused disruption.”
“Disruption? By offering to help?” The King’s brow remained stormy. “At least I must chastise them with my magic. Centaurs do not have to have such pretty tails, so useful for swishing away flies. I can adapt them to lizards’ tails, useful for slinking along between rocks. That will dampen their o’erweening arrogance!”
“No!” Jumper still protested. “Do not allow the curse to distort your judgment.”
Roogna’s eyes widened. “Murphy! You’re right, of course! This is his doing! If alienophobia could interfere, it does interfere!”
Dor too was startled. That was it, certainly! Magician Murphy had laid a curse on the construction of the Castle, and Jumper’s offer had triggered it. The centaurs were not really to blame.
“You are a sensible, generous creature,” the King said to Jumper. “Since you plead the cause of those who wrong you, I must abate my action. I regret the necessity, and the wrong done you, but it seems I cannot take advantage of your kind offer of assistance.” He dismissed the flying dragon with a kingly offhand gesture. “The centaurs are allies, not servants; they labor on the Castle because they are most proficient at this sort of construction. I have done return favors for them. I regret that I let my temper slip. Please feel free to use my facilities until I can arrange for your escort. Meanwhile, you are welcome to watch me operate here, though I hope you will not interrupt my concentration with foolish questions.”
They settled down to watch the King. Dor was quite curious about the actual mechanism for adapting a spell. Did the King just command it, as Dor commanded objects to speak, or was it a silent effort of will? But hardly had Roogna gotten the balky water dragon placed before a messenger-imp ran up. “King, sir—there’s been a foul-up at the construction site! The wrong spell was on the building blocks, and they’re pushing each other apart instead of pulling themselves together.”
“The wrong spell!” Roogna roared indignantly. “I adapted that spell myself only last week!” There followed a brief discussion. It turned out that a full course of blocks had been laid in the wrong place, causing their spells to conflict with those of the next course instead of meshing. Someone had fouled up, and the error had not been caught in time. They were large blocks, each weighing many hundreds of pounds.
Roogna tore out a few hairs from his rapidly graying head. “The curse of Murphy again! This will cost us another week! Do I have to lay every block with my own frail hands? Tell them to rip out that course and replace it with the correct one.”
The imp scurried off, and the King returned to his task. But just as he was about to work his magic, another imp arrived. “Hey, King—a goblin army is marching from the south!”
Grimly the King asked: “What is its estimated time of arrival?”
“ETA zero minus ten days.”
“That’s one shoe,” the King muttered, and returned to his work. Naturally the water dragon had wandered out of place, and had to be coaxed laboriously back. Murphy’s curse operated in small ways, too.
The King was shortly interrupted by yet another imp. “Rooge, old boy—a harpy flight is massing in the north!”
“ETA?”
“Ten days.”
“The other shoe,” Roogna said resignedly. “The two forces will converge on this spot, courtesy of Murphy, and by the time they have destroyed each other, the landscape will be in ruins and Castle Roogna in rubble. If we had only been able to complete the breastworks in time—but now that is hopeless. My enemy has done some remarkably apt scheming. I am forced to admire it.”
“He’s a smart man,” Dor said. “There must be some way to divert those armies, if they’re not really after the Castle. I mean, if the goblins and harpies don’t care about the Castle at all, but only happen to be fighting here.” He was disturbed. It didn’t seem that his presence had caused this problem, but he wasn’t quite sure. If his encounters with the harpies and goblins had set them both off—
“Any direct attempt at diversion would cause them both to attack us,” Roogna said. “They are extremely intractable creatures. We lack the inclination and means to fend off either of those brute hordes. In your world, Man may be the dominant creature, but here that has not yet been established.”
“If you recruited some more creatures to help you—“
“I would have to dissipate my magic repaying them for that service—instead of working on the Castle.”
“Your human army—can’t you call it back from furlough?”
“Murphy’s curse is especially apt at interfering with organizational messages. I doubt we could summon the full complement back before the monsters arrived. And I’m sure those men need to protect their own homesteads from the advancing monsters. I think it better to defend the Castle with what we have on hand. That’s a small chance, but as good as the alternative. I fear Murphy has really checked me, this time.”
Maybe another Magician could help—“ Dor interrupted himself with another thought. “The Zombie Master! Would his help make the difference?”
The King considered. “Yes, it probably would. Because he represents a primary focus of magic, with all its ramifications, and because he is relatively close, with no Gap to navigate in getting here, and because his zombies could man the battlements without number or upkeep: the ideal army in this kind of situation. Just feeding my own army during siege would be a terrific problem; we have supplies only for the crews working here now. But this is useless conjecture; the Zombie Master does not participate in politics.”
“I have to go see him anyway,” Dor exclaimed, excited. “I could talk to him, explain what is at stake—“ To hell with caution! If the King was about to lose without Dor’s help, why not take the risk? He really could do no harm. “Jumper could come along; he’s better than I am at lots of things. The worst I could do is fail.”
The King stroked his beard. “There is that. I regard it as a long shot, but since you are willing—tell the Zombie Master I would be willing to make some reasonable exchange for his assistance.” He cocked a finger, and another imp appeared. Dor wondered where those imps hid when not in use; the King was evidently well attended, though he made little show of it. Like King Trent, he masked his power except when show was necessary. “Prepare an escort and guide for an excursion to the castle of the Zombie Master. Magician Dor will depart in the morning on a mission for me.”
But in the morning there was one more: Millie the maid. “With the Castle delayed, and the household staff shipping out during the emergency, I have no job yet,” she explained. “Maybe I can help.”
In future centuries she would be a sad ghost, and come to know the zombie Jonathan, and seek to restore him. She knew nothing of this now, but Dor did. How could he deny her her chance to assist him in this mission—since it was ultimately for her? Maybe in some way she could help.
Why did he feel so glad for her company? He knew he could never—she was not—his body appreciated aspects of her that he himself had hardly glimpsed, but she could never be his in that way. So why should he fool himself with impossible notions?
Yet how glad he was to be with her, even this brief time!