The magic-sniffer ambled toward Bink, its long limber snout snuffling industriously. When the creature reached him it went into a frenzy of enthusiasm, snorting out flutelike notes, wagging its bushy tail, and prancing in a circle.
“Sure, I like you too, Sniffer!” Bink said, squatting to embrace it. The creature’s snout kissed his nose wetly. “You were one of the first to believe in my magic, when—“
Bink paused, for the creature was acting strangely. It had stopped frisking and become subdued, almost frightened. “What’s the matter, little friend?” Bink asked, concerned. “Did I say something to hurt your feelings? I apologize!”
But the sniffer curled its tail between its legs and slunk away. Bink stared after it, chagrined. It was almost as if the magic had been turned off, causing the thing to lose its function. But Bink’s talent, like all others, was inherent; it could not dissipate while he lived. Something else must have frightened the sniffer.
Bink looked about, feeling uneasy. To the east was the Castle Roogna orchard, whose trees bore all manner of exotic fruit, vegetables, and sundry artifacts like cherry bombs and doorknobs. To the south was the untamed wilderness of Xanth. Bink remembered how that jungle had herded him and his companions inhere, seeming so menacing, way back when. Today the trees were basically friendly; they had only wanted the Magician to stay and make Castle Roogna great again. King Trent had done that. Now the considerable power of this region exerted itself for the benefit of the kingdom. Everything seemed to be in order.
Well, on with his business. There was to be a ball tonight, and his shoes were badly worn. He proceeded to the edge of the orchard where a stray shoe-tree had rooted. Shoes liked to move about, and often planted themselves in out-of-the-way places.
This one had several ripe shoes. Bink inspected individual ones without plucking them, until he was sure he had found a pair that fit him. Then he twisted them off, shook out the seeds, and put them carefully on his feet. They were quite comfortable, and looked nice because they were fresh.
He started back, walking with exaggerated motion to break in the shoes without scuffing them, his mind still nagged by the episode with the magic-sniffer. Was it an omen? Omens always came true, here in the Land of Xanth, but it was seldom possible to understand them properly until too late. Was something bad going to happen to him? That really seemed unlikely; Bink knew it was no exaggeration to assume that serious evil would have to fall on all Xanth before Bink himself was harmed. So it must be a misreading. The magic-sniffer had merely suffered a fit of indigestion, and had to scoot off.
Soon Bink was within sight of his home. It was a fine cottage cheese just off the palace grounds, which he had moved into when he married. The rind had long since hardened and lost the better part of its flavor, and the walls were fine-grained creamy-yellow petrified cheese. It was one of the most tasteful cottages extant, but since he hadn’t hollowed it out himself he didn’t see fit to brag about it
Bink took a deep breath, nerved himself, and opened the front rind-door. A sweetish waft of seasoned cheese blew out, together with a raucous screech.
“That you, Bink? About time! Where did you sneak off to, right when there’s work to be done? You have no consideration at all, do you!”
“I needed shoes,” he said shortly.
“Shoes!” she exclaimed incredulously. “You have shoes, idiot!”
His wife was much smarter than he, at the moment, Chameleon’s intelligence varied with the time of month, as did her appearance. When she was beautiful, she was stupid—in the extreme, for both. When she was smart, she was ugly. Very smart and very ugly. At the moment she was at the height of the latter phase. This was one reason she was keeping herself secluded, virtually locked in her room.
“I need good-looking ones, tonight,” he said, mustering patience. But even as the words were out he realized he had phrased it badly; any reference to good looks set her off.
“The hell you do, dunce!”
He wished she wouldn’t keep rubbing in his inferior intelligence. Ordinarily she was smart enough not to do that. Bink knew he was no genius, but he wasn’t Subnormal either; she was the one who was both. “I have to attend the Anniversary Ball,” he explained, though of course she already knew that. “It would be an insult to the Queen if I attended sloppily dressed.”
“Dolt!” she screamed from her hideaway. “You’re attending in costume! No one will see your stinking shoes!”
Oops, that was right. He had made his trip for nothing.
“But that’s all too typical of your selfishness,” she continued with righteous ire. “Bugging off to the party to have a good tune while I suffer home alone, chewing on the walls.” That was literal; the cheese was old and hard, but she gnawed on it when she got angry, and she was angry most of the time now.
Still, he tried to be positive. He had only been married a year, and he loved Chameleon. He had known at the outset that there would be good times and bad times, and this was a bad time. A very bad time. “Why don’t you come to the ball too, dear?”
She exploded with cynical wrath. “Me? When I’m like this? Spare me your feebleminded sarcasm!”
“But as you reminded me, it’s a costume party. The Queen is cloaking every attendee in a disguise of her chosing. So no one will see—“
“You utter moronic nincompoop!” she bawled through the wall, and he had heard something crash.
Now she was throwing things, in a genuine temper tantrum. “How can I go to a party in any guise— when I’m nine months pregnant?”
And that was what was really bothering her. Not her normal smart-ugly phase, that she had lived with all her life, but the enormous discomfort and restriction of her pregnancy. Bink had precipitated that condition during her lovely-stupid phase, only to learn when she got smarter that she had not wanted such a commitment at this time. She feared her baby would be like her—or like him. She had wanted to find some spell to ensure that the child would be positively talented, or at least normal, and now it was up to blind chance. She had accepted the situation with extremely poor grace, and had not forgiven him. The smarter she got, and the more pregnant she got, the more intense her ire became.
Well, soon she would be over the hump, and getting prettier—just in time for the baby. It was due in a week or so. Maybe the baby would be normal, perhaps even strongly talented, and Chameleon’s fears would be laid to rest. Then she would stop taking it out on him.
If, however, the baby were abnormal...but best not even think of that. “Sorry, I forgot,” he mumbled.
“You forgot!” The irony in her tone cut through his sensitivities like a magic sword through the cheese of the cottage. “Imbecile! You’d like to forget, wouldn’t you! Why didn’t you think of that last year when you—“
“I have to go, Chameleon,” he muttered, hastily retreating out the door. “The Queen gets upset when people are tardy.” In fact it seemed to be the nature of women to get upset at men, and to throw tantrums. That was one of the things that distinguished them from nymphs, who looked like women but were always amenable to the idle whims of men. He supposed he should count himself lucky that his wife did not have a dangerous talent, like setting fire to people or generating thunderstorms.
“Why does the Queen have to throw her ridiculous pointless dull party now?” Chameleon demanded. “Right when she knows I can’t attend?”
Ah, the logic of women! Why bother to try to understand it. All the intelligence in the Land of Xanth could not make sense of the senseless. Bink closed the door behind him.
Actually, Chameleon’s question had been rhetorical. They both knew the answer. Queen Iris took every opportunity to flaunt her status, and this was the first anniversary of that status. Theoretically the ball was to honor of the King, but actually King Trent cared little for theatrics and would probably skip the festivities. The party was really for the Queen—and though she could not compel the King to attend, woe betide the lesser functionary who played hooky tonight! Bink was such a functionary. And why was this so? he asked himself as he trod glumly on. He was supposed to be an important person, the Royal Researcher of Xanth, whose duty it was to probe the mysteries of magic and report directly to the King. But with Chameleon’s pregnancy, and the necessary organization of his homestead, Bink had not gotten around to any real research. For that he had only himself to blame, really. He should indeed have considered the consequence of impregnating his wife. At the time, fatherhood had been the last thing on his mind. But Chameleon-lovely was a figure to cloud man’s mind and excite his—never mind!
Ah, nostalgia! Back when love was new, carefree, uncomplicated, without responsibility! Chameleon-lovely was very like a nymph—
No, that was a false feeling. His life before he met Chameleon had not been all that simple, and he had encountered her three times before he recognized her. He had feared he had no magic talent—
He shimmered—and suddenly his appearance changed. The Queen’s costume had arrived. Bink was same person, mentally and physically, but now he looked like a centaur. The Queen’s illusion, so he’d play the game she had devised, in her infinite capacity to generate minor mischief. Each person had to guess the identities of as many others as possible while making his way to the palace ballroom, and there was a prize for the one who guessed the most correctly.
In addition, she had set up a mock-maze-hedge around Castle Roogna. Even if he did not play the people-guessing game, he would be forced to thread his way through the giant puzzle. Damn the Queen!
But he had to go through with it, as did everyone else. The King wisely did not interfere with household matters, and gave the Queen considerable play on her tether. With resignation Bink entered the maze and began the laborious chore of threading his way through the network of false paths toward the castle.
Most of the hedge was illusion, but enough of it was anchored in reality to make it safest simply to honor the maze, rather than barging through. The Queen would have her fun, especially on this important First Anniversary of the King’s coronation. She could get uglier than Chameleon when not humored.
Bink whipped around a corner—and almost collided with a zombie. The thing’s wormy face dripped earth and goo, and the great square eye-sockets were windows of putrefaction. The smell was appalling.
Morbidly fascinated, Bink stared into those eyes. Far within their depths there seemed to be a faint illumination, as of moonlight on a haunted plain or glow-fungus feeding on the corpse’s rotting brain. It was as if he could see through twin tunnels into the very source of its foul animation, and perhaps to the root of all the magic of Xanth. Yet it was nightmare, for the zombie was one of the living dead, a horror that should be quickly buried and forgotten. Why had this one ripped free of its unquiet grave? The zombies normally roused themselves only in defense of Castle Roogna, and they had been passive since King Trent took over.
The zombie stepped toward him, opening its fossil mouth. “Vvooomm,” it said, laboring to make the putrid gas that was its only breath form a word.
Bink backed away, sickened. He feared little in the Land of Xanth, for his physical prowess and magic talent made him one of the most subtly formidable people in the kingdom. But the peculiar discomfort and disgust entailed by dealing with a zombie unnerved him. He spun about and ran down a side avenue, leaving the undead thing behind. With its decayed articulation of bones and moldy flesh it could not match his speed, and did not even try.
Suddenly a gleaming sword rose up before him. Bink halted, amazed by this second apparition. He saw no person, no connections, just the weapon. What was the purpose of this illusion?
Oh—it must be another cute little trick of the Queen’s. She liked to make her parties exciting and challenging. All he had to do was walk through the Sword, calling the bluff of this ad hoc interference.
Yet he hesitated. The blade looked terribly real. Bink remembered his experience with Jama, as a youth. Jama’s talent was the manifestation of flying swords, solid and sharp and dangerous for the few seconds they existed, and he tended to exert his talent arrogantly. Jama was no friend of Bink’s, and if he were in the area—
Bink drew his own sword. “On guard!” he exclaimed, and struck at the other weapon, half expecting his blade to pass through it without resistance. The Queen would be pleased her bluff had worked, and this way he was taking no risk, just in case—
The other sword was solid. Steel clanged on steel. Then the other weapon twisted about to disengage from his, and thrust swiftly at his chest.
Bink parried and stepped aside. This was no temporary blade, and no mindlessly flying thing! Some invisible hand guided it, and that meant an invisible man.
The sword struck again, and again Bink parried. This thing was really trying to get him! “Who are you?” Bink demanded, but there was no answer.
Bink had been practicing with the sword for the past year, and his tutor claimed that he was an apt student Bink had courage, speed, and ample physical power. He knew he was hardly expert yet, but he was no longer amateur. He rather enjoyed the challenge, even with an invisible opponent
But a serious fight...was something else. Why was he being attacked, on this festive occasion? Who was silent, secretive enemy? Bink was lucky that the Queen’s spell of invisibility had not affected the sword for then he would have had an awful time countering it. But every item of magic in Xanth was single; a sword could not carry its necessary charms of sharpness and hardness and also be invisible. Well, it was possible, for anything was possible with magic; but it was highly unlikely. At any rate, that weapon was all Bink needed to see.
“Halt!” he cried. “Desist, or I must counter you.”
Again the enemy sword slashed at him ferociously. Bink was already aware that he faced no expert; the swordsman’s style was more bold than skilled. Bink blocked the weapon off, then countered with a halfhearted thrust to his opponent’s exposed midsection. There was only one place that midsection could be, visible or not, for a certain balance and position were essential in swordplay. Bink’s strike was not hard enough to maim, but was sufficient to—
His blade passed right through the invisible torso without resistance. There was nothing there.
Bink, startled, lost his concentration and balance. The enemy sword thrust at his face. He ducked barely in time. His instructor, Crombie the soldier, had taught him such avoidance; but this escape was at least partly luck. Without his talent, he could have been dead.
Bink did not like to depend on his talent. That was the point in learning swordsmanship: to defend himself his own way, openly, with pride, without suffering the private snickers of those who assumed, naturally enough, that mere chance had helped him. His magic might stop or blunt an attack by having the attacker slip on a littered fruit rind; it didn’t care about his pride. But when he won fairly with his sword, no one laughed. No one was laughing now, but still he did not like being attacked by a—what?
It must be one of the magic weapons of the King’s private arsenal, and it was consciously directed. No way this could be the action of the King, however; King Trent never played practical jokes, and permitted no tampering with his weapons. Someone had activated this sword and sent it out to do mischief, and that person would shortly face the formidable wrath of the King.
That was little comfort to Bink at the moment, though. He didn’t want to seem to hide behind the protection of the King. He wanted to fight his own battle and win. Except that he would have some problem getting at a person who wasn’t there.
As he considered, Bink rejected the notion that a distant person could be wielding this weapon. It was magically possible, but as far as he knew he had no enemies; no one would want to attack him, by magical or natural means, and no one would dare do it with one of the King’s own swords, in the garden of Castle Roogna.
Bink fenced with the enemy sword again, maneuvered it into a vulnerable position, and sliced through the invisible arm. No arm was there, of course. No doubt about it: the sword was wielding itself. He had never actually fought one of these before, because the King didn’t trust the judgment of mindless weapons, so the experience was a novel one. But of course there was nothing inherently odd about it; why not do battle with a charmed sword?
Yet why should such a sword seek his life, assuming it was acting on its own? Bink had nothing but respect for bladed weapons. He took good care of his own sword, making sure the sharpness charm was in good order and never abusing the instrument. Swords of any type or creed should have no quarrel with him. Perhaps he had inadvertently affronted this particular word. “Sword, if I have caused you distress or wronged you, I apologize and proffer amends,” he said. “I do not wish to fight you without reason.”
The sword cut ferociously at his legs. No quarter there!
“At least tell me what your grievance is!” Bink exclaimed, dancing away just in time.
The sword continued its attack relentlessly.
“Then I must put you out of commission,” Bink said, with mixed regret, ire, and anticipation. Here was a real challenge! For the first time he took a full defensive posture, fencing the sword with skill. He knew he was a better man than it. But he could not strike down the wielder of that weapon, because there was none. Nobody to pierce, no hand to slice. The sword showed no sign of tiring; magic powered it. How, then, could he overcome it?
This was more of a challenge than he had supposed! Bink was not worried, because he found it hard to worry about a skill less than his own. Yet if the opposition were invulnerable—
Still, his talent would not allow the sword to hurt him. A sword wielded by a man in ordinary fashion could damage him, because that was mundane; but when magic was involved, he was safe. In Xanth, hardly anything was completely unmagical, so he was extremely well protected. The question was, was he going to prevail honestly, by his own skill and courage, or by some fantastic-seeming coincidence? If he didn’t do it the first way, his talent would do it the second way.
Again he maneuvered the sword into a vulnerable position, then struck it across the fiat of the blade, hoping to snap it oft short. This did not work; the metal was too strong. He had not really expected such a ploy to be effective; strength was one of the basic charms built into modern swords. Well, what next?
He heard the clop-clop of someone approaching. He had to wrap this up quickly, or suffer the embarrassment of being rescued. His talent didn’t care about his pride, just his body.
Bink found himself backed up against a tree—a real one. The hedge-maze had been superimposed on existing vegetation, so that everything became part of that puzzle. This was a gluebark tree: anything that penetrated the bark was magically stuck to it. Then the tree slowly grew around the object, absorbing it. Harmless, so long as the bark was intact; children could safely climb the trunk and play in its branches, as long as they did not use cleats. Woodpeckers stayed well away from it So Bink could lean against it, but had to be careful not to—
The enemy sword slashed at his face. Bink was never sure, afterward, whether his inspiration came before or after his action. Probably after, which meant that his talent was in operation again despite his effort to avoid that. At any rate, instead of parrying this time, he ducked.
The sword passed over his head and smacked into the tree, slicing deeply into the bark. Instantly the tree’s magic focused, and the blade was sealed in place. It wrenched and struggled, but could not escape. Nothing could beat the specific magic of a thing in its own bailiwick! Bink was the victor.
“’Bye, Sword,” he said, sheathing his own weapon. “Sorry we couldn’t visit longer.” But behind his flippancy was a certain grim disquiet: who or what had incited this magic sword to slay him? He must, after all, have an enemy somewhere, and he didn’t like that. It wasn’t so much any fear of attack, but a gut feeling of distress that he should be disliked to that extent by anyone, when he tried so hard to get along.
He ducked around another corner—and smacked into a needle-cactus. Not a real one, or he would have become a human pincushion; a mock one.
The cactus reached down with a prickly branch and gripped Bink by the neck. “Clumsy oaf!” it snorted. “Do you wish me to prettify your ugly face in the mud?”
Bink recognized that voice and that grip. “Chester!” he rasped past the constriction in his neck. “Chester Centaur!”
“Horseflies!” Chester swore. “You tricked me into giving myself away!” He eased his terrible grip slightly. “But now you’d better tell me who you are, or I might squeeze you like this.” He squeezed, and Bink thought his head was going to pop off his body. Where was his talent now?
“Fink! Fink!” Bink squeaked, trying to pronounce his name when his lips would not quite close. “Hink!”
“I do not stink!” Chester said, becoming irritated. That made his grip tighten. “Not only are you homely as hell, you’re impertinent.” Then he did a double take. “Hey—you’re wearing my face!”
Bink had forgotten: he was in costume. The centaur’s surprise caused him to relax momentarily, and Bink snatched his opportunity. “I’m Bink! Your friend! In illusion guise!”
Chester pondered. No centaur was stupid, but this one tended to think with his muscles. “If you’re trying to fool me—“
“Remember Herman the hermit? How I met him in the wilderness, and he saved Xanth from the wiggle swarm with his will-o’-the-wisp magic? The finest centaur of them all!”
Chester finally put Bink down. “Uncle Herman,” be agreed, smiling. The effect was horrendous on the cactus-face. “I guess you’re okay. But what are you doing in my form?”
“The same thing you’re doing in cactus form,” Bink said, massaging his throat. “Attending the masquerade ball.” His neck did not seem to be damaged, so his talent must have let this encounter be.
“Oh, yes,” Chester agreed, flexing his needles eloquently. “The mischief of Good Queen Iris, the bitch-Sorceress. Have you found a way into the palace yet?”
“No. In fact, I ran into a—“ But Bink wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about the sword just yet. “A zombie.”
“A zombie!” Chester laughed. “Pity the poor oaf in that costume!”
A costume! Of course! The zombie had not been real; it had merely been another of the Queen’s illusion-costumes. Bink had reacted as shortsightedly as Chester, fleeing it before discovering its identity. And thereby encountering the sword, which certainly had not been either costume or illusion. “Well, I don’t much like this game anyway,” he said.
“I don’t go for the game either,” Chester agreed. “But the prize—that is worth a year of my life.”
“By definition,” Bink agreed morosely. “One Question Answered by the Good Magician Humfrey—free. But everyone’s competing for it; someone else will win.”
“Not if we get hoofing!” Chester said. “Let’s go unmask the zombie before it gets away!”
“Yes,” Bink agreed, embarrassed by his previous reaction.
They passed the sword, still stuck in the tree. “Finders keepers!” Chester exclaimed happily, and put his hand to it.
“That’s a gluebark; it won’t let go.”
But the centaur had already grasped the sword and yanked. Such was his strength there was a shower of bark and wood. But the sword did not come free.
“Hm,” Chester said. “Look, tree—we have a glue-bark in Centaur Village. During the drought I watered it every day, so it survived. Now all I ask in return is this sword, that you have no use for.”
The sword came free. Chester tucked it into his quiver of arrows, fastening it in place with a loop of the coil of rope he also carried. Or so Bink guessed, observing the contortions of the cactus. Bink had put a hand to his own sword, half-fearing a renewal of hostilities, but the other weapon was quiescent. Whatever had animated it was gone.
Chester became aware of Bink’s stare. “You just have to understand trees,” he said, moving on, “It’s true of course; a centaur never lies. I did water that tree. It was more convenient than the privy.”
So this gluebark had given up its prize. Well, why not? Centaurs were indeed generally kind to trees, though Chester had no particular love for needle-cactuses. Which was no doubt why the Queen in her humor had imposed this costume on him.
They came to the place where Bink had encountered the zombie, but the awful thing was gone. Only a slimy chunk of dirt lay in the path. Chester nudged it with one forehoof. “Real dirt—from a fake zombie?” he inquired, puzzled. “The Queen’s illusions are getting better.”
Bink nodded agreement. It was a disquieting note. Obviously the Queen had extended the illusion greatly —but why should she bother? Her magic was strong, far beyond the talents of ordinary people, for she was one of the three Magician-class citizens of Xanth. But it had to be a strain on even her power to maintain every detail of every costume of every person attending the masquerade. Bink and Chester’s costumes were visual only, or it would have been difficult for them to converse.
“Here is a fresh pile of dirt,” Chester remarked. “Real dirt, not zombie dirt.” He tapped at it with a cactus foot that nevertheless left a hoofprint. “Could the thing have gone back into the ground here?”
Curious, Bink scraped at the mound with his own foot There was nothing inside it except more dirt. No Zombie. “Well, we lost him,” Bink said, upset for a reason he could not quite fathom. The zombie had seemed so real! “Let’s just find our way into the palace, instead of making fools of ourselves out here.”
Chester nodded, his cactus-head wobbling ludicrously. “I wasn’t guessing people very well anyway,” he admitted. “And the only question I could ask the Good Magician doesn’t have any answer.”
“No answer?” Bink asked as they turned into another channel.
“Since Cherie had the colt—mind you, he’s a fine little centaur, bushy-tailed—she doesn’t seem to have much time for me anymore. I’m like a fifth hoof around the stable. So what can I—?”
“You, too!” Bink exclaimed, recognizing the root of his own bad mood. “Chameleon hasn’t even had ours yet, but—“ He shrugged.
“Don’t worry—she won’t have a colt.”
Bink choked, though it really wasn’t funny.
“Fillies—can’t run with them, can’t run without them,” Chester said dolefully.
Suddenly a harpy rounded a corner. There was another scramble to avoid a collision. “You blind in the beak?” Chester demanded. “Flap off, birdbrain.”
“You have a vegetable head?” the harpy retorted in a fluting tone. “Clear out of my way before I sew you up in a stinking ball with your own dull needles.”
“Dull needles!” Chester, somewhat belligerent even in the best of moods, swelled up visibly at this affront. Had he actually been a cactus, he would have fired off a volley of needles immediately—and none of those darts looked dull. “You want your grimy feathers crammed up your snotty snoot?”
It was the harpy’s turn to swell. Most of its breed were female, but this one was male: more of the Queen’s rather cutting humor. “Naturally,” the bird-man fluted. “Right after you have the juice squeezed out of your pulp, greenface.”
“Oh, yeah?” Chester demanded, forgetting that centaurs were not common brawlers. Harpy and cactus squared off. The harpy was evidently a considerably larger creature, one that never had to take any guff off strangers. That odd, half-musical mode of speech—
“Manticora!” Bink exclaimed.
The harpy paused. “One point for you, Centaur. Your voice sounds familiar, but—“
Startled, Bink reminded himself that he was in the guise of a centaur at the moment, so that it was himself, not Chester, the creature addressed, “I’m Bink. I met you when I visited the Good Magician, way back when—“
“Oh, yes. You broke his magic mirror. Fortunately he had another. Whatever became of you?”
“I fell upon evil times. I got married.”
The manticora laughed musically. “Not to this cactus, I trust?”
“Listen, thing—“ Chester said warningly.
“This really is my friend, Chester Centaur,” Bink said quickly. “He’s the nephew of Herman the hermit, who saved Xanth from the—“
“I knew Herman!” the Manticora said. “Greatest centaur there ever was, even before he gave his noble life for his country. Only one I know who wasn’t ashamed of his magic talent. His will-o’-the-wisps led me out of a dragon warren once. When I learned of his death, I was so sad I went out and stung a small tangle tree to death. He was so much better than those hoof-headed equines of the common herd who exiled him—“ He broke off. “No offense, Cactus, you being his nephew and all. I may have a target to sting with you, but I would not affront the memory of that remarkable hermit.”
There was no surer route to Chester’s favor than praise of his hero-uncle, as perhaps the manticora knew. “No offense!” he said instantly. “Everything you said is true! My people exiled Herman because they thought magic in a centaur was obscene. Most of them still do. Even my own filly, as nice a piece of horseflesh as you’d care to—“ He shook his cactus-head, becoming aware of the impropriety. “They are hoofheads.”
“Times are changing,” the manticora said. “One day all the centaurs will be flaunting their talents instead of flouting them.” He made a gesture with his harpy wings. “Well, I must go identify some more people, not that I need the prize. It’s merely a challenge.” He moved on. Bink marveled again at the humor of the Queen, to costume as a harpy such a formidable creature as a manticora, who possessed the head of a man with triple jaws, body of a lion, wings of a dragon, and tail of a monstrous scorpion. Certainly one of the most deadly monsters of the Land of Xanth —rendered into the likeness of one of the most disgusting. Yet the manticora was bearing up with grace, and playing the game of charades and costumes. Probably he felt secure in the knowledge that he had a soul, and so he cared little for appearances.
“I wonder if I have a magic talent?” Chester mused, sounding a trifle guilty. The transition from obscenity to pride was indeed a difficult one!
“If you won the prize, you could find out,” Bink pointed out.
The cactus brightened. “That’s right!” This was evidently the unanswerable question Chester had had in mind, unvoiced. Then the cactus dulled. “But Cherie would never let me have a talent, not even a little one. She’s awfully prudish about that sort of thing.”
Bink remembered the filly’s prim attitude, and nodded. Cherie Centaur was one fine figure of a filly, and well able to handle the general magic of Xanth, but she could not abide it in any centaur. It reminded Bink of his own mother’s attitude about sex in young humans. For animals it was natural, but when something like a wild-oats nymph was involved—well, Chester did have a problem.
They turned another corner—corners abounded in this infernal maze—and there was the palace gate, shining beyond the drawbridge over the moat. “Let’s get over there before the maze changes!” Bink exclaimed.
They ran toward it—but even as they did, the hedge-pattern shimmered and fogged. The awful thing about this puzzle-pattern was its instability; at irregular intervals it shifted into new configurations, so that it was impossible to solve it methodically. They were going to be too late to break out.
“I’m not stopping now!” Chester cried. The sound of cactus-galloping became louder. “Get on my back!”
Bink didn’t argue. He made a leap for the prickliest portion of the cactus, grimacing in half-expectation of a crotchful of needles. He landed neatly on Chester’s back, which felt quite equine. Phew!
At the feel of that impact, Chester accelerated. Bink had ridden a centaur before, when Cherie had kindly given him a lift—but never a powerhouse like this! Chester was husky even by centaur standards, and now he was in a hurry. The huge muscles pulsed along his body, launching him forward with such ferocity that Bink was afraid he would be hurled off as fast as he had landed. But he clutched two handfuls of mane and hung on, confident that his talent would protect him even from this.
Few residents of Xanth were aware of Bink’s talent, and he himself had been ignorant of it the first twenty-five years of his life. This was because of the way the talent clouded itself, hiding from publicity. It prevented him from being harmed by magic—but anyone who knew this could then harm him by mundane means. So Bink’s talent shrouded itself in seeming coincidence. Only King Trent, besides Bink himself, knew the truth. Good Magician Humfrey probably suspected, and Chameleon had to have an idea.
A new hedge formed between them and the gate. It was probably illusion, since they had just seen the gate. Chester plunged through it—and sent branches flying. No illusion; this time it must have been the gate that was the illusion. The Sorceress Queen could make things disappear, by creating the illusion of open space; he should have remembered that before.
What drive this creature had! Invisible foliage tore at Bink like the winds of a tempest, but he clung tight. Another barrier appeared; Chester veered to follow a new channel that went his way, then smashed past another cross-hedge. Once this centaur got moving, pity the man, beast, or plant that got in his way!
Suddenly they were out of the maze and at the moat But Chester’s veer had brought him to it twenty paces to the side of the drawbridge, and there was no room to make a course correction. “Hang on!” Chester cried, and leaped.
This time the thrust was so great that Bink ripped a double handful of mane out of the centaur’s hide and still slid off the rear. He tumbled end over end and splashed into the moat.
Immediately the moat-monsters converged, jaws gaping eagerly. They were ever alert; they would have been fired, otherwise. A huge serpent looped down, each glistening tooth as long as one of Bink’s fingers. From the other side a purple croc opened its gnarly proboscis, showing off teeth that were even longer. And directly under Bink, rising from the swirling moat-mud, came a behemoth, its back so broad it seemed to fill the entire moat.
Bink thrashed madly in the water, trying to swim to safety, knowing that no man could escape any one of these monsters, let alone all three. The behemoth came up, lifting him half out of the water; the croc came across, its jaws parting cavernously; the serpent struck with lightning velocity from above.
And—croc and serpent collided, their teeth throwing off sparks as they clashed. Both monsters were shunted aside by the mass of the rising behemoth— and Bink slid down that lifting slope as on a greased skid, away from the teeth and safely to the stone-lined inner wall of the moat An amazing coincidence—
Ha. That was his talent operating, saving him once again from his own folly. Trying to ride a galloping centaur that looked like a cactus—he should have picked his way out of the maze the way the others were doing. He was just lucky that both centaurs and moat-monsters were magical, so that his talent could function.
Chester had landed safely, and was on hand to haul him out of the moat. With one hand the centaur lifted Bink clear, hardly seeming to exert himself. But his voice shook. “I thought—when you fell among those monsters—I never saw anything like—“
“They weren’t really hungry,” Bink said, preferring to disparage the significance of the event. “They were just playing with their food, and overdid it. Let’s go on inside. They must be serving the refreshments by now.”
“Hey, yes!” Chester agreed. Like all powerful creatures, he had a chronic appetite.
“Hay, yes,” Bink muttered. But it was not a good joke; centaurs did not eat hay, despite what detractors would imply.
They moved to the castle—and the illusions faded, spell was off, here; they were themselves again, and centaur. “You know, I never realized how homely my face was, until I saw it on you,” Chester laid musingly.
“But you have an exceedingly handsome posterior,” Bink pointed out.
“True, true,” the centaur agreed, mollified. “I always said Cherie didn’t become my mate for my face.”
Bink started to laugh, but realized his friend was serious. Also, they were at the entry now, and others were within earshot.
The guard at the palace gate frowned. “How many you guess, Bink?” he inquired, pad poised for an answer.
“One, Crombie,” Bink said, indicating Chester. Then be remembered the manticora. “Two, rather.”
“You’re out of the running, then,” Crombie said. “The leading contestant has twelve.” He glanced at Chester. “You?”
“I didn’t want the prize anyway,” the centaur said
“You folk haven’t been trying,” Crombie said. “If I’d been out there, instead of stuck here running errands for the Queen—“
“I thought you liked this palace job,” Bink said. He had first encountered Crombie when the man soldiered for the prior King.
“I like it—but I like adventure better. The King’s okay, but—“ Crombie scowled. “Well, you know the Queen.”
“All fillies are difficult,” Chester said. “It’s their nature; they can’t help it, even if they wanted to.”
“Right you are!” Crombie agreed heartily. He was original woman-hater. “And the ones with the biggest magic—who else would have dreamed up idiocy of a masquerade? She just wants to show off her sorcery.”
“She hasn’t got much else to show off,” Chester said. “The King pays no attention to her.”
“The King’s one smart Magician!” Crombie agreed. “When she’s not making mischief like this, this palace guard duty is dull as hell. I wish I were out on a man’s mission, like the time when Bink and I—“
Bink smiled reminiscently. “Wasn’t that Technicolor hailstorm something? We camped out under the quiescent tangle tree—“
“And the girl ran off,” Crombie agreed. “Those were the days!”
Surprised, Bink found himself agreeing. The adventure had not seemed like fun at the time, but in retrospect it had a certain twilight luster. “You told me she was a threat to me.”
“And she was,” Crombie said. “She married you, didn’t she?”
Bink laughed, but it was a trifle forced. “We’d better get on in before the refreshments are gone.” He turned—and almost stumbled over another little mound of dirt “You have moles around the palace?” he inquired with a certain edge.
Crombie squinted at the dirt. “That wasn’t there a moment ago. Maybe a magic mole was attracted by the party. I’ll notify the head grounds keeper, when I get off shift.”
Bink and Chester moved on in. The palace ballroom had been decorated by Queen Iris, naturally. It was an undersea setting, with streamers of seaweed rising from the rocky deeps, and brightly colored fish swimming through, and barnacles on the walls. Here and there were subaqueous beaches of fine white sand, which shifted location magically, so that if a person stood still the scenery would come to him. A large serpentine sea monster coiled around the entire area, its pulsing, convoluted coils showing here and there in lieu of the walls.
Chester glanced around. “She’s a bitch, and she shows off, but I have to admit her magic is impressive. But I’m worried about the quantity of food; ft there isn’t enough—“
There turned out to be no danger of a shortage. The refreshments were mountainous, and under the personal guard of Queen Iris. She had a picklepuss on a little leash. Whenever someone had the temerity to take a delicacy, the picklepuss pickled it. “No one eats until the grand prize is awarded,” Iris announced, glaring about. Since she had garbed herself as a warrior-queen-mermaid, complete with spiked crown, trident, and powerful tail, and the points of the trident glistened with a coating of slime that was probably illusion too but just might possibly be genuine poison, this was an effective enough deterrent even without the picklepuss.
Bink and Chester separated, mixing with the other guests. Just about every creature of note in Xanth was present, except for Chester’s filly Cherie, who was no doubt still wrapped up in the colt, and Bink’s Chameleon, wrapped up in her misery. And the Good Magician Humfrey, who never socialized voluntarily.
Bink spotted his father Roland, down from the North Village. Roland was careful not to embarrass Bink by any overt show of affection. They shook hands
“Nice shoes, son.”
This was nevertheless a miscue, after the scene with Chameleon. “Fresh from the tree,” Bink said awkwardly.
“What have you been doing these past few months?” Bubbles rose from Roland’s mouth as he spoke, quivering spherically as they sought the surface of the ocean. When Queen Iris put on an illusion, it was some illusion! Ordinary citizens, with their motley individual magic talents, could only look upon the works of the Sorceress and despair. Which was, of course, why the Queen was putting on this show.
“Oh, practicing with the sword, tilling the garden, that sort of thing,” Bink said.
“I understand Chameleon is expecting momentarily.”
“That, too,” Bink said, again experiencing the frustration of his situation.
“A son will help fill the house.”
Provided it turned out to be a normal, talented son. Bink changed the subject. “We have a delicate young slipper plant just blossoming; I think it will bear it’s first pair of slippers soon.”
“The ladies will be pleased,” Roland said gravely, as if this were significant news. Suddenly Bink realized that he had very little to show for his past year. What had he accomplished? Virtually nothing. No wonder he felt out of sorts!
The illumination dimmed. It was as if dusk were falling, causing the sea to darken, too. But the diffused daylight was replaced by nocturnal fluorescence. The flotation sacs on the seaweed glowed like little lamps, and the neon-coral was brightly outlined in assorted colors. Even the puffy sponges emitted wan beams. The animal life had sharper light, with electric eels flashing searchlight beams, and assorted fish shone translucently. The overall effect was bewilderingly beautiful.
“If only her personality were as excellent as her taste,” Roland murmured, referring to the Queen.
“We shall now award the door prize,” Queen Iris announced. She glowed most of all: streams of light emanated from the points of her crown and trident, and her beautifully bare mermaid torso was clearly outlined. She was the mistress of illusion; she could make herself as lovely as she chose, and she chose well.
“I understand it was a marriage of convenience,” Roland continued. Though no Magician himself, Roland was the King’s regent north of the Gap, and did not hold royalty in awe. “It must be extremely convenient at tunes.”
Bink nodded, slightly embarrassed by his father’s evident appreciation of the well-displayed if illusory charms of the Queen. The man was bordering on fifty, after all! Yet it had to be true. The King professed no love for the Queen, and governed that temperamental woman with a subtly iron hand that amazed those who had known Iris before her marriage. Yet she thrived under that discipline. Those who knew the King well understood that not only was he a more powerful Magician than she, he was also a stronger person. In fact, it looked as if the magic Land of Xanth had its most effective King since the Fourth Wave Reign of Roogna, the builder of this castle-palace.
Already formidable changes were occurring; the magic shield that had protected Xanth from intrusion had been removed, and Mundane creatures were allowed to cross the border. The first to cross had been the members of the King’s former Mundane army; they had been settled in wilderness regions and were becoming productive citizens of Xanth. The requirement that each citizen demonstrate a magic talent had been abolished—and to the amazement of some conservatives, chaos had not resulted. People were becoming known and respected for their total qualities, not just the accident of their magic. Selected parties were exploring nearby Mundania, where no magic existed, and outlying guard posts were being established so that no invasion could happen by surprise. The King had not destroyed the shieldstone; he would restore the shield if it were ever needed.
At any rate, Bink was sure King Trent had an eye for all things good and useful, including the flesh of fair women, and the Queen was his to command. She could and would be anything the King wished, and he would not be human if he did not avail himself of this, at least on occasion. The question was, what did he want? This was common palace speculation, and the prevailing opinion was that the King wanted variety. The Queen seldom appeared in the same guise twice.
“Palace Guard, your report,” the Queen demanded peremptorily.
Soldier Crombie came forward slowly. He was resplendent in his palace uniform, every inch the soldier in a kingdom that hardly needed soldiers. He could fight well and savagely with sword or bare hands and did not like serving as lackey to a woman—and he showed it. Therefore she enjoyed ordering him about. But she could not push him too far, for his loyalty was to the King, and the King’s favor lay on him.
“The winner—“ Crombie began, consulting his notes.
“No, not that way, idiot!” she exclaimed, blotting him out with a cloud of diffusing dye. More illusion, of course, but quite effective. “First you give the runner up, then you give the winner. Do something right, for a change.”
Crombie’s scowling face emerged from the thinning “Women!” he muttered with caustic freighting.
The Queen smiled, enjoying his ire. “The runner-up, with nine correct identifications, is—“ He scowled again. “A woman Bianca of the North Village.”
“Mother!” Bink breathed, surprised.
“She always did enjoy guessing games,” Roland said with pride. “I think you inherit your intelligence as well as your looks from her.”
“And my courage and strength from you,” Bink said, appreciating the compliment.
Bianca walked sedately to the stage area. She was a handsome woman who in youth had been beautiful, and unlike the Queen she was genuine. Her talent was the replay, not illusion.
“So the distaff proves itself again,” the Queen said, smirking at Crombie the woman-hater. “The prize is—“ She paused. “Doorman, fetch the second prize. You should have had it ready.”
Crombie’s scowl became truly ominous, but he walked to a cabinet half concealed by seaweed and brought out a covered container.
“The prize is,” the Queen repeated, then whipped off the cover. “A potted snapdragon!”
There was a murmur of well-meaning awe and envy from the ladies present as the plant’s several flower-heads flexed about on their stems, snapping viciously. Snapdragons were very good for eliminating insect and animal pests, and served as useful guards for houses. Woe to the intruder who stepped in or near such a plant! But they did not take readily to potting, so that a special and rather difficult spell was necessary to confine them. Thus wild snapdragons were common enough, but potted ones rare and much prized.
Bianca showed her pleasure as she accepted the plant, turning her face away with a smile as a little dragon-head snapped at her nose. Part of the potting process included a spell to render the plant harmless to its owner, but it took a while for it to get to know that owner. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you, Queen Iris.” Then, diplomatically: “You’re beautiful too—but not the same way.”
The Queen snapped her teeth in mock imitation of the snapdragon, then smiled graciously. She craved the recognition and praise of such established and reputable citizens as Bianca, for Iris had lived in semi-exile for years before assuming the crown. “Now the top winner, servitor,” she said to Crombie. “This time give it some flair, if you have any.”
“The winner, with thirteen correct identities,” Crombie drawled without flair, “is Millie the ghost.” And he shrugged as if to express bemusement at yet another female success. He had made the count, so he knew the contest wasn’t rigged. However, it was generally understood that the men had not been trying very hard.
The pretty, young-seeming ghost floated up. She was in her fashion both the youngest and the oldest of Castle Roogna’s inhabitants. She had been in her teens when she died over eight hundred years before. When Bink first saw her she had been a formless blob of vapor, but since the occupancy of the castle by mortals she had shaped up until her outline was as firm and sightly as that of any living woman. She was a very sweet ghost, well liked by all, and there was applause at her victory.
“And the grand prize is—“ The Queen spread her hands dramatically. “This certificate for one free Answer by the Good Magician Humfrey!” There was background fanfare, punctuated by magically augmented applause, as she handed the paper to the ghost.
Millie hesitated. Having no physical substance, she could not carry the certificate.
“That’s all right,” the Queen said. “I’ll just write your name on it, and Magician Humfrey will know it’s yours. In fact, he’s probably watching us in his magic mirror at this moment. Why don’t you ask your question now?”
Millie’s reply was inaudible, for she could hardly speak above a ghostly whisper.
“Don’t be concerned; I’m sure everyone will be glad to help,” the Queen said. “Here—we’ll write it down on the magic slate, and Magician Humfrey can respond in the same way.” She gestured at Crombie. “Flunky, the slate!”
Crombie paused, but his curiosity made him go along with it. He fetched the slate. The Queen conscripted the nearest centaur, who happened to be Chester (who had been trying without success to sneak a cookie from the refreshment stand without having it pickled), to transcribe the ghost’s inaudible words. Centaurs were literate; many of them were teachers, so writing chores fell naturally to them.
Chester did not like the Queen’s attitude much better than Crombie did, but he also played along. What possible Question could a ghost have for the Magician? He wrote in flourishing capitals: HOW CAN MILLIE LIVE AGAIN?
There was more applause. The guests liked that Question. It was a challenging one—and the Answer, given publicly, might provide insights for them all. Usually Magician Humfrey’s Answers cost the asker a year’s service, and were given only to the one who asked. This party was getting interesting!
The words disappeared as if erased by an invisible sponge. Then the Magician’s Answer showed: THE REQUIREMENTS ARE THREE: FIRST—YOU MUST HAVE THE TRUE WILL TO BECOME MORTAL.
It was evident that Millie did. She gestured imploringly at the slate to continue, so that she could know whether the other requirements were similarly easy—or impossible. Technically, as the common saying went, nothing was impossible with magic, but in practice some spells were prohibitively difficult. Bink yearned with her: he had once longed as ardently for a magic talent, upon which his citizenship, welfare, and self-respect then depended. To one who had died prematurely, but not expired, what a tremendous hope mortality might be! Of course, if Millie lived, she would also die, in due course. But really she would be completing the life she had started, so many centuries ago. As a ghost she was in hiatus, unable to affect her destiny materially, unable to love and fear and feel.
Well, no, Bink corrected himself. Obviously she did feel—but not in the fashion physical people did. She could not experience bodily pleasure or pain.
SECOND, the slate continued, YOU MUST HAVE A SPELL DOCTOR RESTORE YOUR TALENT TO OPTIMUM POTENCY.
“Is there a spell doctor in the house?” the Queen inquired, looking about, her points flashing. “No? Very well, errand boy—point out the nearest spell doctor.”
Crombie started a snarl, but again was overcome by curiosity. He closed his eyes, spun about, and extended his right arm. It came to rest pointing northeast.
“That would be the Gap Village,” the Queen said. There was a spell on the Gap that rendered the giant crevice that separated Xanth into the northern and southern sections unmemorable, but a spot counter-spell had been applied to the Castle so that inhabitants and visitors could remember such things. The King would have had trouble governing properly if he could not remember so critical a feature of the landscape as the Gap! “Where is our transporter?”
“On my way, Your Highness,” a man said. He sighted along the line Crombie was pointing out, concentrated—and suddenly an old woman stood before them. She looked about, bewildered by the people and water, for they were still in the undersea illusion.
“You are a spell doctor?” the Queen demanded.
“Yes,” the old woman agreed. “But I don’t do no doctoring for foolish people sunk in the ocean. Especially when I get yanked from my laundry without a—“
“This is King Trent’s Coronation Anniversary Celebration Ball,” the Queen said haughtily. “Now you have a choice, old crone: doctor one spell for us, and have the run of the party and all the food and fun you want, in a costume like this—“ The old woman was abruptly garbed like a matron of honor, courtesy of the Queen’s illusion magic. “Or don’t doctor the spell, and this creature will pickle you.” She held up the picklepuss, who hissed eagerly.
The old woman, like Crombie and Chester, looked rebellious, but decided on the expedient course. “What spell?”
“Millie’s spell,” the Queen said, indicating the ghost. The spell doctor studied Millie, then cackled. “It is done,” she said, smiling broadly so that all four of her teeth showed.
“I wonder what is so funny?” Roland murmured. “Do you know what Millie’s talent is?”
“Ghosts don’t have talents,” Bink said.
“Her spell in life. It must be something special.”
“Must be. I guess we’ll find out, if she can fulfill the third requirement.”
THIRD, the slate continued. IMMERSE YOUR SKELETON IN HEALING ELIXIR.
“We have plenty of that,” the Queen said. “Lackey—“
The soldier was already on his way. In a moment he returned with a bucket of elixir.
“Now—where is your skeleton?” the Queen demanded.
But at this point Millie balked. She seemed to be trying to speak, but was unable.
“A silence spell!” the Queen exclaimed. “You aren’t permitted to tell where it is! That’s why it has remained hidden all these centuries!”
Millie nodded sadly.
“This is better yet!” the Queen said. “We shall have a treasure hunt! In which closet is Millie’s skeleton? A special prize to whoever finds it first!” She pondered fleetingly. “I’m out of regular prizes...I know! The first date with Millie the mortal!”
“But what if a woman finds it?” someone asked.
“I’ll have my husband the King change her into a man for the occasion,” the Queen said.
There was an uneasy laugh. Was she joking—or serious? As far as Bink knew, the King could transform anything living into any other thing living—of the same sex. But he never used his talent capriciously. So it must be humor.
“But what about the food?” Chester demanded.
“That’s it!” she decided, “The women have already proved their superiority, so they’ll be barred from the treasure hunt. They’ll start in on the refreshments while the men go look for—“ But she saw Chester swelling up, and realized she was going too far. “Oh, all right, the men can eat too, even those with appetites like horses. But don’t touch the Anniversary cake. The King will serve that—when the treasure hunt is over.” She looked momentarily pensive, which was unusual for her; was she sure the King would perform?
The cake was magnificent: tier on tier of scintillating icing embroidered with a huge number 1, crowned with a magically lifelike bust of King Trent. The Queen always promoted the King’s glory, because her own glory was a reflection of it. Some poor chef had spent a lot of effort organizing the magic for this ornate pastry!
“Picklepuss, stand guard over that cake, and pickle anybody who durst touch it,” the Queen said, fastening the end of the puss’s leash to the leg of the cake’s table. “Now, men—on with the treasure hunt!”
Roland shook his head. “Skeletons in closets are best left undisturbed,” he remarked. “I believe I will go congratulate your mother.” He glanced at Bink. “You will have to represent our family in the treasure hunt. You don’t have to search too hard.” He made a little gesture of parting and moved off through the glowing currents of the sea.
Bink stood in place a moment, reflecting. It was evident his father knew there was something wrong, but was not commenting directly.
And what was wrong? Bink knew he had a good life, now, with a fine if variable wife and the favor of the King. Why did he dream of adventures in far places, of using the sword whose art he had been studying, of danger and even death, though he knew his talent would protect him from all genuine threats? What was the matter with him? It somehow seemed he had been happier when his future was in doubt— and that was ridiculous.
Why wasn’t Chameleon here? She was near term, but she could have attended the Ball if she had wanted to. There was a magic midwife on the palace staff.
He decided. On with the treasure hunt! Maybe he could prove himself by locating that skeleton in the closet!