They stood outside the castle, across the moat, watching while the Magician mothballed his residence. The ouroboros and other creatures under fee had been granted leaves of absence and were already gone. Humfrey fumbled in his clothing, showing a large heavy belt containing many pockets, and drew from this belt a closed vial or narrow bottle. He applied his thumbs to its cork until it popped free.
Smoke swirled out, looming high into the sky. Then it coalesced into the largest moth Bink had ever imagined, with a wingspan that cast the entire castle into shadow. The creature flew up over the castle and dropped a ball. As the ball fell near the highest turret it exploded. Gray-white streamers shot out in a huge sphere, drifting down to touch every part of the castle. Then they drew in tight, and suddenly the whole edifice was sheathed in a silky net, and looked like a giant tent. A cold, bitter odor emanated from it, smelling vaguely disinfectant.
“There,” Humfrey said with grudging satisfaction. ‘That’ll keep a hundred years, if it has to.”
“A hundred years!” Chester exclaimed. “Is that how long you figure this mission will take?”
“Come on, come on, we’re wasting time,” the Good Magician grumped.
Bink, astride the centaur, looked across at the griffin. “What he means, Crombie, is that we need to know the direction of the source of magic. The mission should be accomplished in a few days, with your help.”
The griffin squawked irately. “Well, why didn’t the old fool say so?” the golem translated promptly. He shared the griffin’s back with the Magician, as the two together massed barely half what Bink did.
“Well spoken, soldier,” Chester muttered low.
Crombie whirled, almost throwing off his riders. “That way,” Grundy said, pointing—around in a continuing circle, his tiny arm settling nowhere.
“Oh, no,” Chester muttered. “His talent’s on the blink again.”
“It is not malfunctioning,” Humfrey snapped. “You asked the wrong question.”
Bink’s brow furrowed. “We had some trouble that way before. What is the right question?”
“It’s your job to pursue this quest,” Humfrey said. “I must conserve my information for emergencies.” And he settled down comfortably amid the feathers of the griffin’s back and closed his eyes.
The Good Magician remained his taciturn self. He was out of the habit of helping anyone without his fee, even when he himself might benefit from such help. Now Bink was on the spot again; he had to figure out how to make Crombie’s talent work—while the Magician snoozed.
Before, in the nickelpede cleft, Crombie had fouled up because there had been no single direction for escape. Was that the case now—no single source for magic? If so, that would be very hard to locate. But the cynosure of this group was on him; he had to perform, and in a hurry. It was evident that the Good Magician had done him no particular favor by leaving the leadership of the quest to Bink. “Where is the most direct route to the source of magic?”
This time the griffin’s wing pointed down at an angle.
So that was why there was no horizontal direction; the source was not across, but down. Yet that was not much help. They couldn’t dig down very far, very fast. They would have to get a person whose talent was magic-tunneling, and that would mean delay and awkwardness. This group was already larger than Bink had anticipated. Better to find a natural route.
“Where is there an access to this source, from the surface?” Bink asked.
The wing began to vibrate back and forth. “The nearest one!” Bink amended hastily. The wing stabilized, pointing roughly south.
“The heart of the unexplored wilderness,” Chester said. “I should have known. Maybe I should take my Answer now and quit.”
Crombie squawked. “Birdbeak says if you take your stupid Answer now, you can’t quit, horserear.”
Chester swelled up angrily. “Birdbeak said that? You tell him for me he has bird droppings for brains, and—“
“Easy,” Bink cautioned the centaur. “Crombie needs no translation for your words.”
“Actually he called you an ass,” Grundy said helpfully. “I assume he meant your rear end, which is about as asinine as—“
The griffin squawked again. “Oops, my error,” the golem said. “He referred to your front end.”
“Listen, birdbrain!” Chester shouted. “I don’t need your ignorant opinion! Why don’t you take it and stuff it—“
But Crombie was squawking at the same time. The two faced off aggressively. The centaur was bigger and more muscular than the griffin, but the griffin was probably the more deadly fighter, for he had the mind of a trained human soldier in the body of a natural combat creature.
“Squawk!” Bink screamed. “I mean, stop! The golem is just making trouble. Obviously the word Crombie used was ‘centaur.’ Isn’t that so, Crombie?”
Crombie squawked affirmatively. “Spoilsport,” Grundy muttered, speaking for himself. “Just when it was getting interesting.”
“Never mind that,” Bink said. “Do you admit I was correct, Golem?”
“The centaur is an ass—front and rear,” Grundy said sullenly. “It depends on whether you are defining it intellectually or physically.”
“I think I will squeeze your big loud mouth into a small silent ball,” Chester said, reaching for the golem.
“You can’t do that, muleface!” Grundy protested. I’m on the dwarf’s business!”
Chester paused, seeing the Good Magician stir. “Whose business?”
“This midget’s business!” Grundy said, gesturing back at Humfrey with a single stiffened finger.
Chester looked at Humfrey, feigning perplexity. “Sir, how is it you accept such insults from a creature who works for you?”
“Oops,” the golem muttered, discovering the trap. “I thought he was asleep.”
“The golem has no personal reality,” Humfrey said. “Therefore his words carry no personal onus. One might as well get angry at a lump of clay.”
“That’s telling him, imp,” Grundy agreed. But he seemed chastened.
“Let’s get on with our quest,” Bink suggested as the Good Magician closed his eyes again. Privately he wondered how it was that an unreal construct, the golem, could be in fee to the Magician. Grundy must have asked a Question, and had an Answer—but what could have motivated this magical entity to seek such information?
Then Bink had a minor inspiration as they trekked south. “Crombie, someone or something has been trying to eliminate me. I think that’s why the dragon came after us. Can you point out where that enemy is?”
“Squawk!” Crombie agreed. He whirled, and the Good Magician wobbled on his back but did not wake up. When the wing stabilized, it pointed—the same direction as it had for the source of magic.
“It seems,” Chester said gravely, “that it is your mission your enemy opposes. Does that affect your attitude?”
“Yes,” Bink said. “It makes me twice as determined as before.” Though he remembered that the sword had attacked him before he set out on this quest. Had his enemy anticipated him? That would be grim news indeed, implying more than ordinary strategy or magic. “Let’s get on with it.”
Near the Magician’s castle the terrain was fairly quiet, but as they penetrated the wilderness it changed. High brush grew up, obscuring the view, and as they passed it there was a static discharge from the foliage that made hair and fur and feathers and string stand out eerily from then: bodies. Overlooking this brush was an antenna, orienting unerringly on the party; Bink had never gotten close enough to one of these things to discover exactly what it was, and did not propose to start now. Why did these antennae watch so closely, yet take no action?
Sweat gnats came, making them all miserable until Humfrey woke, brought out a tiny vial, and opened it. Vapor emerged and spread, engulfing the gnats— then it suddenly sucked back into its bottle, carrying the gnats with it. “Misty was due for feeding anyway,” the Good Magician explained, putting away the vial. He offered no further explanation, and no one had the nerve to inquire. Again Humfrey slept.
“Must be nice, being a Magician,” Chester said. “He’s got the answer to all his problems, in one bottle or another.”
“Must be acquisitions from prior fees,” Bink agreed.
Then they blundered into a patch of curse-burrs. The things were all over their legs, itching incessantly. There was only one way to get rid of such a burr; it had to be banished by a curse. The problem was, no particular curse could be used twice in a day; each had to be different
Humfrey was not pleased to be awakened yet again. This time it seemed he had no solution in a vial. “By the beard of my Great-Uncle Humbug, begone!” the Good Magician said, and the burr he addressed fell off, stunned. “By the snout of a sick sea serpent, begone!” And another dropped.
Chester was more direct, for several burrs were tangled in his beautiful tail. ‘To the grave with you, prickleface! I’ll stomp you flat as a nickelpede’s nickel! Out out, damned burr!” And three burrs fell, overwhelmed.
“Leave me,” Bink said, envying the imagination of the others. “Go itch a dragon!” And his burrs too started falling, though not so readily as those conked by the harder-hitting curses of the others. Bink just didn’t have the touch.
Crombie, however, was in trouble. Griffins were not native to this particular region of Xanth, and the burrs evidently did not comprehend his squawks. Then the golem started translating, and they fell in droves. “By the bloody mouths of a field of wild snapdragons, drop your ugly purple posteriors into the nearest stinking privy, sidewise! If your faces were flowers, you’d poison the whole garden! Jam your peppery pink rootlets up your—“ The golem paused, amazed. “Is that possible? I don’t think I can translate it” But the curse burrs comprehended, and suddenly the griffin’s bright feathers were free of them. No one could curse like a soldier!
Still, it was impossible to avoid all the burrs in this area, and by the time they escaped it their curses had become extremely farfetched. Sometimes two or even three curses had to be expended to make a single burr let go.
By this time they were hungry. There was nothing like a good bout of cursing to work up an appetite. “You know this area,” Chester said to the Magician before he could fall asleep again. “Where is there something to eat?”
“Don’t bother me with details,” Humfrey snapped. “I brought my own food—as you would have done too, had you had proper foresight.” He opened another vial. This time the vapor emerged to coalesce into a layered cake, complete with icing. The Magician took this from the air, broke out a perfect wedge-shaped slice, and ate that while the remainder of the cake dissolved, misted, and flowed back into its bottle.
“I realize we were remiss in not packing food for the journey,” Bink said. “You don’t suppose you might share some of that, this one time?”
“Why should I suppose anything like that?” Humfrey inquired curiously.
“Well, we are hungry, and it would facilitate—“
The Magician burped. “Go find your own slop, freeloader,” the golem translated.
It occurred to Bink that the Good Magician was not as congenial a companion as the Evil Magician had been, the last time he had braved the wilderness of Xanth. But he well knew that appearances could be deceptive.
Crombie squawked. “Birdbeak says there should be some fruit trees around. He’ll point them out.” And the griffin did his thing, pointing the direction.
In a moment they spied a giant fruit cup. The plant was the shape of an open bowl, filled to overflowing with assorted fruits. The party ran joyfully up to it— and, startled, the fruits erupted upward, filling the air with color.
“Oh, no—they’re winged fruits!” Bink exclaimed. “We should have sneaked up on them. Why didn’t you warn us, Crombie?”
“You didn’t ask, fathead,” the golem retorted.
“Catch them!” Chester cried, jumping and reaching high to snatch an apple out of the air. Bink, half-dislodged, hastily dismounted.
A ripe peach hovered for a moment, getting its bearings. Bink leaped at it, catching it in one hand. The wings fluttered frantically as it tried to escape, then gave up. They were leaves, green and ordinary, adapted to this special purpose. He stripped them off ruthlessly so his food could not escape, and went after the next.
He tripped over something and fell flat, missing a bobbing pomegranate. Angrily be looked at the obstacle that had thwarted him. It was another of the ubiquitous mounds of fresh earth. This time he got up and stomped it absolutely flat. Then he dashed on after more fruit
Soon he had a small collection of fruits: apple, peach, plum, two pears (of course), several grapes, and one banana. The last, flying on monstrous vulture-like wing-leaves, had given him a terrible struggle, but it was delicious. Bink did not feel entirely easy about consuming such fruit, because it seemed too much like living creatures, but he knew the wings were merely a magic adaptation to enable the plants to spread their seeds more widely. Fruit was supposed to be eaten; it wasn’t really conscious or feeling. Or was it?
Bink put that thought from his mind and looked about. They were on the verge of a forest of standing deadwood. Humfrey came awake. “I suffer misgivings,” lie volunteered. “I don’t want to have to waste my magic ferreting out what killed those trees. We’d better go around.”
“What’s the good of being a Magician if you don’t use your magic?” Chester demanded testily.
“I must conserve my magic rigorously for emergency use,” Humfrey said. “These are mere nuisances we have faced so far, not worthy of my talent.”
“You tell ‘em, twerp,” the golem agreed.
Chester looked unconvinced, but retained too much respect for the Magician to make further issue of it. “It’s getting on in the afternoon,” he remarked. “Where’s a good place to spend the night?”
Crombie stopped and whirled so vigorously he almost dislodged his riders. “Hmph!” Humfrey exclaimed, and the golem dutifully translated: “You blundering aviary feline! Get your catty feet on the ground!”
The griffin’s head rotated entirely around until the deadly eyes and beak pointed back. “Squawk!” Crombie said with authority. The golem did not translate, but seemed cowed. Crombie completed his maneuver and pointed a slightly new direction.
“That’s not far off the track; well go there,” Chester decided, and no one contradicted him.
Their route skirted the dead forest, and this was fortuitous because there were few other hazards here. Whatever had killed the forest had also wiped out most of the magic associated with it, good and evil. Yet Bink developed a mounting curiosity about the huge trees they spied to the side. There were no marks upon them, and the grass beneath was luxuriant because of the new light let down. This suggested that the soil had not been poisoned by any monster. Indeed, a few new young shoots were rising, beginning the long task of restoring the forest. Something had struck and killed and departed without other trace of its presence.
To distract himself from the annoyance of the unanswerable riddle, Bink addressed the golem. “Grundy, if you care to relate it—what was your Question to the Magician?”
“Me?” the golem asked, amazed. “You have interest in me?’
“Of course I do,” Bink said. “You’re a—“ He had been about to say “person” but remembered that the golem was technically not a person. “An entity,” he finished somewhat lamely. “You have consciousness, feelings—“
“No, no feelings,” Grundy said. “I am just a construct of string and clay and wood, animated by magic. I perform as directed, without interest or emotion.”
Without interest or emotion? That hardly seemed true. “You seemed to experience a personal involvement just now, when I expressed interest in you.”
“Did I? It must have been a routine emulation of human reaction. I have to perform such emulations in the course of my translation service.”
Bink was not convinced, but did not challenge this. “If you have no personal interest in human affairs, why did you come to the Good Magician? What did you ask him?”
“I asked him how I could become real,” the golem said.
“But you are real! You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Take away the spell that made me, and I’d be nothing but a minor pile of junk. I want to be real the way you are real. Real without magic.”
Real without magic. It made sense after all. Bink remembered how he himself had suffered, as a youth, thinking he had no magic talent. This was the other face of the problem: the creature who had no reality apart from magic. “And what was the Answer?”
“Care.”
“What?”
“Care, dumbbell.”
“Care?”
“Care.”
“That’s all?”
“All.”
“All the Answer?”
“All the Answer, stupid.”
“And for that you serve a year’s labor?”
“You think you have a monopoly on stupidity?”
Bink turned to the Good Magician, who seemed to have caught up on his sleep but remained blithely silent. “How can you justify charging such a fee for such an Answer?”
“I don’t have to,” Humfrey said. “No one is required to come to the grasping old gnome for information.”
“But anyone who pays a fee is entitled to a decent Answer,” Bink said, troubled.
“The golem has a decent Answer. He doesn’t have a decent comprehension.”
“Well, neither do I!” Bink said. “Nobody could make sense of that Answer!”
The Magician shrugged. “Maybe he asked the wrong Question.”
Bink turned to Chester’s human portion. “Do you call that a fair Answer?”
“Yes,” the centaur said.
“I mean that one word ‘care’? Nothing else, for a whole year’s service?”
“Yes.”
“You think it’s worth it?” Bink was having trouble getting through.
“Yes.”
“You’d be satisfied with that Answer for your Question?”
Chester considered. “I don’t think that Answer relates.”
“So you wouldn’t be satisfied!”
“No, I’d be satisfied if that were my Answer. I just don’t believe it is. I am not a golem, you see.”
Bink shook his head in wonder. “I guess I’m part golem, then. I don’t think it’s enough.”
“You’re no golem,” Grundy said. “You aren’t smart enough.”
Some diplomacy! But Bink tried again. “Chester, can you explain that Answer to us?”
“No, I don’t understand it either.”
“But you said—“
“I said I thought it was a fair Answer. Were I a golem, I would surely appreciate its reference. Its relevance. This is certainly more likely than the notion that the Good Magician would fail to deliver in full measure.”
Bink remembered how Humfrey had told the manticora that he had a soul—in such a manner that the creature was satisfied emotionally as well as intellectually. It was a convincing argument. There must be some reason for the obscurity of the Answer for the golem.
But oh, what frustration until that reason became clear!
Near dusk they spied a house. Crombie’s talent indicated that this was their residence for the night.
The only problem was the size of it. The door was ten feet tall.
“That is the domicile of a giant—or an ogre,” Humfrey said, frowning.
“An ogre!” Bink repeated. “We can’t stay there!”
“He’d have us all in his pot in a moment, and the fire high,” Chester agreed. “Ogres consider human flesh a delicacy.”
Crombie squawked. “The idiot claims his fool talent is never mistaken,” Grundy reported.
“Yes, but remember what his talent doesn’t cover!” Bink said. “We asked for a good place to spend the night; we didn’t specify that it had to be safe.”
“I daresay a big pot of hot water is as comfortable a place to relax as any,” Chester agreed. “Until it becomes too hot. Then the bath becomes—“
“I suppose I’ll have to expend some of my valuable magic,” Humfrey complained. “It’s too late to go wandering through the woods in search of alternate lodging.” He brought out yet another little stoppered bottle and pulled out the cork. It was an ornery cork, as corks tended to be, and gave way only grudgingly, so that the process took some time.
“Uh, isn’t that a demon container?” Bink asked, thinking he recognized the style. Some bottles were solider than others, and more carefully crafted, with magical symbols inscribed. “Shouldn’t you—?”
The Magician paused. “Umph.”
“He says he was just about to, nitwit,” the golem said. “Believe it if you will.”
The Magician scraped a pentacle in the dirt, sat the bottle in it, and uttered an indecipherable incantation. The cork popped out and the smoky demon issued, coalescing into the bespectacled entity Bink recognized as Beauregard.
The educated demon didn’t even wait for the question. “You routed me out for this, old man? Of course it’s safe; that ogre’s a vegetarian. It’s your mission that’s unsafe.”
“I didn’t ask you about the mission!” Humfrey snapped. “I know it’s unsafe! That’s why I’m along.”
“It is not like you to indulge in such foolishness, especially at the expense of your personal comfort,” Beauregard continued, pushing his spectacles back along his nose with one finger. “Are you losing your marbles at last? Getting senile? Or merely attempting to go out in a blaze of ignominy?”
“Begone, infernal spirit! I will summon you when I need your useless conjectures.”
Beauregard shook his head sadly, then dissipated back into the bottle.
“That’s another feeling spirit,” Bink said, uneasy. “Do you have to coop him up like that, in such a little bottle?”
“No one can coop a demon,” the Magician said shortly. “Besides, his term of service is not yet up.”
At times it was hard to follow the man’s logic! “But you had him when I first met you, more than a year ago.”
“He had a complex Question.”
“A demon of information, who answers the questions you get paid fees for, has to pay you for Answers?”
Humfrey did not respond. Bink heard a faint booming laughter, and realized after a moment that it was coming from the demon’s bottle. Something was certainly funny here, but not humorous.
“We’d better move in before it gets dark,” Chester said, eyeing the ogre’s door somewhat dubiously.
Bink would have liked to explore the matter of the demon further, but the centaur had a point.
They stepped up to the door. It was a massive portal formed of whole tree trunks of hewn ironwood, scraped clean of bark and bound together by several severed predator vines. Bink marveled at this; unrusted iron-wood could be harvested only from freshly felled trees, and not even a magic axe could cut those very well. And what monster could blithely appropriate the deadly vines for this purpose? The vines normally used their constrictive power to crush their prey, and they were killingly strong.
Chester knocked resoundingly. There was a pause while the metallic echoes faded. Then slow thuds approached from inside. The door wrenched open with such violence that the ironwood hinges grew hot and the suction of air drew the centaur forward a pace. Light burst out blindingly, and the ogre stood there in terrible silhouette. It stood twice Bink’s height, dwarfing even the monstrous door, and its body was thick in proportion. The limbs carried knots of muscles like the gnarly boles of trees. “Ungh!” it boomed.
“He says what the hell is this bad smell?” the golem translated.
“Bad smell!” Chester cried. “He’s the one who smells!”
It was true. The ogre seemed not to believe in washing or in cleansing magic. Dirt was caked on his flesh, and he reeked of rotting vegetation. “But we don’t want to spend the night outside,” Bink cautioned.
Crombie squawked. “Birdbeak says let’s get on with it, slowpokes.”
“Birdbeak would,” Chester grumbled.
The ogre grunted. “Stoneface says that’s what he’s sniffin’, a putrid griffin.”
The griffin stood tall and angry, half-spreading his brilliant wings as he squawked. “How’d you like that problem corrected by amputation of your schnozzle?” Grundy translated.
The ogre swelled up even more massively than before. He growled. “Me grind you head to make me bread,” the golem said.
Then there was a medley of squawks and growls, with the golem happily carrying both parts of the dialogue.
“Come outside and repeat that, numbskull!”
“Come into me house, you beaked mouse. Me break you bone upon me dome.”
“You’d break your dome just trying to think!” Crombie squawked.
“Do all ogres speak in rhyming couplets?” Bink asked when there was a pause to replenish the reservoirs of invective. “Or is that just the golem’s invention?”
“That little twit not have wit,” the golem said, then reacted angrily. “Who’s a twit, you frog-faced sh—”
“Ogres vary, as do other creatures,” Humfrey cut in smoothly. “This one does seem friendly.”
“Friendly!” Bink exclaimed.
“For an ogre. We’d better go on in.”
“Me test you mettle in me kettle!" the ogre growled via the golem. But the griffin nudged on in, and the ogre gave grudging way.
The interior was close and gloomy, as befitted the abode of a monster. The blinding light that had manifested when the door first opened was gone; evidently the proprietor had charged up a new torch for the occasion, and it had already burned out. Dank straw was matted on the floor, stocked cordwood lined the walls, and a cauldron bubbled like volcanic mud over a fire blazing in a pit in the center of the room. There seemed to be, however, no piles of bones. That, at least, was encouraging. Bink had never before heard of a vegetarian ogre, but the demon Beauregard surely knew his business.
Bink, realizing that the constant threats were mostly bluffs, found himself embarrassed to be imposing on the good-natured (for an ogre) monster. “What is your name?” he inquired.
“You lunch; me crunch.”
Apparently the brute had not understood. “My name’s Bink; what’s your name?”
“Me have hunch you not know crunch.” The ogre dipped a hairy, grimy mitt into the boiling cauldron, fished about, grabbed, withdrew a gooey fistful, plunked it into a gnarly wooden bowl which he shoved at Bink. “Drink, Bink.”
“He means his name is Crunch,” Chester said, catching on. “He’s offering you something to eat. He doesn’t distinguish between meals; all food is ‘lunch’.”
“Oh. Uh—thank you, Crunch,” Bink said awkwardly. You lunch; me Crunch—now it made sense. An offer of food, an answer to a question, rather than a threat. He accepted the glop. The ogre served the others similarly; his huge paw seemed immune to the heat.
Bink looked at his portion dubiously. The stuff was too thick to pool, too thin to pick up, and despite its bubbling heat it hardly seemed dead yet. It was a deep-purple hue, with green excrescences. It smelled rather good, actually, though there was a scalded fly floating in it.
Chester sniffed his serving appreciatively. “Why this is purple bouillon with green nutwood—a phenomenal delicacy! But it requires a magic process to extract the bouillon juice, and only a nutty green elf can procure nutwood. How did you come by this?”
The ogre smiled. The effect was horrendous, even in the gloom. “Me have elf, work for pelf,” the golem translated. Then Crunch lifted a log from his stack and held it over the cauldron. He twisted one hand on each end—and the wood screwed up like a wet towel. A thin stream of purple liquid fell from it into the cauldron. When the log was dry, the ogre casually ripped it into its component cords and tossed it into the fire, where it flared up eagerly. Well, that was one way to burn cordwood.
Bink had never before witnessed such a feat of brute strength. Rather than comment, he fished out the fly, dipped a finger into his cooling pudding, brought out a creamy glob and put it gingerly to his mouth. It was delicious. “This is the best food I ever ate!” he exclaimed, amazed.
“You say that, Bink. You think it stink,” Crunch growled, flattered.
Crombie squawked as he sampled his bowl. “You may stink; this is great,” the golem translated.
Crunch, highly pleased by the double compliment, served himself a glob by dumping a bubbling fistful directly into his gaping maw. He licked off his fingers, then took another glob. As the others finished their helpings, the ogre served them more with the same hand. No one saw fit to protest; after all, what magic germs could survive that heat?
After the repast, they settled on the straw for the evening. The others seemed satisfied to sleep, but Bink was bothered by something. In a moment he identified it: “Crunch, among our kind we offer some return service for hospitality. What can we do for you to repay this fine meal and lodging?”
“Say, that’s right,” Chester agreed. “You need some wood chopped or something?”
“That no good. Have plenty wood,” the ogre grunted. He smashed one fist down on a log, and it splintered into quivering fragments. He obviously needed no help there.
Crombie squawked. “Birdbeak says he can point out where anything is. What do you want, stoneface?”
“Want sleep, you creep,” Crunch mumbled.
“Not until we do you some service,” Bink insisted.
“Take heed, no need!” Crunch closed one fist on a handful of straw, squeezed, and when he let go the straw had fused into one spindly stick. The ogre used this to pick at his gross teeth.
Chester argued caution for once. “We can’t force a service on him he doesn’t want.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know he wants it,” Bink said. “We must honor the code.”
“You sure are a stubborn lout,” Grundy said, for once speaking for himself. “Why stir up trouble?”
“It’s a matter of principle,” Bink said uncertainly. “Crombie, can you point out where the thing Crunch desires is?”
The griffin squawked affirmatively, spun about, stirred up the straw, and pointed. At the Good Magician Humfrey, nodding in the corner, one piece of straw straddling his head.
“Forget it,” Humfrey snapped sleepily. “I am not available for consumption.”
“But he’s a vegetarian!” Bink reminded him. “It can’t be that he wants to eat you. Maybe he wants to ask you a Question.”
“Not for one measly night’s lodging! He’d have to serve me for a year.”
“Me have no question, no suggestion,” the ogre grunted.
“It does seem we’re forcing something unwanted on our host,” Chester said, surprisingly diplomatic. That log-twisting and straw-squeezing and wood-splintering had evidently impressed the centaur profoundly. The ogre was clearly the strongest creature this party had encountered.
“There is something Crunch wants, even if he doesn’t know it himself,” Bink said. “It is our duty to locate it for him.” No one argued, though he was sure they all wished he would drop the subject. “Crombie, maybe it isn’t the Magician he wants, but something on the Magician. Exactly where did you point?”
Crombie squawked with tired resignation. He pointed again. Bink lined up his own finger, tracing the point. “There!” he said. “Something in his crotch.” Then he paused, abashed. “Uh, his jacket, maybe.”
But the Magician, tired, had fallen asleep. His only answer was a snore.
“Oh, come on!” Grundy said. “I’ll check it out.” And he scrambled up on the Magician, climbing inside his jacket.
“I don’t think—“ Bink began, startled by this audacity.
“That’s your problem,” the golem said from inside the jacket. “It must be—this.” He emerged, clasping a vial in both arms. For him it was a heavy weight.
“That’s the demon-bottle!” Chester said. “Don’t fool with—“
But Grundy was already prying out the cork.
Bink dived for him, but as usual was too late. The cork was not ornery this time; it popped off cleanly as Bink grabbed the bottle.
“Now you’ve done it!” Chester exclaimed. “If Humfrey wakes—“
Bink was left holding the bottle as the demon coalesced, unbound by any magic inscription or incantation. “Some—some—somebody make a—a—“ Bink stammered.
Beauregard firmed, standing with a huge tome tucked under one arm. He peered at Bink beneath his spectacles. “A pentacle?” the demon finished. “I think not.”
“What have I done?” Bink moaned.
Beauregard waved negligently with his free hand. “You have done nothing, Bink. It was the foolish golem.”
“But I set him in motion!”
“Perhaps. But do not be concerned. Rather consider yourself as the instrument of fate. Know that neither the bottle nor the pentacle constrained me; I but honored these conventions to please the Magician, to whom I owed professional courtesy. The agreement was that I should serve in this capacity of reserve-informant until circumstances should free me, by the ordinary rules of demon control. That chance has now occurred, as it was fated. A genuinely bound demon would have escaped, so I am free to go. I thank you for that accident, and now I depart.” He began to fade.
“Wait!” Bink cried. “At least answer this nice ogre’s Question!”
Beauregard firmed again. “He has no Question. He only wants to sleep. Ogres need plenty of rest, or they lose their meanness.”
“But Crombie’s talent indicated—”
“Oh, that. Technically there is something, but it is not a conscious desire.”
“It will do,” Bink said. He had not realized that ogres could have unconscious desires. “Tell us what it is, before you go.”
“He wants to know whether he should take a wife,” the demon said.
The ogre growled. “What kind of life, if me have wife?” the golem said.
“Now that’s interesting,” Beauregard said. “A golem, serving fee for an Answer he cannot comprehend.”
“Who could make sense of a one-word Answer?” Grundy demanded.
“Only a real creature,” Beauregard replied.
“That’s the point—he’s not real,” Bink said. “He wants to know how to become real.”
Beauregard turned to the centaur. “And you want to know your talent. I could tell you, of course, but you would then be in fee to me, and neither of us would want that.”
“Why don’t you just answer the ogre’s question and go?” Bink asked, not quite trusting this too-knowledgeable freed demon.
“I cannot do that directly, Bink. I am a demon; he would not accept my answer, rational though it would be. He is of an irrational species, like yourself; you must answer him.”
“Me! I—“ Bink broke off, not wanting to comment on his present problem with Chameleon.
“I spoke in the plural,” Beauregard said, a bit condescendingly. “You and Chester and Crombie should discuss your relations with your respective females, and the consensus will provide the ogre with the perspective he needs.” He considered. “In fact, in that context, my own comment might become relevant” And he settled down on the straw with them.
There was a silence. “Uh, how did you—that is, there is a lady ogre—uh, ogress in mind?” Bink asked Crunch.
The ogre responded with a volley of growls, snorts, and gnashings of yellow teeth. It was all the golem could do to keep up the translation, but Grundy rose to the occasion and spouted at the height of his form:
“One lovely bleak morning during thunderstorm warning me wandered far out beyond hail of a shout. Me was in a good mood just looking for food. No creature stirred this far from home; no dragon, no monster, not even a gnome. Me entered a forest huge and tall; the trees were so big me seemed small. The way was so tangled no walker could pass, but it opened like magic a lovely crevasse, with nickelpedes and more delights, and stagnant water rich with blights, and me tramped up to a hidden castle with shroud for flag and scalp for tassel. The wind blew by it with lovely moans, and all the timbers were giant bones. At entrance slept little dragon called Puk, guarding what left meself awestruck: a fountain packed with purple mud, spouting gouts of bright-red blood. Me stared so long me stood in doze, and me mouth watered so hard it drooled on me toes. But me knew such enchantment would be complete the moment me yielded and started to eat Me wanted to see what further treasure offered itself for the hero’s pleasure. And in the center in a grimy sack lay a wonderful ogress stretched on a rack. She had hair like nettles, skin like mush, and she face would make a zombie blush.
She breath reeked of carrion, wonderfully foul, and she stench was so strong me wanted to howl. Me thought me sick with worm in gut, but knew it was love for that splendid slut. Me smashed she in face with hairy fist, which is ogre way of making tryst Then me picked she up by she left leg and dragged she away, me golden egg. Then whole castle come awake: goblin and troll and green mandrake. They celebrated the union of hero and cute by pelting we with rotten fruit. But on way out we tripped a spell that sounded alarm where evil fiends dwell. They had put castle to sleep for a hundred years, those fiends who hated ogres’ rears. They fired a spell of such terrible might we had to flee it in a fright. Me dodged it every way me could, but it caught we good in midst of wood. As it struck me cried ‘Me crunch no bone!’ and it thought we ogres both had flown. It dissipated in such mighty flash the whole near forest was rendered trash. Now me crunch no bones lest fiends of lake learn they curse have make mistake. Me not want them throw another curse maybe like first and maybe worse. Me love lies stunned within the wood, sleeping away she maidenhood. But one thing now gives me pause: she never did make much applause. All me want to know is this: should me leave or fetch the miss?”
The others sat in silence for a time following this remarkable recital. At last Crombie squawked. “That was a considerable adventure and romance,” Grundy said for him. “While I can appreciate the fetching qualities of your lady friend, I must say from my own experience that all females are infernal creatures whose primary purpose in life is to deceive, entrap, and make miserable the males. Therefore—”
The ogre’s grunt interrupted the griffin in mid-squawk. “Hee hee hee, hee hee hee!” Grundy translated, interrupting himself. “Me fetch she instantly!”
Chester smiled. “Despite my friend’s recommendation, I must offer a note of caution. No matter how badly the filly nags the stallion, and how unreasonable she normally seems, there comes a time when she births her first foal. Then the dam no longer has much interest in—“
“She no nag? That is snag,” Crunch growled, disappointed.
“But in due course,” Bink said, “she is bound to return to normal, often with extremely cutting wit. In any event, I should think some nagging is better than no nagging. So why not rouse your beauty and give her a proper chance? She may make your life completely miserable.”
The ogre’s eyes lighted like torches.
“I must concur,” Beauregard said. “This conversation has been a most intriguing insight into the condition of human, animal, and ogre emotions. What is nagging to humans is applause to ogres. This will do nicely to conclude my dissertation.”
“Your what?” Bink asked.
“My doctoral thesis on the fallibilities of intelligent life on the surface of Xanth,” Beauregard explained. “I sought information from the human Magician Humfrey, and he assured me that a term of service in his bottle would provide me the insights I required, since a person’s nature may best be gauged through the questions he considers most vital. This has indeed been the case, and I am now virtually assured of my degree. That will qualify me to form permanent liaison with my chosen demoness, who would seem to be worth the effort This causes me to experience a certain demoniac exhilaration. Therefore I present you each with a small token gleaned from my researches.”
The demon turned to Chester. “I prefer not to inform you of your magic talent directly, for the reason given above, but will provide a hint: it reflects the suppressed aspect of your character. Because you, like most centaurs, have disbelieved in magic among your kind, whole aspects of your personality have been driven as it were underground. When you are able to expiate this conditioning, your talent will manifest naturally. Do not waste a year of your life for the Answer of the Good Magician; just allow yourself more self-expression.”
He turned to Crombie. “You cannot escape your fate in this manner. When you return from this quest —if you return—Sabrina will trap you into an unhappy marriage unless you arrange for a more suitable commitment elsewhere before you see her. Therefore enjoy yourself now; have your last fling and do not be concerned for the morrow, for it will be worse than today. Yet marriage is not after all, for you, a fate worse than death; you will know that when you do face death.”
He left the crestfallen griffin and oriented on the golem. “The meaning of the Magician’s Answer to you is this: people care; inanimate objects do not. Only when you experience genuine feelings that pre-empt your logic will you be real. You can achieve this height only if you work at it—but beware, for the emotions of living things are in many cases extremely uncomfortable.”
He turned to Crunch. “I say to you, ogre: go fetch your lady. She sounds like a worthy companion for you, in every respect a truly horrendous bitch.” And Crunch was so moved he almost blushed.
Beauregard turned to Bink. “I have never been able to fathom your magic, but I feel its operation now. It is extremely strong—but that which you seek is infinitely stronger. If you persist, you run the risk of being destroyed, and of destroying those things you hold most dear. Yet you will persist, and so I extend my condolence. Until we meet again—“ He faded out.
The members of the remaining circle exchanged glances. “Let’s go to sleep,” Chester said. That seemed like the best idea of the evening.