Centaur Aisle

Dor was trying to write an essay, because the King had decreed that any future monarchs of Xanth should be literate. It was an awful chore. He knew how to read, but his imagination tended to go blank when challenged to produce an essay, and he had never mastered conventional spelling.

“The Land of Xanth,” he muttered with deep disgust.

“What?” the table asked.

“The title of my awful old essay,” Dor explained dispiritedly. “My tutor Cherie, on whom be a muted anonymous curse, assigned me a one-hundred-word essay telling all about Xanth. I don’t think it’s possible. There isn’t that much to tell. After twenty-five words I’ll probably have to start repeating. How can I ever stretch it to a whole hundred? I’m not even sure there are that many words in the language.

“Who wants to know about Xanth?” the table asked. “I’m bored already.”

“I know you’re a board. I guess Cherie, may a hundred curseburrs tangle in her tail, wants to know.”

“She must be pretty dumb.”

Dor considered. “No, she’s infernally smart. All centaurs are. That’s why they’re the historians and poets and tutors of Xanth. May all their high-IQ feet founder.”

“How come they don’t rule Xanth, then?”

“Well, most of them don’t do magic, and only a Magician can rule Xanth. Brains have nothing to do with it-and neither do essays.”

Dor scowled at his blank paper.

“Only a Magician can rule any land,” the table said smugly. “But what about you? You’re a Magician, aren’t you? Why aren’t you King?”

“Well, I will be King, some day,” Dor said defensively, aware that he was talking with the table only to postpone a little longer the inevitable struggle with the essay. “When King Trent, uh, steps down. That’s why I have to be educated, he says.” He wished all kinds of maledictions on Cherie Centaur, but never on King Trent.

He resumed his morose stare at the paper, where he had now printed THU LANNED UV ZANTH. Somehow it didn’t look right, though he was sure he had put the TU’s in the right places.

Something tittered. Dor glanced up and discovered that the hanging picture of Queen Iris was smirking. That was one problem about working in Castle Roogna; he was always under the baleful eye of the Queen, whose principal business was snooping. With special effort, Dor refrained from sticking out his tongue at the picture.

Seeing herself observed, the Queen spoke, the mouth of the image moving. Her talent was illusion, and she could make the illusion of sound when she wanted to. “You may be a Magician, but you aren’t a scholar. Obviously spelling is not your forte.”

“Never claimed it was,” Dor retorted. He did not know what the word “forte” meant-perhaps it was a kind of small castle-but whatever it meant, spelling was not there. He did not much like the Queen, and the feeling was mutual, but both of them were constrained by order of the King to be reasonably polite to one another.

“Surely a woman of your extraordinary talents has more interesting things to do than peek at my stupid essay,” he said. Then, grudgingly, he added: “Your Majesty.”

“Indeed I do,” the picture agreed, its background clouding. She had of course noted the pause before he gave her title; it was not technically an insult, but the message was clear enough. The cloud in the picture had become a veritable thunderstorm, with jags of lightning shooting out like sparks. She would get back at him somehow.

“But you would never get your homework done if not supervised.”

Dor grimaced into the surface of the table. She was right on target there!

Then he saw that ink had smeared all across his essay-paper, ruining it. With an angry grunt he picked it up-and the ink slid off, pooled on the surface of the table, bunched together, sprouted legs, and scurried away. It leaped off the table like a gross bug and puffed into momentary vapor. It had been an illusion. The Queen had gotten back at him already. She could be extraordinarily clever in ugly little ways. Dor could not admit being angry about being fooled-and that made him angrier than ever.

“I don’t see why anyone has to be male to rule Xanth,” the picture said. That was of course a chronic sore point with the Queen. She was a Sorceress fully as talented as any Magician, but by Xanth law/custom no woman could be King.

“I live in the Land of Xanth,” Dor said slowly, voicing his essay as he wrote, ignoring the Queen with what he hoped was insulting politeness. “Which is distinct from Mundania in that there is magic in Xanth and none in Mundania.” It was amazing how creative he became when there was a negative aspect to it. He had twenty-three words already!

Dor cracked an eyelid, sneaking a peek at the picture. It had reverted to neutral. Good; the Queen had tuned out. If she couldn’t bug him with crawling illusions, she wasn’t interested.

But now his inspiration dehydrated. He had an impossible one hundred whole words to do, six times his present total. Maybe five times; he was not particularly apt at higher mathematics either. Four more words, if he counted the title. A significant fraction of the way through, but only a fraction. What a dreary chore!

Irene wandered in. She was King Trent and Queen Iris’s daughter, the palace brat, often a nuisance-but sometimes not. It griped Dor to admit it, but Irene was an extremely pretty girl, getting more so, and that exerted an increasing leverage upon him. It made fighting with her awkward.

“Hi, Dor,” she said, bouncing experimentally. “What are you doing?”

Dor, distracted momentarily by the bounce, lost track of the sharp response he had planned. “Oh, come on,” he grumped. “You know your mother got tired of snooping on me, so she assigned you to do it instead.”

Irene did not deny it. “Well, somebody has to snoop on you, dummy. I’d rather be out playing with Zilch.”

Zilch was a young sea cow that had been conjured for her fifteenth birthday. Irene had set her up in the moat and used her magic to promote the growth of sturdy wallflowers to wall off a section of water, protecting Zilch from the moat-monsters while she grazed. Dor regarded Zilch as a great blubbery slob of an animal, but anything that distracted Irene was to some extent worthwhile. She took after her mother in certain annoying ways.

“Go ahead and play with the cow,” Dor suggested disparagingly. “I won’t tell.”

“No, a Princess has to do her duty.” Irene never spoke of duty unless it was something she wanted to do anyway. She picked up his essay-paper.

“Hey, give that back!” Dor protested, reaching for it.

“You heard him, snit!” the paper agreed. “Give me back!”

That only made Irene ornery. She backed away, hanging on to the paper, her eyes scanning the writing. Her bosom heaved with barely suppressed laughter. “Oh, say, this is something! I didn’t think anybody could misspell ‘Mundania’ that badly!”

Dor leaped for her, his face hot, but she danced back again, putting the paper behind her. This was her notion of entertainment-teasing him, making him react one way or another. He tried to reach around her-and found himself embracing her, unintentionally.

Irene had always been a cute girl and socially precocious. In recent years nature had rushed to endow her generously, and this was quite evident at close range. Now she was a green-eyed, green-tint-haired-occurring naturally; she did not color her hair-buxom beauty. What was worse, she knew it, and constantly sought new ways to use it to her advantage. Today she was dressed in a green blouse and skirt that accentuated her figure and wore green slippers that enhanced her fine legs and feet. In short, she had prepared well for this encounter and had no intention of letting him write his essay in peace.

She took a deep breath, inflating herself against him. “I’ll scream,” she breathed in his ear, taunting him.

But Dor knew how to handle her. “I’ll tickle,” he breathed back.

“That’s not fair!” For she could not scream realistically while giggling, and she was hyper-ticklish, perhaps because she thought it was fashionable for young ladies to be so. She had heard somewhere that ticklishness made girls more appealing.

Irene’s hand moved swiftly, trying to tuck the paper into her bosom, where she knew he wouldn’t dare go for it. But Dor had encountered this ploy before, too, and he caught her wrist en route. He finally got his fingers on the essay-paper, for he was stronger than she, and she also deemed it unladylike to fight too hard. Image was almost as important to her as mischief. She let the paper go, but tried yet another ploy. She put her arms around him. “I’ll kiss.”

But he was ready even for that. Her kisses could change to bites without notice, depending on her mercurial mood. She was not to be trusted, though in truth the close struggle had whetted his appetite for some such diversion. She was scoring on him better than she knew. “Your mother’s watching.”

Irene turned him loose instantly. She was a constant tease; but in her mother’s presence she always behaved angelically. Dor wasn’t sure why this was so, but suspected that the Queen’s desire to see Irene become Queen after her had something to do with it. Irene didn’t want to oblige her mother any more than she wanted to oblige anyone else, and expressing overt interest in Dor would constitute a compromising attitude. The Queen resented Dor because he was a full Magician while her daughter was not, but she was not about to let him make anyone else’s daughter Queen. Irene, ironically, did want to be Queen, but also wanted to spite her mother, so she always tried to make it seem that Dor was chasing her while she resisted.

The various facets of this cynical game became complex on occasion.

Dor himself wasn’t sure how he felt about it all. Four years ago, when he was twelve, he had gone on an extraordinary adventure into Xanth’s past and had occupied the body of a grown, muscular, and highly coordinated barbarian. He had learned something about the ways of men and women. Since he had had an opportunity to play with adult equipment before getting there himself, he had an inkling that the little games Irene played were more chancy than she knew.

So he stayed somewhat clear, rejecting her teasing advances, though this was not always easy. Sometimes he had strange, wicked dreams, wherein he called one of her bluffs, and it wasn’t exactly a bluff, and then the hand of an anonymous censor blotted out a scene of impending fascination.

“Dumbo!” Irene exclaimed irately, staring at the still picture on the wall. “My mother isn’t watching us!”

“Got you off my case, though, didn’t it?” Dor said smugly. “You want to make like Millie the Ghost, and you don’t have the stuff.”

That was a double-barreled insult, for Millie-who had stopped being a ghost before Dor was born, but retained the identification-was gifted with magical sex appeal, which she had used to snare one of the few Magicians of Xanth, the somber Zombie Master. Dor himself had helped bring that Magician back to life for her, and now they had three-year-old twins. So Dor was suggesting to Irene that she lacked sex appeal and womanliness, the very things she was so assiduously striving for. But it was a hard charge to make stick, because Irene was really not far off the mark. If he ever forgot she was the palace brat, he would be in trouble, for what hidden censor would blot out a dream-turned-real? Irene could be awfully nice when she tried. Or maybe it was when she stopped trying; he wasn’t sure.

“Well, you better get that dumb essay done, or Cherie Centaur will step on you,” Irene said, putting on a new mood. “I’ll help you spell the words if you want.”

Dor didn’t trust that either. “I’d better struggle through on my own.”

“You’ll flunk. Cherie doesn’t put up with your kind of ignorance.”

“I know,” he agreed glumly. The centaur was a harsh taskmistress -which was of course why she had been given the job. Had her mate Chester done the tutoring, Dor would have learned much about archery, swordplay, and bare-knuckle boxing, but his spelling would have sunk to amazing new depths. King Trent had a sure hand in delegating authority.

“I know what!” Irene exclaimed. “You need a spelling bee!”

“A what?”

“I’ll fetch one,” she said eagerly. Now she was in her helpful guise, and this was especially hard to resist, since he did need help.

“They are attracted by letter plants. Let me get one from my collection.” She was off in a swirl of sweet scent; it seemed she had started wearing perfume.

Dor, by dint of phenomenal effort, squeezed out another sentence.

“Everyone in Xanth has his one magic talent; no two are the same,” he said as he wrote. Thirteen more words. What a deadly chore!

“That’s not true,” the table said. “My talent is talking. Lots of things talk.”

“You’re not a person, you’re a thing,” Dor informed it brusquely. “Talking isn’t your talent, it’s mine. I make inanimate things talk.”

“Aw . . .” the table said sullenly.

Irene breezed back in with a seed from her collection and an earth-filled flowerpot. “Here it is.” In a moment she had the seed planted-it was in the shape of the letter Land had given it the magic command: “Grow.” It sprouted and grew at a rate nature could not duplicate. For that was her talent-the green thumb. She could grow a giant acorn tree from a tiny seed in minutes, when she concentrated, or cause an existing plant to swell into monstrous proportions. Because she could not transform a plant into a totally different creature, as could her father, or give animation to lifeless things, as Dor and the Zombie Master could, she was deemed to be less than a Sorceress, and this had been her lifelong annoyance. But what she could do, she could do well, and that was to grow plants.

The letter plant sent its main stalk up the breadth of a hand. Then it branched and flowered, each blossom in the form of a letter of the alphabet, all the letters haphazardly represented. The flowers emitted a faint, odd odor a bit like ink and a bit like musty old tomes.

Sure enough, a big bee in a checkered furry jacket arrived to service the plant. It buzzed from letter to letter, harvesting each and tucking it into little baskets on its six legs. In a few minutes it had collected them all and was ready to fly away.

But Irene had closed the door and all the windows. “That was my letter plant,” she informed the bee. “You’ll have to pay for those letters.”

“BBBBBB,” the bee buzzed angrily, but acceded. It knew the rules. Soon she had it spelling for Dor. All he had to do was say a word, and the bee would lay down its flower-letters to spell it out.

There was nothing a spelling bee couldn’t spell.

“All right, I’ve done my good deed for the day,” Irene said. “I’m going out and swim with Zilch. Don’t let the bee out until you’ve finished your essay, and don’t tell my mother I stopped bugging you, and check with me when you’re done.”

“Why should I check with you?” he demanded. “You’re not my tutor!”

“Because I have to be able to say I nagged you until you got your stupid homework done, idiot,” she said sensibly. “Once you clear with me, we’re both safe for the day. Got it straight now, knothead?”

Essentially, she was proffering a deal; she would leave him alone if he didn’t turn her in for doing it. It behooved him to acquiesce.

“Straight, greermose,” he agreed.

“And watch that bee,” she warned as she slipped out the door. “It’s got to spell each word right, but it won’t tell you if you have the, wrong word.” The bee zoomed for the aperture, but she closed it quickly behind her.

“All right, spelling bee,” Dor said. “I don’t enjoy this any more than you do. The faster we get through, the faster we both get out of here.”

The bee was not satisfied, but buzzed with resignation. It was accustomed to honoring rules, for there were no rules more finicky and senseless than those for spelling words.

Dor read aloud his first two sentences, pausing after every word to get the spelling. He did not trust the bee, but knew it was incapable of misspelling a word, however much it might wish to, to spite him.

“Some can conjure things,” he continued slowly, “and others can make a hole, or illusions, or can soar through the air. But in Mundania no one does magic, so it’s very dull. There are not any dragons there. Instead there are bear and horse and a great many other monsters.”

He stopped to count the words. All the way up to eighty-two!

Only eight more to go-no, more than that; his fingers had run out.

Twenty-eight to go. But he had already covered the subject. What now?

Well, maybe some specifics. “Our ruler is King Trent, who has reigned for seventeen years. He transforms people into other creatures.” There were another seventeen words, bringing the total to-say, it was ninety-nine words! He must have miscalculated before.

One more word and he’d be done!

But what one word would finish it? He couldn’t think of one. Finally he made a special effort and squeezed out another whole sentence: “No one gets chased here; we fare in peace.” But that was nine more words-eight more than he needed. It really hurt him to waste energy like that!

Sigh. There was no help for it. He would have to use the words, now that he had ground them out. He wrote them down as the bee spelled them, pronouncing each carefully so the bee would get it right. He was sure the bee had little or no sense of continuity; it merely spelled on an individual basis.

In a fit of foolish generosity, he fired off four more valuable words:

“My tale is done.” That made the essay one hundred and twelve words. Cherie Centaur should give him a top grade for that! “Okay, spelling bee,” he said. “You’ve done your part. You’re free, with your letters.” He opened the window and the bee buzzed out with a happy “BBBBBB!”

“Now I need to deliver it to my beloved female tutor, may fleas gnaw her coat,” he said to himself. “How can I do that without her catching me for more homework?” For he knew, as all students did, that the basic purpose of instruction was not so much to teach young people good things as to fill up all their time unpleasantly. Adults had the notion that juveniles needed to suffer. Only when they had suffered enough to wipe out most of their naturally joyous spirits and innocence were they staid enough to be considered mature. An adult was essentially a broken-down child.

“Are you asking me?” the floor asked.

Inanimate things seldom had much wit, which was why he hadn’t asked any for help in his spelling. “No, I’m just talking to myself.”

“Good. Then I don’t have to tell you to get a paper wasp.”

“I couldn’t catch a paper wasp anyway. I’d get stung.”

“You wouldn’t have to catch it. It’s trapped under me. The fool blundered in during the night and can’t find the way out; it’s dark down there.”

This was a positive break. “Tell it I’ll take it safely out if it’ll deliver one paper for me.”

There was a mumble as the floor conversed with the wasp. Then the floor spoke to Dor again. “It’s a fair sting, it says.”

“Very well. Tell it where there’s a crack big enough to let it through to this room.”

Soon the wasp appeared. It was large, with a narrow waist and fine reddish-brown color: an attractive female of her species, marred only by shreds of dust on her wings. “WWWWWW?” she buzzed, making the dust fly off so that she was completely pretty again.

Dor gave her the paper and opened the window again. “Take this to the lady centaur Cherie. After that you’re on your own.”

She perched momentarily on the sill, holding the paper.

“WWWWWW?” she asked again.

Dor did not understand wasp language, and his friend Grundy the Golem, who did, was not around. But he had a fair notion what the wasp was thinking of. “No, I wouldn’t advise trying to sting Cherie. She can crack her tail about like a whip, and she never misses a fly.”

Or the seat of someone’s pants, he added mentally, when someone was foolish enough to backtalk about an assignment. Dor had learned the hard way.

The wasp carried the paper out the window with a satisfied hum.

Dor knew it would deliver; like the spelling bee, it had to be true to its nature. A paper wasp could not mishandle a paper.

Dor went out to report to Irene. He found her on the south side of the castle in a bathing suit, swimming with a contented sea cow and feeding the cow handfuls of sea oats she was magically growing on the bank. Zilch mooed when she saw Dor, alerting Irene.

“Hi, Dor-come in swimming!” Irene called.

“In the moat with the monsters?” he retorted.

“I grew a row of blackjack oaks across it to buttress the wallflowers,” she said. “The monsters can’t pass.”

Dor looked. Sure enough, a moat-monster was pacing the line, staying just clear of the blackjack oaks and ’n got taggle dar ki ek . It nudged too close at one point and got hit by a well-swung blackjack. There was no passing. Still, Dor decided to stay clear. He didn’t trust what Zilch might have done in the water. “I meant the monsters on this side,” he said.

“I just came to report that the paper is finished and off to the tutor.”

“Monsters on this side!” Irene repeated, glancing down at herself. “Sic him, Weedles!”

A tendril reached out of the water and caught his ankle. Another one of her playful plants! “Cut that out!” Dor cried, windmilling as the vine yanked at his leg. It was no good; he lost his balance and fell into the moat with a great splash.

“Ho, ho, ho!” the water laughed. “Guess that doused your fire!”

Dor struck at the surface furiously with his fist, but it did no good. Like it or not, he was swimming in all his clothes.

“Hey, I just thought of something,” Irene called. “That spelling bee-did you define the words for it?”

“No, of course not,” Dor spluttered, trying to scramble out of the water but getting tangled in the tendrils of the plant that had pulled him in. Pride prevented him from asking Irene for help, though one word from her would tame the plant.

She saw the need, however. “Easy, Weedles” she said, and the plant eased off. Then she returned to her subject. “There may be trouble. If you used any homonyms-“

“No, I couldn’t have. I never heard of them.” Weedles was no longer attacking, but each time Dor tried to swim to the bank, the plant moved to intercept him. He had antagonized Irene by his monsters crack, and she was getting back at him mercilessly. She was like her mother in that respect. Sometimes Dor felt the world would be better off if the entire species of female were abolished.

“Different words that sound the same, dunce!” she said with maidenly arrogance. “Different spellings. The spelling bee isn’t that smart; if you don’t tell it exactly which word-“

“Different spellings?” he asked, experiencing a premonitory chill.

“Like wood and would,” she said, showing off her vocabulary in the annoying way girls had. “Wood-tree, would-could. Or isle and aisle, meaning a bit of land in a lake or a cleared space between objects. No connection between the two except they happen to sound the same. Did you use any of those?”

Dor concentrated on the essay, already half forgotten. “I think I mentioned a bear. You know, the fantastic Mundane monster.”

“It’ll come out bare-naked!” she exclaimed, laughing. “That bee may not be smart, but it wasn’t happy about having to work for its letters. Oh, are you ever in trouble, Dor! Wait’ll Cherie Centaur reads that paper!”

“Oh, forget it!” he snapped, disgruntled. How many homonyms had he used?

“Bear, bare!” she cried, swimming close and tugging at his clothing.

The material, not intended for water, tore readily, exposing half his chest.

“Bare, bare, bare!” he retorted furiously, hooking two fingers into the top of her suit and ripping it down. This material, too, came apart with surprising ease, showing that her body was fully as developed as suggested by the contours of her clothing. Her mother the Queen often made herself pretty through illusion; Irene needed no such enhancement.

“Eeeeek!” she screamed enthusiastically. “I’ll get you!” And she ripped more of his clothing off, not stopping at his shirt. Dor retaliated, his anger mitigated by his intrigue with the flashes of her that showed between splashes. In a moment they were both thoroughly bare and laughing. It was as if they had done in anger something they had not dared to do by agreement, but had nevertheless wanted to do.

At this point Cherie Centaur trotted up. She had the forepart of a remarkably full-figured woman, and the rear-part of a beautiful horse. It was said that Mundania was the land of beautiful women and fast horses, or maybe vice versa on the adjectives; Xanth was the land where the two were one. Cherie’s brown human hair trailed back to rest against her brown equine coat, with her lovely tail matching. She wore no clothing, as centaurs did not believe in such affectations, and she was old, despite her appearance, of Dor’s father’s generation. Such things made her far less interesting than Irene.

“About this paper, Dor-“ Cherie began.

Dar and Irene froze in place, both suddenly conscious of their condition. They were naked, half embraced in the water. Weedles was idly playing with fragments of their clothing. This was definitely not proper behavior, and was bound to be misunderstood.

But Cherie was intent on the paper. She shook her head, so that her hair fell down along her breasts-a mannerism that indicated something serious. “If you can interrupt your sexplay a moment,” she said, “I would like to review the spelling in this essay.” Centaurs did not really care what human beings did with each other in the water; to them, such interaction was natural. But If Cherie reported it to the Queen…

”Uh, well-“ Dor said, wishing he could sink under the water.

“But before I go into detailed analysis, let’s obtain another opinion.”

Cherie held the paper down so Irene could see it.

Irene was fully as embarrassed by her condition as Dor was about his. She exhaled to decrease her buoyancy and lower herself in the water, but in a moment she was gasping and had to breathe again-which caused her to rise once more, especially since her most prominent attributes tended to float anyway. But as her eyes scanned the paper, her mood changed. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “What a disaster!” she chortled. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Dor!” she tittered. “Oh, this is the worst that ever was!” she cried gleefully.

“What’s so funny?” the water asked, and its curiosity was echoed by the rocks, sand, and other inanimate things within range of Dor’s talent.

Cherie disapproved of magic in centaurs-she was of the old-fashioned, conservative school that considered magic obscene in the civilized species of Xanth-but appreciated its uses in human beings.

“I will read the essay to you, attempting to present the words as they are spelled,” she said. She did-and somehow the new meanings came through even though the actual pronunciation of the words had not changed. Dor quailed; it was even worse than he had feared.

TBB LAND OF XANTH buy door Eye live inn the Land of Xanth, witch is disstinked from Mundania inn that their is magic inn Xanth and nun inn Mundania. Every won inn Xanth has his own magic talent; know to are the same. Sum khan conjure things, and others khan make a whole ore illusions ore khan sore threw the heir. Butt inn Mundania know won does magic, sew its very dull. They’re are knot any dragons their. Instead their are bare and hoarse and a grate many other monsters. Hour ruler is King Trent, whoo has rained four seventeen years. He transforms people two other creatures. Know won gets chaste hear; oui fair inn piece. My tail is dun.

By the end of it Irene was in tears from helpless laughter, the sea cow was bellowing bovine mirth, the water, beach, and stones were chortling, the blackjack oaks were zapping each other on the branches, and the moat-monsters were guffawing. Even Cherie Centaur was barely controlling a rebellious smirk. Dor was the only one who was unable to appreciate the excruciatingly funny nature of it; he wished he could tunnel through the bottom of the earth. “O doesn’t that beet awl!” Irene gasped. “Lets go two Mundania and sea a hoarse bare ore whatever!” And the creatures and landscape relapsed into a cacophony of fresh laughter. The stones themselves were squeezing out helpless tears of hilarity.

Cherie controlled her levity enough to form a proper frown. “Now I think you had better report to the King, Dor.”

Oh, no! How much trouble could he get into in one afternoon?

He’d be lucky if King Trent didn’t transform him into a slug and drop him back in the moat. As if flunking his essay wasn’t bad enough, getting caught naked with the King’s daughter Dor wrapped his tatters of clothing about his midsection and scrambled out of the water. He would simply have to go and take his medicine.

He stopped off at home to get quickly into fresh clothing. He hoped his mother would be elsewhere, but she was cleaning house. Fortunately, she was in her nymph state, looking like a lovely doll, though in fact she was in the vicinity of forty. There was no one prettier than Chameleon when she was up, and no one uglier when she was down. But her intelligence varied inversely, so right now she was quite stupid. Thus she lacked the wit to inquire why he was wearing his clothing tied about his middle, sopping wet, while the objects in his path sniggered. But she was sensitive to the water. “Don’t drip on the floor, dear,” she warned.

“I’ll be dry in a moment,” he called reassuringly. “I was swimming with Irene.”

“That’s nice,” she said.

Soon he was on his way to the King, who always interviewed him in the library. Dor’s heart was beating as he hurried up the stairs. Cherie Centaur must have shown King Trent the paper before she came for Dor; maybe the King didn’t know about the disaster in the moat.

King Trent was awaiting him. The King was a solid, graying, handsome man nearing sixty. When he died, Dor would probably assume the crown of Xanth. Some how he was not eager for the post.

“Hello, Dor,” the King said, shaking his hand warmly, as he always did. “You look fresh and clean today.”

Because of the episode in the moat. That was one way to take a bath! Was the King teasing him? No, that was not Trent’s way. “Yes, sir,” Dor said uncomfortably.

“I have serious news for you.”

Dor fidgeted. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

Trent smiled. “Oh, it has nothing to do with that essay. The truth is, I was none too apt in spelling in my own youth. That sort of thing is mastered in time.” His face turned grave, and Dor quailed, knowing it had to be the other thing that perturbed the King.

Dor considered offering an explanation, but realized it would sound too much like an excuse. Kings and potential lungs, he understood, did not excuse themselves; it was bad for the image. So he waited in dreading silence.

“Please, Dor, be at ease,” the King said. “This is important.”

“It was an accident!” Dor blurted, his guilt overriding his resolve. It was so difficult to be Kingly!

“Are you by chance referring to that fall into the moat?”

Confirmation was as bad as suspicion! “Yes, sir.” Dor realized that anything more he said could only put the blame on Irene, and that wouldn’t be wise.

“Funniest splash I’ve seen in years!” King Trent said, smiling gravely. “I saw it all from the embrasure. She pulled you in, of course, and then tore into your clothes. This is ever the way of the distaff.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Dor, I trust you. You tend to come to grief in minor particulars, but you are generally sound in the major ones. And I have to admit my daughter is a provocative brat at times. But mainly, it is good to get into mischief while you’re still young enough to profit from the experience. Once you are King, you are unlikely to have that luxury.”

“Then that’s not why you summoned me?” Dor asked, relieved.

“If I had the time and privacy, I would be splashing in that moat, too.” Then the King’s smile faded as he turned to business. “Dor, the Queen and I are making an official trip to Mundania. The excursion is scheduled to last one week. We have to go through a black body of water, up a great river, up to a beleaguered Kingdom in the mountains surrounded by hostile A’s, B’s, and IV’s. Normal trade has been largely cut off; they can’t get out-or so my scout informs me. They have sent a message of welcome for our offer of trade.. But the details remain obscure; I will have to work them out personally. I am the only one in authority here who has had sufficient experience in Mundania to cope. It is a small beginning, a cautious one-but if we establish a limited, viable, continuing trade with a section of Mundania, it will prove well worthwhile, if only for the experience. So we’re investing this time now, while there is no crisis in Xanth. You will have to be King in that period of my absence, and rain-ah, reign over Xanth.”

This caught Dor completely by surprise. “Me? King?”

“Commencing one week from today. I thought it best to give you warning.”

“But I can’t be King! I don’t know anything about-“

“I would say this is an excellent time to learn, Dor. The Kingdom is at peace, and you are well regarded, and there are two other Magicians available to advise you.” He winked solemnly. “The Queen offered to remain here to advise you, but I insisted I wanted the pleasure of her companionship myself. It is essential that you be prepared, in case the duty should come on you suddenly.”

Despite his shock at this abrupt onset of responsibility, Dor appreciated the logic. If the Queen remained in Xanth, she would run the whole show and Dor would get no experience. The two remaining Magicians, Humfrey and the Zombie Master, would not interfere at all; neither participated voluntarily in the routine matters of Xanth.

So Dor would have a free hand-which was exactly what King Trent wanted.

But the other reference-the duty coming on him suddenly? Was this a suggestion that something was amiss with King Trent? Dor was appalled at the thought. “But it’ll be a long time before-I mean-“

“Do not be unduly concerned,” King Trent said, comprehending Dor’s poorly expressed notion, as he always did. “I am not yet sixty; I daresay you will be thirty before the onus falls on you. I remain in good health. But we must always be ready for the unexpected. Now is there anything you will need to prepare yourself?”

“Uh-“ Dor remained numbed. “Can it be secret?”

“Kingship is hardly secret, Dor.”

“I mean-does everyone have to know you’re gone? From Xanth, I mean. If they thought you were near, that it was just a trial run’

King Trent frowned. “You do not feel up to it?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t.”

The King sighed. “Dor, I am disappointed but not surprised. I believe you underestimate yourself, but you are young yet, and it is not my purpose to cause you unnecessary difficulties. We shall announce that the Queen and I are taking a week’s vacation-a working vacation-and are allowing you to practice your future craft. I do not believe that is too great a deviation from the truth. We shall be working, and for me a visit to Mundania is a vacation. The Queen has never been there; it will be a novel experience for her. But you will know, privately, that we shall not be available to help you if there is any problem. Only the Council of Elders and the other Magicians will know where I am.”

Dor’s knees felt weak. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll try not to mess up.”

“Do try that. See that you do not fall into the moat,” King Trent said, smiling. “And don’t let my daughter boss you around; it ill befits a King.” He shook his head. “Hasn’t she become a vixen, though? When you pulled her suit down-“

“Uh-“ Dor said, blushing. He had hoped they were safely beyond this subject.

“She certainly asked for it! The Queen and I are entirely too lenient with her. I had to threaten to turn Iris into a cactus to keep her from interfering. And I proved correct; you two worked it out satisfactorily to yourselves.”

Actually, Cherie Centaur had interrupted the struggle; otherwise there was no guessing where it might have led. For one of the few times in his life, Dor was thankful, in retrospect, for Cherie’s intervention. Perhaps the King knew that, too.

“Uh, thanks, I mean, yes, sir,” Dor agreed weakly. This was almost too much understanding; the Queen would certainly have dealt with him more harshly than this. Yet he knew the King had not been joking about the cactus; easygoing as he seemed, he tolerated absolutely no insubordination from anyone-which was of course one of his prime qualities of Kingship.

Unfortunately, Dor’s own talent was not that forceful. He could not transform those who opposed him. If he gave an order, and someone refused to obey, what would he do? He had no idea.

“At any rate, you will work it out,” King Trent said. “I am depending on you to carry through despite whatever hazards my daughter interposes.”

“Yes, sir,” Dor agreed without enthusiasm. “Do you really have to go?”

“We do have to go, Dor. I feel this can be an excellent opportunity for continuing trade. Mundania has vast and largely unexploited resources that would do us a great deal of good, while we have magic abilities that could help them equivalently. To date, our trade with Mundania has been sporadic, owing to difficulties of communication. We require a reliable, private connection. But we must exercise extreme caution, for we do not want the Mundanes invading Xanth again. So we are deliberately dealing with a small Kingdom, one unlikely to be able to mount such an offensive, should it ever choose to.”

Dor could appreciate that. Xanth had a long history of being invaded by waves of Mundanes, until preventive measures had been taken. Actually, there was no firm route from Mundania to Xanth; Mundanian time seemed to be different, so that contacts were haphazard. Any Xanth citizen, in contrast, could go to Mundania merely by stepping beyond the region of magic. If he kept close track of his route, he could theoretically find his way back. That was academic, however; no one wanted to leave Xanth, for he would leave his magic talent behind.

No, Dor had to qualify that thought. His mother Chameleon had once sought to leave Xanth, before she met his father Bink, to eliminate her changes of phase. Also, the Gorgon had spent some years in Mundania, where her face did not turn people to stone. Perhaps there had been others. But that was a strategy of desperation. Xanth was so obviously the best place to be that very few would leave it voluntarily.

“Uh, suppose you get lost, Your Majesty?” Dor asked worriedly.

“You forget, Dor, I have been to Mundania before. I know the route.”

“But Mundania changes! You can’t go back to where you were!”

“Probably true. Certainly I would not take the Queen to the site of my first marriage.” The King was silent a moment, and Dor knew there was a secret side to Trent who once had a wife and child whom he preferred not to discuss. Living in Mundania, but they had died, so he had returned to Xanth and become King. Had his family lived, Trent would never have come back to Xanth. “But I believe I can manage.”

Yet Dor was nervous. “Mundania is a dangerous place, with bears and horses and things.”

“So your essay advised me. I do not pretend this trip is entirely without risk, Dor, but I believe the potential benefits make the risk worthwhile. I am an excellent swordsman and did have twenty years to perfect survival techniques, based on other things than magic. But I must confess that I do miss Mundania somewhat; perhaps that is the underlying motive for this excursion.” The King pondered again, then broached a new aspect. “More tricky is the nature of the interface. You see, when we step through to Mundania, we may find our selves at any point in its history. Until very recently, we could not select the point; this much has been chance. The Queen believes she has found a way to alleviate this problem. That is one reason I must negotiate a trade agreement personally. I can trust no one else to handle the vagaries of the transition. We may fail to reach our target Kingdom, or may reach it and return empty-handed; in that case I will have no one to blame except myself.”

“But if you don’t know where you’ll arrive in Mundania, how do you know there’s an opportunity? I mean, you might land somewhere else entirely.”

“As I said, I do have a hint. I believe the time is now propitious to enter Mundania’s medieval age, and the Queen has studied the matter and believes she can, as it were, fine-tune our entry to match the particular placetime our scout scouted. This spot should have copious natural resources like wood and cloth that we can work by magic into carvings and clothing they can’t match. Perhaps something else will offer. Perhaps nothing. I believe a week will suffice to explore the situation. We cannot afford to stand still; we must keep working to improve our situation. Magic is not enough to keep Xanth prosperous; the land also requires alert administration.”

“I guess so,” Dor agreed. But it seemed to him he would never be able to do the job King Trent was doing. Xanth was indeed doing well now, and the improvement had been steady from the time of Trent’s ascension to power. The Kingdom was well disciplined and well ordered; even the dragons no longer dared to maraud where men had staked their territory. Dor had a morbid fear that at such time as he, Dor, became King, the golden age would deteriorate. “I wish you well in Mundania, sir.”

“I know you do, Dor,” King Trent said affably. “I ask you to bear in mind this before all else-honesty.”

“Honesty?”

“When you are in doubt, honesty is generally the best course. Whatever may happen, you will not have cause for shame if you adhere scrupulously to that.”

“I’ll remember,” Dor said. “Honesty.”

“Honesty,” King Trent repeated with peculiar emphasis. “That’s it.”

In an instant, it seemed, the dread day came. Dor found himself huddled on the throne, feeling terribly alone. King Trent and Queen Iris had announced their vacation and disappeared into a cloud.

When the cloud dissipated, they were gone; Iris’ power of illusion had made them invisible. She had always liked dramatic entrances and exits.

Dor gritted his teeth and got into it. Actually, the business of governing was mostly routine. There was a trained palace staff, quite competent, whose members Dor had always known; they did whatever he asked and answered any questions he had. But they did not make important decisions-and Dor discovered that every decision, no matter how minor, seemed vitally important to the people it concerned. So he let the routine handle itself and concentrated on those areas that demanded the decision of the King, hoping his voluminous royal robe would conceal any tremor of his knees.

The first case concerned two peasants who had a difference about a plantation of light bulbs. Each claimed to be entitled to the brightest bulbs of the current crop. Dor questioned their wooden belt buckles and got the straight story, while both peasants stood amazed at this magic.

Dor did this deliberately so they could see that he was, indeed, a Magician; they respected that caliber of magic and would be more likely to pay attention to him now.

Peasant A had farmed the field for many years with indifferent success; it belonged to him. Peasant B had been hired to help this season-and the field had brightened into the best crop in years, so that it never saw darkness. To whom, then, did the first choice of bulbs belong?

Dor saw that some diplomacy was called for here. He could of course make an arbitrary decision, but that would surely leave one party unsatisfied. That could lead to future trouble. He didn’t want any of his decisions coming back to haunt King Trent in future months. “Peasant B obviously has the special touch that made this crop of bulbs glow so well,” he said. “So he should be given his choice of the best, as many as he wants. After all, without him the crop would not be worth much.” Peasant B looked pleased. “However, Peasant A does own the field. He can hire whomever he wants next year, so he can get to keep more of his crop.” Peasant A nodded grim agreement. “Of course,” Dor continued blithely, “Peasant A won’t have much of a crop, and Peasant B won’t have a job. The bulbs won’t grow elsewhere, and won’t brighten as well for anyone else, so both peasants will lose. Too bad. It would have been so simple to share the best bulbs equally, taking turns selecting each bulb, sharing the profit of the joint effort, and setting up for an even better future season . . .” Dor shrugged sadly.

The two peasants looked at each other, a notion dawning. Wasn’t it, after all, more important to share many future harvests than run off with the best of only one? Maybe they could work this out themselves.

They departed, discussing the prospects with animation. Dor relaxed, his muscles unknotting. Had he done it the right way? He knew he could not make everyone happy in every case, but he did want to come as close as possible.

Dor woke next morning to discover a ghost standing beside the royal bed. It was Doreen, the kitchen maid. There had been half a dozen recognizable ghosts on the premises, each with his or her sad story, but most were close-mouthed about their living pasts. Dor had always liked Doreen because of the coincidence of names-Dor, Doreen-though apart from that they had little in common. Maybe he had been named after her, since she was a friend of Millie the Ghost, who had been his nursemaid during his early years. No one had seen fit to tell him, and the local furniture didn’t know. There were many moderate little mysteries like that around this castle; it was part of its atmosphere. At any rate, Doreen was middle-aged and portly and often snappish, not having much to do with the living. Thus it was a surprise to find her here. “What can I do for you, Doreen?” he asked.

“Sir, Your Majesty King Dor,” she said diffidently.

Dor smiled. Doreen always found it hard to pinpoint the point.

“Out with it, blithe spirit.”

“Well, we, you know we haven’t really quite seen very much of Millie since she passed on-“

To the ghosts, Millie’s return to life was passing on. She had been one of their number for several centuries, and now was mortal again.

“You miss her?”

“Yes, certainly, in a way we do, Your Majesty. She used to come see us every day, right after she, you know, but since she got herself in the matrimonial way she hasn’t-she-“

Millie had married the Zombie Master and gone to share the castle now possessed by Good Magician Humfrey. It had been the Zombie Master’s castle, eight hundred years before. “You’d like to see her again,” Dor finished.

“Yes, sir, Your Majesty. You were her friend in life, and now that you’re in the way of being the Royal King-“

“She hardly needs the King’s approval to visit her old companions.” Dor smiled. “Not that such approval would ever be withheld, but even if it were, how could anyone stop a ghost from going any where?”

“Oh, sir, we can’t go anywhere!” Doreen protested. “We are for ever bound by the site of our cruel demise, until our, you might say, to put it politely, our onuses are abated.”

“Well, If you’d tell me your onuses, maybe I could help,” Dor suggested.

It was the first time he had ever seen a ghost blush. “Oh, no, no, never!” she stammered.

Evidently he had struck a sensitive area. “Well, Millie can certainly come to see you.”

“But she never, she doesn’t, she won’t seem to come,” Doreen wailed. “We have heard, had information, we believe she became a mother-“

“Of twins,” Dor agreed. “A boy and a girl. It was bound to happen, considering her talent.”

Prudish Doreen let that pass. “So of course, naturally she’s busy. But if the King suggested, intimated, asked her to visit-“

Dor smiled. “Millie was my governess for a dozen years. I had a crush on her. She never took orders from me; it was the other way around. Nobody who knows me takes me seriously.” As he spoke, Dor feared he had just said something significant and damaging or damning; he would have to think about that in private.

“But now that you’re King-“ Doreen said, not debating his point.

Dor smiled again. “Very well. I will invite Millie and her family here for a visit so you can meet the children. I can’t guarantee they’ll come, but I will extend the invitation.”

“Oh, thank you, Your Majesty, sir!” Doreen faded gratefully out.

Dor shook his head. He hadn’t realized the ghosts liked children.

But of course one of them was a child, Button, so that could account for it. Millie’s babies were only three years old, while Button was six but of course in time the twins would grow to his age, while the ghost would not change. He had been six for six hundred years. Children were children. Dor had not met Millie’s twins himself; a visit should be interesting. He wondered whether Millie retained her talent of sex appeal, now that she was happily married. Did any wife keep up with that sort of thing? He feared that by the time he found out, it would be too late.

Later that day, perhaps by no coincidence, Dor was approached by a zombie. The decrepit creatures normally remained comfortably buried in their graveyard near the castle, but any threat to the castle would bring them charging gruesomely forth. This one dropped stinking clods of earth and goo as it walked, and its face was a mass of pus and rot, but somehow it managed to talk. “Yhoor Mhajustee-“ it pleaded loathsomely, spitting out a decayed tooth.

Dor had known the zombies well in his day, including zombie animals and a zombie ogre named Egor, so they no longer repulsed him as badly as they might have done.

“Yes?” he said politely. The best way to deal with a zombie was to give it what it wanted, since it could not be killed or discouraged. Theoretically, it was possible to dismember one and bury the pieces separately, but that was hardly worth the trouble and still was not guaranteed effective. Besides, zombies were all right, in their place.

“Ohur Masssteff-“

Dor caught on. “You have not seen the Zombie Master in some time. I will ask him to visit here so you can get together and rehash old times. Must be many a graveyard you’ve patronized with him. I can’t promise he’ll come-he does like his privacy-but I’ll make the effort.”

“Thaaanks,” the zombie whistled, losing part of its moldy tongue.

“Just remember-he has a family now. Two little children. You might find them scooping sand out of graves, playing with stray bones-“

But the zombie didn’t seem concerned. The maggots squirmed alertly in its sunken eyes as it turned to depart. Maybe it was fun to have children play with one’s bones.

Meanwhile, the daily chores continued. Another case concerned a sea monster invading a river and terrorizing the fish there, which caused a slack harvest. Dor had to travel there and make the ground in the vicinity rumble as if shaken by the passage of a giant. The inanimate objects went to it with a will; they liked conspiring to frighten a monster. And the sea monster, none too smart and not re ally looking for trouble, decided it was more at home in the deep sea, innocently gobbling down shipwrecked sailors and flashing at voyeuristic Mundane investigators of the supernatural. It made a “You’ll be sorry when you don’t have C. Monster to kick around any more!” honk and departed.

Again Dor relaxed weakly. This device would not work against a smart monster; he had been lucky. He was highly conscious of the potential for some colossal foulup, and felt it was only a matter of time before it occurred. He knew he didn’t have any special talent for governing.

At night he had nightmares, not the usual kind wherein black female Mundane-type horses chased him, but the worse kind wherein he thought he was awake and made some disastrous decision and all Xanth went up in magic flames, was overrun by wiggle-worms, or, worst of all, lost its magic and became like drear Mundania. All somehow his fault. He had heard it said that the head that wore the crown was uneasy. In truth, not only was that crown wearing a blister into his scalp, making him quite uneasy; that head was terrified by the responsibility of governing Xanth.

Another day there was a serious theft in a northern village, Dor had himself conjured there; naturally Castle Roogna had a resident conjurer. The problem village was in central Xanth, near the Incognito territory largely unexplored by man, where dragons remained unchastened, and that made Dor nervous. There were many devastating monsters in Xanth; but as a class, the dragons were the worst because there were many varieties and sizes of them, and their numbers were large. But actually, it turned out to be a pleasant region, with most of the modern magic conveniences like soda-water springs and scented soapstones for laundry. This was fur-harvesting country, and this year there had been a fine harvest from the local stand of evergreen fur trees. The green furs had been seasoning in the sun and curing in the moon and sparkling in the stars, until one morning they were gone without trace.

Dor questioned the platform on which the furs had been piled, and learned that a contingent from another village had sneaked in and stolen them. This was one time his magic talent was superior to that of King Trent-the gathering of information. He then arranged to have the furs conjured back. No action was taken against the other village; those people would know their deed had been discovered, and would probably lie low for some time.

Through all this Irene was a constant nag. She resented Dor’s ascension to the throne, though she knew it was temporary, and she kept hoping he would foul up. “My father could have done it better,” she muttered darkly when Dor solved a problem and was hardly mollified when he agreed. “You should have punished that thieving village.” And Dor wondered whether he had in fact been wishy washy there, taking the expedient route instead of the proper one.

Yet what could he do, except whatever seemed best at the time of decision? The crushing responsibility for error made him painstakingly cautious. Only experience, he suspected, could provide the necessary confidence to make excellent decisions under pressure. And that was exactly what King Trent, in his own experienced wisdom, had arranged for Dor to obtain here. Dor, to his surprise, did not quite foul up. But the variety of problems he encountered strained his ingenuity, and the foreboding grew that his luck had to turn. He counted the passing days, praying that no serious problem would arise before King Trent returned. Maybe when Dor was Trent’s age he’d be competent to run a kingdom full time; right now it was such nervous business it was driving him to distraction.

Irene, at length perceiving this, flipflopped in girlish fashion and started offering support. “After all,” she said consolingly, “it’s not forever, even though it seems like it. Only two more days before the danger’s over. Then we can all faint with relief.” Dor appreciated the support, though he might have preferred a less pointed summation of his inadequacy.

He made it. The day of King Trent’s return came, to Dor’s immense relief and Irene’s mixed gratification and subdued dismay. She wanted her father back, but had expected Dor to make more of a mess of things. Dor had escaped more or less unscratched, which she felt was not quite fair.

Both of them dressed carefully and made sure the Castle Roogna grounds were clean. They were ready to greet the returning royalty in proper style.

The expectant hours passed, but the King and Queen did not appear. Dor quelled his nervousness; of course it took time to travel, especially if a quantity of Mundane trade goods was being moved.

Irene joined Dor for a lunch of number noodles and milk shakes; they tried to divert themselves by spelling words with numbers, but the milk kept shaking so violently that nothing held together. That fitted their mood.

“Where are they?” Irene demanded as the afternoon wore on. She was really getting worried. Now that she had a genuine concern, so that she wasn’t concentrating her energy to embarrass Dor, she manifested as the infernally pretty girl she could be. Even the green tint of her hair was attractive; it did match her eyes, and after all, there was nothing wrong with plants.

“Probably they had stuff to carry, so had to go slow,” Dor said, not for the first time. But a qualm was gnawing at him. He cuffed it away, but it kept returning, as was the nature of its kind.

Irene did not argue, but the green was spreading to her face, and that was less pretty.

Evening came, and night, without Trent and Iris’s return. Now Irene turned to Dor in genuine apprehension. “Oh, Dor, I’m scared! What’s happened to them?”

He could bluff neither her nor himself. He put his arm about her shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m scared, too.”

She clung to him for a moment, all soft and sweet in her anxiety.

Then she drew away and ran to her own apartment. “I don’t want you to see me cry,” she explained as she disappeared.

Dor was touched. If only she could be like that when things were going well! There was a good deal more to her than mischief and sexual suggestion, if she ever let it show.

He retired and slept uneasily. The real nightmares came this time, not the sleek and rather pretty equines he had sometimes befriended, but huge, nebulous, misshapen creatures with gleaming white eyes and glinting teeth; he had to shake himself violently awake to make them leave. He used the royal chambers, for he was King now-but since his week was over, he felt more than ever like an imposter. He stared morosely at the dark hoofprints on the floor, knowing the mares were waiting only for him to sleep again. He was defenseless; he had geared himself emotionally for relief when the week expired, and now that relief had been negated. If the King and Queen did not return today, what would he do?

They did not return. Dor continued to settle differences and solve problems in the Kingly routine; what else could he do? But a restlessness was growing in the palace, and his own dread intensified as each hour dragged by. Everyone knew King Trent’s vacation had been scheduled for one week. Why hadn’t he returned?

In the evening Irene approached Dor privately. There was no mischief about her now. She was conservatively garbed in a voluminous green robe, and her hair was in disorder, as if overrun by weeds. Her eyes were preternaturally bright, as if she had been crying more than was good for her and had used vanishing cream to make the signs of it disappear. “Something’s happened,” she said. “I know it. We must go check on them.”

“We can’t do that,” Dor said miserably.

“Can’t? That concept is not in my lexicon.” She had grown so used to using fancy words, she now did it even when distracted. Dor hoped he never deteriorated to that extent. “I can do anything I want, except-“

“Except rule Xanth,” Dor said. “And find your parents.”

“Where are they?” she demanded.

She didn’t know, of course. She had not been part of the secret.

He saw no way to avoid telling her now, for she was, after all, King Trent’s daughter, and the situation had become serious. She did have the right to know. “In Mundania.”

“Mundania!” she cried, horrified.

“A trade mission,” he explained quickly. “To make a deal so Xanth can benefit. For progress.”

“Oh, this is twice as awful as I feared. Oh, woe! Mundania! The awfullest of places! They can’t do magic there! They’re helpless!”

That was an exaggeration, but she was prone to it when excited.

Neither Trent nor Iris was helpless in nonmagical terms. The King was an expert swordsman, and the Queen had a wonderfully devious mind. “Remember, he spent twenty years there, before he was King. He knows his way around.”

“But he didn’t come back!”

Dor could not refute that. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

“We’ll have to go find them,” she said. “Don’t tell me no again.”

And there was such a glint in her bright eyes that Dor dared not defy her.

Actually, it seemed so simple. Anything was better than the present doubt. “All right. But I’ll have to tell the Council of Elders.”

For the Elders were responsible for the Kingdom during the absence of the King. They took care of routine administrative chores and had to select a new King if anything happened to the old one. They had chosen Trent, back when the prior monarch, the Storm King, had died. Dor’s’ grandfather Roland was a leading Elder.

“First thing in the morning,” she said, her gaze daring him to demur.

“First thing in the morning,” he agreed. She had forced this action upon him, but he was glad for the decision.

“Shall I stay with you tonight? I saw the hoofprints.”

Dor considered. The surest way to banish nightmares was to have compatible company while sleeping. But Irene was too pretty now and too accommodating; if he kissed her this night, she wouldn’t bite. That made him cautious. Once Good Magician Humfrey had suggested to him that it might be more manly to decline a woman’s offer than to accept it; Dor had not quite understood that suggestion, but now he had a better inkling of its meaning. “No,” he said regretfully. “I fear the nightmares, but I fear you more.”

“Gee,” she said, pleased. Then she kissed him without biting and left in her swirl of perfume.

Dor sat for some time, wishing Irene were that way all the time. No tantrums, no artful flashes of torso, no pretended misunderstandings, just a sincere and fairly mature caring. But of course her niceness came only in phases, always wiped out by other phases.

His decision had one beneficial effect: the nightmares foraged elsewhere that night, letting him sleep in peace.

“Cover for me,” he told Irene in the morning. “I would rather people didn’t know where I am, except for the conjurer.”

“Certainly,” she agreed. If people knew he was consulting privately with an Elder, they would know something was wrong.

He went to see his grandfather Roland, who lived in the North Village, several days’ walk beyond the Gap Chasm. Kings of Xanth had once resided here, before Trent restored Castle Roogna. He marched up the neat walk and knocked on the humble door.

“Oh, grandfather!” Dor cried the moment the strong old man appeared. “Something has happened to King Trent, and I must go look for him.”

“Impossible,” Roland said sternly. “The King may not leave Castle Roogna for more than a day without appointing another Magician as successor. At the moment there are no other Magicians who would assume the crown, so you must remain there until Trent returns. That is the law of Xanth.”

“But King Trent and Queen Iris went to Mundania!”

“Mundania!” Roland was as surprised as Irene had been. “No wonder he did not consult with us! We would never have permitted that.”

So there had been method in the manner King Trent had set Dor up for this practice week. Trent had bypassed the Council of Elders!

But that was not Dor’s immediate concern. “I’m not fit to govern, grandfather. I’m too young. I’ve got to get King Trent back!”

“Absolutely not! I am only one member of the Council, but I know their reaction. You must remain here until Trent returns.”

“But then how can I rescue him?”

“From Mundania? You can’t. He will have to extricate himself from whatever situation he is in, assuming he lives.”

“He lives!” Dor repeated emphatically. He had to believe that! The alternative was unthinkable. “But I don’t know how long I can keep governing Xanth. The people know I’m not really King. They think King Trent is nearby, just giving me more practice. They won’t obey me much longer.”

“Perhaps you should get help,” Roland suggested. “I disapprove on principle of deception, but I think it best in this case that the people not know the gravity of the situation. Perhaps it is not grave at all. Trent may return in good order at any time. Meanwhile, the Kingdom need not be governed solely by one young man.”

“I could get help, I guess,” Dor said uncertainly. “But what about King Trent?”

“He must return by himself-or fail to. None of us can locate him in Mundania, let alone help him. This is the obvious consequence of his neglect in obtaining the prior advice of the Council of Elders. We must simply wait. He is a resourceful man who will surely prevail if that is humanly possible.”

With that Dor had to be satisfied. He was King, but he could not go against the Elders. He realized now that this was not merely a matter of law or custom, but of common sense. Any situation in Mundania that was too much for King Trent to handle would be several times too much for Dor.

Irene was more positive than he had expected, when he gave her the news on his return. “Of course the Elders would say that. They’re old and conservative. And right, I guess. We’ll just have to make do until my father gets back.”

Dor didn’t quite trust her change of heart, but knew better than to inquire. “Who can we get to help?” He knew it would be impossible to exclude Irene from any such activity. King Trent was, after all, her father, the one person to whom her loyalty was unfailing.

“Oh, all the kids. Chet, Smash, Grundy-“

“To run a Kingdom?” he asked dubiously.

“Would you rather leave it to the Elders?”

She had a point. “I hope the situation doesn’t last long,” he said.

“You certainly don’t hope it more than I do!” she agreed, and he knew that was straight from her heart.

Irene went off to locate the people mentioned so that Dor would not arouse suspicion by doing it himself. The first she found was Grundy the Golem. Grundy was older than the others and different in several respects. He had been created as a golem, animated wood and clay and string, and later converted to full-person status. He was only a handspan tall, and spoke all the languages of all living things which was the useful talent for which he had been created. Grundy could certainly help in solving the routine problems of Xanth. But he tended to speak too often and intemperately. In other words, he was mouthy. That could be trouble.

“Now this is a secret,” Dor explained. “King Trent is lost in Mundania, and I must run the Kingdom until he returns.”

“Xanth is in trouble!” Grundy exclaimed.

“That’s why I need your help. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have to be King, and I don’t want things to get out of control. You generally have good information-“

“I snoop a lot,” Grundy agreed. “Very well; I’ll snoop for you. First thing I have to tell you is that the whole palace is sniggering about a certain essay someone wrote for a certain female tutor-“

“That news I can dispense with,” Dor said.

“Then there’s the gossip about how a certain girl went swimming in her birthday suit, which suit seems to have stretched some since her birth, along with-“

“That, too,” Dor said, smiling. “I’m sure you comprehend my needs.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Your head.”

“He’s King, all right,” the golem muttered. One of the walls chuckled.

Irene brought in Chet. He was a centaur a little older than Dor, but he seemed younger because centaurs matured more slowly. He was Cherie’s son, which meant he was highly educated but very cautious about showing any magic talent. For a long time centaurs had believed they lacked magical talents, because most creatures of Xanth either had magic or were magic. Modern information had dissipated such superstitions. Chet did have a magic talent; he could make large things small. It was a perfectly decent ability, and many people had fine miniatures he had reduced for them, but it had one drawback; he could not reverse the process. His father was Chester Centaur, which meant Chet tended to be ornery when challenged, and was unhandsome in his human portion. When he reached his full stature, which would not be for some years yet, he would be a pretty solid animal. Dor, despite the maledictions he heaped on the race of centaurs while sweating over one of Cherie’s assignments, did like Chet, and had always gotten along with him.

Dor explained the situation. “Certainly I will help,” Chet said. He always spoke in an educated manner, partly because he was unconscionably smart, but mostly because his mother insisted. Technically, Cherie was Chet’s dam, but Dor refrained from using that term for fear Cherie would perceive the “n” he mentally added to it. Dor had sympathy for Chet; it was probably almost as hard being Cherie’s son as it was trying to be King. Chet would not dare misspell any words. “But I am uncertain how I might assist.”

“I’ve just barely figured out decent answers to the problems I’ve already dealt with,” Dor said earnestly. “I’m bound to foul up before long. I need good advice.”

“Then you should apply to my mother. Her advice is irrefutable.”

“I know. That’s too authoritative.”

Chet smiled. “I suspect I understand.” That was as close as he would come to criticizing his dam.

Later in the day Irene managed to bring in Smash. He was the offspring of Crunch the Ogre, and also not yet at full growth-but he was already about twice Dor’s mass and strong in proportion. Like all ogres, he was ugly and not smart; his smile would spook a gargoyle, and he could barely pronounce most words, let alone spell them. That quality endeared him to Dor. But the ogres association with human beings had made him more intelligible and sociable than others of his kind, and he was loyal to his friends. Dor had been his friend for years.

Dor approached this meeting diplomatically. “Smash, I need your help.”

The gross mouth cracked open like caked mud in a dehydrated pond. “Sure me help! Who me pulp to kelp?”

“No one, yet,” Dor said quickly. Again like all ogres, Smash was prone to rhymes and violence. “But if you could sort of stay within call, in case someone tries to pulp me-“

“Pulp me? Who he?”

Dor realized he had presented too convoluted a thought. “When I yell, you come help. Okay?”

“Help whelp!” Smash agreed, finally getting it straight.

Dor’s choice of helpers proved fortuitous. Because they were all his peers and friends, they understood his situation better than adults would have and kept his confidences. It was a kind of game-run this Kingdom as if King Trent were merely dallying out of sight, watching them, grading them. It was important not to foul up.

A basilisk wandered into a village, terrorizing the people, because its stare caused them to turn to stone. Dor wasn’t sure he could scare it away as he had the sea monster, though it was surely a stupid creature, for basilisks had exceedingly ornery personalities. He couldn’t have a boulder conjured to squish it, for King Trent decreed the basilisk to be an endangered species. This was an alien concept the King had brought with him from Mundania-the notion that rare creatures, however horrible, should be protected. Dor did not quite understand this, but he was trying to preserve the Kingdom for Trent’s return, so did it Trent’s way. He needed some harmless way to persuade the creature to leave human villages alone-and he couldn’t even talk its language.

But Grundy the Golem could. Grundy used a helmet and periscope-that was a magic device that bent vision around a corner-to look indirectly at the little monster, and told it about the most baleful she-bask he had ever heard of, who was lurking somewhere in the Dead Forest southeast of Castle Roogna. Since the one Grundy addressed happened to be a cockatrice, the notion of such a henatrice appealed to it. It was no lie; there was a palace guard named Crombie who had the ability to point to things and he had pointed toward that forest when asked where the most baleful female basilisk resided. Of course, sex was mostly illusion among basilisks, since each was generated from the egg of a rooster laid in a dungheap under the Dog Star and hatched by a toad. That was why this was an endangered species, since very few roosters laid eggs in dungheaps under the Dog Star-they tended to get confused and do it under the Cat Star-and most toads had little patience with the seven years it normally required to hatch the egg. But like human beings, the basilisks pursued such illusions avidly. So this cock-bask took off in all haste -.i e. a fast snail’s pace-for the Dead Forest, where the lonesome hen basked, and the problem had been solved.

Then there was an altercation in the Barracks-the village set up by the old soldiers of Trent’s erstwhile Mundane army, dismantled when he came to power. Each had a farmstead, and many had Mundane wives imported to balance the sexual ratio. They could not do magic, but their children had talents, just like the real citizens of Xanth. The old soldiers entertained themselves by setting up a war games spectacular, using wooden swords and engaging in complex maneuvers. King Trent allowed this sort of exercise, so long as no one was hurt; soldiers unable to stifle their murderous propensities were issued genuine bayonets from bayonet plants cultured for the purpose and were assigned to dragon-hunting duty. They went after those dragons who insisted on raiding human settlements. This tended to eliminate some of the dragons and most of the violent soldiers. It all worked out. But this time there was a difference of opinion concerning a score made by the Red team on the Green team.

The Reds had set up a catapult and fired off a puffball that puffed into lovely smoke at the apex of its flight. In the games, soldiers were not permitted to hurl actual rocks or other dangerous things at each other, to their frustration. The Reds claimed a direct score on the Greens’ headquarters tent, wiping out the Green Bean and his Floozie of the Day. The Greens insisted that the Reds’ aim had been off, so that they had not, after all, puffed Bean and Floozie. Since the Floozie was the brains of the outfit, this was a significant distinction. The Reds countered that they had surveyed in the positions of their catapult and the target tent, allowed for windage, humidity, air pressure, and stray magic, double-checked the azimuth, elevation, and charge with their Red Pepper and his Doll of the Day, and fired off the mock-shot in excellent faith. The victory should be theirs.

Dor had no idea how to verify the accuracy of the shot. But Chet Centaur did. Lower, middle, and higher math had been pounded into his skull by the flick of a horsewhip at his tail. He reviewed all the figures of the survey, including the Floozie and Doll figures, spoke with the military experts about corrected azimuths and trigonometric functions-which made Dor nervous; it wasn’t nice to talk dirty in public-and concluded that the shot had been off-target by seven point three lengths of the Red Pepper’s left foot. Presented with formal protests, he engaged in a brief debate in which obscure mathematical spells radiated like little whirlpools and nebulae from his head to clash with those of the Reds. A purple tangent spun into a yellow vector, breaking it in two; an orange cosine ground up a dangling cube root. The Red surveyors, impressed by Chet’s competence, conceded the point. However, since the target tent had been twelve Pepper-foots in diameter, it was recognized that the probability of a glancing strike was high, even with due margin for error. The Greens were adjudged to have lost the services of the Floozie, and therefore to be at a serious disadvantage in the engagement. The maneuvers resumed, and Chet returned to Castle Roogna, problem solved.

Then a huge old rock-maple tree fell across one of the magic paths leading to Castle Roogna. This was a well-traveled path, and it was not safe to leave it, for beyond its protection the nickelpedes lurked.

No one would risk setting foot into a nickelpede nest, for the vicious little creatures, five times the size and ferocity of centipedes, would instantly gouge out nickels of flesh. The tree had to be cleared-but the rock was far too heavy for any ordinary person to move.

Smash the Ogre took a hammer, marched down the path, and blasted away at the fallen trunk. He was as yet a child ogre, not more than half again as tall as Dor, so possessed of only a fraction of his eventual strength, but an ogre was an ogre at any age. The hammer clanged resoundingly, the welkin rang, the stone cracked asunder, dust flew up in clouds that formed a small dust storm wherein dust devils played, and fragments of maple shot out like shrapnel. Soon the little ogre had hewn a path-sized section through the trunk, so that people could pass again. The job had been simple enough for him, though as an adult, he would not have needed the hammer. He would merely have picked up the whole trunk and heaved it far away.

So it went. Another week passed-and still King Trent and Queen Iris did not return. Irene’s nervousness was contagious. “You’ve got to do something, Dor!” she screamed, and several ornamental plants in the vicinity swelled up and burst, responding to her frustration.

“The Elders won’t let me go after him,” he said, as nervous as she.

“You do something right now, Dor, or I’ll make your life completely miserable!”

Dor quailed anew. This was no empty bluff. She could make him miserable on her good days; how bad would it be when she really tried? “I’ll consult with Crombie,” he said.

“What good will that do?” she demanded. “My father is in Mundania; Crombie can’t point out his location beyond the realm of magic.”

“I have a feeble notion,” Dor said.

When Crombie arrived, Dor put it to him: how about pointing out something that would help them locate King Trent? Crombie could point to anything, even an idea; if there were some device or some person with special information. Crombie closed his eyes, spun about, flung out one arm, and pointed south.

Dor was almost afraid to believe it. “There really is something that will help?”

“I never point wrong,” Crombie said with certainty. He was a stout, graying soldier of the old school, who had a wife named Jewel who lived in the nether caves of Xanth, and a daughter named Tandy of whom no one knew anything. Jewel had been a nymph of the rock; it was her job to salt the earth with all the diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, opals, spinels, and other gemstones that prospectors were destined eventually to find. She was said to be a lovely, sweet, and tolerant woman now, satisfied to see Crombie on those irregular occasions when he got around to visiting her. Dor understood that Jewel had once loved his father Bink, or vice versa-that had never been made quite clear-but that Crombie had captured her heart with a wish-spell. Love had transformed her from nymph to woman; that process, too, was not quite within Dor’s comprehension.

What was the distinction between a nymph and a girl like Irene?

“Sometimes people interpret it wrong, but the point is always right,” Crombie finished.

“Uh, do you have any idea how far it is?”

“Can’t really tell, but pretty far, I think. I could triangulate for you, maybe.” He went to another room of the castle and tried again.

The point remained due south. “Too far to get a proper fix. Down beyond Lake Ogre-Chobee, I’d say.”

Dor knew about that lake; it had been part of the geography Cherie Centaur had drilled into him. A tribe of fiends lived beneath it, who hurled curses at anyone who bothered them; they had driven off most of the ogres who had once resided on its shores. A number of those displaced ogres had migrated north, settling in the Ogre-fen-Ogre Fen; woe betide the curse-fiend who tried to follow them there!

He didn’t want to go to that lake; anything that could drive away a tribe of ogres was certainly too much for him to handle.

“But you’re sure it will help us?” Dor asked nervously. “Not curse us?”

“You hard of hearing, Your Majesty? I said so before.” Crombie was a friend of Dor’s father and of King Trent; he did not put up with much nonsense from youngsters who had not even existed when he was sowing his wild oats. All he sowed now were tame oats; Jewel saw to that.

“How will it help us?” Irene asked.

“How should I know?” Crombie demanded. He was also a woman hater; this was another aspect of his personality whose consistency eluded Dor. How could a tamely married man hate women? Evidently Irene had changed, in Crombie’s eyes, from child to woman; indeed, there was something in the way the old soldier looked at her now that made Irene tend to fade back. She played little games of suggestion with a harmless person like Dor, but lost her nerve when confronted by a real man, albeit an old one like Crombie. “I don’t define policy; I only point the way.”

“Yes, of course, and we do appreciate it,” Dor said diplomatically. “Uh, while you’re here-would you point out the direction of any special thing I should be taking care of while I’m King?”

“Why not?” Crombie whirled again-and pointed south again.

“Ha!” Dor exclaimed. “I hoped that would be the case. I’m supposed to go find whatever it is that will help us locate King Trent.”

Irene’s eyes lighted. “Sometimes you border on genius!” she breathed, gratified at this chance to search for her parents.

“Of course I do,” Crombie agreed, though the remark had not been directed at him. He marched off on his rounds, guarding the castle.

Dor promptly visited Elder Roland again, this time having Irene conjured along with him. She had never before been to the North Village, and found it quaint. “What’s that funny-looking tree in the center court?” she inquired.

“That’s Justin Tree,” Dor replied, surprised she didn’t know about it. “Your father transformed him to that form from a man, about forty years ago, before he went to Mundania the first time.”

She was taken aback. “Why didn’t he transform him back, once he was King?”

“Justin likes being a tree,” Dor explained. “He has become a sort of symbol to the North Village. People bring him fresh water and dirt and fertilizer when he wants them, and couples embrace in his shade.”

“Oh, let’s try that!” she said.

Was she serious? Dor decided not to risk it. “We’re here on business, rescuing your father. We don’t want to delay.”

“Of course,” she agreed instantly. They hurried on to Roland’s house, where Dor’s grandmother Bianca let them in, surprised at Dor’s return.

“Grandfather,” Dor said when Roland appeared. “I have to make a trip south, according to Crombie. He points out a duty I have there, way down beyond Lake Ogre-Chobee. So the Elders can’t say no to that, can they?”

Roland frowned. “We can try, Your Majesty.” He glanced at Irene. “Would this relate to the absence of Magician Trent?”

“King Trent!” Irene snapped.

Roland smiled indulgently. “We Elders are just as concerned about this matter as you are,” he said. He spoke firmly and softly; no one would know from his demeanor that he had the magic power to freeze any person in his tracks. “We are eager to ascertain Trent’s present state. But we cannot allow our present King-that’s you, Dor -to risk himself foolishly. I’m afraid a long trip, particularly to the vicinity of Ogre-Chobee, is out of the question at this time.”

“But it’s a matter I’m supposed to attend to!” Dor protested. “And it’s not exactly the lake; it’s south of it. So I don’t have to go near the fiends. If a King doesn’t do what he’s supposed to do, he’s not fit to be King!”

“One could wish King Trent had kept that more firmly in mind,” Roland said, and Irene flushed. “Yet at times there are conflicts of duty. Part of the art of governing is the choosing of the best route through seeming conflicts. You have done well so far, Dor; I think you’ll be a good King. You must not act irresponsibly now.”

“King Trent said much the same,” Dor said, remembering. “Just before he left, he told me that when I was in doubt, to concentrate on honesty.”

“That is certainly true. How strange that he did not do the honest thing himself, and consult with the Elders before he departed.”

That was bothering Dor increasingly, and he could see that Irene was fit to explode. She hated denigration of her father-yet Roland’s pique seemed justified. Had King Trent had some deeper motive than mere trade with Mundania? Had he, incredibly, actually planned not to return? “I’d like just to go to bed and hide my head under the blanket,” Dor said.

“That is no longer a luxury you can afford. I think the nightmares would seek you out.”

“They already have,” Dor agreed ruefully. “The castle maids are complaining about the hoofprints in the rugs.”

“I would like to verify your findings, if I may,” Roland said.

There was a break while Dor arranged to have Crombie conjured to the North Village. Grandmother Bianca served pinwheel cookies she had harvested from her pinwheel bush. Irene begged a pinwheel seed from her; Irene had a collection of seeds she could grow into useful plants.

“My, how you’ve grown!” Bianca said, observing Irene.

Irene dropped her cookie-but then had it back unbroken.

Bianca’s magic talent was the replay; she could make time drop back a few seconds, so that some recent error could be harmlessly corrected. “Thank you,” Irene murmured, recovering.

Crombie arrived. “I would like to verify your findings, if I may,” Roland repeated to the soldier. Dor noted how the old man was polite to everyone; somehow that made Roland seem magnified in the eyes of others. “Will you point out to me, please, the greatest present threat to the Kingdom of Xanth?”

Crombie obligingly went through his act again-and pointed south again. “That is what I suspected,” Roland said. “It seems something is developing in that region that you do indeed have to attend to, Dor. But this is a serious matter, no pleasure excursion.”

“What can I do?” Dor asked plaintively. The horror of King Trent’s unexplained absence was closing in on him, threatening to overwhelm his tenuous equilibrium.

“You can get some good advice.”

Dor considered. “You mean Good Magician Humfrey?”

“I do. He can tell you which course is best, and If you must make this trip, he can serve in your stead as King.”

“I don’t think he’ll agree to that,” Dor said.

“I’m sure he won’t,” Irene agreed.

“There must be a Magician on the throne of Xanth. Ask Humfrey to arrange it, should he approve your excursion.”

That was putting the Good Magician on the spot! “I will.” Dor looked around, trying to organize himself. “I’d better get started. It’s a long walk.”

“You’re the King, Dor. You don’t have to walk there any more than you had to walk here. Have yourself conjured there.”

“Oh. Yes. I forgot.” Dor felt quite foolish.

“But first get the rest of us safely back to Castle Roogna,” Irene told him, nibbling on another cookie. “I don’t want to have to cross over the Gap Chasm on the invisible bridge’ and have the Gap Dragon looking up my skirt.” She held the cookie up by the pin while she chewed around the wheel, delicately.

Dor did not arrive inside Magician Humfrey’s castle. He found himself standing just outside the moat. Something had gone wrong!

No, he realized. He had been conjured correctly-but the Good Magician, who didn’t like intrusions, had placed a barrier-spell in the way, to divert anyone to this place outside. Humfrey didn’t like to talk to anyone who didn’t get into the castle the hard way. Of course he wasn’t supposed to make the King run the gauntlet-but obviously the old wizard was not paying attention at the moment. Dor should have called him on a magic mirror; he hadn’t thought of it, in his eagerness to get going. Which meant he deserved what he had gotten-the consequence of his own lack of planning.

Of course, he could probably yell loud enough to attract the attention of someone inside the castle so he could get admitted without trouble. But Dor had a slightly ornery streak. He had made a mistake; he wanted to work his way out of it himself. Rather, into it. He had forced his way into this castle once, four years ago; he should be able to do it now. That would prove he could recover his own fumbles-the way a King should.

He took a good look at the castle environs. The moat was not clear and sparkling as it had been the last time he was here; it was dull and noisome. The shape of the castle wall was now curved and slanted back, like a steep conical mountain. It was supremely unimpressive-and therefore suspect.

Dor squatted and dipped a finger in the water. It came up festooned with slime. He sniffed it. Ugh! Yet there was a certain familiarity about it he could not quite place. Where had he smelled that smell before?

One thing was certain: he was not about to wade or swim through that water without first ascertaining exactly what lurked in it. Magician Humfrey’s castle defenses were intended to balk and discourage, rather than to destroy-but they were always formidable enough.

Generally it took courage and ingenuity to navigate the several hazards. There would be something in the moat a good deal more unpleasant than slime.

Nothing showed. The dingy green gook covered the whole surface, unbroken by any other horror. Dor was not encouraged.

“Water, are there any living creatures lurking in your depths?” he inquired.

“None at all,” the water replied, its voice slurred by the goop. Yet there was a tittery overtone; it seemed to find something funny in the question.

“Any inanimate traps?”

“None.” Now little ripples of mirth tripped across the glutinous surface.

“What’s so funny?” Dor demanded.

The water made little elongated splashes, like dribbles of spoiled mucus. “You’ll find out.”

The trouble with the inanimate was that it had very shallow notions of humor and responsibility. But it could usually be coaxed or cowed. Dor picked up a rock and hefted it menacingly. “Tell me what you know,” he said to the water, “or I’ll strike you with this stone.”

“Don’t do that!” the water cried, cowed. “I’ll squeal! I’ll spill everything I know, which isn’t much.”

“Ugh!” the rock said at the same time. “Don’t throw me in that feculent sludge!”

Dor remembered how he had played the Magician’s own defenses against each other, last time. There had been a warning sign, TRESPASSERS WILL BE PERSECUTED-and sure enough, when he trespassed he had been presented with a button with the word TRESPASSER on one side, and PERSECUTED on the other. The living history tome that had recorded the episode had suffered a typo, rendering PERSECUTED into PROSECUTED for the sign, but not for the button, spoiling the effect of these quite different words.

These things happened; few people seemed to know the distinction, and Dor’s spelling had not been good enough to correct it. But this time there was no sign. He had to generate his own persecution. “Get on with it,” he told the water, still holding the rock.

“It’s a zombie,” the water said. “A zombie sea serpent.”

Now Dor understood. Zombies were dead, so it was true there were no living creatures in the moat. But zombies were animate, so there were no inanimate traps either. It made sudden sense-for Dor remembered belatedly that the Zombie Master was still here. When the Zombie Master appeared in the present Xanth, there had been a problem, since Good Magician Humfrey now occupied the castle the Zombie Master had used eight hundred years ago. The one had the claim of prior tenancy, the other the claim of present possession.

Neither wanted trouble. So the two Magicians had agreed to share the premises until something better was offered. Evidently the Zombie Master had found nothing better. Naturally he helped out with the castle defenses; he was not any more sociable than Humfrey was.

As it happened, Dor had had experience with zombies. Some of his best friends had been zombies. He still was not too keen on the way they smelled, or on the way they dropped clods of dank glop and maggots wherever they went, but they were not bad creatures their place. More important, they were hardly smarter than the inanimate objects Dor’s magic animated, because their brains were literally rotten. He was confident he could fool a zombie.

“There should be a boat around here,” he said to the rock. “Where is it?”

“Over there, chump,” the rock said. “Now will you let me go?”

Dor saw the boat. Satisfied, he let the rock go. It dropped with a satisfied thunk to the ground and remained there in blissful repose.

Rocks were basically lazy; they hardly ever did anything on their own.

He went to the boat. It was a dingy canoe with a battered double paddle-exactly what he needed. Dor walked away.

“Hey, aren’t you going to use me?” the canoe demanded. Objects weren’t supposed to talk unless Dor willed it, but they tended to get sloppy about the rules.

“No. I’m going to fetch my friend the zombie.”

“Oh, sure. We see lots of that kind here. They make good fertilizer.”

When Dor was out of sight of the castle, he stopped and stooped to grub in the dirt. He smeared dirt on his face and arms and over his royal robes. Naturally he should have changed to more suitable clothing for this trip, but of course that was part of his overall carelessness. He had not planned ahead at all.

Next, he found a sharp stone and used it to rip into the cloth of the robe. “ooooh, ouch!” the robe groaned. “What did I ever do to you that you should slay me thus?” But the sharp stone only chuckled. It liked ripping off clothing.

Before long, Dor was a tattered figure of a man. He scooped several double handfuls of dirt into a fold of his robe and walked back to the castle. As he approached the moat, he shuffled in the manner of a zombie and dropped small clods to the ground.

He got into the canoe. “oooooh,” he groaned soulfully. “I hope I can make it home before I go all to pieces.” And he used the paddle to push off into the scum of the moat. He was deliberately clumsy, though in truth he was not well experienced with canoes and would have been awkward anyway. The water slurped and sucked as the paddle dipped into the ooze.

Now there was a stirring as the zombie sea monster moved. The slime parted and the huge, mottled, decaying head lifted clear of the viscous surface. Globules of slush dangled and dripped, plopping sickly into the water. The huge, sloppy mouth peeled open, revealing scores of loose brownish teeth set in a jaw almost stripped of flesh.

“Hi, friend!” Dor called windily. “Can you direct me to my Master?” As he spoke he slipped forth a moist clod of dirt, so that it looked as if his lip were falling off.

The monster hesitated. Its grotesque head swung close to inspect Dor.

Its left eyeball came loose, dangling by a gleaming string.

“Sooo?” the zombie inquired, its breath redolent of spoiled Limburger.

Dor waved his arms, losing some more earth. One choice clod struck the monster on the nose with a dank squish. He was sorry he hadn’t been able to find anything really putrid, like a maggoty rat corpse, but that was the luck of the game. “Whe-eere?” he demanded, every bit as stupid as a zombie. The big advantage to playing stupid was that it didn’t take much intelligence. He knocked at his right ear and let fall another clod, as if a piece of his brain had been dislodged.

At last the serpent caught on. “Theeere,” it breathed, spraying out several loose fragments of teeth and bone with the effort. Its snout seemed to be afflicted with advanced gangrene, and the remaining teeth were crumbling around their canes.

“Thaaanks,” Dor replied, dropping another clod into the water.

He took up the paddle again and scraped on toward the castle.

“Hope I don’t fall apart before I get there.”

He had won the first round. The sea serpent was in poor condition, as most zombies were, but could have capsized the boat and drowned Dor in slime without difficulty. Had its brain been a better grade of pudding, it might have done just that. But zombies did not attack their own kind; that was too messy. Even the completeness of Dor’s own body, conspicuously healthy under the tatters and dirt, did not count too much against him; fresh zombies were complete. It took time for most of the flesh to fall off.

He docked at the inner edge of the moat, where the castle wall emerged at its steep angle. Now Dor splashed a hole in the slime and cleared a section of halfway clean water he could wash in. His zombie ploy was over; he didn’t want to enter the castle in this condition.

The rents in his robe could not be repaired, but at least he would look human.

He got out of the canoe, but found it hard to stand on the sloping wall. The surface was not brick or stone, as he had supposed, but glass-solid, translucent, seamless, cold hard glass. A mountain of glass.

Glass. Now he grasped the nature of the second challenge. The slope became steeper near the top, until the wall was almost vertical.

How could he scale that?

Dor tried. He placed each foot carefully and found that he could stand and walk, slowly. He had to remain straight upright, for the moment he leaned into the mountain, as was his natural inclination, his feet began to skid. He could quickly get dumped into the awful moat if he let his feet slide out from under him. Fortunately, there was no wind; he could stand erect and step slowly up.

He noticed, however, a small cloud in the sky. As he watched, it seemed to extend rapidly. oops-that surely meant rain, which would wash him out. That was surely no coincidence; probably the touch of his foot on the glass had summoned the storm. He had to hike to the top of the mountain before the cloud arrived. Well, the distance was not far. With care and good foot-friction, he could probably make it.

Then something came galloping around the mountain. It had four legs, a tail, and a funny horned head. But its chief oddity It was heading right for Dor, those horns lowered. The creature was no taller than he, and the horns were small and blunt, but the body was far more massive. Dor had to jump to get out of its way and lost his footing and slid down to the brink of the water before stopping, his nose barely clear of the slime.

He stabilized himself while the zombie sea serpent watched with a certain aloof amusement. Dor wiped a dangle of goo from his nose.

“What was that?”

“The Sidehill Hoofer,” the glass responded.

“Something funny about that creature. The legs-“

“Oh, sure,” the glass said. “The two left legs are shorter than the two rights. That’s so she can charge around the mountain in comfort. It’s natural selection; lots of the better mountains have them.”

Shorter left legs-so the Hoofer could stay level while running on a slope. It did make a certain kind of sense. “How come I never heard of this creature before?” Dor demanded.

“Probably because your education has been neglected.”

“I was tutored by a centaur!” Dor said defensively.

“The centaur surely told you of the Sidehill Hoofer,” the glass agreed. “But did you listen? Education is only as good as the mind of the student.”

“What are you implying?” Dor demanded.

“I rather thought you were too dense to grasp the implication,” the glass said with smug condescension.

“You’re a mountain of glass!” Dor said irately. “How bright can you be?”

“Thought you’d never ask. I’m the brightest thing on the horizon.”

And a beam of sunlight slanted down, avoiding the looming cloud, causing the mountain to glow brilliantly.

Dor had walked into that one! With the lifetime experience he had had, he still fell into the trap of arguing with the inanimate. He changed the subject. “Is the Hoofer dangerous?”

“Not if you have the wit to stay out of her way.”

“I’ve got to climb to the top of this slope.”

“Extraordinary fortune,” the glass said brightly.

“What’s that?”

The glass sighed. “I keep forgetting that animate creatures cannot match my brilliance. Recognizing your handicap, I shall translate: Lots of luck.”

“Oh, thank you,” Dor said sarcastically.

“That’s irony,” the glass said.

“Irony-not glassy?”

“Spare me your feeble efforts at repartee. If you do not get moving before that cloud arrives, you will be washed right into the sea.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Dor grumped, starting back up the slope.

“That is hyperbole.” The glass began humming a tinkly little tune.

Dor made better progress than before. He was getting the hang of it. He had to put his feet down flat and softly and will himself not to skid. But the Sidehill Hoofer came charging around the cone again, spooking him with a loud “Moooo!” and Dor slid down the slope again. He was no more partial to this bovine than he had been to Irene’s sea cow.

The cloud was definitely closer, and playful little gusts of wind emanated from it. “Oh, get lost!” Dor told it.

“Fat chance!” it blew back, ruining his hair with an aggravating intimacy.

Dor went up the slope a third time, by dint of incautious effort getting beyond the slight gouge in the mountain worn by the Hoofer’s pounding hooves. The glass hummed louder and finally broke into song: “She’ll be coming ‘round the mountain when she comes.”

Sure enough, the Sidehill Hoofer came galumphing around again, spied Dor, and corrected course slightly to charge straight at him.

Her uneven legs pounded evenly on the incline, so that her two short horns were dead-level as they bore on him. Blunt those horns might be, but they were formidable enough in this situation.

Oh, no! It was no accident that brought this creature around so inconveniently; she was trying to prevent him from passing. Naturally this was the third barrier to his entry into the castle.

Dor jumped out of the way and slid down to the brink again, disgruntled.

The Hoofer thundered by, disappearing around the curve.

Dor wiped another dribble of slime off his nose. He wasn’t making much progress! This was annoying, because he had passed his first challenge without difficulty and faced only two comparatively simple and harmless ones-to avoid the Hoofer and scale the slippery slope.

Either alone was feasible; together they baffled him. Now he had perhaps ten minutes to accomplish both before the ornery raincloud wiped him out. Already the forward edge of the cloud had cut off the sunbeam.

Dor didn’t like leaning on his magic talent too much, but decided that pride was a foolish baggage at this point. He had to get inside the castle any way he could and get Good Magician Humfrey’s advice-for the good of Xanth.

“Glass, since you’re so bright-tell me how I can get past the Hoofer and up your slope before the cloud strikes.”

“Don’t tell him!” the cloud thundered.

“Well, I’m not so bright any more, now that I’m in your shadow,” the glass demurred. This was true; the sparkle was gone, and the mountain was a somber dark mass, like the quiet depths of an ocean.

“But you remember the answer,” Dor said. “Give.”

“Take!” the storm blew.

“I’ve got to tell him,” the glass said dolefully. “Though I’d much rather watch him fall on his as-“

“Watch your language!” Dor snapped.

“-sinine posterior again and dip his nose in the gunk. But he’s a Magician and I’m only silicon.” The glass sighed. “Very well. Cogitate and masticate on-“

“What?”

“Give me strength to survive the monumental idiocy of the animate,” the glass prayed obnoxiously. The cloud had let a gleam of sunlight through, making it bright again. “Think and chew on this: who can most readily mount the slope?”

“The Sidehill Hoofer,” Dor said. “But that’s no help. I’m the one who-“

“Think and chew,” the glass repeated with emphasis.

That reminded Dor of the way King Trent had stressed the importance of honesty, and that annoyed Dor. This mountain was no King! What business did it have making oblique allusions, as if Dor were a dunce who needed special handling? “Look, glass-I asked you a direct question-“

“An indirect question, technically. My response reflects your approach. But surely you realize that I am under interdiction by another Magician.”

Dor didn’t know what “interdiction” meant, but could guess.

Humfrey had told the mountain not to blab the secret. But the cloud was looming close and large and dense with water, and he was impatient.

“Hey, I insist that you tell me.”

“’That is of course the answer.”

Dor paused. This too-bright object was making a fool of him. He reviewed his words. Hey, I insist that you tell me-how was that the answer? Yet it seemed it was.

“You’ll never get it,” the glass said disparagingly.

“Hey, now-“ Dor started angrily.

“There you go again.”

Hey, now?

Suddenly Dor got it. Hey-spelled H A Y. “Hay-now!” he cried.

It was a homonym.

The zombie sea serpent, taking that for an order, swam across the moat and reached out to take a clumsy bite of dry grass from the outer bank. It brought this back to Dor.

“Thank you, serpent,” Dor said, accepting the armful. He shook out the residual slime and dottle, and several more of the monster’s teeth bounced on the glass. Zombies had an inexhaustible supply of fragments of themselves to drop; it was part of their nature.

He started up the slope yet again, but this time he wanted to meet the Hoofer. He stood there with his hay, facing her.

The creature came ’round the mountain-and paused as she sighted him. Her ears perked forward and her tongue ran over her lips.

“That’s right, you beautiful bovine,” Dor said. “This hay is for you. Think and chew-to chew on while you think. I noticed that there isn’t much forage along your beat. You must use a lot of energy, pounding around, and work up quite an appetite. Surely you could use a lunch break before the rain spoils everything.”

The Hoofer’s eyes became larger. They were beautiful and soulful.

Her square nose quivered as she sniffed in the odor of the fresh hay.

Her pink tongue ran around her muzzle again. She was certainly hungry.

“Of course, if I set it down, it’ll just slide down the slope and into the moat,” Dor said reasonably. “I guess you could fish it out, but slime-coated hay doesn’t taste very good, does it?” As he spoke, a stronger gust of wind from the eager storm swirled through, tugging at the hay and waiting a few strands down to the goo of the moat.

The Hoofer fidgeted with alarm.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” Dor said. “I’ll just get on your back and carry the hay, and feed it to you while you walk. That way you’ll be able to eat it all, without losing a wisp, and no one can accuse you of being derelict in your duty. You’ll be covering your beat all the time.”

“Mmmooo,” the Hoofer agreed, salivating. She might not be bright, but she knew a good deal when she smelled it.

Dor approached, gave her a good mouthful of hay, then scrambled onto her back from the uphill side. Is left foot dragged, while his right foot dangled well above the surface of the glass, but he was sitting level. He leaned forward and extended his left hand to present another morsel of hay.

The Hoofer took it and chewed blissfully, walking forward. When she finished masticating that-Dor realized he had learned a new word, though he would never be able to spell it-he gave her more, again left-handedly. She had to turn her head left to take it, and her travel veered slightly that way, uphill.

They continued in this manner for a full circuit of the mountain.

Sure enough, they were higher on the slope than they had been. His constant presentation of hay on the upward side caused the Hoofer to spiral upward. That was where he wanted to go.

The storm was almost upon them. It had not been fooled! Dor leaned forward, squeezing with his knees, and the Hoofer unconsciously speeded up. The second circuit of the mountain was much faster, because of the accelerated pace and the narrower diameter at this elevation, and the third was faster yet. But Dor’s luck, already overextended, was running out. His supply of hay, he saw, would not last until the top-and the rain would catch them anyway.

He made a bold try to turn liabilities into assets. “I’m running out of hay-and the storm is coming,” he told the Hoofer. “You’d better set me down before it gets slippery; no sense having my weight burden you.”

She hesitated, thinking this through. Dor helped the process.

“Anywhere will do. You don’t have to take me all the way to the base of the mountain. Maybe there at the top, where I’ll be out of your way; it’s certainly closer.”

That made good cow-sense to her. She trotted in a rapidly tightening spiral to the pinnacle, unbothered by the nearly vertical slope, where Dor stepped off. “Thanks, Hoofer,” he said. “You do have pretty eyes.” His experience with Irene had impressed upon him the advantage of complimenting females; they all were vain about their appearance.

Pleased, the Hoofer began spiraling down. At that point, the storm struck. The cloud crashed into the pinnacle; the cloud substance tore asunder and water sluiced out of the rent. Rain pelted down, covering the glass surface instantly to something like slick ice. Wind buffeted him, whistling past the needle-pointed apex of the mountain that had wounded the cloud, making dire screams.

Dor’s feet slipped out, and he had to fling his arms around the narrow spire to keep from sliding rapidly down. The Hoofer had trouble, too; she braced all four feet-but still skidded grandly downward, until the lessening pitch of the slope enabled her to achieve stability. Then she ducked her head, flipped her tail over her nose, and went to sleep standing. The storm could not really hurt her. She had nowhere to go anyway. She was secure as long as she never tried to face the other way. He knew that when the rain abated, the Sidehill Hoofer would be contentedly chewing her cud.

So Dor had made it to the top, conquering the last of the hurdles.

Only-what was he to do now? The mountain peaked smoothly, and there was no entrance. Had he gone through all this to reach the wrong spot? If so, he had outsmarted himself.

The water sluicing from the cloud was cold. His tattered clothing was soaked through, and his fingers were turning numb. Soon he would lose his grip and slide down, probably plunking all the way into the gook of the moat. That was a fate almost worse than freezing!

“There must be a way in from here!” he gasped.

“Of course there is, dumbbell,” the spire replied. “You’re not nearly as sharp as I am! Why else did you scheme your way up here? To wash off your grimy body? I trust I’m not being too pointed.”

Why else indeed! He had just assumed this was the correct route, because it was the most difficult one. “Okay, brilliant glass-your mind has more of a cutting edge than mine. Where is it?”

“Now I don’t have to tell you that,” the glass said, chortling. “Any idiot, even one as dull as you, could figure that out for himself.”

“I’m not just any idiot!” Dor cried, the discomfort of the rain and chill giving him a terrible temper.

“You certainly aren’t! You’re a prize idiot.”

“Thank you,” Dor said, mollified. Then he realized that he was being as gullible as the average inanimate. Furious, Dor bashed his forehead against the glass-and something clicked. oops-had he cracked his skull?

No, he had only a mild bruise. Something else had made the noise.

He nudged the surface again and got another click.

Oho! He hit the glass a third time-and suddenly the top of the mountain sprang open, a cap whose catch had been released. It hung down one side on stout hinges, and inside was the start of a spiral staircase. Victory at last!

“That’s using your head,” the glass remarked.

Dor scrambled into the hole. He entered headfirst, then wrestled himself around to get his feet on the steps. Then he hauled the pointed cap of the mountain up and over, at last closing off the blast of the rain. “Curses!” the cloud stormed as he shut it out.

He emerged into Humfrey’s crowded study. There were battered leather-bound tomes of spells, magic mirrors, papers, and a general litter of indecipherable artifacts. Amidst it all, almost lost in the shuffle, stood Good Magician Humfrey.

Humfrey was small, almost tiny, and grossly wrinkled. His head and feet were almost as large as those of a goblin, and most of his hair had gone the way of his youth. Dor had no idea how old he was and was afraid to ask; Humfrey was an almost ageless institution. He was the Magician of Information; everything that needed to be known in Xanth, he knew-and he would answer any question for the payment of one year’s service by the asker. It was amazing how many people and creatures were not discouraged by that exorbitant fee; it seemed information was the most precious thing there was.

“About time you got here,” the little man grumped, not even noticing Dor’s condition. “There’s a problem in Centaur Isle you’ll have to attend to. A new Magician has developed.”

This was news indeed! New Magicians appeared in Xanth at the rate of about one per generation; Dor had been the last one born.

“Who is he? What talent does he have?”

“He seems to be a centaur.”

“A centaur! But most of them don’t believe in magic!”

“They’re very intelligent,” Humfrey agreed.

Since centaurs did have magic talents-those who admitted it-there was no reason why there could not be a centaur Magician, Dor realized. But the complications were horrendous. Only a Magician could govern Xanth; suppose one day there were no human Magician, only a centaur one? Would the human people accept a centaur King? Could a centaur King even govern his own kind? Dor doubted that Cherie Centaur would take orders from any magic-working centaur; she had very strict notions about obscenity, and that was the ultimate. “You didn’t tell me his talent.”

“I don’t know his talent!” Humfrey snapped. “I’ve been burning the midnight magic and cracking mirrors trying to ascertain it-but there seems to be nothing he does.”

“Then how can he be a Magician?”

“That is for you to find out!” Obviously the Good Magician was not at all pleased to admit his inability to ascertain the facts in this case. “We can’t have an unidentified Magician-caliber talent running loose; it might be dangerous.”

Dangerous? Something connected. “Uh-would Centaur Isle be to the south?”

“Southern tip of Xanth. Where else would it be?”

Dor didn’t want to admit that he had neglected that part of his geography. Cherie had made nonhuman history and social studies optional, since Dor was human; therefore he hadn’t studied them. He had learned about the ogre migration only because Smash had been curious. His friend Chet lived in a village not far north of the Gap Chasm, in easy galloping range of Castle Roogna via one of the magic bridges. Of course Dor knew that there were other colonies of centaurs; they were scattered around Xanth just as the human settlements were. He just hadn’t paid attention to the specific sites.

“Crombie the soldier pointed out the greatest threat to Xanth there. Also a job I need to attend to. And a way to get help to rescue King Trent. So it all seems to fit.”

“Of course it fits. Everything in Xanth makes sense, for those with the wit to fathom it. You’re going to Centaur Isle. Why else did you come here?”

“I thought it was for advice.”

“Oh, that. The Elders’ face-saving device. Very well. Gather your juvenile friends. You’ll be traveling incognito; no conjuring or other royal affectations. You can’t roust out this hidden Magician if he knows you’re coming. So the trip will take a week or so-“

“A week! The Elders won’t let me be away more than a day!”

“Ridiculous! They made no trouble about King Trent going to Mundania for a week, did they?”

“Because they didn’t know,” Dor said. “He didn’t tell them.”

“Of course he told them! He consulted with me, and for the sake of necessary privacy I agreed to consult with the Elders and let him know if they raised any objections-and they didn’t.”

“But my grandfather Roland says he was never told,” Dor insisted. “The truth is, he is somewhat annoyed.”

“I told him myself. Here, verify it with the mirror.” He gestured to a magic mirror on the wall. Its surface was finely crazed; evidently this was one of the ones that had suffered in the course of Humfrey’s recent investigation of the centaur Magician.

“When did Magician Humfrey tell Elder Roland about King Trent’s trip to Mundania?” Dor asked it carefully. One had to specify things exactly, for mirrors’ actual depth was much less than their apparent depth, and they were not smart at all despite their ability to answer questions. “Garbage in, garbage out,” King Trent had once remarked cryptically, apparently meaning that a stupid question was likely to get a stupid answer.

The tail of a centaur appeared in the marred surface. Dor knew that meant NO. “It says you didn’t,” he said.

“Well, maybe I forgot,” Humfrey muttered. “I’m too busy to keep up with every trifling detail.” And the front of the centaur appeared-a fetching young female.

No wonder there had been no protest from the Elders! Humfrey, distracted by other things, had never gotten around to informing them.

King Trent, believing the Magician’s silence meant approval from the Elders, had departed as planned. Trent had not intentionally deceived them. That gratified Dor; it had been difficult to think of the King as practicing deliberate deception. Trent had meant his words about honesty.

“I believe the Elders will veto my trip,” Dor said. “Especially after-“

“The Elders can go-“

“Humfrey!” a voice called warningly from the doorway. “Don’t you dare use such language on this day. You’ve already cracked one mirror that way!”

So that was how the mirror had suffered! Humfrey had uttered too caustic a word when balked on news of the new Magician.

Dor looked to the voice. It came from the nothingness that was the face of the Gorgon, an absolutely voluptuous, statuesque, shapely, and buxom figure of a lovely woman whose face no one could look at. Humfrey had put a temporary spell on it, ten or fifteen years ago, to protect society from the Gorgon’s involuntary magic while he worked out a better way to solve the problem. It seemed he had never gotten around to that solution either. He was known to be a bit absent-minded.

Humfrey’s brow wrinkled as if bothered by a pink mosquito.

“What’s special about this day?”

She seemed to smile. At least, the little serpents that were her hair writhed in a more harmonious manner. “It will come to you in due course, Magician. Now you get into your suit. The good one that you haven’t used for the past century or so. Make the moth unball it for you.” Her facelessness turned to Dor. “Come with me, Your Majesty.”

Perplexed, Dor followed her out of the room. “Uh, am I intruding or something?”

She laughed, sending jiggles through her flesh. Dor squinted, to prevent his eyeballs from popping. “Hardly! You have to perform the ceremony.”

Dor’s bafflement intensified. “Ceremony?”

She turned and leaned toward him. It embarrassed him to look into her empty head, so he glanced down-and found himself peering through the awesome crevice of her burgeoning cleavage. Dor closed his eyes, blushing.

“The ceremony of marriage,” the Gorgon murmured. “Didn’t you get the word?”

“I guess not,” Dor said. “A lot of words seem to get mislaid around here.”

“True, true. But you arrived on schedule anyway, so it’s all right. Only the King of Xanth can make it properly binding on that old curmudgeon. It has taken me a good many years to land him, and I mean to have that knot tied chokingly tight.”

“But I’ve never-I know nothing about-“ Dor opened his eyes again, and goggled at the mountains and valley of her bosom, and at the empty face, and retreated hastily back into darkness. Too little and too much, in such proximity!

“Do not be alarmed,” the Gorgon said. “the sight of me will not petrify you.”

That was what she thought. It occurred to him that it was not merely the Gorgon’s face that turned a man to stone. Other parts of her could do it to other parts of him. But he forced his eyes open and up, from the fullness to the emptiness, meeting her invisible gaze.

“Uh, when does it happen?”

“Not long after the nuptials,” she said. “It will be a matter of pride with me to handle it without recourse to any potency spell.”

Dor found himself blushing ferociously. “The-I meant the ceremony.”

She pinched his cheek gently with her thumb and forefinger. “I know you did, Dor. You are so delightfully pristine. Irene will have quite a time abating your naiveté.”

So his future, too, had been mapped out by a woman-and it seemed all other women knew it. No doubt there was a female conspiracy that continued from generation to generation. He could only be thankful that Irene had neither the experience nor the body of the Gorgon. Quite. Yet.

They emerged into what appeared to be a bedroom. “You’ll have to change out of those soaking things,” the Gorgon said. “Really, you young people should be more careful. Were you playing tag with a bayonet plant? Let me just get these tatters off you-“

“No!” Dor cried, though he was shivering in the wet and ragged robe.

She laughed again, her bosom vibrating. “I understand. You are such a darling boy! I’ll send in the Zombie Master. You must be ready in hall an hour; it’s all scheduled.” She turned and swept out, leaving Dor relieved, bemused, and guiltily disappointed. A woman like that could play a man like a musical instrument!

In a moment the gaunt but halfway handsome Zombie Master arrived. He shook hands formally with Dor. “I will never forget what I owe you, Magician,” he said.

“You paid off any debt when you made Millie the Ghost happy,” Dor said, gratified. He had been instrumental in getting the Zombie Master here, knowing Millie loved him; but Dor himself had profited greatly from the experience. He had, in a very real sense, learned how to be a man. Of course, it seemed that he had forgotten much of that in the ensuing years-the Gorgon had certainly set him in his place!-but he was sure the memory would help him.

“That debt can never be paid,” the Zombie Master said gravely.

Dor was not inclined to argue. He was glad he had helped this Magician and Millie to get together. He remembered that he had promised to invite them both to visit Castle Roogna so that the ghosts and zombies could renew acquaintance.

“Uh-“ Dor began, trying to figure out how to phrase the invitation.

The Zombie Master produced an elegant suit of clothing tailored to Dor’s size, and set about getting him changed and arranged. “Now we must review the ceremony,” he said. He brought out a book.

“Millie and I will organize most of it; we have been through this foolishness before. You just read this service when I give the signal.”

Dor opened the book. The title page advised him that this text contained a sample service for the unification of Age-Old Magicians and Voluptuous Young Maidens. Evidently the Gorgon had crafted this one herself. The service was plain enough; Dor’s lines were written in black, the groom’s in blue, the bride’s in pink.

Do you, Good Magician Humfrey, take this lovely creature to be your bride, to love and cherish as long as you shall live? Well, it did make sense; the chances of him outliving her were remote. But this sort of contract made Dor nervous.

Dor looked up. “It seems simple enough, I guess. Uh, If we have a moment-“

“Oh, we have two or three moments, but not four,” the Zombie Master assured him, almost smiling.

Dor broke into a full smile. This Magician had been cadaverously gaunt and sober when Dor had first known him; now he was better fleshed and better tempered. Marriage had evidently been good for him. “I promised the ghosts and zombies of Castle Roogna that your family would visit soon. I know you don’t like to mix with ordinary people too much, but if you could see your way clear to-“

The Magician frowned. “I did profess a deep debt to you. I suppose if you insist-“

“Only if you want to go,” Dor said quickly. “’these creatures-it wouldn’t be the same if it wasn’t voluntary.”

“I will consider. I daresay my wife will have a sentiment.”

On cue, Millie appeared. She was as lovely as ever, despite her eight hundred and thirty-odd years of age. She was less voluptuous than the Gorgon, but still did have her talent. Dor became uncomfortable again; he had once had a crush on Millie. “Of course we shall go,” Millie said. “We’ll be glad to, won’t we, Jonathan?”

The Zombie Master could only acquiesce solemnly. The decision had been made.

“It’s time,” Millie said. “The bride and groom are ready.”

“The bride, perhaps,” the Zombie Master said wryly. “I suspect I will have to coerce the groom.” He turned to Dor. “You go down to the main chamber; the wedding guests are assembling now. They will take their places when you appear.”

“Uh, sure,” Dor agreed. He took the book and made his way down a winding stair. The castle layout differed from what it had been the last time he was here, but that was only to be expected. The outside defenses changed constantly, so it made sense that the inner schematic followed.

But when he reached the main chamber, Dor stood amazed. It was a grand and somber cathedral, seemingly larger than the whole of the castle, with stately columns and ornate arches supporting the domed glass ceiling. At one end was a dais whose floor appeared to be solid silver. It was surrounded by huge stained-glass windows, evidently another inner aspect of the exterior glass mountain. A jeweled chandelier supported the sun, which was a brilliantly golden ball, borrowed for this occasion. Dor had always wondered what happened to the sun when clouds blocked it off; perhaps now he knew. What would happen if they didn’t finish the ceremony before the storm outside abated and the sun needed to be returned?

The guests were even more spectacular. There were hundreds of them, of all types. Some were human, some humanoid, and most were monsters. Dor spied a griffin, a dragon, a small sphinx, several merfolk in a tub of sea water, a manticora, a number of elves, goblins, harpies, and sprites; a score of nickelpedes, a swarm of fruitflies, and a needle cactus. The far door was dwarfed by its guardian Crunch the Ogre, Smash’s father, as horrendous a figure of a monster as anyone cared to imagine.

“What is this?” Dor asked, astonished.

“All the creatures who ever obtained answers from the Good Magician, or interacted significantly with him during the past century,” the nearest window explained.

“But-but why?”

A grotesque bespectacled demon detached himself from conversation with a nymph. “Your Majesty, I am Beauregard, of the Nether Contingent. We are assembled here, in peace, not because we necessarily love the Good Magician, but because not one of us would pass up the chance to see him finally get impressed into bondage himself and to the most fearsome creature known to magic. Come; you must take your place.” And the demon guided Dor down the center aisle toward the dais, past as diversified an assortment of creatures as Dor had ever encountered. One he thought he recognized-Grundy the Golem, somehow spirited here for the unique occasion. How had all these creatures gotten past the castle defenses? No one had been around when Dor himself had braved them.

“Oh, you must be King Dor!” someone cried. Dor turned to discover a handsome woman whose gown was bedecked with a fantastic array of gems.

“You must be Jewel!” he exclaimed, as a diamond in her hair almost blinded him. It was the size of his fist, and cut in what seemed like a million facets. “’The one with the barrel of gems-Crombie’s wife.”

“How did you ever guess?” she agreed, flashing sapphires, garnets, and giant opals. “You favor your father, Dor. So good of you to come in his stead.”

Dor remembered that this woman had loved his father. Perhaps that explained why Bink wasn’t here; a meeting, even after all these years, could be awkward. “Uh, I guess so. Nice to meet you, Jewel.”

“I’m sorry my daughter Tandy couldn’t meet you,” Jewel said. “It would be so nice-“ She broke off, and again Dor suspected he understood why. Jewel had loved Bink; Dor was Bink’s son; Tandy was Jewel’s daughter. It was almost as if Dor and Tandy were related.

But how could that be said?

Jewel pressed a stone into his hand. “I was going to give this to Bink, but I think you deserve it. You will always have light.”

Dor glanced down at the gift. It shone like a miniature sun, almost too bright to gaze at directly. It was a midnight sunstone, the rarest of all gems. “Uh, thanks,” he said lamely. He didn’t know how to deal with this sort of thing. He tucked the gem into a pocket and rejoined Beauregard, who was urging him on. As he reached the dais and mounted it, the hubbub diminished. The ceremony was incipient.

The music started, the familiar theme played only at nuptials. It gave Dor stage fright. He had never officiated at an affair like this before; the opportunities for blundering seemed limitless. The assembled creatures became absolutely quiet, waiting expectantly for the dread denouement. The Good Magician Humfrey was finally going to get his!

There was a scuffle to the side. The groom appeared in a dark suit that looked slightly motheaten; perhaps the guardian moth had not balled it properly. He was somewhat disheveled, and obliquely compelled by the Zombie Master. “I survived it; so can you!” the best man whispered, audible throughout the chamber. Somewhere in the Stygian depth of the audience, a monster chuckled. The expression on Humfrey’s face suggested that he was in serious doubt about survival.

More members of the audience grinned, showing assorted canine teeth; they liked this.

The music got louder. Dor glanced across and saw that the organist was a small tangle tree, its tentacles writhing expertly over the keys. No wonder there was a certain predatory intensity to the music!

The Zombie Master, dourly handsome in his funereal-tailed suit, straightened Humfrey’s details, actually brushing him off with a little whisk broom. Then he put Humfrey in a kind of armlock and marched him forward. The music surged vengefully.

One demon in the front row twitched its tail and leaned toward another. “A creature doesn’t know what happiness is,” he said, “until he gets married.”

“And then it’s too late!” half a dozen others responded from the next row back. There was a smattering of applause.

Magician Humfrey quailed, but the best man’s grip was as firm as death itself. At least he had not brought his zombies to this ceremony! The presence of the walking dead would have been too much even for such a wedding.

Now the music swelled to sublime urgency, and the bridal procession appeared. First came Millie the Ghost, radiant in her maid-of-honor gown, her sex appeal making the monsters drool. Dor had somehow thought that an unmarried person was supposed to fill this office, but of course Millie had been unmarried for eight centuries, so it must be all right.

Then the bride herself stepped out-and if the Gorgon had seemed buxom before, she was amazing now. She wore a veil that shrouded the nothingness of her face, so that there was no way to tell by looking that she was not simply a ravishingly voluptuous woman. Nevertheless, few creatures looked directly at her, wary of her inherent power. Not even the boldest dragon or tangle tree would care to stare the Gorgon in the face.

Behind her trooped two cherubs, a tiny boy and girl. Dor thought at first they were elves, but realized they were children-the three-year-old twins that Millie and the Zombie Master had generated.

They certainly looked cute as they carried the trailing end of the bride’s long train. Dor wondered whether these angelic tots had manifested their magic talents yet. Sometimes a talent showed at birth, as had Dor’s own; sometimes it never showed, as had Dor’s father’s-though he knew his father did have some sort of magic that King Trent himself respected. Most talents were in between, showing up in the course of childhood, some major, some minor.

Slowly the Gorgon swept forward, in the renewed hush of dread and expectation. Dor saw with a small start that she had donned dark glasses, a Mundane import, so that even her eyes behind the gauzy veil seemed real.

Now at last Humfrey and the Gorgon stood together. She was taller than he-but everyone was taller than Humfrey, so it didn’t matter. The music faded to the deceptive calm of the center of a storm.

The Zombie Master nodded to Dor. It was time for the King to read the service, finally tying the knot.

Dor opened the book with trembling fingers. Now he was glad that Cherie Centaur had drilled him well in reading; he had the text to lean on, so that his blank mind couldn’t betray him. All he had to do was read the words and follow the directions and everything would be all right. He knew that Good Magician Humfrey really did want to marry the Gorgon; it was just the ceremony that put him off, as it did all men. Weddings were for women and their mothers. Dor would navigate this additional Kingly chore and doubtless be better off for the experience. But his knees still felt like limp noodles. Why did experience have to be so difficult?

He found the place and began to read. “We are gathered here to hogtie this poor idiot-“

There was a stir in the audience. The weeping matrons paused in mid-tear, while males of every type smirked. Dor blinked. Had he read that right? Yes, there it was, printed quite clearly. He might have trouble spelling, but he could read well enough. “To this conniving wench-“

The demons sniggered. A snake stuck its head out over the Gorgon’s veil and hissed. Something was definitely wrong.

“But it says right here,” Dor protested, tapping the book with one forefinger. “The gride and broom shall-“

There was a raucous creaking sound that cut through the chamber.

Then the Zombie Master’s whisk broom flew out of his pocket and hovered before Dor.

Astonished, Dor asked it: “What are you doing here?”

“I’m the broom,” it replied. “You invoked the gride and broom, didn’t you?”

“What’s a gride?”

“You heard it. Awful noise.”

So a gride was an awful noise. Dor’s vocabulary was expanding rapidly today! “That was supposed to be a bride and groom,” Dor said. “Get back where you belong.”

“Aw. I thought I was going to get married.” But the broom flew back to the pocket.

Now Millie spoke. “Lacuna! she said.

One of the children jumped. It was the little girl, Millie’s daughter.

“Did you change the print?” Millie demanded.

Now Dor caught on. The child’s talent-changing printed text! No wonder the service was fouled up!

The Zombie Master grimaced. “Kids will be kids,” he said dourly. “We should have used zombies to carry the train, but Millie wouldn’t have it. Let’s try it again.”

Zombies to attend the bride! Dor had to agree with Millie, privately; the stench and rot of the grave did not belong in a ceremony like this.

“Lacuna, put the text back the way it was,” Millie said severely.

“Aw,” the child said, exactly the way the whisk broom had.

Dor lifted the book. But now there was an eye in the middle of the page. It winked at him. “What now?” he asked.

“Eh?” the book asked. An ear sprouted beside the eye.

“Hiatus!” Millie snapped, and the little boy jumped. “Stop that right now!”

“Aw.” But the eye and ear shrank and disappeared, leaving the book clear. Now Dor knew the nature and talent of the other twin.

He read the text carefully before reading it aloud. It was titled A Manual of Simple Burial. He frowned at Lacuna, and the print reverted to the proper text: A Manual of Sample Wedding Services.

This time he got most of the way through the service without disruption, ignoring ears and noses that sprouted from unlikely surfaces.

At one point an entire face appeared on the sun-ball, but no one else was looking at it, so there was no disturbance.

“Do you, Good Magician Humfrey,” he concluded, “take this luscious, faceless female Gorgon to be your-“ He hesitated, for the text now read ball and chain. Some interpolation was necessary. “Your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to squeeze till she-uh, in health and sickness, for the few measly years you hang on before you croak-uh, until you both become rotten zombies-uh, until death do you part?” He was losing track of the real text.

The Good Magician considered. “Well, there are positive and negative aspects-“

The Zombie Master elbowed him. “Stick to the format,” he muttered.

Humfrey looked rebellious, but finally got it out. “I suppose so.”

Dor turned to the Gorgon. “And do you, you petrifying creature, take this gnarled old gnome-uh-“ The mischievous text had caught him again. A monster in the audience guffawed. “Take Good Magician Humfrey-“

“I do!” she said.

Dor checked his text. Close enough, he decided. “Uh, the manacles-“

Oh, no!

Gravely the Zombie Master brought forth the ring. An eye opened on its edge. The Zombie Master frowned at Hiatus, and the eye disappeared. He gave the ring to Humfrey.

The Gorgon lifted her fair hand. A snakelet hissed. “Hey, I don’t want to go on that finger!” the ring protested. “It’s dangerous!”

“Would you rather be fed to the zombie sea serpent?” Dor snapped at it.

The ring was silent. Humfrey fumbled it onto the Gorgon’s finger.

Naturally he got the wrong finger, but she corrected him gently.

Dor returned to the manual. “I now pronounce you gnome and monst-uh, by the authority vested in me as King of Thieves-uh, of Xanth, I now pronounce you Magician and Wife.” Feeling weak with relief at having gotten this far through despite the treacherous text, Dor read the final words. “You may now miss the gride.” There was the awful banshee noise.

“Uh, goose the tide.” There was a sloppy swish, as of water reacting to an indignity. “Uh-“

The Gorgon took hold of Humfrey, threw back her veil, and kissed him soundly. There was applause from the audience, and a mournful hoot from the distance. The sea monster was signaling its sorrow over the Good Magician’s loss of innocence.

Millie was furious. “When I catch you, Hiatus and Lacuna-“ But the little imps were already beating a retreat.

The wedding party adjourned to the reception area, where refreshments were served. There was a scream. Millie looked and paled, for a moment resembling her ghostly state. “Jonathan! You didn’t!”

“Well, somebody had to serve the cake and punch,” the Zombie Master said defensively. “Everyone else was busy, and we couldn’t ask the guests.”

Dor peered. Sure enough, zombies in tuxedos and formal gowns were serving the delicacies. Gobbets of rot were mixing with the cake, and yellowish drool was dripping in the punch. The appetite of the guests seemed to be diminishing.

The assembled monsters, noting that Humfrey had not been turned to stone despite being petrified, were now eager to kiss the bride. They were in no hurry to raid the refreshments. A long line formed.

Millie caught Dor’s elbow. “That was very good, Your Majesty. I understand that my husband is to substitute for you during your journey to Centaur Isle.”

“He is?” But immediately the beauty and simplicity of it came clear. “He’s a Magician! He would do just fine! But I know he doesn’t like to indulge in politics.”

“Well, since we are going there for a visit anyway, to see the zombies and ghosts, it’s not really political.”

Dor realized that Millie had really helped him out. Only she could have persuaded the Zombie Master to take the office of King even temporarily. “Uh, thanks. I think the ghosts will like the twins.”

She smiled. “’The walls will have ears.”

That was Hi’s talent. “They sure will!”

“Let’s go join the monsters,” she said, taking his arm. Her touch still sent a rippling thrill through him, perhaps not just because of her magic talent. “How is Irene? I understand she will one day do with you what we women have always done with Magicians.”

“Did it ever occur to any of you scheming conspirators that I might have other plans?” Dor asked, nettled despite the effect she had on him. Perhaps he was reacting in order to counter his illicit liking for her. She certainly didn’t seem like eight hundred years old!

“No, that never occurred to any of us,” she said. “Do you think you have a chance to escape?”

“I doubt it,” he said. “But first we have to deal with this mysterious Magician of Centaur Isle. And I hope King Trent comes back soon.”

“I hope so, too,” Millie said. “And Queen Iris. She was the one who helped bring me back to life. She and your father. I’m forever grateful to them. And to you, too, Dor, for returning Jonathan to me.”

She always referred to the Zombie Master by his given name. “I was glad to do it,” Dor said.

Then a mishmash of creatures closed in on them, and Dor gave himself up to socializing, perforce. Everyone had a word for the King. Dor wasn’t good at this; in fact, he felt almost as awkward as Good Magician Humfrey looked. What was it really like, getting married?

“You’ll find out!” the book he still carried said, chuckling evilly.

They had surveyed prospective routes and decided to travel down the coast of Xanth. Dor’s father Bink had once traveled into the south center region, down to the great interior Lake Ogre-Chobee, where the curse-fiends lived, and he recommended against that route. Dragons, chasms, nickelpedes, and other horrors abounded, and there was a massive growth of brambles that made passing difficult, as well as a region of magic-dust that could be hazardous to one’s mental health.

On the other hand, the open sea was little better. There the huge sea monsters ruled, preying on everything available. If dragons ruled the wilderness land, serpents ruled the deep water. Where the magic ambience of Xanth faded, the Mundane monsters commenced, and these were worse yet. Dor knew them only through his inattentive geography studies-toothy alligators, white sharks, and blue whales. He didn’t want any part of those!

But the coastal shallows excluded the larger sea creatures and the solid-land monsters. Chances were that with a strong youth like the ogre Smash along, they could move safely through this region with out raising too much commotion. Had that not been the case, the Elders would never have permitted this excursion, regardless of the need. As it was, they insisted that Dor take along some preventive magic from the Royal Arsenal-a magic sword, a flying carpet, and an escape hoop. Irene carried a selected bag of seeds that she could use to grow particular plants at need-fruits, nuts, and vegetables for the food, and watermelons and milkweed If they had no safe supply of liquid.

They used a magic boat that would sail itself swiftly and quietly down any channel that was deep enough, yet was light enough to be portaged across sand bars. The craft was indefatigable; all they had to do was guide it, and in one full day and night it would bring them to Centaur Isle. This would certainly be faster and easier than walking. Chet, whose geographic education had not been neglected, had a clear notion of the coastal outline and would steer the boat past the treacherous shoals and deeps. Everything was as routine as the nervous Elders could make it.

They started in midmorning from the beach nearest Castle Roogna that had been cleared of monsters. The day was clear, the sea calm.

Here there was a brief bay between the mainland and a long chain of barrier islands, the most secure of all waters, theoretically. This trip should not only be safe, but also dull. Of course nothing in Xanth could be taken for granted.

For an hour they traveled south along the bay channel. Dor grew tired of watching the passing islands, but remained too keyed up to rest. After all, it was a centaur Magician they were going to spy out something never before known in Xanth, unless one counted Herman the Hermit Centaur, who hadn’t really been a Magician, just a strongly talented individual who related to the Will-o’-Wisps.

Smash, too, was restive; he was a creature of physical action, and this free ride irked him. Dor would have challenged him to a game of tic-tac-toe, an amusement he had learned from the child of one of the soldier settlers, but knew he would win every game; ogres were not much on intellect.

Grundy the Golem entertained himself by chatting with passing fish and sea creatures. It was amazing, the gossip he came up with. A sneaky sawfish was cutting in on the time of the damselfish of a hammerhead, and the hammerhead was getting suspicious. Pretty soon he would pound the teeth out of the sawfish. A sea squirt was shoring himself up with the flow from an undersea fresh-water spring, getting tipsy on the rare liquid. A certain little oyster was getting out of bed at midnight and gambling with the sand dollars; he was building up quite an alluvial deposit at the central bank of sand.

But when his folks found out, he would be gamboling to a different tune.

Irene, meanwhile, struck up a dialogue with the centaur. “You’re so intelligent, Chet. How is it that your magic is so, well, simple?”

“No one is blessed with the selection of his personal talent,” Chet said philosophically. He was lying ‘m the middle of the boat, so as to keep the center of gravity low, and seemed comfortable enough. “We centaurs less than most, since only recently has our magic been recognized. My mother-“

“I know. Cherie thinks magic is obscene.”

“Oh, she is broad-minded about its presence in lesser creatures.”

“Like human beings?” Irene asked dangerously.

“No need to be sensitive about it. We do not discriminate against your kind, and your magic does to a considerable extent compensate.”

“How come we rule Xanth, then?” she demanded. Dor found himself getting interested; this was better than fish gossip anyway.

“There is some question whether humans are actually dominant in Xanth,” Chet said. “The dragons of the northern reaches might have a different opinion. At any rate, we centaurs permit you humans your foibles. If you wish to point to one of your number and say, ‘That individual rules Xanth,’ we have no objection so long as that person doesn’t interfere with important things.”

“What’s so important?”

“You would not be in a position to understand the nuances of centaur society.”

Irene bridled. “Oh, yeah? Tell me a nuance.”

“I’m afraid that is privileged information.”

Dor knew Chet was asking for trouble. Already, stray wild seeds in Irene’s vicinity were popping open and sending out shoots and roots, a sure sign of her ire. But like many girls, she concealed it well. “Yet humans have the best magic.”

“Certainly-if you value magic.”

“What would you centaurs say if my father started changing you into fruitflies?”

“Fruit neat,” Smash said, overhearing. “Let’s eat!”

“Don’t be a dunce,” Grundy said. “It’s two hours yet till lunch.”

“Here, I’ll start a breadfruit plant,” Irene said. “You can watch it grow.” She picked a seed from her collection and set it in one of the earth-filled pots she had brought along. “Grow,” she commanded, and the seed sprouted. The ogre watched its growth avidly, waiting for it to mature and produce the first succulent loaf of bread.

“King Trent would not do anything as irresponsible as that,” Chet said, picking up on the question. “We centaurs have generally gotten along well with him.”

“Because he can destroy you. You’d better get along!”

“Not so. We centaurs are archers. No one can get close enough to harm us unless we permit him. We get along because we choose to.”

Irene adroitly changed the subject. “You never told me how you felt about your own magic. An your brains, but all you can do is shrink rocks.”

“Well, it does relate. I render a stone into a calx. A calx is a small stone, a pebble used for calculating. Such calculus can grow complex, and it has important ramifications. So I feel my magic talent contributes-“

“Monster coming,” Grundy announced. “A little fish told me.”

“There aren’t supposed to be monsters in these waters,” Dor objected.

Grundy consulted with the fish. “It’s a sea dragon. It heard the commotion of our passage, so it’s coming in to investigate. The channel’s deep enough for it here.”

“We’d better get out of the channel, then,” Dor said.

“This is not the best place,” Chet objected.

“No place is best to get eaten, dummy!” Irene snapped. “We can’t handle a water dragon. We’ll have to get out of its way. Shallow water is all we need.”

“There are groupies in these shallows,” Chet said. “Not a threat, so long as we sail beyond their depth, but not fun to encounter. If we can get farther down before diverging-“

But now they saw the head of the dragon to the south, gliding above the water. Its neck cut a wake; the monster was traveling fast.

It was far too big for them to fight.

Smash, however, was game. Ogres were too stupid to know fear.

He stood, making the craft rock crazily. “For me’s to squeeze!” he said, gesturing with his meathooks.

“All you could do is gouge out handfuls of scales,” Irene said. “Meanwhile, it would be chomping the rest of us. You know an ogre has to have firm footing on land to tackle a dragon of any type.”

Without further argument, Chet swerved toward the mainland beach. But almost immediately the sand began to writhe. “Oh, no!”

Dor exclaimed. “A sand dune has taken over that beach. We can’t go there.”

“Agreed,” Chet said. “That dune wasn’t on my map. It must have moved in the past few days.” He swerved back the other way.

That was the problem about Xanth; very little was permanent. In the course of a day, the validity of a given map could be compromised; in a week it could be destroyed. That was one reason so much of Xanth remained unexplored. It had been traveled, but the details were not fixed.

The dune, noting their departure, reared up in a great sandy hump, its most typical form. Had they been so foolish as to step on that beach, it would have rolled right over them, buried them, and consumed them at leisure.

But now the water dragon was much closer. They cut across its path uncomfortably close and approached the island’s inner shore.

The dragon halted, turning its body to pursue them-but in a moment its nether loops ran aground in the shallows, and it halted. Jets of steam plumed from its nostrils; it was frustrated.

A flipper slapped at the side of the boat. “It’s a groupies” Grundy cried. “Knock it off!”

Smash reached out a gnarled mitt to grasp the flipper and haul the thing up in the air. The creature was a fattish fish with large, soft extremities.

“That’s a groupie?” Irene asked. “What’s so bad about it?”

The fish curled about, got its flippers on the ogre’s arm, and drew itself up. Its wide mouth touched Smash’s arm in a seeming kiss.

“Don’t let it do that!” Chet warned. “It’s trying to siphon out your soul.”

The ogre understood that. He flung the groupie far over the water where it landed with a splash.

But now several more were slapping at the boat, trying to scramble inside. Irene shrieked. “Just knock them away,” Chet said. “They can’t take your soul unless you let them. But they’ll keep trying.”

“They’re coming in all over!” Dor cried. “How can we get away from them?”

Chet smiled grimly. “We can move into the deep channel. Groupies are shallow creatures; they don’t stir deep waters.”

“But the dragon’s waiting there!”

“Of course. Dragons eat groupies. That’s why groupies don’t venture there.”

“Dragons also eat people,” Irene protested.

“That might be considered a disadvantage,” the centaur agreed. “If you have a better solution, I am amenable to it.”

Irene opened her bag of seeds and peered in. “I have watercress. That might help.”

“Try it!” Dor exclaimed, sweeping three sets of flippers off the side of the boat. “They’re overwhelming us!”

“That is the manner of the species,” Chet agreed, sweeping several more off. “They come not single spy, but in battalions.”

She picked out a tiny seed. “Grow!” she commanded, and dropped it in the water. The others paused momentarily in their labors to watch. How could such a little seed abate such a pressing menace?

Almost immediately there was a kind of writhing and bubbling where the seed had disappeared. Tiny tendrils writhed outward like wriggling worms. Bubbles rose and popped effervescently. “Cress!” the mass hissed as it expanded.

The groupies hesitated, taken aback by this phenomenon. Then they pounced on it, sucking in mouthfuls.

“They’re eating it up!” Dor said.

“Yes,” Irene agreed, smiling.

In moments the groupies began swelling up like balloons. The cress had not stopped growing or gassing, and was now inflating the fish. Soon the groupies rose out of the water, impossibly distended, and floated through the air. The dragon snapped at those who drifted within its range.

“Good job, I must admit,” Chet said, and Irene flushed with satisfaction. Dor experienced a twinge of jealousy and a twinge of guilt for that feeling. There was nothing between Chet and Irene, of course; they were of two different species. Not that that necessarily meant much, in Xanth. New composites were constantly emerging, and the chimera was evidently descended from three or four other species. Irene merely argued with Chet to try to bolster her own image and was flattered when the centaur bolstered it for her. And if there were something between them, why should he, Dor, care? But he did care.

They could not return to the main channel, for the dragon paced them alertly. It knew it had them boxed. Chet steered cautiously south, searching out the deepest subchannels of the bay, avoiding anything suspicious. But the island they were skirting was coming to an end; soon they would be upon the ocean channel the water dragon had entered by. How could they cross that while the dragon lurked?

Chet halted the boat and stared ahead. The dragon took a stance in mid-channel, due south, and stared back. It knew they had to pass here. Slowly, deliberately, it ran its long floppy tongue over its gleaming chops.

“What now?” Dor asked. He was King; he should be leader, but his mind was blank.

“I believe we shall have to wait until nightfall,” Chet said.

“But we’re supposed to make the trip in a day and night!” Irene protested. “That’ll waste half the day!”

“Better waste time than life, greennose,” Grundy remarked.

“Listen, stringbrain-“ she retorted. These two had never gotten along well together.

“We’d better wait,” Dor said reluctantly. “Then we can sneak by the dragon while it’s sleeping and be safely on our way.”

“How soundly do dragons sleep?” Irene asked suspiciously.

“Not deeply,” Chet said. “They merely snooze with their nostrils just above the water. But it will be better if there is fog.”

“Much better,” Irene agreed weakly.

“Meanwhile, we would do well to sleep in the daytime,” Chet said. “We will need to post one of our number as a guard, to be sure the boat doesn’t drift. He can sleep at night, while the others are active.”

“What do you mean, he?” Irene demanded. “There’s too much sexism in Xanth. You think a girl can’t guard?”

Chet shrugged with his foresection and flicked his handsome tail about negligently. “I spoke generically, of course. There is no sexual discrimination among centaurs.”

“That’s what you think,” Grundy put in. “Who’s the boss in your family-Chester or Cherie? Does she let him do anything he wants?”

“Well, my mother is strong-willed,” Chet admitted.

“I’ll bet the fillies run the whole show at Centaur Isle,” Grundy said. “Same as they do at Castle Roogna.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Irene said, pouting.

“You may guard if you wish,” Chet said.

“You think I won’t? Well, I will. Give me that paddle.” She grabbed the emergency paddle, which would now be needed to keep the boat from drifting.

The others settled down comfortably, using pads and buoyant cushions. Chet’s equine portion was admirably suited for lying down, but his human portion was more awkward. He leaned against the side of the boat, head against looped arms.

“Say-how will I sleep when we’re nudging past that dragon?” Irene asked. “My sleeping turn will come then.”

There was a stiffed chuckle from Grundy’s direction. “Guess one sexist brought that on herself. Just don’t snore too loud when we’re passing under its tail. Might scare it into-“

She hurled a cushion at the golem, then settled resolutely into position, watching the dragon.

Dor tried to sleep, but found himself too wound up. After a while he sat upright. “It’s no use; maybe I’ll sleep tomorrow,” he said. Irene was pleased to have his company. She sat cross-legged opposite him, and Dor tried not to be aware that in that position her green skirt did not fully cover her legs. She had excellent ones; in that limited respect she had already matched the Gorgon. Dor liked legs; in fact, he liked anything he wasn’t supposed to see.

She sprouted a buttercup plant while Dor plucked a loaf from the breadfruit, and they feasted on fresh bread and butter in silence. The dragon watched, and finally, mischievously, Dor rolled some bread into a compact wad and threw it at the monster. The dragon caught it neatly and gulped it down. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad monster; maybe Grundy could talk to it and arrange for safe passage.

No-such a predator could not be trusted. If the dragon wanted to let them pass, it would go away. Better strategy would be to keep it awake and alert all day, so that it would be tired at night.

“Do you think this new centaur Magician will try to take over Xanth?” Irene asked quietly when it seemed the others were asleep.

Dor could appreciate her concern. Chet, who was a friend, was arrogant enough about centaur-human relations; what would be the attitude of a grown centaur with the power of a Magician? Of course the Magician would not be grown right now; it must be new-birthed.

But in time it could become adult, and then it could be an ornery creature, like Chet’s sire Chester, but without Chester’s redeeming qualities. Dor knew that some centaurs did not like human beings; those tended to stay well clear of Castle Roogna. But Centaur Isle was well clear, and that was where this menace was.

“We’re on our way to investigate this matter,” he reminded her. “There is help for King Trent there, too, according to Crombie’s pointing. Maybe we just need to figure out how to turn this situation positive instead of negative.”

She shifted her position slightly, unconsciously showing a little more of her legs, including a tantalizing flash of inner thigh. “You are going to try to help my father, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m going to try!” Dor said indignantly, hoping that if there was any flush on his face, she would assume it was because of his reaction to her words, rather than her flesh. Dor had in the past seen some quite lovely nymphs in quite scanty attire-but nymphs didn’t really count. They were all well formed and scantily attired, so were not remarkable. Irene was a real girl, and that type ranged from lovely to ugly-in fact, his mother Chameleon covered that range in the course of each month-and Irene did not normally display a great deal of her body at a time. Thus each glimpse, beyond a certain perimeter, was special. But more special when the display was unintentional.

“I know If my father doesn’t come back, you’ll stay King.”

“I’m not ready to stay King. In twenty years, maybe, I’ll be able to handle it. Right now I just want King Trent back. He’s your father; I think he’s my friend.”

“What about my mother?”

Dor grimaced. “Even Queen Iris,” he said. “I’d rather face a lifelike illusion of a dragon than the real thing.”

“You know, I never had any real privacy till she left,” Irene said. “She was always watching me, always telling on me. I hardly dared even to think for myself, because I was afraid she’d slip one of her illusions into my mind and snitch on me. I used to wish something would happen to her-not anything bad, just something to get her out of my hair for a while. Only now that it has-“

“You didn’t really want her gone,” Dor said. “Not like this.”

“Not like this,” she agreed. “She’s a bitch, but she is my mother. Now I can do anything I want-and I don’t know what I want.” She shifted position again. This time the hem of her skirt dropped to cover more of her legs. It was almost as if her reference to privacy from her mother’s snooping around her mind had brought about privacy from Dor’s surreptitious snooping around her body. “Except to have them back again.”

Dor found he liked Irene much better this way. Perhaps her prior sharpness of tongue, back when her parents had been in Xanth, had been because of that constant feeling of being watched. Anything real might have been demeaned or ridiculed, so she never expressed anything real. “You know, I’ve had the opposite problem. I have privacy but no one around me does. Because there’s not much anybody does that I can’t find out about. All I have to do is ask their furniture, or their clothing. So they avoid me, and I can’t blame them. That’s why I’ve found it easier to have friends like Smash. He wears nothing but his hair, and he thinks furniture is for bonfires, and he has no embarrassing secrets anyway.”

“That’s right!” she said. “I have no more privacy with you than I do with my mother. How come I don’t feel threatened with you?”

“Because I’m harmless,” Dor said with a wry chuckle. “Not by choice, it’s just the way I am. The Gorgon says you have me all wrapped up anyway.”

She smiled-a genuine, warm smile he liked a lot. “She snitched. She would. She naturally sees all men as creatures to be dazzled and petrified. Good Magician Humfrey never had a chance. But I don’t know if I even want you. That way, I mean. My mother figures I’ve got to marry you so I can be Queen-but that’s her desire, not necessarily mine. I mean, why would I want to grow up just like her, with no real power and a lot of time on my hands? Why make my own daughter as miserable as she made me?”

“Maybe you will have a son,” Dor offered. This was an intriguing new avenue of exploration.

“You’re right. You’re harmless. You don’t know a thing.” She finished her bread and tossed the crumbs on the water. They floated about, forming evanescent picture patterns before drifting away.

Somehow the afternoon had passed; the sun was dropping into the water beyond the barrier island. There was a distant sizzle as it touched the liquid, and a cloud of steam; then it was extinguished.

The others woke and ate. Then Chet guided the boat to the island shore.

“Anything dangerous to people here?” Dor asked it.

“Only boredom,” the island replied. “Nothing interesting ever happens here, except maybe a seasonal storm or two.”

That was what they wanted: a dull locale. They took turns leaving the boat in order to attend to sanitary needs. Irene also took time to grow a forgetme flower.

As the darkness closed, Dor reviewed the situation. “We’re going to sneak by that dragon in the night. Irene will harvest some forgetme flowers to discourage memory of our passage; that way the reactions of fish in the area will not betray us. But that won’t help us if the dragon sees us or hears us or smells us directly. We don’t have any sight- or sound-blanking plants; we didn’t anticipate this particular squeeze. So we must go extremely carefully.”

“I wish I were string and clay again,” Grundy said. “Then I couldn’t be killed.”

“Now we do have some other resources,” Dor said. “The magic sword will make any person expert the moment he takes it in his hand. It won’t help much against a pouncing dragon, but any lesser creature will be balked. If we get in serious trouble, we can climb through the escape hoop. The problem with that is that it leads to the permanent storage vat of the Brain Coral, deep under the earth, and the Coral doesn’t like to release creatures. It happens to be my friend, but I’d rather not strain that friendship unless absolutely necessary. And there is the flying carpet-but that can only take one person at a time, plus Grundy. I think it could support Smash, but not Chet, so that’s not ideal.”

“I wouldn’t fit through the hoop either,” Chet said.

“Yes. So you, Chet, are the most vulnerable one in this situation, because of your mass. So we need to plan for another defense.” Dor paused, for Irene was looking at him strangely. “What’s the matter?”

“You’re glowing,” she said.

Startled, Dor checked himself. Light was streaming from one of his pockets. “Oh-that’s the midnight sunstone Jewel gave me so I’ll always have light. I had forgotten about it.”

“We don’t want light at the moment,” she pointed out. “Wrap it up.” She handed him a piece of cloth.

Dor wrapped the gem carefully, until its glow was so muted as to be inconsequential, and put it back in his pocket. “Now,” he continued. “Irene has some seeds that will grow devastating plants-she really is Magician level, regardless of what the Elders say-but most of those plants would be as dangerous to us as to the enemy. We’d have to plant and run.”

“Any that would block off the water so the dragon couldn’t pursue?” Chet asked.

“Oh, yes,” Irene said, glowing at Dor’s compliment about her talent.

“The kraken weed-“

“I see what Dor means,” the centaur said quickly. “I don’t want to be swimming in the same ocean with a kraken!”

“Or I could start a stunflower on the island here, but it would be likely to stun us, too.” She considered. “Aha! I do have some popcorn. That’s harmless, but it makes an awful racket. That might distract the dragon for a while.”

“Grow me some of that,” Chet said. “I’ll throw it behind me if I have to swim.”

“Only one problem,” she said. “I can’t grow that at night. It’s a dayplant.”

“I could unwrap the sunstone,” Dor offered.

“That’s too small, I think. We’d need a lot of light, radiating all about, not gleaming from tiny facets.”

“What can you grow naturally at night?” Chet asked glumly.

“Well, hypno-gourds do well; they generate their own light, inside. But you wouldn’t want to look in the peephole, because-“

“Because I’d be instantly hypnotized,” Chet finished. “Grow me one anyway; it might help.”

“As you wish,” she agreed dubiously. She leaned over the side of the boat to drop a seed on the shore. “Grow,” she murmured.

“Now if there is trouble,” Dor said, “you, Irene, get on the flying carpet. You can drop a kraken seed near the dragon, while the rest of us use the hoop or swim for it. But we’ll do our best to escape the notice of the dragon. Then we can proceed south without further trouble.”

There was no objection. They waited until the hypno-gourd had fruited, producing one fine specimen. Chet wrapped it in cloth and tucked it in the boat. The craft started moving, nudging silently south toward the channel while the occupants hardly dared breathe. Chet guided it in an eastward curve, to intersect the main channel first, so that he could avoid the monster that was presumably waiting due south. In this silent darkness, they could not see it any more than it could see them.

But the dragon had outsmarted them. It had placed a sunfish in this channel, that operated on a similar principle to the sunstone, but it was thousands of times as large. When they came near, the fish suddenly glowed like the sun itself, blindingly. The rounded fin projected above the surface of the water, and its light turned night to day.

“Oh, no!” Dor cried. He had so carefully wrapped his sunstone and now this was infinitely worse.

There was a gleeful honk from the dragon. They saw its eyes glowing as it forged toward them. Water dragons did not have internal fire; the eyes were merely reflecting the blaze of the sunfish.

“Plant the kraken!” Dor cried.

“No!” Chet countered. “We can make it to the mainland shallows!”

Sure enough, the boat glided smoothly across the channel before the dragon arrived. The monster was silhouetted before the sunfish, writhing in frustration. It had planned so well, and just missed victory. It honked. “Curses!” Grundy translated. “Foiled again!”

“What about the sand dune?” Irene asked worriedly.

“They are usually quiescent by night,” Chet said.

“But this isn’t night any more,” she reminded him, her voice taking on a pink tinge of hysteria.

Indeed, the dark mound was rippling, sending a strand of itself toward the water. The sand had enough mass, and the water was so shallow, that it was possible for the dune to fill it in. The ravenous shoreline was coming toward them.

“If we retreat from the dune, we’ll come within reach of the dragon,” Chet said.

“Feed goon to dune,” Smash suggested.

“Goon? Do you mean the dragon?” Dor asked. The ogre nodded.

“Say, yes!” Irene said. “Talk to the dune, Dor. Tell it we’ll lure the dragon within its range if it lets us go.”

Dor considered. “I don’t know. I’d hate to send any creature to such a fate-and I’m not sure the dune can be trusted.”

“Well, string it out as long as you can. Once the dune tackles the dragon, it won’t have time to worry about small fry like us.”

Dor eyed the surging dune on one side, the chop-slurping dragon on the other, and noted how the region between them was diminishing. “Try reasoning with the dragon first,” he told Grundy.

The golem emitted a series of honks, grunts, whistles, and toothgnashings. It was amazing how versatile he was with sounds-but of course this was his magic. In a moment the dragon lunged forward, trying to catch the entire boat in its huge jaws, but falling short. The water washed up in a small tsunami. “I asked it if it wouldn’t like to let a nice group of people on the King’s business like us go on in peace,” Grundy said. “It replied-“

“We can see what it replied,” Dor said. “Very well; we’ll go the other route.” He faced the shore and called: “Hey, dune!”

Thus hailed, the dune was touched by Dor’s magic. “You calling me, tidbit?”