Centaur Aisle x-4

by Piers Anthony

  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 yo
u 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 fir
st 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.