Centaur Aisle x-4

by Piers Anthony

  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 crus
h 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?”