At intervals were low wooden props that the centaurs could use to knock the dottle from their feet. The buildings were mixed; some were stables, while others were more like human residences.
“I see you are perplexed by our premises,” Gerome said. “Our architecture derives from our origin; in due course you shall see our historical museum, where this will be made clear.”
During their walk, Dor surreptitiously looked at the magic compass Good Magician Humfrey had sent him. He had believed he had figured out its application. “Compass-do you point to the nearest and strongest Magician who is not actually using you?” he asked.
“Sure.” the compass replied. “Any fool knows that.”
So it was now pointing to the centaur Magician. Once Dor got free of these formalities, he would follow that needle to the object of his quest.
They stopped at the extensive metalworking section of town. Here were blacksmiths and silversmiths and coppersmiths, fashioning the strange shoes that important centaurs used, and the unusual instruments they employed for eating, and the beautiful pots they cooked with. “They had no trouble harvesting plenty of silver linings,” Irene commented enviously.
“Ah-you appreciate a silver lining?” Gerome inquired. He showed the way to another craftshop, where hundreds of silver linings were being fashioned as the fringes of jackets and such. “This is for you.” And the centaur gave her a fresh fur with a fine silver lining sewn in, which gleamed with the splendor of sunlight after storm.
“Ooooh,” Irene breathed, melting into it. “It’s soft as cloud!” Dor had to admit, privately, that the decorative apparel did enhance her appearance.
One centaur was working with a new Mundane import, a strong light metal called aluminum. “King Trent’s encouragement of trade with Mundania has benefited us,” Gerome remarked. “We have no natural aluminum in Xanth. But the supply is erratic, because we never seem to be able to trade with the same aspect of Mundania twice in succession. If that problem could be ameliorated, it would be a great new day for commerce.”
“He’s working on it,” Irene said. But she had to stop there; they had agreed not to spread the word about King Trent’s situation.
They saw the weaving section, where great looms integrated the threads garnered from assorted sources. The centaurs were expert spinners and weavers, and their products varied from silkenly fine cloth to heavy ruglike mats. Dor was amazed; it had never occurred to him that the products of blanket trees could be duplicated artificially. How wonderful it would be to be able to make anything one needed, instead of having to wait for a plant to grow it!
Another section was devoted to weapons. Centaurs were superlative bowmen and spearmen, and here the fine bows and spears were fashioned, along with swords, clubs, and ropes. A subsection was devoted to armor, which included woven metal clothing as well as helmets, greaves, and gauntlets. Smash tried on a huge gauntlet and flexed it into a massive fist. “Me see?” he inquired hopefully.
“By all means,” Gerome said. “There is a boulder of quartz we mean to grind into sand. Practice on it.”
Smash marched to the boulder, lifted his fist high, and smashed it down upon the boulder. There was a crack of sound like thunder, and a cloud of dust and sand erupted from the point of contact, enveloping him. When it settled, they saw the ogre standing knee-deep in a mound of sand, a blissful smile cracking his ugly face. “Love glove,” he grunted, reluctantly removing it. Wisps of smoke rose from its fingertips.
“Then it is yours, together with its mate,” Gerome said. “You have saved us much labor, reducing that boulder so efficiently.”
Smash was thrilled with the gift, but Dor was silent. He knew ogres were strong, but Smash was not yet grown. The metal gauntlet must have enhanced his power by protecting his hand. As an adult, Smash would be a truly formidable creature, with almost too much power. That could get him exiled from the vicinity of Castle Roogna.
But more than that, Dor was disquieted by something more subtle.
The centaurs were evidently giving choice gifts to each member of Dor’s party-fine protective clothing, plus whatever else offered, such as Irene’s silver lining and Smash’s gauntlets. This might be a fine gesture of friendship-but Dor distrusted such largesse. What was the purpose in it? King Trent had warned him once to beware strangers bearing gifts. Did the centaurs suspect Dor’s mission, and were they trying to affect the manner he pursued it? Why? He had no ready answer.
They viewed the centaur communal kitchen, where foodstuffs from a wide area were cleaned and prepared. Obviously the centaurs ate very well. In fact, in most respects they seemed to be more advanced and to have more creature comforts than the human folk of the Castle Roogna area. Dor found this unsettling; he had somehow expected to find Centaur Isle inhabited by a few primitives galloping around and fighting each other with clubs. Now that he was here, Centaur Isle seemed more like the center of culture, when Castle Roogna appeared to be the hinterland.
The power of magic was surely weaker here near the fringe, which helped explain why most centaurs seemed to lack talents, while those farther toward the center of Xanth were showing them. How was it, then, that these deficient centaurs were doing so well? It was almost as if the lack of magic was an advantage, causing them to develop other skills that in the end brought more success than the magic would have. This was nonsense, of course; but as he viewed the things of the Isle, he almost believed it. Suppose, just suppose, that there way a correlation between success and the lack of magic. Did it then follow that Mundania, the land completely devoid of magic, was likely to become a better place to live than Xanth?
That brought a puff of laughter. He had followed his thought to its logical extremity and found it ludicrous. Therefore the thought was false. It was ridiculous on the face of it to think of drear Mundania as a better place than Xanth!
The others were looking askance at him because of his pointless laughter. “Uh, just a chain of thought that snapped in a funny place,” Dor explained. Then, fearing that wasn’t enough to alleviate their curiosity, he changed the subject. “Uh, if I may inquire-since you centaurs seem to be so well organized here-certainly better than we humans are-how is it that you accept human government? You don’t seem to need us, and if it ever came to war, you could destroy us.”
“Dor!” Irene protested. “What a thing to say!”
“You are too modest, Your Majesty,” Gerome said, smiling.
“There are several compelling reasons. First, we are not interested in empire; we prefer to leave decisions of state to others, while we forward our arts, crafts, skills, and satisfaction. Since you humans seem to like the tedious process of government, we gladly leave it to you, much as we leave the shaping of granite stones to the ogres and the collection of diamonds to the dragons. It is far simpler to acquire what we need through trade.”
“Well, I suppose so,” Dor agreed dubiously.
“Second, you humans have one phenomenal asset that we generally lack,” Gerome continued, evidently embarked on a favorite subject. “You can do magic. We utilize magic, but generally cannot perform it ourselves, nor would we wish to. We prefer to borrow it as a tool. Can you imagine one of us prevailing over King Trent in an altercation? He would convert us all to inchworms!”
“If he could get close enough,” Dor said. He remembered that this matter had been discussed before; Chet had pointed out how the centaurs’ skill with the bow and arrow nullified Trent’s magic. Was there an answer to that? Dor would much prefer to believe that magic was the supreme force in Xanth.
“Who can govern from a distance?” Gerome inquired rhetorically. “Armies in the field are one thing; governing people is another. King Trent’s magic enables him to govern, as does your own. Even your lesser talents are far beyond our capacities.”
Was the centaur now gifting him with flattery? “But centaurs can do magic!” Dor protested. “Our friend Chet-“
“Please,” Gerome said. “You humans perform natu
ral functions, too, but we do not speak publicly of such things, in deference to your particular sensitivities. It is a fact that we centaurs were not aware of any personal magic talents through most of our history, and even now suspect manifestations are an aberration. So we have never considered personal magic as being available for our use and would prefer that no further mention of this be made.”
“Uh, sure,” Dor agreed awkwardly. It seemed the other centaurs were just as sensitive and unreasonable about this as Dor’s tutor
Cherie was. Humans were indeed finicky about certain natural functions, as the centaur Elder had reminded him, while centaurs were not; while humans were not finicky about the notion of personal magic the way the centaurs were. Probably one attitude made as much nonsense as the other.
But how would the citizens of Centaur Isle react to the news that a full Magician of their species was among them? Eventually Dor would have to tell them. This mission could be awkward indeed!
“Third, we honor an understanding dating from the dawn of our species,” Gerome continued, leaving the distasteful subject of magic behind like a clod of manure. “We shall not indulge in politics, and will never compete with our human brethren for power. So even if we desired empire and had the ability to acquire it, we would not do so. We would never renege on that binding commitment.” And the centaur looked so serious that Dor dared not pursue the matter fur their.
At last they came to the historical museum. This was an impressive edifice of red brick, several stories high, with small windows and a forbidding external aspect. But it was quite interesting inside, being crowded with all manner of artifacts. There were samples of all the centaurs’ products, going back decade by decade to before the First Wave of human conquest. Dor could see how the earlier items were cruder; the craftsmen were still improving their skills. Everything was identified by neat plaques providing dates, places, and details of manufacture. The centaurs had a keen sense of history!
During the tour, Dor had continued to sneak glances at the magic compass. He was gratified to see that it pointed toward the museum; maybe the Magician was here!
“And this is our keeper of records,” Gerome said, introducing a middle-aged, bespectacled centaur. “He knows where all the bodies are hidden. Amolde the Archivist.”
“Precisely,” Amolde agreed dourly, peering over his glasses. The demon Beauregard was the only other creature Dor had seen wearing such devices. “So nice to encounter you and your party, King Dor. Now if you will excuse me, I have a new shipment of artifacts to catalogue.” He retreated to his cubby, where objects and papers were piled high.
“Amolde is dedicated to his profession,” Gerome explained. “He’s quite intelligent, even by our standards, but not sociable. I doubt there is very much about Xanth natural history he doesn’t know. Recently he has been picking up items from the fringe of magic; he made one trip to an island to the south that may have taken him entirely out of magic, though he denies this. Prior to the time King Trent dropped the shield that enclosed Xanth, such expeditions were impossible.”
Dor remembered the shield, for his tutor had drilled him on it.
Cherie Centaur was particularly strong on social history. The Waves of human conquerors had become so bad that one King of Xanth had finally put a stop to further invasion by setting up a magic shield that killed any living thing that passed through it. But that had also kept the inhabitants of Xanth in. The Mundanes, it seemed, came to believe that Xanth did not exist at all and that magic was impossible, since none of it leaked out any more. There had, it seemed, been many recorded cases of magic that Mundanes had witnessed or experienced; all these were now written off as superstition. Perhaps that was the Mundanes’ way of reconciling themselves to the loss of something as wonderful as enchantment, to pretend it did not exist and never had existed.
But Xanth had suffered, too. In time it had become apparent that mankind in Xanth needed those periodic infusions of new blood, however violently they came, for without the Waves there was a steady attrition of pure human beings. First, people developed magic talents; later generations became magic themselves, either mating with animals to form various composite species like harpies or fauns or merfolk, or simply evolving into gnomes or giants or nymphs. So King Trent had lowered the shield and brought in a number of settlers from Mundania, with the understanding that these new people would be drawn on as warriors to repel any future violent invasion that might come. So far there had been none-but the Waves had been a pattern of centuries, not of decades, so that meant little. Immigration was an uncertain business, as it was far easier to go from Xanth to Mundania than the other way around, at least for individual people. But the human situation in Xanth did seem to be improving now. Dor could appreciate how an intelligent, inquisitive centaur would be eager to begin cataloguing the wonders of Mundania, which long had been a great mystery. It was still hard to accept the notion that here was a region where magic was inoperative, and where people survived.
They moved on down the narrow hall. Dor checked the compass again-and found that it pointed directly toward Amolde the Archivist.
Could he be the centaur Magician, the threat to the welfare of Xanth, the important business Dor had to attend to? That didn’t seem to make much sense. For one thing, Amolde showed no sign of magic ability. For another, he was hardly the type to threaten the existing order; he was dedicated to recording it. For yet another, he was a settled, middle-aged person, of a species that lived longer than man. Magic talents might not be discovered early, but the evidence was that they existed from birth on. Why should this talent become an issue now, perhaps a century into Amolde’s life? So it must be a mistake; Dor’s target had to be a young centaur, perhaps a newborn one.
Yet as Dor moved about the building, only half listening to the presentation, the compass pointed unerringly toward Amolde’s cubby.
Maybe Amolde was married, Dor thought with exasperated inspiration. Maybe he had a baby centaur, hidden there among the papers. The compass could be pointing to the foal, not to Amolde.
Yes, that made sense.
“If you don’t get that glazed look off your face, the Elder will notice,” Irene murmured, jolting Dor’s attention.
After that he concentrated and managed to assimilate more of the material. After all, there was nothing he could do about the Magician at the moment.
At length they completed the tour. “Is there anything else you would like to see, King Dor?” Gerome inquired.
“No, thank you, Elder,” Dor replied. “I think I’ve seen enough.”
“Shall we arrange to transport your party back to your capital? We can contact your conjurer.”
This was awkward. Dor had to complete his investigation of the centaur Magician, so he was not ready to leave this Isle. But it was obvious that his mission and discovery would not be well received here. He could not simply tell the centaur Elders the situation and beg their assistance; to them that would be obscenity, and their warm hospitality would abruptly chill. A person’s concept of obscenity was not subject to reasonable discussion, for of course the concepts of obscenity and reason were contradictory.
In fact, that might be the root of the centaurs’ accommodation and generosity. Maybe they suspected his mission, so were keeping him reined at all times, in the guise of hospitality. How could he decide to go home promptly, after they had seemingly catered to his needs so conscientiously? They wanted him off the Isle, and he had little chance to balk their wish.
“Uh, could I talk with Chet before I decide anything?” Dor asked.
“Of course. He is your friend.” Again Gerome was the soul of accommodation. That made Dor more nervous, ironically. He was almost sure, now, that he was being managed.
“And my other friends,” Dor added. “We need to decide things together.”
It was arranged. In the afternoon the five got together in a lovely little garden site of guaranteed privacy. “You all know our mission,” Dor said. “It is to lo
cate a centaur Magician and identify his talent-and perhaps bring him back to Castle Roogna. But the centaurs don’t much like magic in themselves; to them it’s obscene. They react to it somewhat the way we do to-well, like people looking up Irene’s skirt.”
“Don’t start on that!” she said, coloring slightly. “I think the whole world has been looking up my skirt recently!”
“Your fault for having good legs,” Grundy said. She kicked at him, but the golem scooted away. Dor noted that she hadn’t tried very hard to tag Grundy; she was not really as displeased as she indicated.
“I happen to be in a position to understand both views,” Chet said. Iris left arm was now in a sling, and he wore a packing of antipain potions. His outlook seemed improved, but not his immediate physical condition. “I admit that both centaur and human foibles are foolish. Centaurs do have magic talents and should be proud to display them, and Irene does have excellent limbs for her kind and should be proud to display them. And that’s not all-“
“All right!” Irene snapped, her color deepening. “Point made. We can’t go blabbing our mission to everyone on Centaur Isle. They just wouldn’t understand.”
“Yes,” Dor said, glad to have this confirmation of his own analysis of the situation. “So now I need some group input. You see, I believe I have located the centaur Magician. It has to be the offspring of Amolde the Archivist.”
“Amolde?” Chet asked. “I know of him. He’s been at his job for fifty years; my mother speaks of him. He’s a bachelor. He has no offspring. He’s more interested in figures of the numerical persuasion than in figures of fillies.”
“No offspring? Then it must be Amolde himself,” Dor said. “The magic compass points directly to him. I don’t know how it is possible, since I’m sure no such Magician was known in Xanth before, but I don’t believe Good Magician Humfrey would give me a bad signal on this.”
“What’s his talent?” Irene asked.
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