Centaur Aisle x-4

by Piers Anthony

  Amolde, in response to Trent’s signal, began turning himself about in place. Dor concentrated, willing the stones in the hall to cry out if any Avars were hiding near them. Queen Iris fashioned an illusion of extraordinary grandeur; the dais became a solid gold pedestal, and King Omen was clothed in splendid royal robes, with a halo of light about his body.

  “Hearken to me, minions of Castle Ocna and loyal citizens of the Kingdom of Onesti,” the King declaimed, and his voice resonated throughout the chamber. “I am King Omen, your rightful monarch, betrayed and imprisoned by the usurper Oary. Now my friends from the magic Land of Xanth have freed me, and I call upon you to renounce Oary and resume your rightful homage to me.”

  “Mknn jkol” the Avar leader cried in his own language. “Ujqqy jko fqyp!”

  An arrow flew toward King Omen. Smash batted it out of the air with his stake. “Ow!” the arrow complained. Dor’s talent was operating too effectively. “I was only doing my duty.”

  As Amolde turned, the magic aisle rotated, reaching to the farthest extent of the hall. “Here’s an Avar!” a stone cried as the magic engaged it. “He shot that arrow!”

  “Shut up, you invisible tattletaler!” the Avar snapped, slapping at what he assumed was there.

  Now a winged dragon launched toward the Avar, belching forth fire. “You, too, you fake monster!” the man cried. He drew his sword and slashed at the dragon.

  Irene threw a cherry. It struck the floor at the Avar’s feet and exploded. The man was knocked back against the watt, stunned and soaked with red cherry juice.

  Amolde had hesitated, facing the action. Now he resumed his turning. Another stone cried out: “There’s one behind me!” The dragon, flying in the moving aisle, sent out another column of flame, rich and red. This time Irene timed her throw to coincide, and the cherry bomb detonated as the dragon’s apparent flame struck. That made the dragon seem real, Dor realized.

  “All of you-shoot your ettqyu!” the Avar leader called as the magic aisle passed by him. “Vjg oqpuvgtu etg lwuy knnwukqpu!”

  But his men hesitated, for two of their number had been stunned by something that was more than illusion. The cherry bombs did indeed detonate outside the ambience of magic; maybe there were, after all, such things in Mundania.

  Amolde continued to turn, and the stones continued to betray the Avars. The lofted cherries commanded respect among the Avars that King Omen did not. The ogre’s bat prevented their arrows from scoring, and the Queen’s illusions kept them confused. For the flying dragon became a giant armored man with a flashing sword, and the man became a pouncing sphinx, and the sphinx became a swarm of green wasps. Thunder sounded about the dais, the illusion of sound, punctuating King Omen’s speech. Soon all the remaining Avars had been cowed or nullified.

  “Now the enemy troops are gone,” King Omen said, his size increased subtly by illusion. “Loyal citizens of the Kingdom of Onesti need have no fear. Come before me; renew your allegiance.” Stars and streamers floated down around him.

  Hesitantly, the castle personnel came forward. “They’re afraid of the images,” Grundy said.

  The Queen nodded. Abruptly the monsters vanished, and the hall became a region of pastel lighting and gentle music-at least within the rotating aisle. Heartened, the people stepped up more boldly. “Is it really you, Your Majesty Good Omen?” an old retainer asked. “We thought you dead, and when the monsters came-“

  “Hold!” a voice called from the archway nearest the castle’s main entrance.

  All turned. There stood King Oary, just within the aisle. Dor realized the man must have ridden to Castle Ocna by another route, avoiding the path with the bridge out. Oary had figured out where Dor’s party was heading, had known it meant trouble, and hastened to deal with the situation before it got out of control. Oary had cunning and courage.

  “There is the usurper!” King Omen cried. “Take him captive!”

  But Oary was backed by another contingent of Avar mercenaries, brought with him from the other castle. The ordinary servitors could not readily approach him. He stood just at the fringe of the magic aisle, so that his words were translated; he had ascertained its width.

  He could step out of it at any moment.

  “Fools!” Oary cried, his voice resounding throughout the hall. “You are being deluded by illusion. Along to me and destroy these alien intruders.”

  “Alien intruders!” King Omen cried, outraged. The stars exploded around him, and gloriously indignant music swelled in the background. “You, who drugged me and threw me into the dungeon and usurped my throne-you dare call me this?”

  The people of the castle hesitated, looking from one King to another, uncertain where their loyalty should lie. Each King was imposing; Oary had taken time to garb himself in full regalia, his royal cloak, crown, and sword rendering his fat body elegant. King Omen was enhanced by Queen Iris’ magic to similar splendor. It was obviously hard for the ordinary people to choose between them, on the basis of appearance.

  “I call you nothing,” Oary roared, with the sincerity of conviction that only a total scoundrel could generate. “You do not even exist. You died at the hands of Khazar assassins. You-“

  The stars around Omen became blinding, and now they hissed, sputtered, and roared with the sound of the firmament being torn asunder. The noise drowned out Oary’s words.

  “Nay, let the villain speak,” King Omen said. “It was ever our way to let each person present his case.”

  “He’ll destroy you,” Queen Iris exclaimed. “I don’t trust him. Don’t give him a chance.”

  “It is Omen’s choice,” King Trent said gently.

  With that, the illusion stopped. Not in the slightest way did Queen Iris ever oppose her will to King Trent’s-at least in public. There was only the Mundane court, silent and drab, with its huddled servants facing the knot of Avars.

  “You are no more than an illusion,” Oary continued boldly, grasping his opportunity. “We have seen how the aliens can fashion monsters and voices from nothing; who doubts they can fashion the likeness of our revered former King?”

  Queen Iris looked pained. “Master stroke!” she breathed. “I knew we shouldn’t have let that cockatrice talk!”

  Indeed, the castle personnel were swayed. They stared at King Omen as if trying to fathom the illusion. The very facility of Queen Iris’ illusions now worked against King Omen. Who could tell reality from image?

  “If King Omen somehow returned from the dead,” King Oary continued, “I would be the first to welcome him home. But woe betide us all if we proffer loyalty to a false image!”

  King Omen stood stunned by the very audacity of Oary’s ploy. In their contest of words, the usurper had plainly scored a critical point.

  “Destroy the impersonator!” Oary cried, seizing the moment. The people started toward King Omen.

  Now King Omen found his voice. “How can you destroy an illusion?” he demanded. “If I am but a construct of air, I will laugh at your efforts.”

  The people paused, confused again. But once more Oary rushed into the gap. “Of course there’s a man there! He merely looks like King Omen. He’s an imposter, sent here to incite you to rebellion against your real King. Then the ogre can rule in my stead.”

  The people shuddered. They did not want to be ruled by an ogre.

  “Imposter?” King Omen exclaimed. “Dor, lend me your sword!” For in the confusion Dor had recovered his sword, while King Omen had lost his.

  “That will settle nothing,” King Trent said. “The better swordsman is not necessarily the rightful King.”

  “Oh, yes, he is!” Omen cried. “Only the royalty of Onesti are trained to fine expertise with the sword. No peasant imposter could match Oary. But I am a better swordsman than the usurper, so can prove myself no imposter.”

  “Not so,” Oary protested. “Well I know that is an enchanted sword your henchman has given you. No one can beat that, for it makes any duffer skilled.”

 
The man had learned a lot in a hurry! It had never occurred to Dor that King Oary would be so agile in debate. Evidently his head was not filled with pudding.

  Omen glanced at the sword, startled. “Dor did not evince any particular skill with it,” he said with unconscious disparagement of Dor’s technique.

  “It is nevertheless true,” King Trent said. “Dor was outside the magic aisle when he used it.”

  “That’s right,” Dor agreed reluctantly. “In the aisle, with that sword, anyone could beat anyone. Also, the Queen’s illusion could make King Trent look like you, King Omen-and he is probably a better swordsman than you are.” Dor wondered just after he said it whether he had made that comparison because he smarted from Omen’s disparagement of his own skill. Yet King Trent was the finest swordsman in Xanth, so his point was valid.

  “You fools!” Queen Iris expostulated. “Victory in your grasp, and you squander it away on technicalities!”

  “It’s a matter of honesty,” Dor said. “O N E S T I.”

  King Omen laughed, able to grasp the spelling pun within the centaur’s range. “Yes, I understand. Well, I will fight Oary outside the magic aisle.”

  “Where your wound will weaken you, and you will have the disadvantage of using a straight sword when you are trained to a curved one,” Queen his said. “If those aren’t enough, the imposter’s Avars will put an arrow in your back. Don’t be even more of a fool than you need to be. Oary’s trying to maneuver you into a position where his treachery can prevail. I tell you, I know the type.”

  Dor was silent. The Queen knew the type because she was the type. That made her a good adviser in a situation like this.

  “But how can I prove my identity?” King Omen asked somewhat plaintively.

  “Let the castle personnel come to you and touch you and talk with you,” King Trent suggested. “Surely many of them know you well. They will be able to tell whether you are an imposter.”

  Oary tried to protest, but the suggestion made too much sense to the castle personnel. King Trent’s ability to maneuver had foiled Oary’s stratagems. Non-Avar guards appeared, reaching for their weapons, and they were more numerous than the Avars. It seemed that news of this confrontation had spread, and the true Onesti loyalists were converging.

  Seeing himself losing position, Oary grudgingly agreed. “I will join the line myself!” he declared. “After all, I should be the first to welcome King Omen back, should he actually return, since it is in his stead I hold the throne of Onesti.”

  Queen Iris scowled, but King Trent gestured her to silence. It was as if this were a game of moves and countermoves, with limiting rules. Oary was now going along with King Trent’s move, and had to be accommodated until he made an open break. Dor noted the process; at such time as he himself had to be King for keeps, this might guide him.

  “Come, King,” King Trent said, taking Omen by the arm. “Let us all set aside our weapons and form a receiving line.” Gently he took the magic sword and passed it over to Queen Iris, who set it carefully on the floor.

  Oary had to divest himself of his own weapon, honoring this new move. His Avars grumbled but stayed back. Smash the Ogre moved nearer them, retaining his post. This encouraged them to keep the peace.

  The line formed, the palace personnel coming eagerly forward to verify the person of King Omen. The first was an old man, slow to move but given the lead because of the respect of the others.

  “Hello, Borywog!” King Omen said, grasping the man’s frail arm. “Remember what a torment I was when a child, and you my tutor? Worse than my father was! You thought you’d never teach me to spell! Remember when I wrote the name of our Kingdom as HONESTY?”

  “My Lord, my Lord!” the old man cried, falling to his knees. “Never did I tell that abomination to a soul! It has to be you, Your Majesty!”

  The others proceeded through the line. King Omen knew them all. The case was becoming conclusive. King Trent stood behind him, smiling benignly.

  Suddenly one of the men in the line drew a dagger and lunged at Omen. But before the treacherous strike scored, the man became a large brown rat, who scurried away, terrified. A palace cat bounded eagerly after it. “I promised to stand bodyguard,” King Trent said mildly. “I have had a certain experience in such matters.”

  Then Oary was at the head of the line. “Why, it is Omen!” he exclaimed in seeming amazement. “Avars, sheathe your weapons; our proper king has returned from the dead. What a miracle!”

  King Omen, expecting another treachery, stood openmouthed. Again King Trent stepped in. “So nice to have your confirmation, King Oary-we always knew you had the best interests of the Kingdom of Onesti at heart. It is best to resolve these things with the appearance of amicability, if possible. Dor, why don’t you conduct King Oary to a more private place and work out the details?”

  Now Dor was amazed. He stood unspeaking. Grundy appeared, tapping Dor on the leg. “Take him into an anteroom,” the golem whispered. “I’ll get the others.”

  Dor composed himself “Of course,” he said with superficial equilibrium. “King Oary, shall we adjourn to an anteroom for a private discussion?”

  “By all means,” Oary said, the soul of amicability. He seemed to understand the rules of this game better than Dor did.

  They walked sedately to the anteroom, while King Omen continued to greet old friends and the Avars fidgeted in their isolated mass. Without Oary to command them, the Avars were ineffective; they didn’t even speak the local language.

  Dor’s thoughts were spinning. Why had Oary welcomed Omen, after trying to deny him and have him assassinated? Why did he pretend not to know where Omen had been? And why did King Trent, himself a victim of Oary’s treachery and cruelty, go along with this?

  Why, finally, had King Trent turned the matter over to Dor, who was incompetent to understand the situation, let alone deal with it?

  Irene, Smash, and Amolde joined them in the anteroom. Oary seemed unperturbed. “Shall we speak plainly?” the Mundane inquired.

  “Sure,” Irene retorted, drawing her jacket close about her. “I think you stink!”

  “Do you folk comprehend the situation?” Oary asked blithely.

  “No,” Dor said. “I don’t know why King Trent didn’t turn you into a worm and step on you.”

  “King Trent is an experienced monarch,” Oary said. “He deals with realities, rather than emotions. He goes for the most profitable combination, rather than simple vengeance. Here is reality: I have one troop of Avars here who could certainly create trouble. I have more at the other castle. It would take a minor civil war to dislodge those mercenaries, whose captains are loyal to me-and that would weaken the Kingdom of Onesti at a time when the Khazar menace is growing. It would be much better to avoid that nuisance and keep the Kingdom strong. Therefore King Omen must seek accommodation with me-for the good of Onesti.”

  “Why not just-“ Irene started, but broke off.

  “You are unable to say it,” Oary said. “That is the symptom of your weakness, which you will have to eliminate if you hope to make as effective a Queen as your mother. Why not just kill me and be done with it? Because your kind lacks the gumption to do what is necessary.”

  “Yeah?” Grundy demanded. “Why didn’t you kill King Omen, then?”

  Oary sighed. “I should have, I suppose. I really should have. But I liked the young fool. No one’s perfect.”

  “But you tried to have him killed just now,” Dor said.

  “A desperate measure,” Oary said. “I can’t say I’m really sorry it failed. The move came too late; it should have been done at the outset, so that Omen never had opportunity to give proof of his identity. Then the game would have been mine. But that is the measure of my own inadequacy. I didn’t want to retain my crown enough.”

  Dor’s emotions were mixing. He knew Oary to be an unscrupulous rascal, but the man’s candor and cleverness and admission of civilized weakness made it hard to dislike him totally. “And now we ha
ve to deal with you,” Dor said. “But I don’t see how we can trust you.”

  “Of course you can’t trust me!” Oary agreed. “Had I the option, I would have you right back in the dungeon, and your horse-man would be touring the Avar empire as a circus freak.”

  “Now see here!” Amolde said.

  “If we can’t kill him, and can’t trust him, what can we do with him?” Dor asked the others.

  “Throw him in the same cell he threw King Omen,” Irene said. “Have a sadistic mute eunuch feed him.”

  “Smash destroyed those cells,” Grundy reminded her. “Anyway, they aren’t safe. One of his secret henchmen might let him out.”

  “But we’ve got to come up with a solution for King Omen!” Dor said. “I don’t know why this was put in my hands, but-“

  “Because you will one day be King of Xanth,” Oary said. “You must learn to make the hard decisions, right or wrong. Had I had more experience before attaining power, I would have acted to avoid my present predicament. Had Omen had it, he would never have lost his throne. You have to learn by doing. Your King Trent is one competent individual; it was my misfortune to misjudge him, since I thought his talk about magic indicated a deranged mind. Usually only ignorant peasants really believe in sorcery. By the time you are King, you will know how to handle the office.”

  This made brutal sense. “I wish I could trust you,” Dor said. “You’d make an excellent practical tutor in the realities of governing.”

  “This is your practical tutoring,” Oary said.

  “There are two customary solutions, historically,” Amolde said. “One is mutilation-the criminal is blinded or deprived of his extremities, so he can do no further harm-“

  “No!” Dor said, and Irene agreed. “We are not barbarians.”

  “You are not professional either,” Oary said. “Still you balk at expedient methods.”

  “The other is banishment,” the centaur continued. “People of your species without magical talents used to be banished from Xanth, just as people of my species with such talents are banished. It is a fairly effective device.”