"He would," Irene grumped. "Men like that will do anything."
It occurred to Dor that this could be the reason the translator had persisted in addressing Irene as "slut" and "strumpet." This was the type of woman King Oary nominally associated with. But Dor decided not to mention this to Irene; she already had reason enough to hate Oary.
Dor climbed the vines, finding a lodging against the wall just beneath the embrasure. "Describe the room," he murmured to Grundy. "I've got to know exactly what's in it, and where."
The golem consulted with the plant. "There is this big feather bed to the right, two of your paces in from this wall. A wooden bench straight in from the embrasure, six paces, with her dress strewn on it.
A wooden table to its left, one pace--and there's your sword on it, and Arnolde's bag of spells."
"Ha!" Dor exclaimed quietly. "I need that sword. Too bad it's not the variety that wields itself; I could call it right to me."
The golem continued describing the room, until Dor was satisfied he had the details properly fixed in his mind. He was able to picture it now--everything just so. "I hope my mind doesn't go blank," he called down.
"Don't you dare!" Irene snapped. "Save your fouling up for some other time. Do I have to come up there and prompt you?"
"That might help," Dor confessed. "You see, I can't make things say specific things. They only answer questions, or talk in response to my words. Usually. And the inanimate is not too bright, and sometimes perverse. So I may indeed foul it up."
"For pity's sake!" Irene took hold of the vines and began climbing. "And don't look up my skirt!" she said to Arnolde.
"I wouldn't think of it," the centaur said equably. "I prefer to view equine limbs, and never did see the merit in pink panties."
"They're not pink!" she said.
"They're not? I must be colorblind. Let me see--"
"Forget it!" She joined Dor, gave him a quick kiss, wrapped her skirt closely about her legs, and settled in for the duration. Dor had worried about the strength of the vines, with all this weight on them, but realized she would have a better notion than he how much they could hold.
"Well, start," she whispered.
"But if I talk loud enough for the things to hear me, so will King Oary."
She sighed. "You are a dumbbell at times, dear. You don't have to talk aloud to objects; just direct your attention to them. That's the way your magic works. As for King Oary--if that snippet with him knows her trade, he won't be paying any attention to what's outside the castle."
She was right. Dor concentrated, but still couldn't quite get it together. He was used to speaking aloud to objects. "Are they really not pink?" he asked irrelevantly.
"My what?"
"Your--you--knows."
She laughed. "My panties? You mean you never looked?"
Dor, embarrassed, admitted that he had not.
"You're entitled now, you know."
"But I wasn't, back when I had a chance to see."
She released her grip on the vine with one hand and reached over to tweak his cheek, in much the manner the Gorgon had. "You're something sort of rare and special, Dor. Well, you get this job done right, and I'll show you."
"Will you get on with it?" Grundy demanded from above.
"But she says not till after this job's done," Dor said.
"I was referring to the job!" the golem snapped. "I'll tell you what color her--"
"I will wring your rag body into a tight little knot!" Irene threatened, and the golem was silent.
Prompted by this, Dor concentrated on the magic sword on the King's table. Groan, he ordered it mentally.
Obediently, the sword groaned. Naturally it hammed it up.
"Groooaan!" it singsonged in an awful key.
"The doxy just sat up straight," Grundy reported gleefully as the vine rustled the news to him. "Oh, she shouldn't have done that. She's stark, bare, nude naked!"
"Skip the pornography, you little voyeur!" Irene snapped. "It's the King we want to rouse." She nudged Dor. "You know the script we worked out. Let me free, let me free."
Dor concentrated again. Sword, I have a game for you. If you play your part well, you can scare the pants off bad King Oary.
"Hey, great!" the sword exclaimed. "Only they're already off him. Boy, is he fat!"
No. Don't talk to me! Talk to the King. Groan again and say, "Let me free, let me free!" The idea is you're the ghost of Good King Omen, coming back to haunt him. Can you handle that, or are you too stupid?
"I'll show you!" the sword exclaimed. It groaned again, with hideous feeling. It was definitely a ham.
"There's someone here!" the doxy screamed.
"There can't be," the King muttered. "The guards prevent anyone from getting through. They know I don't want to be disturbed when I'm conducting affairs of state."
"Affairs of state!" Irene hissed furiously.
"Affair, anyway," Dor said, trying to calm her.
"Let me free, let me free," the sword groaned enthusiastically.
"Then who's that?" the doxy demanded, hiding under the feathers.
"I am the ghooost of Goood King ooomen," the sword answered.
Dor no longer needed to prompt it.
The doxy emitted a half-stiffed squeak and disappeared entirely into the feathers, according to Grundy's gleeful play-by-play report.
The King clutched a feather quilt about him, causing part of the doxy to reappear, to her dismay.
"You can't be!" Oary retorted shakily, trying to see where the voice came from. The lone candle illuminating the room cast many wavering shadows, the plant reported, making such detection difficult.
"Coming back from the graaave to haaunt you!" the sword continued, really getting into it.
"Impossible!" But the King looked nervous, Grundy reported.
"He's a tough one," Irene murmured. "He should be terrified, and he's only worried. We're only scaring the doxy, who doesn't matter. Girls can be such foolish creatures!" Then she reconsidered. "When they want to be."
Dor nodded, worried himself. If this ruse didn't work "Yooou killed me," the sword said.
"I did not!" Oary shouted. "I only locked you up until I figured out what to do with you. I never killed you."
The doxy's face reappeared, replacing the rounder portion of her that had showed before. "You locked up Good Omen?" she asked, surprised.
"I had to, or I never would have gotten the throne," the King said absently. "I thought he would foul up as King, but he didn't, so there was no way to remove him legitimately." As he talked, he hoisted his porcine torso from the bed, wrapped the quilt about it, and stalked the voice he heard. "But I didn't kill him. I am too cautious for that. It is too hard to undo a king, if anything goes wrong. So this can’t be his ghost."
"Then whose ghost is it?" the doxy demanded.
"No ghost at all," the King said.
"There's no one there." He picked up the sword. "Just this sword I took from the Xanth Prince. I thought it was magic, but it isn't. I tried it out, and there's nothing remarkable about it except a fine edge."
"That's not true!" the sword cried. "Unhand me, varlet!"
Unnerved at last, the King hurled it out the embrasure. "The thing talks!" he cried.
"Well, that's one way to recover my weapon," Dor murmured.
"Try for my bag of seeds," Irene suggested. "I can do a lot with genuine magic plants."
Grundy had located the seeds, carelessly thrown in a corner; no doubt Oary had been disappointed when he discovered the bag did not contain treasure, though he should have been satisfied with the gold and diamonds Dor had carried. Greed knew no restraint! "You can't get rid of me that way," the seedbag said as Dor mentally prompted it. "My ghost will haunt you forever."
"I tell you, I didn't kill you!" Oary said, looking for the new voice that sounded seedy. "You're just making that up."
"Well, I might as well be dead," the seedbag said. "Locked up here alone--it's awful."
"What do
you mean, alone?" Oary demanded. "The Xanth King is in the next cell, and the sharp-tongued Xanth Queen in the third. They wanted to know what had happened to you, and wouldn't deal with me, so now they know."
Irene's free hand clutched Dor's shoulder. "Confirmation!" she whispered, thrilled.
Dor was equally gratified. The talking objects had hardly terrorized Oary, but they had evoked his confession nevertheless. Dor continued to concentrate. But you're way out in nowhere, he thought to the bag.
"But we're way out in nowhere," the bag dutifully repeated. Dor was getting better at this as he went. He had never before used his talent in quite this way; it was a new aspect.
"Nowhere?" The King pounced on the bag and shook it. "You're in the Ocna dungeon! The second biggest castle of the Kingdom! Plenty of company there! I'd be proud to be in that dungeon myself. Out, you ungrateful bag!" And he hurled it out the embrasure.
"What?" the doxy demanded. She had evidently heard only the last few words.
"Out, you ungrateful bag," the table repeated helpfully. "That's what he said."
"Well, I never!" the doxy said, flushing wrathfully.
"Don't tell me you never!" the feather quilt she had retained said.
"I was right here when you--"
The doxy slapped the quilt, silencing it, then wrapped it about her and stalked out. "Help!" the quilt cried. "I'm being kidnapped by a monster?" Then it was beyond the magic aisle and said no more.
"Guards!" the King bellowed. "Search the premises! Report anything remarkable."
There was a scream from the hall, and the sound of someone being slapped. "He said premises, not mistresses" the doxy's voice cried.
There was a guttural laugh. "But we do have something remarkable to report."
"He's seen it before!" she retorted. Her footfalls moved on away.
Guards charged into the room. Quickly they ascertained that no one except the King was in the tower. Then they spied the tip of the vine that had grown into the embrasure. They investigated it--while Dor and Irene scrambled down the wall. Grundy leaped from above them, dropping to the centaur's back. "Take off!" he cried.
Arnolde in turn launched himself from the platform, landing with heavy impact on the dark ground and galloping off. The platform was shoved violently by the back thrust of his hooves, so that the vines holding it in place were wrenched from the wall. Suddenly Irene was failing, her support gone, while Dor dangled tenuously from his vine, his grip slipping.
But Smash the Ogre was there below. He snatched Irene out of the air and whirled her around, absorbing the shock of her fall. Her skirt flew out and up--and now at last Dor saw her panties. "They were green. Then Smash deposited her gently on the ground while Dor slid down as quickly as he could, weak with relief. "I'm glad you were there!" Dor gasped.
"Me glad centaur was still near," Smash said. "He out of range now."
Which meant that the ogre's magic strength was gone again. Irene had fallen in those few seconds that the rear extension of the aisle remained. Now Smash's nonrhyming showed that the Mundane environment had closed in.
"Someone's out there!" King Oary cried from the embrasure.
"After him!" But the guards had no good light for the purpose, and seemed loath to pursue a magic enemy in the moonlight.
"You sword," Smash said, pressing it into Dor's hand. "You seeds," he said to Irene, giving her the bag he had rescued.
"Thanks oodles, Smash," she said. "Now let's get away from here."
But as they moved out, a small gate opened in the castle wall and troops poured forth bearing torches. "Oary must have caught on that it was our magic," Dor said as they scrambled away.
Soon they caught up to the centaur, who had stopped as soon as he realized what was happening. Dor felt no different as they re-entered the magic aisle, but Smash's panting alleviated; his strength had returned.
Quickly Dor summarized their situation. "We're together; we have our magic things, except for Arnolde's spells, and we know King Trent, Queen Iris, and King Omen are alive in Castle Ocna. Oary's troops are on our trail. We had better hurry on to rescue the three, before the troops catch us. But we don't know the way."
"Every plant and rock must know the way to Ocna," Grundy said.
"We can ask as we go along."
The guards were spreading out and combing through the forest.
Whatever virtues King Oary lacked, he evidently compelled obedience when he really wanted it. Dor's party had to retreat before them. But there were two problems: this section of forest was small, so that they could not remain concealed long; and they were being herded the wrong way. For it turned out that Ocna was half a day's walk northwest of Onesti, while this forest was southeast. They were actually moving toward the village settlement, where the peasants who served the castle dwelt. That village would, in the course of centuries, expand into the town of Onesti, whose designation on the map had given them the hint where to find King Trent. They didn't want to interfere with that!
"We've got to get on a path," Irene said. "Well never make it to Ocna tonight traveling cross-country. But the soldiers will be patrolling the paths."
"Maybe there's a magic seed for this," Grundy suggested.
"Maybe," Irene agreed. "Another tangler would do--except I don't have one. I do have a cherry seed--"
"The kind that grows cherry bombs? That would do it!"
"No," Arnolde said.
"What's the matter, horsetail?" the golem demanded nastily.
"You'd rather get your rump riddled with arrows than throw a few cherries at the enemy?"
"Setting aside the ethical and aesthetic considerations--which process I find objectionable--there remain practical ones," the centaur said. "First, we don't want a pitched battle; we do want to elude these people, If possible, leaving them here in a fruitless search while we proceed unchallenged to Ocna. If we fight them, we shall be tied down indefinitely, until their superior numbers overwhelm us."
"There is that," Dor agreed. Centaurs did have fine minds.
"Second, we must keep moving If we are to reach Ocna before dawn. A half-day's march for seasoned travelers by day, familiar with the route, will be twice that for us at night. A cherry tree can't travel; it must be rooted in soil. And since it is magic--"
"We'd have to stay with it," Irene finished. "It'd die the moment we left. Anything magic will be no good away from the magic aisle."
"However," the centaur said after a moment, "it might be possible to grow a plant that would distract them, even If it were dead. Especially if it were dead."
"Cherry bombs won't work," Grundy said. "They don't exist in Mundania. They wouldn't explode outside the aisle."
"Oh, I don't know," Irene said defensively. "Once they are mature and ready to detonate, it seems to me they should be able to explode anywhere. I'd be willing to try them, certainly."
"Possibly so," the centaur said. "However, I was thinking of resurrection fern, whose impact would extend beyond the demise of the plant itself."
"I do have some," Irene said. "But I don't see how it can stop soldiers."
"Primitives tend to be superstitious," the centaur explained. "Especially, I understand, Mundanes, who profess not to believe in ghosts."
"That's ridiculous!" Dor protested. "Only a fool would not believe in ghosts. Some of my best friends are--"
"I'm not certain all Mundanes are fools," Arnolde said in his cautious way. "But these particular ones may be. So if they encountered resurrection fern--?"
"It could be quite something, for people who didn't know about it," Irene agreed.
"And surely these Mundanes don't," Arnolde said. "I admit it is a bit of a dastardly deed, but our situation is desperate."
"Dastardly deed," Dor said. "Are you sure that counterspell we used with the salve worked?"
The centaur smiled. "Certainly I'm sure! We do not have to do such a deed, but we certainly can if we choose to."
Irene dug out the seed. "I can grow it
, but you'll have to coordinate it. The wrong suggestion can ruin it."
"These primitives are bound to have suffered lost relatives," the centaur said. "They will have repressed urgings. All we shall have to do is establish pseudo-identities."
"I never talked with resurrection fern," Grundy complained. "What's so special about it? What's this business about lost relatives?"
"Let's find a place on a road," Arnolde said. "We want to intercept the Mundanes, but have easy travel to Ocna. They will pursue us when they penetrate the deception."
"Right," Irene agreed. "I'll need time to get the fern established so it can include all of us."
"Include us all in what--?" the golem demanded.
"Resurrection fern has the peculiar property of--" the centaur began.
"Near here!" Smash called, pointing. Ogres had excellent night vision.
Sure enough, they had found a path, worn by the tread of peasants' feet and horses' hooves.
"Do you go to Ocna?" Dor asked the path.
"No. I merely show the way," it answered.
"Which way is it?"
"That way," the section of path to their west said. "But you'll have trouble traveling there tonight."
"Why?"
"Because there is something wrong with me. I feel numb, everywhere but here. Maybe there's been a bad storm that washed me out."
"Could the path be aware of itself beyond the region of magic?" Irene asked Dor.
"I'm not sure. I don't think so--but then, it does know it goes to Ocna, so maybe it does have some awareness. I'm not used to dealing with things that straddle magic and nonmagic; I don't know all the rules."
"I believe it is reasonably safe to assume the path is animate only within the aisle," Arnolde said. "In any event, this is probably as good a place for our purpose as any. The soldiers are surely using this path, and will circle around here. It is better to meet them in a manner of our choosing than to risk an accidental encounter. Let us begin our preparations."
"Right," Irene said. "Now the fern will grow in the dark, but needs light to activate its magic. The soldiers will have torches, so it should be all right."
"I have the sunstone," Dor reminded her. "That can trigger the fern, If necessary. Or we could clear out some trees to let the moonlight in."