A Spell for Chameleon

  The soldier withdrew somewhat, stationing himself to the east of the girl. He shut his eyes and rotated. His pointing finger came to bear squarely on Dee.

  The girl burst into tears. "I mean you no harm--I swear it. Don't hurt me!"

  She was a plain girl, of strictly average face and figure, no beauty. This was in contrast to the several females Bink had encountered recently. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about her, and Bink was always unnerved by feminine distress. "Maybe it's not physical danger," he said. "Does your talent differentiate?''

  "No, it doesn't," Crombie admitted, a bit defensively. "It can be any kind of threat, and she may not actually mean you harm--but sure as hell, there's something."

  Bink studied the girl, whose sniffles were drying up. That familiarity--where had he seen her before? She was not from the North Village, and he really had not encountered many girls elsewhere. Somewhere on his current journey?

  Slowly the notion dawned on him: a Sorceress of illusion did not have to make herself beautiful. If she wanted to keep track of him, she could adopt a completely different appearance, thinking he would never suspect. Yet the illusion would be easiest to maintain if it corresponded somewhat to her natural contours. Take off a few pounds here and there, modify the voice--could be. If he fell for the ruse, he could be in dire danger of being led into corruption. Only the soldier's special magic gave it away.

  But how could he be sure? Even if Dee represented some critical threat to him, he had to be sure he had identified the right danger. A man who stepped around a venom mouse could be overlooking a harpy on the other side. Snap judgments about magic were suspect.

  A brilliant notion came to him. "Dee, you must be thirsty," he said. "Have a drink of water." And he proffered his canteen.

  "Oh, thank you," she said, taking it gladly.

  The water cured all ills. An enchantment was an ill, wasn't it? So if she drank, it might show her--at least momentarily--in her true guise. Then he would know. Dee drank deeply. There was no change.

  "Oh, this is very good," she said. "I feel so much better."

  The two men exchanged glances. Scratch one bright notion. Either Dee was not Iris, or the Sorceress had better control than he had supposed. He had no way of knowing.

  "Now be on your way, girl," Crombie said curtly.

  "I am going to see the Magician Humfrey," she said contritely. "I need a spell to make me well."

  Again Bink and Crombie exchanged glances. Dee had drunk the magic water; she was well. Therefore she had no need to see the Good Magician on that score. She had to be lying. And if she were lying, what was she concealing from them?

  She must have picked this particular destination because she knew Bink was going there. Yet this was still conjecture. It could be pure coincidence--or she could be an ogre in female form--a healthy ogre!--waiting for the expedient moment to strike.

  Crombie, seeing Bink's indecision, made a decision of his own. "If you let her go with you, then I'm coming too. With my hand ever on my sword. Watching her--all the time."

  "Maybe that's best," Bink agreed reluctantly.

  "I bear you no malice," Dee protested. "I would do nothing to hurt you, even were I able. Why don't you believe me?"

  Bink found it too complicated to explain. "You can travel with us if you want to," he said.

  Dee smiled gratefully, but Crombie shook his head grimly and fingered the hilt of his sword.

  Crombie remained suspicious, but Bink soon discovered he enjoyed Dee's company. She had no trace of the personality of the Sorceress. She was such an average girl that he identified with her to a considerable extent. She seemed to have no magic; at least, she evaded that subject. Perhaps she was going to the Magician in the hope of finding her talent; maybe that was what she had meant by needing a spell to make her well. Who was in good shape in Xanth without magic?

  However, if she were the Sorceress Iris, her ruse would quickly be exposed by the divination of the Magician. So the truth wound be known.

  They stopped at the Spring of Life to refill their canteen, traveled half a day, then got caught by a technicolor hailstorm. It was magic, of course, or magic-augmented. The colors gave it away. Which meant that there would not be any great melting or runoff. All they had to do was take shelter from it until it passed.

  But they happened to be on a barren ridge: no trees for miles around, no caves, no houses. The land went up and down, cut away by erosion gullies, strewn with bounders--but there was nothing to shield them effectively from the storm.

  Pelted by increasingly large hailstones, the three scurried in the direction Crombie's magic pointed: the route to safe shelter. It came into view behind a bounder: a monstrously spreading tentacular tree.

  "That's a tangler!" Bink exclaimed in horror. "We can't go there."

  Crombie was brought up short, peering through the hail. "So it is. My talent never pointed wrong before."

  Except when it accused Dee, Bink thought. He wondered just how reliable the soldier's magic really was. For one thing, why hadn't it pointed out the soldier's danger to himself, before he got stabbed in the back and left to die? But Bink did not say that out loud. There were often complexities and confusion in magic, and he was sure Crombie meant well.

  "There's a hephalumph there," Dee cried. "Half eaten."

  Sure enough, the huge carcass lay near the trunk orifice of the tree. Its posterior was gone, but the front end was untouched. The tree had evidently caught it and consumed as much as it could--but a hephalumph was so big that even a tangle tree could not polish it off in one meal. Now the tree was sated, its tentacles dangling listlessly.

  "So it's safe after all," Bink said, wincing as an egg-sized red hailstone just missed his head. The hail was puffy and light, but it still could hurt. "It will be hours before the tree revives enough to become aggressive. Maybe even days--and even then, it'll start on the lumph first."

  Still Crombie balked, understandably. "Could be an illusion, that carcass," he warned. "Be suspicious of all things--that's the soldier's motto. A trap to make us think the tree's docile. How do you think it tempted the hephalumph in there?"

  Telling point. Periodic hailstorms on the ridge to drive prey to cover, and seemingly ideal cover waiting--beautiful system. "But we'll be knocked silly by hail if we don't get to cover soon," Bink said.

  "I'll go," Dee said. Before Bink could protest, she plunged into the territory of the tree.

  The tentacles quivered, twitching toward her--but lacked the imperative to make a real effort. She dashed up and kicked the hephalumph in the trunk--and it was solid. "No mirage," she cried. "Come on in."

  "Unless she's a shill," Crombie muttered. "I tell you, she's a threat to you, Bink. If she shilled for the tangler, she could trick dozens of people into its clutches--"

  The man was paranoid. Perhaps this was another useful quality for soldiers--though again, it didn't seem to have kept him out of trouble before. "I don't believe it," Bink said. "But I do believe this hailstorm! I'm going in." And he went.

  He passed the outer fringe of tentacles nervously, but they remained quiescent. A hungry tangler was not a subtle plant; it normally grabbed the moment its prey was grabable.

  Finally Crombie followed. The tree shuddered slightly, as if irritated by its inability to consume them, and that was all, "Well, I knew my talent told the truth. It always does," he said, somewhat weakly.

  It was actually very nice here. The hailstones had grown to the size of clenched fists, but they bounced off the tree's upper foliage and piled up in a circle around it, caught by a slight depression. Predator trees tended to sit in such depressions, formed by the action of their tentacles while cleaning brush and rocks out of the way in order to have an attractive lawn for passing creatures. The refuse was tossed beyond in a great circle, so that in the course of years the land surface rose. The tangle was a highly successful type of tree, and some of them formed wells whose rims were fashioned from buried bones of past prey. T
hey had been cleaned out near the North Village, but all children were instructed in this menace. Theoretically, a man pursued by a dragon could skirt a tangler, leading the dragon within range of the tentacles--if he had both courage and skill.

  Within the shielded area there was a fine greensward rising in soft hillocks, rather like the torso of a woman. Sweet perfume odors wafted through, and the air was pleasantly warm. In short, this was a seemingly ideal place to seek shelter--and that was by design. It had certainly fooled the hephalumph. Obviously this was a good location, for the tangler had grown to enormous girth. But right now they were here rent-free.

  "Well, my magic was right all the time," Crombie said. "I should have trusted it. But by the same token..." He glanced meaningfully at Dee.

  Bink wondered about that. He believed in the soldier's sincerity, and the location magic was obviously functional. Had it malfunctioned in Dee's case, or was she really a bad if obscure threat? If so, what kind? He could not believe she meant him harm. He had suspected her of being Iris the Sorceress, but now he didn't believe that; she showed no sign of the temperament of the mistress of illusion, and personality was not something that magic could conceal for very long.

  "Why didn't your magic warn you of the stab in the back?" Bink asked the soldier, making another attempt to ascertain what was reliable and what was not.

  "I didn't ask it," Crombie said. "I was a damned fool. But once I see you safely to your Magician, I'll sure as hell ask it who stabbed me, and then..." He fingered the blade of his sword meaningfully.

  A fair answer. The talent was not a warning signal; it merely performed on demand. Crombie had obviously had no reason to suspect danger, any more than Bink had reason to feel threatened now. Where was the distinction between natural caution and paranoia?

  The storm continued. None of them were willing to sleep, because they did not trust the tree to that extent, so they sat and talked. Crombie told a tough story of ancient battle and heroism in the days of Xanth's Fourth Wave. Bink was no military man, but he found himself caught up in the gallantry of it, and almost wished he had lived in those adventurous times, when men of no magic were considered men.

  By the end of that story, the storm had eased off, but the hail was piled so high that it didn't seem worthwhile to go out yet. Usually the meltoff from a magic storm was quite rapid once the sun came out again, so it was worth waiting for.

  "Where do you live?" Bink asked Dee.

  "Oh, I'm just a country girl, you know," she said. "No one else was going to travel through the wilderness."

  "That's no answer," Crombie snapped suspiciously.

  She shrugged. "It's the only answer I have. I can't change what I am, much as I might like to."

  "It's the same answer I have, too," Bink said. "I'm just a villager, nothing special. I hope the Magician will be able to make me into something special, by finding out that I have some good magic talent no one ever suspected, and I'm willing to work for him for a year for that."

  "Yes," she said, smiling appreciatively at him. Suddenly he felt himself liking her. She was ordinary--like him. She was motivated--like him. They had something in common.

  "You're going for magic so your girl back home will marry you?" Crombie asked, sounding cynical.

  "Yes," Bink agreed, remembering Sabrina with sudden poignancy. Dee turned away. "And so I can stay in Xanth."

  "You're a fool, a civilian fool," the soldier said kindly.

  "Well, it's the only chance I have," Bink replied. "Any gamble is worthwhile when the alternative--"

  "I don't mean the magic. That's useful. And staying in Xanth makes sense. I mean marriage."

  "Marriage?"

  "Women are the curse of mankind," Crombie said vehemently. "They trap men into marriage, the way this tangle tree traps prey, and they torment them the rest of their lives."

  "Now that's unfair," Dee said. "Didn't you have a mother?"

  "She drove my worthy father to drink and loco," Crombie asserted. "Made his life hell on earth--and mine too. She could read our minds--that was her talent.''

  A woman who could read men's minds: hell indeed for a man! If any woman had been able to read Bink's mind--ugh!

  "Must have been hell for her, too," Dee observed.

  Bink suppressed a smile, but Crombie scowled. "I ran off and joined the army two years before I was of age. Never regretted it."

  Dee frowned. "You don't sound like God's gift to women, either. We can all be thankful you never touched any."

  "Oh, I touch them," Crombie said with a coarse laugh. "I just don't marry them. No one of them's going to get her hooks into me."

  "You're disgusting," she snapped.

  "I'm smart. And if Bink's smart, he'll not let you start tempting him, either."

  "I wasn't!" she exclaimed angrily.

  Crombie turned away in evident repugnance. "Ah, you're all the same. Why do I waste my time talking with the likes of you? Might as well argue ethics with the devil."

  "Well, if you feel that way, I'll go!" Dee said. She jumped to her feet and stalked to the edge.

  Bink thought she was bluffing, for the storm, though abating, was still in force with occasional flurries. Colored hailstones were mounded up two feet high, and the sun was not yet out.

  But Dee plunged out into it.

  "Hey, wait!" Bink cried. He ran after her.

  Dee had disappeared, hidden by the storm. "Let her go, good riddance," Crombie said. "She had designs on you; I know how they work. I knew she was trouble from the start."

  Bink put his arms up over his head and face against the hail and stepped out. His feet slid out from under, skidding on hailstones, and he fell headlong into the pile. Hailstones closed in over his head. Now he knew what had happened to Dee. She was buried somewhere out here.

  He had to close his eyes, for powder from crushed stones was getting into them. This was not tree ice, but coalesced vapor, magic; the stones were dry and not really cold. But they were slippery.

  Something caught his foot. Bink kicked violently, remembering the sea monster near the island of the Sorceress, forgetting that it had been an illusion and that there could hardly be a sea monster here. But its grip was tight; it dragged him into an enclosure.

  He scrambled to his feet as it let go. He leaped on the troll shape he saw through the film of dust,

  Bink found himself flying through the air. He landed hard on his back, the creature drawing on his arm. Trolls were tough! He squirmed around and tried to grab its legs--but the thing dropped on top of him and pinned him firmly to the ground. "Ease up, Bink," it said. "It's me--Crombie."

  Bink did as much of a double-take as he was able to, considering his position, and recognized the soldier.

  Crombie let him up. "I knew you'd never find your way out of that mess, so I hauled you out by the one part I could reach, your foot. You had magic dust in your eyes, so you couldn't recognize me. Sorry I had to put you down."

  Magic dust--of course. It distorted the vision, making men seem like trolls, ogres, or worse--and vice versa. It was an additional hazard of such storms, so that people could not see their way out of them. Probably many victims had seen the tangle tree as an innocent blanket tree. "That's okay," Bink said. "You soldiers sure know how to fight."

  "All part of the business. Never charge a man who knows how to throw." Crombie raised one finger near his ear, signifying an idea. "I'll show you how to do it; it's a nonmagical talent you can use."

  "Dee!" Bink cried. "She's still out there!"

  Crombie grimaced. "Okay. I made her walk out; if it means so much to you, I'll help you find her."

  So the man did have some decency, even with regard to women. "Do you really hate them all?" Bink asked as he girded himself to wrestle with the hail again. "Even the ones who don't read minds?"

  "They all read minds," Crombie asserted. "Most of them do it without magic, is all. But I won't swear as there's no girl in the whole of Xanth for me. If I found a pretty one wh
o wasn't mean or nagging or deceitful..." He shook his head. "But if any like that exist, they sure as hell wouldn't marry me."

  So the soldier rejected all women because he felt they rejected him. Well, it was a good enough rationale.

  Now the storm had stopped. They went out into the piled hailstones, stepping carefully so as not to take any more spills. The colored storm clouds cleared, dissipating rapidly now that their magic imperative was spent.

  What caused such storms? Bink wondered. They had to be inanimate--but the course of this journey had convinced him that dead objects did indeed have magic, often very strong magic. Maybe it was in the very substance of Xanth, and it diffused slowly into the living and nonliving things that occupied the land. The living things controlled their shares of magic, channelizing it, focusing it, making it manifest at will. The inanimate things released it haphazardly, as in this storm. There had to be a lot of magic here, gathered from a large area. All wasted in a pointless mass of hailstones.

  Yet not all pointless. Obviously the tangle tree benefited from such storms, and probably there were other ways in which they contributed to the local ecology. Maybe the hail culled out the weaker creatures, animals less fit to survive, facilitating wilderness evolution. And other inanimate magic was quite pointed, such as that of Lookout Rock and the Spring of Life--its magic distilled from water percolating through the entire region, intensifying its potency? Perhaps it was the magic itself that made these things conscious of their individuality. Every aspect of Xanth was affected by magic, and governed by it. Without magic, Xanth would be--the very notion filled him with horror--Xanth would be Mundane.

  The sun broke through the clouds. Where the beams struck, the hailstones puffed into colored vapor. Their fabric of magic could not withstand the heat of direct sunlight. That made Bink wonder again: was the sun antipathetic to magic? If the magic emanated from the depths, the surface of the land was the mere fringe of it. If someone ever delved down deep, he might approach the actual source of power. Intriguing notion!

  In fact, Bink wished that he could set aside his quest for his own personal magic and make that search for the ultimate nature of reality in Xanth. Surely, way down deep, there was the answer to all his questions.