A Spell for Chameleon

  But he could not. For one thing, he had to locate Dee.

  In a few minutes all the hail was gone. But so was the girl. "She must have slid down the slope into the forest," Crombie said. "She knows where we are; she can find us if she wants to."

  "Unless she's in trouble," Bink said worriedly. "Use your talent; point her out."

  Crombie sighed. "All right." He closed his eyes, rotated, and pointed down the south side of the ridge.

  They trotted down--and found her tracks in the soft earth at the fringe of the jungle. They followed them and soon caught up.

  "Dee!" Bink cried gladly. "We're sorry. Don't risk the jungle alone."

  She marched on determinedly. "Leave me alone," Dee said. "I don't want to go with you."

  "But Crombie didn't really mean--" Bink said.

  "He meant. You don't trust me. So keep away from me. I'd rather make it on my own."

  And that was that. She was adamant. Bink certainly wasn't going to force her. "Well, if you need help or anything, call--or something--"

  She went on without answering.

  "She couldn't have been very much of a threat," Bink said forlornly.

  "She's a threat, all right," Crombie insisted. "But no threat's as much of a threat when it's somewhere else."

  They ascended the ridge again and traveled on. In another day they came in sight of the Magician's castle, thanks to the soldier's unerring magic directional sense and ability to avoid the dangers of the wilderness. He had been a big help.

  "Well, that's it," Crombie said. "I have seen you to this point safely, and I think that about squares us. I have business of my own elsewhere before I report to the King for reassignment. I hope you find your magic."

  "I hope so too," Bink said. "Thanks for the throws you taught me."

  "It was little enough. You'll have to practice them a lot more before they'll really serve. Sorry I got the girl mad at you. Maybe my talent was wrong about her after all."

  Bink didn't care to discuss that aspect, so he just shook hands and headed for the castle of the Good Magician.

  Chapter 6

  Magician

  The castle was impressive. It was not large, but it was tall and well designed. It had a deep moat, a stout outer wall, and a high inner tower girt with parapets and embrasures. It must have been built by magic, because it would have taken an army of skilled craftsmen a year to build it by hand.

  Yet Humfrey was supposed to be a Magician of information, not of construction or illusion. How could he have magicked such an edifice?

  No matter; the castle was here. Bink walked down to the moat. He heard a horrible kind of galloping splash, and around from behind the castle came a horse, running on the water. No, not a horse--a hippocampus, or seahorse, with the head and forefeet of a horse and the tail of a dolphin. Bink knew the dolphin only from old pictures; it was a kind of magic fish that breathed air instead of water.

  Bink stepped back. The thing looked dangerous. It could not follow him out onto land, but it could pulverize him in water. How was he to cross the moat? There did not seem to be any drawbridge.

  Then he noted that the hippocampus wore a saddle. Oh, no! Ride the water monster?

  Yet it obviously was the way to go. The Magician did not want his time wasted by anyone who wasn't serious. If he lacked the nerve to ride the seahorse, he didn't deserve to see Humfrey. It made perverse sense.

  Did Bink really want the answer to his question? At the price of a year's service?

  The picture of beautiful Sabrina came to his mind, so real, so evocative that all else became meaningless. He walked up to the hippocampus, waiting at the edge of the moat expectantly, and climbed onto its saddle.

  The creature took off. It neighed as it sped around the moat, instead of across it. The steed was jubilant, using the water as a veritable racetrack, while Bink clung desperately to the saddle horn. The powerful front legs of the hippocampus terminated in flippers rather than hooves, scooping gouts of water back on either side, drenching him with the spray. The tail, curled in a muscular loop when the creature was stationary, uncoiled and threshed the water with such vigor that the saddle whipped back and forth, threatening to dislodge the rider momentarily.

  "Neigh! Ne-ei-igh!" the monster sounded gleefully. It had him where it wanted him: right in the saddle, ripe for bucking off. The moment he hit the water, it would turn and devour him. What a fool he had been! Wait--so long as he remained in the saddle, it could not get at him All he had to do was hang on, and in time it would tire.

  Easier thought than done. The hippocampus bucked and plunged, first lifting him above the moat, then immersing him in the frothing water. It curled its tail into a spiral and rolled, dunking him again and again. Bink was afraid it would stop with him on the bottom, forcing him to let go or drown. But the saddle was firmly fixed on its backside, and its horse's head projected the same direction Bink's head did, so it had to hold its breath when he held his. The monster was exercising, while Bink was merely hanging on; it was using more energy than he, and so it had to breathe sooner. Hence it could not drown him--once he had figured this out.

  In fact, all he needed to do was keep his head and he would win, for whatever that was worth.

  Finally the creature gave up. It flopped to the inner gate and lay still while Bink dismounted. He had conquered the first hurdle.

  "Thank you, Hip," he said, making a little bow to the seahorse. It snorted and splashed quickly out of reach.

  Now Bink faced a giant wooden door. It was closed, and he pounded on it with one fist. It was so solid that his hand hurt, and the sound was minimized: dink-dink-dink!

  He drew his knife and rapped with the handle, since he had lost his new staff in the moat--with no better result. If a hollow partition made the most noise, this was indubitably solid. There was no way to force it.

  Maybe the Magician was out? There should still be servants attending to the castle.

  Bink was getting angry. He had made a long, hazardous journey to get here, and he was ready to pay the exorbitant price for one piddling bit of information--and the damned Good Magician lacked the courtesy even to answer the door.

  Well, he would get in despite the Magician. Somehow. He would demand his audience.

  He studied the door. It was a good ten feet tall and five feet wide; it seemed to have been made of hand-hewn eight-by-eight posts. The thing must weigh a ton--literally. It had no hinges, which meant it had to open by sliding to one side--no, the portals were solid stone. Lifted out of the way? There were no connecting ropes to haul it up, no pulleys that he could see. There might be hidden screws set into the wood, but that seemed a lot of trouble and somewhat risky. Screws sometimes let go at inopportune moments. Maybe the whole door dropped into the floor? But that, too, was stone. So it seemed the whole mass simply had to be removed every time someone wanted access.

  Ridiculous! It had to be a phony, a dummy. There would be a more sensible aperture for routine use, either magical or physical. All he had to do was find it.

  In the stone? No, that would be unmanageably heavy; if it were not, it would represent a weakened place where an enemy could force entry. No point in building a substantial castle with such a liability. Where, then?

  Bink ran his fingers over the surface of the huge mock-door. He found a crack. He traced it around in a square. Yes. He placed both hands against the center and shoved.

  The square moved. It slid inward, and finally dropped inside, leaving a hole just big enough for a man to crawl through. Here was his entry.

  Bink wasted no time. He climbed through the hole.

  Inside was a dimly illuminated hall. And another monster.

  It was a manticora--a creature the size of a horse, with the head of a man, body of a lion, wings of a dragon, and tail of a scorpion. One of the most ferocious magical monsters known.

  "Welcome to lunch, little morsel," the manticora said, arching its segmented tail up over its back. Its mouth was strange, with thr
ee rows of teeth, one inside another--but its voice was stranger. It was something like a flute, and something like a trumpet, beautiful in its fashion but difficult to comprehend.

  Bink whipped out his knife. "I am not your lunch," he said, with a good deal more conviction than he felt.

  The manticora laughed, and now its tones were the sour notes of irony. "You are not anyone else's lunch, mortal. You have climbed nimbly into my trap."

  He had indeed. But Bink was fed up with these pointless obstacles, and also suspected that they were not pointless, paradoxical as it might seem. If the Magician's monsters consumed all callers, Humfrey would never have any business, never obtain any fees. And by all accounts the Good Magician was a grasping man who existed principally to profit himself; he needed those exorbitant fees to increase his wealth. So probably this was another test, like those of the seahorse and the door; all Bink had to do was figure out the solution.

  "I can walk back out of this cage any time I want to," Bink said boldly. He willed his knees not to knock together with his shivering. "It isn't made to hold people my size; it holds in monsters your size. You're the prisoner, molar-face."

  "Molar-face!" the manticora repeated incredulously, showing about sixty molars in the process. "Why, you pipsqueak mortal, I'll sting you into a billion-year suffering sleep!"

  Bink made for the square portal. The monster pounced, its tail stabbing forward over its head. It was horribly fast.

  But Bink had only feinted; he was already ducking forward, directly at the lion's claws. It was the opposite direction from that which the monster had expected, and the thing could not reverse in midair. Its deadly tail stabbed into the wood of the door, and its head popped through the square hole. Its lion's shoulders wedged tightly against it, unable to fit through the hole, and its wings fluttered helplessly.

  Bink could not resist. He straightened up, turned, and yelled: "You didn't think I came all the way here just to back out again, did you, you half-reared monster?'' Then he planted a swift hard kick on the creature's posterior, just under the lifted tail.

  There was a fluted howl of rage and anguish from the door. Then Bink was away, running down the hall, hoping that there was a man-sized exit. Otherwise--

  The door seemed to explode. There was a thump behind as the manticora fell free and rolled back to its feet. It was really angry now! If there were no way out--

  There was. The challenge had been to get around the monster, not to kill it; no man could kill such a creature with a knife. Bink scrambled through the barred gate as the manticora charged down the hall too late, splinters of wood falling from it's tail.

  Now Bink was in the castle proper. It was a fairly dark, dank place, with little evidence of human habitation. Where was the Good Magician?

  Surely there would be some way to announce his presence, assuming that the ruckus with the manticora had not sufficed. Bink looked around and spied a dangling cord. He gave it one good yank and stepped back lest something drop on him. He did not quite trust this adorable castle.

  A bell sounded. DONG-DONG, DONG-DONG.

  A gnarled old elf trotted up. "Who shall I say is calling?"

  "Bink of the North Village."

  "Drink of what?"

  "Bink! B I-N-K"

  The elf studied him. "What shall I say is the business of your master Bink?"

  "I am Bink! My business is the quest for a magical talent."

  "And what recompense do you offer for the invaluable time of the Good Magician?"

  "The usual scale: one year's service." Then, in a lower tone: "It's robbery, but I'm stuck for it. Your master gouges the public horrendously."

  The elf considered. "The Magician is occupied at the moment; can you comeback tomorrow?"

  "Come back tomorrow!" Bink exploded, thinking of what the hippocampus and manticora would do to him if they got a second chance. "Does the old bugger want my business or doesn't he?"

  The elf frowned. "Well, if you're going to be that way about it, come on upstairs."

  Bink followed the little man up a winding staircase. The interior of the castle lightened with elevation and became more ornate, more residential.

  Finally the elf showed the way into a paper-filled study. The elf seated himself at a big wooden desk. "Very well, Bink of the North Village. You have won your way through the defenses of this castle. What makes you think your service is worth the old gouging buggers while?"

  Bink started to make an angry exclamation--but cut himself off as he realized that this was the Good Magician Humfrey. He was sunk!

  All he could do now was give a straight answer before he got kicked out. "I am strong and I can work. It is for you to decide whether that is worth your while."

  "You are oink-headed and doubtless have a grotesque appetite. You'd no doubt cost me more in board than I'd ever get from you."

  Bink shrugged, knowing it would be futile to debate such points. He could only antagonize the Magician further. He had really walked into the last trap: the trap of arrogance.

  "Perhaps you could carry books and turn pages for me. Can you read?"

  "Some," Bink said. He had been a reasonably apt pupil of the centaur instructor, but that had been years ago.

  "You seem to be a fair hand at insult, too; maybe you could talk intruders out of intruding with their petty problems."

  "Maybe," Bink agreed grimly. Obviously, he had really done it this time--and after coming so close to success.

  "Well, come on; we don't have all day," Humfrey snapped, bouncing out of his chair. Bink saw now that he was not a tree elf, but a very small human being. An elf, of course, being a magical creature, could not be a Magician. That was part of what had put him off at first--though increasingly he wondered about the accuracy of that conjecture. Xanth continued to show him ramifications of magic he had not thought of before.

  Apparently the Magician had accepted the case. Bink followed him to the next room. It was a laboratory, with magical devices cluttering the shelves and piled on the floor, except for one cleared area.

  "Stand aside," Humfrey said brusquely, though Bink hardly had room to move. The Magician did not have an endearing personality. It would be a real chore to work for him a year. But it just might be worth it, if Bink learned he had a magic talent, and it was a good one.

  Humfrey took a tiny bottle from the shelf, shook it, and set it on the floor in the middle of a pentagram--a five-sided figure. Then he made a gesture with both hands and intoned something in an arcane tongue.

  The lid of the bottle popped off. Smoke issued forth. It expanded into a sizable cloud, then coalesced into the shape of a demon. Not a particularly ferocious demon; this one's horns were vestigial, and his tail had a soft tuft instead of a cutting barb. Furthermore, he wore glasses, which must have been imported from Mundania, where such artifacts were commonly used to shore up the weak eyes of the denizens there. Or so the myths had it. Bink almost laughed. Imagine a near-sighted demon!

  "0 Beauregard," Humfrey intoned. "I conjure thee by the authority vested in me by the Compact, tell us what magic talent this lad, Bink of the North Village of Xanth, possesses."

  So that was the Magician's secret: he was a demon-summoner. The pentagram was for containing the demons released from their magic bottles; even a studious demon was a creature of hell.

  Beauregard focused his lenscovered eyes on Bink "Step into my demesnes, that I may inspect you properly," he said.

  "Nuh-uh!" Bink exclaimed.

  "You're a tough nut," the demon said.

  "I didn't ask you for his personality profile," Humfrey snapped. "What's his magic?"

  The demon concentrated. "He has magic--strong magic--but--"

  Strong magic! Bink's hopes soared.

  "But I am unable to fathom it," Beauregard said. He grimaced at the Good Magician. "Sorry, fathead; I'll have to renege on this one."

  "Then get ye gone, incompetent," Humfrey snarled, clapping his hands together with a remarkably sharp report. Evi
dently he was used to being insulted; it was part of his life style. Maybe Bink had lucked out again.

  The demon dissolved into smoke and drained back into his bottle. Bink stared at the bottle, trying to determine what was visible within it. Was there a tiny figure, hunched over a miniature book, reading?

  Now the Magician contemplated Bink. "So you have strong magic that cannot be fathomed. Were you aware of this? Did you come here to waste my time?"

  "No," Bink said. "I never was sure I had magic at all. There's never been any evidence of it. I hoped--but I feared I had none."

  "Is there anything you know of that could account for this opacity? A counterspell, perhaps?"

  Evidently Humfrey was far from omnipotent. But now that Bink knew he was a demon-conjurer, that explained it. Nobody summoned a demon without good reason. The Magician charged heavily for his service because he took a heavy risk.

  "I don't know of anything," Bink said. "Except maybe the drink of magic healing water I took."

  "Beauregard should not have been deceived by that. He's a pretty savvy demon, a real scholar of magic. Do you have any of that water with you?"

  Bink held out his canteen. "I saved some. Never can tell when it might be needed."

  Humfrey took it, poured out a drop on his palm, touched his tongue to it, and grimaced thoughtfully. "Standard formula," he said. "It doesn't bollix up informational or divinatory magic. I've got a keg of similar stuff in my cellar. Brewed it myself. Mine is free of the Spring's self-interest geis, of course. But keep this; it can be useful."

  The Magician set up a pointer attached to a string, beside a wall chart with pictures of a smiling cherub and a frowning devil. "Let's play Twenty Questions."

  He moved his hands, casting a spell, and Bink realized that his prior realization had been premature. Humfrey did do more than demon-summoning--but he still specialized in information. "Bink of the North Village," he intoned. "Have you oriented on him?"

  The pointer swung around to indicate the cherub.