He paused. "Have we?"
"Have we what?"
"Have we really been humiliated?"
"We're standing here naked!"
He shrugged. "I see another clothing plant. Maybe this one will be legitimate."
It was. In due course they were respectably clothed again, with the two little dragons in their pockets. Sherlock looked good; she wished the same could be said for herself.
"The matter of the time limit," he said. "You were about to tell me."
"So I was. It's that I am cursed to die young. Because I live on Mount Parnassus and have eaten of the Tree of Life, I'm immortal, so have remained physically young. But when I leave Parnassus I resume aging, and use of the windback adds further to my age, so I could die if I don't get promptly back home."
"I had not realized that you made such a sacrifice to accomplish your mission."
"I don't regard it as a sacrifice, just a risk. So I do want to return home as soon as is expedient."
"And you asked me to return with you."
"Yes. But I had to tell you about—" She glanced down at herself. "My liability."
"I appreciate that. It gives me the chance to get to know you without being distracted by your curves."
"To be sure." He was of course being polite.
"Something may be coming," Drew said. "It seems metal."
They returned to the path. Just in time to encounter the next gourd escapees. These were brass men and women wearing brass hats, brassards, and brassieres, as appropriate. They saw the two travelers and scattered brass tacks in front of them to step on.
"Brassies," Clio said. "They do much of the construction in the gourd realm. They're not usually used directly in bad dreams."
They stood aside and let the brassies pass, ignoring the tacks. There was no point in reversing folk who weren't up to any mischief.
"However," Sherlock said, "there are bound to be many others that will freak out ordinary folk. We need some way to locate that leak."
"Maybe the blue arrow will point to it. But getting there could take some time. I want to handle it faster."
"Short of getting a magic carpet or something to ride, I'm not sure how."
"Something to ride," she agreed. "Let me see if I can reach Mare Imbrium."
"The daymare? These are nightmare things."
"But she knows their ropes, and has her body back."
Clio focused on Imbri. In a moment the mare appeared.
A dreamlet formed, containing a black-clad young woman. "Hello, Muse," she said.
"She speaks the way we do!" Drew exclaimed.
"In the mind," Drusie agreed.
"Imbri, meet my friends Drew, Drusie, and of course you know Sherlock. Folks, this is Mare Imbrium, once a night mare, then a day mare, now a tree nymph."
"You have a soul," Drew said to Imbri, surprised. "I thought dream creatures didn't."
"I have half a soul," Imbri's dreamlet figure said. "It's a long story. You dragons have souls too; I thought dragons didn't."
"We're from Dragon World," Drusie explained. "It's one of the Moons of Ida."
"Now I understand. I've been to the moons, though not that one."
"We're pretty far up the line," Drew said.
The dreamlet image returned to Clio. "Why did you summon me, Muse?"
"There seems to be a leak in the dream realm. Bad dream figures are roaming Xanth. We need to locate that leak and seal it before there's any real damage."
"That explains the disappearance of some of the gourd workers. I received a report. Some dreams had to be abridged because the actors or craftsmen didn't show up."
"We saw skeletons, a ghost, brassies, and a mess of ghastlies," Sherlock said. "We had to wash."
The dreamlet girl seemed to stifle a giggle. "I'm sure. So you do need to find that leak and stuff it."
"Can you help us?" Clio asked.
Imbri considered. "It must be a bad gourd. Sometimes they rot. They're supposed to be fail-safe, but every so often a glitch gets into the works."
"Those glitches must be as bad as the ghastlies," Drew said.
"They're not as ugly or dirty, but they're just as much trouble," Imbri agreed. "The Night Stallion tries to keep them under control, but they keep getting into things."
"That's their nature," Clio said. "So can you locate the bad gourd for us?"
The dreamlet shook her head. "We'll have to check every gourd until we find it. There are hundreds of them."
Clio winced. "I would prefer to do this expeditiously."
Sherlock, who now understood her situation, stepped in. "If this is on your schedule, the compass should point the way. We'll simply need to be able to move rapidly."
"I'll carry one," Imbri said. "I can be solid now. But the regular night and day mares can't carry people of substance. For that we need a physical mare. But regular horses don't roam Xanth. Ah—I know. Juana. She'll do it."
"Juana?" Clio asked. "I don't believe I know of her."
"She wanted to be a day mare, and she had marvelous dreams, but her territory was Mundania. She was unfairly banned, and is out of a job. So she's neither dream nor Xanth, but in between. She'll surely be happy to help." The dreamlet figure put her hands to her mouth, forming a funnel, and called "Mare Juana!"
There was a stirring, and a sweetish odor as another mare arrived. A dreamlet formed over her head, with a somewhat dazed maiden clad in brown, matching her real color. "You have a job for me?"
"We need to track down a leaky gourd," Imbri said. "Will you carry a human person?"
The maiden was plainly disappointed. "Not dream work?"
"Not dream work," Imbri agreed.
"Oh, well, I suppose it's better than nothing. Who must I carry?"
"I believe that's me," Sherlock said.
The dreamlet maiden gazed at him. "Oh! A Magician! Why didn't you say so?"
"I'm no Magician," Sherlock protested. "In fact I only recently discovered I could do magic, and that's sort of scattered."
The maiden flushed. "My error. I apologize. Usually I'm sharper than that."
"You can recognize Magicians, when they're not doing magic?"
"Usually. But maybe not reliably, it seems. There's something about them, I don't know what, but I smell it."
"I hope you'll still carry me, though I'm much less than you thought."
"Oh, I will, certainly. Get on my back."
"I lack experience riding. Can we get a saddle?"
"A saddle!" Juana exclaimed, affronted. "Never!"
"Sorry. I just don't want to fall off the moment you move."
"Oh, don't worry about that; you won't fall."
Sherlock glanced helplessly at Clio. "She's correct," Clio said. "If a mare wants you to stay on, you'll stay on. Similarly if she wants you off, you'll be off, regardless of your skill as a rider. Neither night nor day mares can be held against their will."
"All right," he said, looking as if it was not even partly right. He stood beside Juana and jumped, trying to get on her back. Suddenly he was there, looking surprised. "How did I do that?"
"She did it," Clio said. "She has some dream qualities." She faced Imbri. "And you'll carry me?"
"Yes. Jump on."
Clio jumped, and found herself similarly mounted. She knew about the magic, but it was impressive anyway.
"Where to?" the dreamlet maiden asked.
Clio looked at the compass. "That way," she said, pointing down the trail. "I don't know how far."
"We'll simply gallop to the first gourd along this route. If that's not it, we'll go to on the next. The direction helps a lot; there shouldn't be too many."
"That's good," Clio said, relieved.
Both mares took off at an instant gallop. Neither Clio nor Sherlock had any trouble remaining mounted; it was as though each had spent a lifetime riding horses. Magic had its benefits.
In a moment both mares halted. It seemed they knew where the gourds were; all they needed the dir
ection for was to select the particular gourds to be checked. Sure enough, there was a vine with a handsome gourd beside the path.
Clio got down and approached the gourd. It was green and looked healthy, but that was not necessarily proof that it didn't leak. How could she be sure of it, one way or the other?
Sherlock joined her. "I assume that if it is in good operating order, its peephole will usher people in to its wonders. I'll take a look. Just don't depart and leave me here."
"It's my mission," she said firmly. "I'll look. Give me about five minutes, then haul me out."
"As you wish, of course."
She lay down before the gourd, propped her chin on her fist, and stared into the peephole at its end.
She stood in a desolate black and white scene. The sky was overcast and dismal; the grass was so bedraggled that it was uncertain whether it had ever rated better days. There was a rickety picket fence with several broken slats. Beyond it was a dull yard with two dormant or dead trees. But mainly there was the haunted house.
For that was all it could be. The wooden slats were warped, with paint flaking off. The steps to the front veranda looked unsafe. The windows were cobwebbed and cracked. The roof looked leaky. The door looked forbidding. No one with any sense would enter this house.
But of course there was no other way to proceed. This was the first stage of a bad dream. It forced the visitor to do what he least wanted to: enter the structure.
"This is interesting. I've never seen a home like this before."
"Drew! You're with me!"
"I am with your mind, sharing your vision. Am I intruding? Do you wish to enjoy it alone?"
"No, I'm glad to have you here." She glanced down and saw his head poking out of her pocket. "You are a comfort, dragon. I'll be sorry when you finish your business with me and depart."
"We'll be sorry too. You are giving us a wonderful tour of your world."
She refocused on her mission of the moment. So far so good; this seemed to be a healthy gourd. But she had to be sure. She swung open the decrepit gate and walked down the walk and up the steps to the front door. She pressed the doorbell.
Ouch! There was a thorn in it. She had forgotten about that. She stuck her thumb in her mouth to suck out the pain, then tried the doorknob. And got shocked. She had forgotten about that too; it had been a decade or so since she had covered this setting in a history tome. "Mice!" she swore.
"This is a bad word?"
"It's as bad as a lady of delicacy is allowed to use."
"What would an indelicate person say?"
"$$$$!!" The wood of the door developed a scorch mark, and chips of burned paint dropped to the floor. "I mention it purely in an advisory sense, of course." But she felt better.
"I will remember that word," Drew said. "And never use it in your presence."
"Thank you."
She used her foot to push the door open. A chill draft washed out, smelling faintly of something too-long dead. She stepped into the dark hall. A ghost swept up. "Booo!" it cried.
"Hello, Booo. I met your friend outside, and turned him into a child's blanket."
The ghost's mouth opened in horror. It faded out.
"That was cruel of you. The ghost was only doing its job, after all."
"I regret my intemperance already," she said with satisfaction.
She found herself moving. The hall floor was a level escalator that was carrying her on into the center of the house. She tried to see where it was going, but the shadows were too thick.
Then suddenly she was falling. The escalator had dumped her into a hole, in fact it was an oubliette, seemingly bottomless. She fell for a long time before remembering she was supposed to scream. She screamed. Only then did she land in a squishy puddle. Her feet slipped out, and she sat down on the squish. She reached down to discover by feel what it was.
And recoiled. It was a bed of snakes! "%%%%!!"
The snakes recoiled, hurt. She felt guilty. They, too, were only doing their job.
"How did you learn such dangerous words?" Drew asked.
"I recorded them in prior volumes of the history of Xanth. I tried to erase them from my mind, but it seems I didn't succeed. I am appalled at myself."
She worked her way to her feet—and suddenly was blinking in daylight. Sherlock had put his hand between her eye and the peephole, interrupting the connection and reverting her to the physical realm.
"Five minutes, you said," he reminded her. "I suppose I could have waited a bit longer, if you preferred."
"Thank you, no. I have ascertained that this gourd is in normal working mode. Do you know what I was experiencing?"
"Yes, Drusie showed us the pictures Drew had from your mind. The horror house."
"All quite in order. So we can proceed to the next one."
They remounted and rode to the next gourd, passing assorted stray spooks along the way. They stopped at the gourd.
"My turn," Sherlock said. "The burden need not be yours alone."
She was touched. "There is no need. I'm sure you aren't required to do what I can do myself."
"I might as well help, however." He lay down, propped up his head, and looked into the peephole. He froze.
A picture appeared above him, as Drusie relayed what was in his mind. It was inside the city of the brassies, Brassilia. Shining brass was everywhere. Ahead were straight long golden streets, perfectly squared off, with cubic buildings along them. There were no windows or doors, just blank brass surfaces.
There was a brass button on a pedestal. "Leave that alone," Clio warned, but Sherlock didn't hear her. He pushed the button.
A klaxon alarm sounded. Suddenly the city was in motion. The buildings slid on tracks from one block to another, rapidly.
A gleaming brass wall was sliding toward him. Sherlock looked behind him, but saw only another wall, too high and slick to scale. He ducked down into a cubic hole in the ground and let the wall slide over him. It was the outside of a brass structure. Soon it set down brass pegs and anchored itself.
Sherlock climbed back out of the hole. He was in a huge hollow building. It was filled with pedestals on which stood brass statues of men, women, and children. That was all, except for another brass button nearby. "Don't touch it," Clio said, but he did.
The statues came to life. They were the brassies, in stasis until summoned to action. They spied Sherlock and closed in around him. "Who are you?" a brassy man demanded, brandishing a brass club. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, nothing," Sherlock said. "I was just looking."
"Looking for what?" a brassie woman asked. The females had the feminine spelling. "Company? I can be very soft when I want to be." Indeed she looked soft in all the right places.
"Sorry, my interest is elsewhere." Sherlock made as if to leave, but they grabbed him with brass tongs.
Clio put her hand between the man's eye and the gourd peephole, breaking the connection. Sherlock blinked, recovering his orientation. "That was an experience," he said.
"Brassies aren't necessarily friendly," Clio said. "But I think this gourd, also, is in proper working order."
They went on to the next gourd. Clio took this one, staring into its peephole.
She was in a world of paper. A flat yellow paper circle pinned to a paper blue wall was the sun, and clouds fashioned of white crepe paper floated beneath it. Across the cardboard landscape were houses of cards. Even the ponds were paper.
That wasn't all. The animals were paper too, origami constructs moving among the pasteboard plant life. Folded paper bugs crawled through the green paper streamers of grass. Paper birds flew down, scratching for pleated worms.
Despite her prior knowledge of this region, Clio was fascinated. She walked around, studying it.
But a cardboard man spied her. "Intruder!" he cried, his voice like a rattling paper horn. "Destroy her!"
Oops. She turned to go, but a paper tiger sprang out of the brush to cut her off. She turned again, and was peppe
red by paper balls fired from paper tanks.
Then she was looking at a brown hand. Sherlock had blocked off the peephole. "No sense in letting you get attacked," he said. "You have already verified it."
"This gourd, too, is functional," she agreed.
They continued to the next gourd. Before Sherlock could address it, a fierce harpy squeezed out of it. She collided with his face, except that her body passed right through his head. "Watch where you're going, blackhead!" she screeched. She whirled in the air and dive-bombed him from the other side.
Sherlock flipped a chip at her. The harpy became a gentle lovebird. "Oh, what a dear man!" she said in a dulcet tone, and kissed him on the forehead. Her lips passed through him, but did no harm.
"This must be the gourd," Clio said as the lovebird flew away. She got down to inspect it more closely. Sure enough, it was rotten at the core. "What's the most effective way to fix it?"
"Reverse wood?" Sherlock asked.
"Just destroy it," Mare Imbri's dreamlet image said. "Animals eat gourds all the time, and they never function well after that."
Sherlock lifted his foot and stomped down on the gourd with his shoe. It squished flat, squirting goo to the sides. A splotch of orange goo flew out and landed on Clio's wrist next to the compass. She was about to wipe it off when she saw that the blue arrow was pointing right toward it.
Could it be? She fetched another bag from her pocket and scooped the goo into it. She moved the bag around—and the blue arrow followed it.
She had found what she had come for, weird as it might be. A pulped fragment of a defective hypnogourd.
12
Counter Xanth
"Where to now?" Sherlock inquired as they came to a crossing of trails.
Clio looked at the compass. "East."
They took the eastward trail. Soon they saw a giant snake going the other direction. Sherlock readied a chip, but Clio cautioned him. "This is an enchanted path; anything on it should be friendly."
Indeed, when the snake saw them, it shifted, developing a head. "A greeting, travelers. I am Ana Conda Naga, touring Xanth for fun and romance."
"Hello, Ana," Clio said. "I am Clio, and my friend is Sherlock. We're following an assigned direction."
Ana eyed Sherlock. "Are you a couple?"