Centaur Aisle x-4 Read online

  Yet what could he do, except whatever seemed best at the time of decision? The crushing responsibility for error made him painstakingly cautious. Only experience, he suspected, could provide the necessary confidence to make excellent decisions under pressure. And that was exactly what King Trent, in his own experienced wisdom, had arranged for Dor to obtain here. Dor, to his surprise, did not quite foul up. But the variety of problems he encountered strained his ingenuity, and the foreboding grew that his luck had to turn. He counted the passing days, praying that no serious problem would arise before King Trent returned. Maybe when Dor was Trent’s age he’d be competent to run a kingdom full time; right now it was such nervous business it was driving him to distraction.

  Irene, at length perceiving this, flipflopped in girlish fashion and started offering support. “After all,” she said consolingly, “it’s not forever, even though it seems like it. Only two more days before the danger’s over. Then we can all faint with relief.” Dor appreciated the support, though he might have preferred a less pointed summation of his inadequacy.

  He made it. The day of King Trent’s return came, to Dor’s immense relief and Irene’s mixed gratification and subdued dismay. She wanted her father back, but had expected Dor to make more of a mess of things. Dor had escaped more or less unscratched, which she felt was not quite fair.

  Both of them dressed carefully and made sure the Castle Roogna grounds were clean. They were ready to greet the returning royalty in proper style.

  The expectant hours passed, but the King and Queen did not appear. Dor quelled his nervousness; of course it took time to travel, especially if a quantity of Mundane trade goods was being moved.

  Irene joined Dor for a lunch of number noodles and milk shakes; they tried to divert themselves by spelling words with numbers, but the milk kept shaking so violently that nothing held together. That fitted their mood.

  “Where are they?” Irene demanded as the afternoon wore on. She was really getting worried. Now that she had a genuine concern, so that she wasn’t concentrating her energy to embarrass Dor, she manifested as the infernally pretty girl she could be. Even the green tint of her hair was attractive; it did match her eyes, and after all, there was nothing wrong with plants.

  “Probably they had stuff to carry, so had to go slow,” Dor said, not for the first time. But a qualm was gnawing at him. He cuffed it away, but it kept returning, as was the nature of its kind.

  Irene did not argue, but the green was spreading to her face, and that was less pretty.

  Evening came, and night, without Trent and Iris’s return. Now Irene turned to Dor in genuine apprehension. “Oh, Dor, I’m scared! What’s happened to them?”

  He could bluff neither her nor himself. He put his arm about her shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m scared, too.”

  She clung to him for a moment, all soft and sweet in her anxiety.

  Then she drew away and ran to her own apartment. “I don’t want you to see me cry,” she explained as she disappeared.

  Dor was touched. If only she could be like that when things were going well! There was a good deal more to her than mischief and sexual suggestion, if she ever let it show.

  He retired and slept uneasily. The real nightmares came this time, not the sleek and rather pretty equines he had sometimes befriended, but huge, nebulous, misshapen creatures with gleaming white eyes and glinting teeth; he had to shake himself violently awake to make them leave. He used the royal chambers, for he was King now-but since his week was over, he felt more than ever like an imposter. He stared morosely at the dark hoofprints on the floor, knowing the mares were waiting only for him to sleep again. He was defenseless; he had geared himself emotionally for relief when the week expired, and now that relief had been negated. If the King and Queen did not return today, what would he do?

  They did not return. Dor continued to settle differences and solve problems in the Kingly routine; what else could he do? But a restlessness was growing in the palace, and his own dread intensified as each hour dragged by. Everyone knew King Trent’s vacation had been scheduled for one week. Why hadn’t he returned?

  In the evening Irene approached Dor privately. There was no mischief about her now. She was conservatively garbed in a voluminous green robe, and her hair was in disorder, as if overrun by weeds. Her eyes were preternaturally bright, as if she had been crying more than was good for her and had used vanishing cream to make the signs of it disappear. “Something’s happened,” she said. “I know it. We must go check on them.”

  “We can’t do that,” Dor said miserably.

  “Can’t? That concept is not in my lexicon.” She had grown so used to using fancy words, she now did it even when distracted. Dor hoped he never deteriorated to that extent. “I can do anything I want, except-“

  “Except rule Xanth,” Dor said. “And find your parents.”

  “Where are they?” she demanded.

  She didn’t know, of course. She had not been part of the secret.

  He saw no way to avoid telling her now, for she was, after all, King Trent’s daughter, and the situation had become serious. She did have the right to know. “In Mundania.”

  “Mundania!” she cried, horrified.

  “A trade mission,” he explained quickly. “To make a deal so Xanth can benefit. For progress.”

  “Oh, this is twice as awful as I feared. Oh, woe! Mundania! The awfullest of places! They can’t do magic there! They’re helpless!”

  That was an exaggeration, but she was prone to it when excited.

  Neither Trent nor Iris was helpless in nonmagical terms. The King was an expert swordsman, and the Queen had a wonderfully devious mind. “Remember, he spent twenty years there, before he was King. He knows his way around.”

  “But he didn’t come back!”

  Dor could not refute that. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

  “We’ll have to go find them,” she said. “Don’t tell me no again.”

  And there was such a glint in her bright eyes that Dor dared not defy her.

  Actually, it seemed so simple. Anything was better than the present doubt. “All right. But I’ll have to tell the Council of Elders.”

  For the Elders were responsible for the Kingdom during the absence of the King. They took care of routine administrative chores and had to select a new King if anything happened to the old one. They had chosen Trent, back when the prior monarch, the Storm King, had died. Dor’s’ grandfather Roland was a leading Elder.

  “First thing in the morning,” she said, her gaze daring him to demur.

  “First thing in the morning,” he agreed. She had forced this action upon him, but he was glad for the decision.

  “Shall I stay with you tonight? I saw the hoofprints.”

  Dor considered. The surest way to banish nightmares was to have compatible company while sleeping. But Irene was too pretty now and too accommodating; if he kissed her this night, she wouldn’t bite. That made him cautious. Once Good Magician Humfrey had suggested to him that it might be more manly to decline a woman’s offer than to accept it; Dor had not quite understood that suggestion, but now he had a better inkling of its meaning. “No,” he said regretfully. “I fear the nightmares, but I fear you more.”

  “Gee,” she said, pleased. Then she kissed him without biting and left in her swirl of perfume.

  Dor sat for some time, wishing Irene were that way all the time. No tantrums, no artful flashes of torso, no pretended misunderstandings, just a sincere and fairly mature caring. But of course her niceness came only in phases, always wiped out by other phases.

  His decision had one beneficial effect: the nightmares foraged elsewhere that night, letting him sleep in peace.

  “Cover for me,” he told Irene in the morning. “I would rather people didn’t know where I am, except for the conjurer.”

  “Certainly,” she agreed. If people knew he was consulting privately with an Elder, they would know something was wrong.
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  He went to see his grandfather Roland, who lived in the North Village, several days’ walk beyond the Gap Chasm. Kings of Xanth had once resided here, before Trent restored Castle Roogna. He marched up the neat walk and knocked on the humble door.

  “Oh, grandfather!” Dor cried the moment the strong old man appeared. “Something has happened to King Trent, and I must go look for him.”

  “Impossible,” Roland said sternly. “The King may not leave Castle Roogna for more than a day without appointing another Magician as successor. At the moment there are no other Magicians who would assume the crown, so you must remain there until Trent returns. That is the law of Xanth.”

  “But King Trent and Queen Iris went to Mundania!”

  “Mundania!” Roland was as surprised as Irene had been. “No wonder he did not consult with us! We would never have permitted that.”

  So there had been method in the manner King Trent had set Dor up for this practice week. Trent had bypassed the Council of Elders!

  But that was not Dor’s immediate concern. “I’m not fit to govern, grandfather. I’m too young. I’ve got to get King Trent back!”

  “Absolutely not! I am only one member of the Council, but I know their reaction. You must remain here until Trent returns.”

  “But then how can I rescue him?”

  “From Mundania? You can’t. He will have to extricate himself from whatever situation he is in, assuming he lives.”

  “He lives!” Dor repeated emphatically. He had to believe that! The alternative was unthinkable. “But I don’t know how long I can keep governing Xanth. The people know I’m not really King. They think King Trent is nearby, just giving me more practice. They won’t obey me much longer.”

  “Perhaps you should get help,” Roland suggested. “I disapprove on principle of deception, but I think it best in this case that the people not know the gravity of the situation. Perhaps it is not grave at all. Trent may return in good order at any time. Meanwhile, the Kingdom need not be governed solely by one young man.”

  “I could get help, I guess,” Dor said uncertainly. “But what about King Trent?”

  “He must return by himself-or fail to. None of us can locate him in Mundania, let alone help him. This is the obvious consequence of his neglect in obtaining the prior advice of the Council of Elders. We must simply wait. He is a resourceful man who will surely prevail if that is humanly possible.”

  With that Dor had to be satisfied. He was King, but he could not go against the Elders. He realized now that this was not merely a matter of law or custom, but of common sense. Any situation in Mundania that was too much for King Trent to handle would be several times too much for Dor.

  Irene was more positive than he had expected, when he gave her the news on his return. “Of course the Elders would say that. They’re old and conservative. And right, I guess. We’ll just have to make do until my father gets back.”

  Dor didn’t quite trust her change of heart, but knew better than to inquire. “Who can we get to help?” He knew it would be impossible to exclude Irene from any such activity. King Trent was, after all, her father, the one person to whom her loyalty was unfailing.

  “Oh, all the kids. Chet, Smash, Grundy-“

  “To run a Kingdom?” he asked dubiously.

  “Would you rather leave it to the Elders?”

  She had a point. “I hope the situation doesn’t last long,” he said.

  “You certainly don’t hope it more than I do!” she agreed, and he knew that was straight from her heart.

  Irene went off to locate the people mentioned so that Dor would not arouse suspicion by doing it himself. The first she found was Grundy the Golem. Grundy was older than the others and different in several respects. He had been created as a golem, animated wood and clay and string, and later converted to full-person status. He was only a handspan tall, and spoke all the languages of all living things which was the useful talent for which he had been created. Grundy could certainly help in solving the routine problems of Xanth. But he tended to speak too often and intemperately. In other words, he was mouthy. That could be trouble.

  “Now this is a secret,” Dor explained. “King Trent is lost in Mundania, and I must run the Kingdom until he returns.”

  “Xanth is in trouble!” Grundy exclaimed.

  “That’s why I need your help. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have to be King, and I don’t want things to get out of control. You generally have good information-“

  “I snoop a lot,” Grundy agreed. “Very well; I’ll snoop for you. First thing I have to tell you is that the whole palace is sniggering about a certain essay someone wrote for a certain female tutor-“

  “That news I can dispense with,” Dor said.

  “Then there’s the gossip about how a certain girl went swimming in her birthday suit, which suit seems to have stretched some since her birth, along with-“

  “That, too,” Dor said, smiling. “I’m sure you comprehend my needs.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Your head.”

  “He’s King, all right,” the golem muttered. One of the walls chuckled.

  Irene brought in Chet. He was a centaur a little older than Dor, but he seemed younger because centaurs matured more slowly. He was Cherie’s son, which meant he was highly educated but very cautious about showing any magic talent. For a long time centaurs had believed they lacked magical talents, because most creatures of Xanth either had magic or were magic. Modern information had dissipated such superstitions. Chet did have a magic talent; he could make large things small. It was a perfectly decent ability, and many people had fine miniatures he had reduced for them, but it had one drawback; he could not reverse the process. His father was Chester Centaur, which meant Chet tended to be ornery when challenged, and was unhandsome in his human portion. When he reached his full stature, which would not be for some years yet, he would be a pretty solid animal. Dor, despite the maledictions he heaped on the race of centaurs while sweating over one of Cherie’s assignments, did like Chet, and had always gotten along with him.

  Dor explained the situation. “Certainly I will help,” Chet said. He always spoke in an educated manner, partly because he was unconscionably smart, but mostly because his mother insisted. Technically, Cherie was Chet’s dam, but Dor refrained from using that term for fear Cherie would perceive the “n” he mentally added to it. Dor had sympathy for Chet; it was probably almost as hard being Cherie’s son as it was trying to be King. Chet would not dare misspell any words. “But I am uncertain how I might assist.”

  “I’ve just barely figured out decent answers to the problems I’ve already dealt with,” Dor said earnestly. “I’m bound to foul up before long. I need good advice.”

  “Then you should apply to my mother. Her advice is irrefutable.”

  “I know. That’s too authoritative.”

  Chet smiled. “I suspect I understand.” That was as close as he would come to criticizing his dam.

  Later in the day Irene managed to bring in Smash. He was the offspring of Crunch the Ogre, and also not yet at full growth-but he was already about twice Dor’s mass and strong in proportion. Like all ogres, he was ugly and not smart; his smile would spook a gargoyle, and he could barely pronounce most words, let alone spell them. That quality endeared him to Dor. But the ogres association with human beings had made him more intelligible and sociable than others of his kind, and he was loyal to his friends. Dor had been his friend for years.

  Dor approached this meeting diplomatically. “Smash, I need your help.”

  The gross mouth cracked open like caked mud in a dehydrated pond. “Sure me help! Who me pulp to kelp?”

  “No one, yet,” Dor said quickly. Again like all ogres, Smash was prone to rhymes and violence. “But if you could sort of stay within call, in case someone tries to pulp me-“

  “Pulp me? Who he?”

  Dor realized he had presented too convoluted a thought. “When I yell
, you come help. Okay?”

  “Help whelp!” Smash agreed, finally getting it straight.

  Dor’s choice of helpers proved fortuitous. Because they were all his peers and friends, they understood his situation better than adults would have and kept his confidences. It was a kind of game-run this Kingdom as if King Trent were merely dallying out of sight, watching them, grading them. It was important not to foul up.

  A basilisk wandered into a village, terrorizing the people, because its stare caused them to turn to stone. Dor wasn’t sure he could scare it away as he had the sea monster, though it was surely a stupid creature, for basilisks had exceedingly ornery personalities. He couldn’t have a boulder conjured to squish it, for King Trent decreed the basilisk to be an endangered species. This was an alien concept the King had brought with him from Mundania-the notion that rare creatures, however horrible, should be protected. Dor did not quite understand this, but he was trying to preserve the Kingdom for Trent’s return, so did it Trent’s way. He needed some harmless way to persuade the creature to leave human villages alone-and he couldn’t even talk its language.

  But Grundy the Golem could. Grundy used a helmet and periscope-that was a magic device that bent vision around a corner-to look indirectly at the little monster, and told it about the most baleful she-bask he had ever heard of, who was lurking somewhere in the Dead Forest southeast of Castle Roogna. Since the one Grundy addressed happened to be a cockatrice, the notion of such a henatrice appealed to it. It was no lie; there was a palace guard named Crombie who had the ability to point to things and he had pointed toward that forest when asked where the most baleful female basilisk resided. Of course, sex was mostly illusion among basilisks, since each was generated from the egg of a rooster laid in a dungheap under the Dog Star and hatched by a toad. That was why this was an endangered species, since very few roosters laid eggs in dungheaps under the Dog Star-they tended to get confused and do it under the Cat Star-and most toads had little patience with the seven years it normally required to hatch the egg. But like human beings, the basilisks pursued such illusions avidly. So this cock-bask took off in all haste -.i e. a fast snail’s pace-for the Dead Forest, where the lonesome hen basked, and the problem had been solved.