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  "Whose fault is that?" Trent's voice called from outside the cabin.

  "Oh, it must be mine!" Gloha cried with a chaotic little chagrin.

  "Nonsense," Trent said. "This is bigger than all of us."

  The cabin vanished, so they could all see what was outside. Swiftmud perched at the edge of a huge cleft in the ground. Trent had halted it just in time to prevent them from plunging into the chasm and getting horribly muddied.

  "It must be an extension of the Gap Chasm," Tandy said. "But I don't remember any such fault in this region."

  "Probably the original forget spell hasn't yet worn off all the tributaries," Trent said. "But I must admit it came as a surprise. I'm not sure how we'll get past it."

  "If we could identify it, we might know more about it," Tandy said. "All the offshoots of the Gap Chasm have names."

  "Right," Trent agreed. "So we must answer my question: whose fault is this?"

  Gloha realized that he hadn't been accusing her before. Still, she felt somehow guilty. She struggled with her minor little memory of geography and managed to evoke a name. "Could it be San Andrea's Fault?" she asked. "The one that cracks on into Mundania?"

  "Yes, it must be San Andrea's fault," Iris agreed. "I never thought much of San Andrea anyway."

  "The question is," Iris said tartly, "how are we going to proceed? This fault appears to extend right across our route. If we detour, after losing time by getting lost, we shall be late for our engagement. We don't want the others to fade out without us."

  "I can fly across," Gloha said. "But I'm too small to carry anyone else. I might haul a rope across, though, if that would help."

  "I don't think we have time to make a rope bridge that would hold Swiftmud's weight," Bink said. "I wish we had thought to get no-fault insurance. Then we wouldn't have encountered any fault."

  "We never think of what we're going to need ahead of time," Chameleon said. "Otherwise you and I would never have adventured in the Gap Chasm the first time, Bink."

  Bink smiled. "You were almost as lovely then as you are now, dear."

  She returned the smile. "And lovelier than I will be next week."

  "Save those reminiscences for the fade-out party," Iris snapped. "I'll make us all beautiful then. How do we get there in time?"

  "We can proceed, but it may not be entirely comfortable," Trent said. "Swiftmud is a fairly versatile creature; he can slide along any surface without losing his grip. But we might prefer to walk."

  "At our age?" Iris asked. "You forget you're ninety-six years old, and I'm not a great deal younger. If we try to walk any distance, we shall both fade out sooner than planned."

  "Then we had better ride," Trent agreed. "But we shall need to use some of your magic glue."

  "Glue?"

  "For our bottoms."

  "What are you thinking of!"

  "So we won't fall off our plates when Swiftmud slides down the face of the fault."

  Iris considered. Then she dug into her purse and brought out a tube of glue she had evidently harvested from a glue plant.

  They took turns applying it to their plates, having to stand on an extra plate Iris provided from somewhere while doing it. Then they sat down again, and their legs and posteriors fastened firmly to each plate. Gloha was nervous about it, and decided not to use the glue. "Maybe I can help find the way through the fault."

  "That seems sensible," Chameleon agreed. Gloha felt a thankful little flash of gratitude; not only was the woman lovely, she was nice. Gloha had been afraid that someone would find fault with her suggestion about the fault. After all, it was the nature of faults to be found.

  Trent gave a command, and Swiftmud started forward. He slid to the edge of the fault, and over it, making a square angle turn down. One by one the plates made that awesome turn. The others remained on their plates, but Gloha couldn't; she had to fly free.

  She looped around and hovered near Swiftmud as he slid at an even pace straight down the wall of the fault. The five passengers remained firmly glued to their plates, but they did not look inordinately comfortable. Gloha suspected that under the illusion their hair and perhaps other parts of their bodies were sagging somewhat. Then the cabin reappeared, hiding them. That made Gloha feel better, at least.

  She flew down to investigate the depths of the fault. It narrowed steadily, until it disappeared in a dark crevice too small for Swiftmud to enter. But it was also too wide for the creature to cross, she thought, unless it was capable of making a U-turn across nothing. What now?

  She flew to one side, and then to the other. She found a section with a U-shaped connection of stone. That should do. In fact it looked ideal.

  She flew back to Swiftmud. "Follow me," she said.

  Swiftmud obligingly followed her to the side. She landed on the U-stone. "Cross here," she said.

  Swiftmud did. Then it proceeded up the other wall. In due course it returned to the surface, and got level again.

  The cabin vanished. "Very good," Iris said. "Now we must go full speed ahead, to make up for lost time."

  "As soon as we get unstuck from our plates," Chameleon said, trying to fidget without being able to move her shapely posterior.

  "Of course." Iris produced a tube of unglue, and they became unglued.

  Gloha settled back to her plate as Swiftmud accelerated. Now the scenery fairly whizzed by. Gloha's hair flowed back in the wind, and so did Chameleon's. The others seemed unaffected, perhaps because their appearances were now illusory, confirming her prior suspicion. Gloha was glad of that, because in their natural states they did look stomach-irkingly aged. She had not realized that it was possible for a person to be older than fifty or so, but understood that some folk just didn't have much choice in the matter.

  Soon they reached the great wide broad expanse of Lake Ogre-Chobee. "We had better pause for refreshment," Iris said, "before getting into the labyrinth of the underworld."

  So Trent guided Swiftmud around the edge of the lake, looking for a campsite with pie trees and pillow bushes. Instead they found a village whose houses were all black. Sure enough, a sign said BLACK VILLAGE.

  "I don't remember a village here," Trent said.

  "It must have formed within the decade since our last visit here," Iris said. "I can clothe us with the illusion of invisibility if you wish."

  "Don't bother. Just make us young and anonymous for now. I'm sure the natives are friendly." Indeed, there was a sign a bit farther along saying FRIENDLY NATIVES.

  All six of them became young, except for Gloha, who didn't change. She was impressed by Iris' powers of illusion.

  Swiftmud proceeded slowly down the center street. Soon a man came out. He looked ordinary, except that he was black. "What can I do for you tourists?" he inquired in friendly fashion. He wore a nameplate saying "SHER-LOCK: Safe-Courteous-Reliable."

  "We were just looking for refreshment," Trent said. "We're on our way to the underworld."

  "You have come to the right place," Sherlock-said. "We settled here last year and are promoting tourism. We have all manner of refreshments and entertainments, including regular presentations at the Curse Friend Playhouse. Or you can simply sun yourselves on the Ogre-Chobee beach and feed the tame ogres and chobees."

  “Tame ogres?" Iris asked dubiously.

  "It happens," Tandy reminded her.

  "Oh, yes," Sherlock agreed. "We have Okra the Ogre Tamer, who can make an ogre named Smithereen perform ogre feats of strength for just a smile. Nobody believes it until they see it. And the chobees will allow themselves to be petted, for just a few marsh mallows and maybe a toe or two." He smiled. "A bit of safe, courteous, reliable humor there."

  "Just fetch us some fresh pies to take along," Iris said.

  Sherlock turned his head. "Pie assortment, to go," he called. Then, to Trent: "And what do you have in trade?"

  "Do you need any illusion?" Iris inquired.

  "We prefer to have no illusions," Sherlock said. "We like things here as they ar
e."

  "Do you need to have any person or creature transformed to something else?" Trent asked.

  Sherlock considered. "Actually there is someone we'd like to transform. But it's his nature that needs transforming, not his appearance."

  "What is his nature?"

  "He's always trying to organize things into a state so he can run it. We have no need of this, but he just won't stop. His name's Nator. We even call the way he acts natorial. It's really bothersome."

  Trent pondered. "I seem to remember a type of creature that enjoys that sort of organization. There are a number of them, but none of them want to be the leader. So they are usually in a state of confusion or a state of frustration."

  "Nator would love to solve their problems," Sherlock said. "But are they human?"

  "Not really. Does it matter?"

  Sherlock considered again. "Perhaps not." He turned his head again. "Hey, Nator! Would you like to be a goober?"

  Another man came out. "What's a goober?" .

  "Creatures who exist in a state with no leader, because no one wants to do it."

  "I'd certainly like to shape them up!" Nator said.

  Trent gestured. Nator became a creature vaguely resembling a cross between a peanut and a pink jellybean with multiple legs and long antennae. The antennae quivered. Then the goober ran away.

  "Wait!" Sherlock called. "We don't know whether you like it yet."

  But then they saw a green jellybean emerge from the jungle to meet the pink one, and a purple one arriving from another direction.

  "They are very quick to locate each other," Trent said. "I'm "sure Nator will be all right. They are highly social creatures."

  "And they won't mind his being natorial?"

  "They should love it. He'll be goober natorial."

  A young black woman arrived with an armful of fresh pies. "I hope these are all right," she said. "They are black berry, which is our favorite, and green berry, purple berry, gray berry, and blue berry. And one goose berry. Be careful of that one; it's very fresh."

  "Those are fine," Trent said. "Fair exchange. Thank you." They took the pies. Gloha got the goose berry. It honked as she took a bite, but she avoided its other effect by flying up. Geese were flying creatures, and their food tended to make others try to fly, except those who were already doing so. So the pie's freshness didn't bother her; she knew how to handle it.

  They bid parting to Sherlock and the young woman, and Swiftmud resumed sliding. A number of the black folk had come out during the dialogue and exchange, and were looking curiously at the mud. Gloha didn't blame them; it was a most curious creature.

  "We shall have to tell Dor about this new village," Trent remarked. "It does seem like a nice place to visit."

  "This region has been cleaned up," Bink remarked. "It used to be primitive country, but now it is parklike."

  "That must be the work of the Black Villagers," Chameleon said. "Now I remember: I did hear something about a Black Wave that arrived from Mundania, but I never heard where they settled. Now we know."

  As they ate their pies, Swiftmud slid out across the surface of the lake, having no more trouble with it than with the vertical walls of the fault. Soon they were surrounded by flat water. Gloha was impressed, because she had never seen so much water in one place. Not when she was actually on it.

  This was an interesting journey. But was it getting her any closer to the achievement of her desire? She still had no idea how to find the man of whatever dreams she might want to have, assuming he existed. If only the Good Magician had Answered her Question, instead of dismissing her without even listening. Instead of sending her on this wild goose pie chase for his second son, who might not exist either.

  Chapter 3

  RECONCILIATIONS

  They had hardly finished their pies before they reached the dome-city of the Curse Friends. Sherlock, curiously, had called them "Curse Friends"; maybe he had misspoken. Actually the city didn't show on the surface; there was only a whirlpool there. A big one.

  Swiftmud floated right toward it. "We aren't going into that, are we?" Gloha asked with a feeble little fright.

  "Oh, that's right, you haven't been here before," Tandy said. "This is the way to the underworld. One of the ways, anyway, but goblins lurk along the others. Don't be concerned."

  Gloha tried her best to be unconcerned as Swiftmud got caught by the vortex and floated around it in a diminishing spiral. The central hole loomed up hugely. Then they tilted into it and whirled around and around, going down.

  After that it was a blur. Gloha squeezed her expressive little eyes tight-shut closed.

  There was a bump and splash, and the awful spinning stopped. Gloha's eyes peeked open just a tiny slit.

  They were in a dark cavern, floating on a somber lake. Gloha pried loose her jammed little jaw. "What happened?" she asked doubtfully.

  "We landed at the bottom of the vortex," Tandy answered. "From here it's mostly smooth sailing to my mother's apartment."

  That was a relief. If Gloha had had any idea what this trip would be like, she would have hesitated to make it. But no one else seemed concerned, so she crammed her startled little stomach back into place and pretended to be satisfied.

  After a somewhat timeless time, because there was no sun here to mark it, just a faint glow in the water and on the stone walls, they came to a landing. An unusual woman came out from a doorway. She wore a gown set with so many bright gems that it made the whole region three and a half times as bright. "Oh, you're here!" she exclaimed. "But who is this?"

  "Mother, this is Gloha, who has come to see Crombie," Tandy said. "Gloha, this is Jewel the Nymph."

  Indeed she looked like a nymph, being of exquisitely crafted figure. Except for one thing: she was old. Gloha had never heard of an old nymph.

  "Jewel was timeless until she loved and married Crombie," Bink reminded her. There was a certain diffidence about the way he related to the nymph that Gloha would have found perplexing if she had thought of it, but at the moment she was meeting too many people to have time for extra thoughts. About the only one who was really clear in her mind was Magician Trent, because she remembered him best from her history lessons. "Then she began aging from her apparent age of twenty, just as mortals do. We still call her Jewel the Nymph, but she's really no longer a nymph, and she will join our fade-out party."

  Oh. That did not seem horribly clear, but Gloha was in no mental shape to be confused, so she just smiled and accepted things as they seemed to be. Though she was halfway sure that things weren't exactly as they seemed to be. What was there about Bink's attitude toward Jewel that bothered her? Jewel was Tandy's mother; that was enough.

  "You are barely in time," Jewel said. "Crombie has almost faded."

  "We were delayed while traveling," Iris said somewhat sourly. Gloha felt guilty again, remembering that the last delay had happened when Bink tried to tell her about his talent. The fault had shown up right then, without warning. Of course that couldn't have been her fault, yet somehow it seemed so.

  "Gloha must talk to my father before he fades any further," Tandy said. "She is still young; most of her life is ahead of her."

  "How nice," Jewel said. She led the way to a bedroom chamber.

  There, amidst piled blankets and cushions, was a horribly wizened ancient old man. Gloha wasn't sure just what fading out entailed, but if this was it, she didn't much like it. Crombie seemed to be on the far side of sleep, lying on his back, his eyes staring up at the ceiling without focusing. She remembered how Wira's eyes had never quite focused on things; his were somewhat like that.

  But she had to talk to him, and hope he could help her. "Sir Mister Crombie, the Good Magician Humfrey told me to talk to his second son, but I don't know where he is or even who he is, and my Aunt Goldy thought maybe Smash Ogre would know, but he was out and Tandy thought maybe you would know or at least be able to point the direction." Then she took a breath.

  The decrepit figure stirred, weakl
y. The withered old mouth opened. "Can't," he breathed.

  Gloha didn't know what to say. This had become her almost only hope, and now it was dashed. So she burst into tears.

  The figure stirred again. "Ask-else," it breathed.

  A thought found its way through her misery. Ask something else? If he could point out anything-or almost anything-why not ask him where her ideal man was? If he could point the way to that one, she wouldn't need to talk to Humfrey's second son anyway.

  "Where is my ideal man?" she asked.

  One arm moved. It fell off the bed, but it was pointing a definite direction. Gloha made careful note; she had a kind of answer!

  But she needed more. "Is there anything that can help me in my search?" she asked.

  The arm moved again. This time it pointed at King Emeritus Trent.

  "Magician Trent can help me?" Gloha asked, startled. "But he's-" She caught herself before uttering the trite little truth that he was far too anciently old to be able to do anything' much more than make it through his share of the fade-out party, and might have trouble even with that. "He's otherwise committed," she concluded.

  Trent himself seemed startled. "He must be pointing to something beyond me," he said.

  "Such as the wall," Iris said with half a smile. "I'm sure that will be a great help to her."

  "Something beyond the wall," Trent said with the other half of the smile. "Just as was the case when he pointed toward her ideal man."

  "Perhaps he got the questions reversed, and meant that you are her ideal man," Iris said with a quarter of a new smile.

  Trent laughed. "How nice it would be to think so! But I think she is looking for one about seventy-six years younger. Here, I'll get out of the way, and Crombie can point again." He eased himself down and to the side, sitting on a cushion near Crombie's head.

  Gloha was relieved to get the chance to clear up the confusion. "Mister Crombie, sir, could you point again to whoever or whatever might be able to help me in my quest for my ideal man?"

  The withered arm shuddered and moved again. The gnarled forefinger pointed up beyond the decrepit head. Directly at Trent again.