Centaur Aisle (22 page)

"Uh, sure," Dor agreed awkwardly. It seemed the other centaurs were just as sensitive and unreasonable about this as Dor's tutor Cherie was. Humans were indeed finicky about certain natural functions, as the centaur Elder had reminded him, while centaurs were not; while humans were not finicky about the notion of personal magic the way the centaurs were. Probably one attitude made as much nonsense as the other.

But how would the citizens of Centaur Isle react to the news that a full Magician of their species was among them? Eventually Dor would have to tell them. This mission could be awkward indeed!

"Third, we honor an understanding dating from the dawn of our species," Gerome continued, leaving the distasteful subject of magic behind like a clod of manure. "We shall not indulge in politics, and will never compete with our human brethren for power. So even if we desired empire and had the ability to acquire it, we would not do so. We would never renege on that binding commitment." And the centaur looked so serious that Dor dared not pursue the matter further.

At last they came to the historical museum. This was an impressive edifice of red brick, several stories high, with small windows and a forbidding external aspect. But it was quite interesting inside, being crowded with all manner of artifacts. There were samples of all the centaurs' products, going back decade by decade to before the First Wave of human conquest. Dor could see how the earlier items were cruder; the craftsmen were still improving their skills. Everything was identified by neat plaques providing dates, places, and details of manufacture. The centaurs had a keen sense of history!

During the tour, Dor had continued to sneak glances at the magic compass. He was gratified to see that it pointed toward the museum; maybe the Magician was here!

"And this is our keeper of records," Gerome said, introducing a middle-aged, bespectacled centaur. "He knows where all the bodies are hidden. Arnolde the Archivist."

"Precisely," Arnolde agreed dourly, peering over his glasses. The demon Beauregard was the only other creature Dor had seen wearing such devices. "So nice to encounter you and your party, King Dor. Now if you will excuse me, I have a new shipment of artifacts to catalogue." He retreated to his cubby, where objects and papers were piled high.

"Arnolde is dedicated to his profession," Gerome explained. "He's quite intelligent, even by our standards, but not sociable. I doubt there is very much about Xanth natural history he doesn't know. Recently he has been picking up items from the fringe of magic; he made one trip to an island to the south that may have taken him entirely out of magic, though he denies this. Prior to the time King Trent dropped the shield that enclosed Xanth, such expeditions were impossible."

Dor remembered the shield, for his tutor had drilled him on it. Cherie Centaur was particularly strong on social history. The Waves of human conquerors had become so bad that one King of Xanth had finally put a stop to further invasion by setting up a magic shield that killed any living thing that passed through it. But that had also kept the inhabitants of Xanth in. The Mundanes, it seemed, came to believe that Xanth did not exist at all and that magic was impossible, since none of it leaked out any more. There had, it seemed, been many recorded cases of magic that Mundanes had witnessed or experienced; all these were now written off as superstition. Perhaps that was the Mundanes' way of reconciling themselves to the loss of something as wonderful as enchantment, to pretend it did not exist and never had existed.

But Xanth had suffered, too. In time it had become apparent that mankind in Xanth needed those periodic infusions of new blood, however violently they came, for without the Waves there was a steady attrition of pure human beings. First, people developed magic talents; later generations became magic themselves, either mating with animals to form various composite species like harpies or fauna or merfolk, or simply evolving into gnomes or giants or nymphs. So King Trent had lowered the shield and brought in a number of settlers from Mundania, with the understanding that these new people would be drawn on as warriors to repel any future violent invasion that might come. So far there had been none—but the Waves had been a pattern of centuries, not of decades, so that meant little. Immigration was an uncertain business, as it was far easier to go from Xanth to Mundania than the other way around, at least for individual people. But the human situation in Xanth did seem to be improving now. Dor could appreciate how an intelligent, inquisitive centaur would be eager to begin cataloguing the wonders of Mundania, which long had been a great mystery. It was still hard to accept the notion that here was a region where magic was inoperative, and where people survived.

They moved on down the narrow hall. Dor checked the compass again—and found that it pointed directly toward Arnolde the Archivist.

Could he be the centaur Magician, the threat to the welfare of Xanth, the important business Dor had to attend to? That didn't seem to make much sense. For one thing, Arnolde showed no sign of magic ability. For another, he was hardly the type to threaten the existing order; he was dedicated to recording it. For yet another, he was a settled, middle-aged person, of a species that lived longer than man. Magic talents might not be discovered early, but the evidence was that they existed from birth on. Why should this talent become an issue now, perhaps a century into Arnolde's life? So it must be a mistake; Dor's target had to be a young centaur, perhaps a newborn one.

Yet as Dor moved about the building, only half listening to the presentation, the compass pointed unerringly toward Arnolde's cubby.

Maybe Arnolde was married, Dor thought with exasperated inspiration. Maybe he had a baby centaur, hidden there among the papers. The compass could be pointing to the foal, not to Arnolde. Yes, that made sense.

"If you don't get that glazed look off your face, the Elder will notice," Irene murmured, jolting Dor's attention.

After that he concentrated and managed to assimilate more of the material. After all, there was nothing he could do about the Magician at the moment.

At length they completed the tour. "Is there anything else you would like to see, King Dor?" Gerome inquired.

"No, thank you, Elder," Dor replied. "I think I've seen enough."

"Shall we arrange to transport your party back to your capital? We can contact your conjurer."

This was awkward. Dor had to complete his investigation of the centaur Magician, so he was not ready to leave this Isle. But it was obvious that his mission and discovery would not be well received here. He could not simply tell the centaur Elders the situation and beg their assistance; to them that would be obscenity, and their warm hospitality would abruptly chill. A person's concept of obscenity was not subject to reasonable discussion, for of course the concepts of obscenity and reason were contradictory.

In fact, that might be the root of the centaurs' accommodation and generosity. Maybe they suspected his mission, so were keeping him reined at all times, in the guise of hospitality. How could he decline to go home promptly, after they had seemingly catered to his needs so conscientiously? They wanted him off the Isle, and he had little chance to balk their wish.

"Uh, could I talk with Chet before I decide anything?" Dor asked.

"Of course. He is your friend." Again Gerome was the soul of accommodation. That made Dor more nervous, ironically. He was almost sure, now, that he was being managed.

"And my other friends," Dor added. "We need to decide things together."

It was arranged. In the afternoon the five got together in a lovely little garden site of guaranteed privacy. "You all know our mission," Dor said. "It is to locate a centaur Magician and identify his talent—and perhaps bring him back to Castle Roogna. But the centaurs don't much like magic in themselves; to them it's obscene. They react to it somewhat the way we do to—well, like people looking up Irene's skirt."

"Don't start on that!" she said, coloring slightly. "I think the whole world has been looking up my skirt recently!"

"Your fault for having good legs," Grundy said. She kicked at him, but the golem scooted away. Dor noted that she hadn't tried very hard to tag Grundy; she was not really as displeased as she indicated.

"I happen to be in a position to understand both views," Chet said. His left arm was now in a sling, and he wore a packing of anti-pain potions. His outlook seemed improved, but not his immediate physical condition. "I admit that both centaur and human foibles are foolish. Centaurs do have magic talents and should be proud to display them, and Irene does have excellent limbs for her kind and should be proud to display them. And that's not all—"

"All
right!"
Irene snapped, her color deepening. "Point made. We can't go blabbing our mission to everyone on Centaur Isle. They just wouldn't understand."

"Yes," Dor said, glad to have this confirmation of his own analysis of the situation. "So now I need some group input. You see, I believe I have located the centaur Magician. It has to be the offspring of Arnolde the Archivist."

"Arnolde?" Chet asked. "I know of him. He's been at his job for fifty years; my mother speaks of him. He's a bachelor. He has no offspring, He's more interested in figures of the numerical persuasion than in figures of fillies."

"No offspring? Then it must be Arnolde himself," Dor said. "The magic compass points directly to him. I don't know how it is possible, since I'm sure no such Magician was known in Xanth before, but I don't believe Good Magician Humfrey would give me a bad signal on this."

"What's his talent?" Irene asked.

"I don't know. I didn't have a chance to find out."

"I could ask around," Grundy offered. "If there are any plants or animals around his stall, they should know."

"I can ask around myself," Dor said. "There are bound to be inanimate objects around his stall. That's not the problem. The Elders are ready to ship us home now, and I have no suitable pretext to stay. Even one night might be enough. But what do I tell them without lying or alienating them? King Trent told me that when in doubt, honesty is the best policy, but in this case I'm in doubt even about honesty."

"Again I perceive both sides," Chet said. "Honesty
is
best—except perhaps in this case. My kind can become exceedingly ornery when faced with an incompatible concept. While I would not wish to imply any criticism of my sire—"

The others knew what he meant. Chester Centaur's way to handle something he didn't like was to pick it up in a chokehold and shake the stuffing from it. The centaurs of Centaur Isle were more civilized, but just as ornery underneath.

"Tell them your business is unfinished and you need another day," Irene suggested. "That's the literal truth."

"That, simplistic as it sounds, is an excellent answer," Chet said. "Then go out at night and spy out Arnolde's talent. Have Grundy scout the route first, so you don't arouse suspicion. That way you can complete the mission without giving offense and go home tomorrow."

"But suppose we need to take him with us? A full Magician should come to Castle Roogna."

"No problem at all," Chet said. "I can tell you right now he won't come, and no Magician can be compelled. There's hardly a thing that could dislodge the archivist from his accustomed rounds."

"Knowing his talent should be enough," Irene said. "Our own Council of Elders can decide what to do about it, once they have the information."

Dor was relieved. "Yes, of course. Tonight, then. The rest of you can sleep."

"Fat chance," Irene said, and Smash grunted agreement. "We're in this mess together. You're certain to foul it up by yourself."

"I appreciate your vote of confidence, as always," Dor said wryly. But he also appreciated their support. He was afraid he would indeed foul it up by himself, but hadn't wanted to ask them to participate in what might be a nasty business.

That night they put their plot into execution. Grundy went out first, his tiny dark body concealed by the darkness. There was no trouble, and soon all of them left their comfortable human-style beds—Chet excepted, as he was separately housed and could not readily leave his stall unobserved— and moved into the moonlit evening. They had no difficulty seeing, because the moon was nearing full and gave plenty of light.

They found the museum without trouble. Dor had assumed it would be closed for the night, but to his dismay it was lighted. "Who is in there?" he asked the ground.

"Arnolde the Archivist," the ground replied. "You have to be pretty stupid not to know he's been working late all week, cataloguing those new Mundane artifacts, though what he finds so interesting about such junk—"

"What's his magic talent?"

"His what?" the ground asked, bewildered.

"You know of no magic associated with him?" Dor asked, surprised. Normally people were very free about what they did around only inanimate things, and it was hard to avoid the inanimate. That was what made Dor's own talent so insidious; the complete privacy people thought they had became complete disclosure in his presence. He tried not to pry into what did not rightly concern him, but most people, including his own parents, normally stayed clear of him, without making any issue of it. The people who had traveled with him were different, for their separate reasons; when he thought about it, he appreciated it immensely. Even Irene, who professed to value her privacy, was not truly uncomfortable in Dor's presence. She really didn't have to make any great play for him; gratitude would haul him into her orbit any time she wished. He knew she was accustomed to lack of privacy because of the way her mother was, but still found it easier to get along with her than with other girls. Others got unduly upset when their clothing started telling Dor their secrets.

Dor glanced at the large round moon again. It was amazing how that orb stimulated his thoughts along such lines!

Meanwhile, the ground had answered: "None at all. Centaurs don't do magic."

Dor sighed. "I guess we'll have to go in and brace him directly."