The Source of Magic (13 page)

“Bink will still need a ride,” Humfrey said. “Since I am now associated with this quest, it behooves me to arrange for it. I proffer you this deal: in lieu of the customary year’s service for the Answer, I will accept service for the duration of this quest.”

Chester was startled. “You mean I do have a talent? A magic one?”

“Indubitably.”

“And you know it already? What it is?”

“I do.”

“Then—” But the centaur paused. “I might figure it out for myself, if it was so easy for you to do. Why should I pay you for it?”

“Why, indeed,” the Magician agreed.

“But if I don’t figure it out, and if Bink gets in trouble because he meets a dragon when I’m not there—”

“I would love to let you stew indefinitely in your dilemma,” Humfrey said. “But I am in a hurry and Bink needs a ride, so I’ll cut it short. Undertake the service I require, in advance of my Answer. If you fail to solve your talent yourself, I will tell you at the termination of the quest—or any prior time you so request. If you do solve it yourself, I will provide a second Answer to whatever other question you may ask. Thus you will in effect have two Answers for the price of one.”

Chester considered momentarily. “Done,” he agreed. “I like adventure anyway.”

The Magician turned to Crombie. “Now you are directly in the King’s service, so are committed for the duration. He has given you a fine form, but it lacks intelligible speech. I believe it would be better for you to be more communicative. Accordingly, meet another of my fee-servitors: Grundy the Golem.” A miniature man-figure appeared, his whole height hardly the span of an ordinary man’s hand. He seemed to have been formed from bits of string and clay and wood and other refuse, but he was animate.

The griffin looked at the golem with a certain surprised
contempt. One bite of that eagle’s beak could sever all four appendages from the figure. “Squawk!” Crombie remarked.

“Same to you, birdbeak,” the golem said without special emphasis, as if he didn’t really care.

“Grundy’s talent is translation,” the Magician explained. “I shall assign him to render the soldier’s griffin-speech into human speech, so we can better understand him. He already understands us, as so many animals do, so no reverse translation is required. The golem is small enough for any of us to carry without strain, so his transportation will be no problem. Bink will ride the centaur, and I will ride the griffin. That way we shall make expeditious progress.”

And so, efficiently, it was arranged. The quest for the source of the magic of Xanth had begun.

T
hey stood outside the castle, across the moat, watching while the Magician mothballed his residence. The ouroboros and other creatures under fee had been granted leaves of absence and were already gone. Humfrey fumbled in his clothing, showing a large heavy belt containing many pockets, and drew from this belt a closed vial or narrow bottle. He applied his thumbs to its cork until it popped free.

Smoke swirled out, looming high into the sky. Then it coalesced into the largest moth Bink had ever imagined, with a wingspan that cast the entire castle into shadow. The creature flew up over the castle and dropped a ball. As the ball fell near the highest turret it exploded. Gray-white streamers shot out in a huge sphere, drifting down to touch every part of the castle. Then they drew in tight, and suddenly the whole edifice was sheathed in a silky net, and looked like a giant tent. A cold, bitter odor emanated from it, smelling vaguely disinfectant.

“There,” Humfrey said with grudging satisfaction. “That’ll keep a hundred years, if it has to.”

“A hundred years!” Chester exclaimed. “Is that how long you figure this mission will take?”

“Come on, come on, we’re wasting time,” the Good Magician grumped.

Bink, astride the centaur, looked across at the griffin. “What he means, Crombie, is that we need to know the direction of the source of magic. The mission should be accomplished in a few days, with your help.”

The griffin squawked irately. “Well, why didn’t the old fool say so?” the golem translated promptly. He shared the griffin’s back with the Magician, as the two together massed barely half what Bink did.

“Well spoken, soldier,” Chester muttered low.

Crombie whirled, almost throwing off his riders. “That way,” Grundy said, pointing—around in a continuing circle, his tiny arm settling nowhere.

“Oh, no,” Chester muttered. “His talent’s on the blink again.”

“It is not malfunctioning,” Humfrey snapped. “You asked the wrong question.”

Bink’s brow furrowed. “We had some trouble that way before. What is the right question?”

“It’s your job to pursue this quest,” Humfrey said. “I must conserve my information for emergencies.” And he settled down comfortably amid the feathers of the griffin’s back and closed his eyes.

The Good Magician remained his taciturn self. He was out of the habit of helping anyone without his fee, even when he himself might benefit from such help. Now Bink was on the spot again; he had to figure out how to make Crombie’s talent work—while the Magician snoozed.

Before, in the nickelpede cleft, Crombie had fouled up because there had been no single direction for escape. Was that the case now—no single source for magic? If so, that would be very hard to locate. But the cynosure of this group was on him; he had to perform, and in a hurry. It was evident that the Good Magician had done him no particular favor by leaving the leadership of the quest to Bink. “Where is the most direct route to the source of magic?”

This time the griffin’s wing pointed down at an angle.

So that was why there was no horizontal direction; the source was not across, but down. Yet that was not much help. They couldn’t dig down very far, very fast. They would have to get a person whose talent was magic-tunneling, and that would mean delay and awkwardness. This group was already larger than Bink had anticipated. Better to find a natural route.

“Where is there an access to this source, from the surface?” Bink asked.

The wing began to vibrate back and forth. “The nearest one!” Bink amended hastily. The wing stabilized, pointing roughly south.

“The heart of the unexplored wilderness,” Chester said. “I should have known. Maybe I should take my Answer now and quit.”

Crombie squawked. “Birdbeak says if you take your stupid Answer now, you
can’t
quit, horserear.”

Chester swelled up angrily. “Birdbeak said that? You tell him for me he has bird droppings for brains, and—”

“Easy,” Bink cautioned the centaur. “Crombie needs no translation for your words.”

“Actually he called you an ass,” Grundy said helpfully. “I assume he meant your rear end, which is about as asinine as—”

The griffin squawked again. “Oops, my error,” the golem said. “He referred to your
front
end.”

“Listen, birdbrain!” Chester shouted. “I don’t need your ignorant opinion! Why don’t you take it and stuff it—”

But Crombie was squawking at the same time. The two faced off aggressively. The centaur was bigger and more muscular than the griffin, but the griffin was probably the more deadly fighter, for he had the mind of a trained human soldier in the body of a natural combat creature.

“Squawk!” Bink screamed. “I mean, stop! The golem is just making trouble. Obviously the word Crombie used was ‘centaur.’ Isn’t that so, Crombie?”

Crombie squawked affirmatively. “Spoilsport,” Grundy muttered, speaking for himself. “Just when it was getting interesting.”

“Never mind that,” Bink said. “Do you admit I was correct, Golem?”

“A centaur is an ass—front
and
rear,” Grundy said sullenly. “It depends on whether you are defining it intellectually or physically.”

“I think I will squeeze your big loud mouth into a small silent ball,” Chester said, reaching for the golem.

“You can’t do that, muleface!” Grundy protested. “I’m on the dwarf’s business!”

Chester paused, seeing the Good Magician stir. “Whose business?”

“This midget’s business!” Grundy said, gesturing back at Humfrey with a single stiffened finger.

Chester looked at Humfrey, feigning perplexity. “Sir, how is it you accept such insults from a creature who works for you?”

“Oops,” the golem muttered, discovering the trap. “I thought he was asleep.”

“The golem has no personal reality,” Humfrey said. “Therefore his words carry no personal onus. One might as well get angry at a lump of clay.”

“That’s telling him, imp,” Grundy agreed. But he seemed chastened.

“Let’s get on with our quest,” Bink suggested as the Good Magician closed his eyes again. Privately he wondered how it was that an unreal construct, the golem, could be in fee to the Magician. Grundy must have asked a Question, and had an Answer—but what could have motivated this magical entity to seek such information?

Then Bink had a minor inspiration as they trekked south. “Crombie, someone or something has been trying to eliminate me. I think that’s why the dragon came after us. Can you point out where that enemy is?”

“Squawk!” Crombie agreed. He whirled, and the Good Magician wobbled on his back but did not wake up. When the wing stabilized, it pointed—the same direction as it had for the source of magic.

“It seems,” Chester said gravely, “that it is your mission your enemy opposes. Does that affect your attitude?”

“Yes,” Bink said. “It makes me twice as determined as before.” Though he remembered that the sword had attacked him before he set out on this quest. Had his enemy anticipated him? That would be grim news indeed, implying more than ordinary strategy or magic. “Let’s get on with it.”

Near the Magician’s castle the terrain was fairly quiet, but as they penetrated the wilderness it changed. High brush grew up,
obscuring the view, and as they passed it there was a static discharge from the foliage that made hair and fur and feathers and string stand out eerily from their bodies. Overlooking this brush was an antenna, orienting unerringly on the party; Bink had never gotten close enough to one of these things to discover exactly what it was, and did not propose to start now. Why did these antennae watch so closely, yet take no action?

Sweat gnats came, making them all miserable until Humfrey woke, brought out a tiny vial, and opened it. Vapor emerged and spread, engulfing the gnats—then it suddenly sucked back into its bottle, carrying the gnats with it. “Misty was due for feeding anyway,” the Good Magician explained, putting away the vial. He offered no further explanation, and no one had the nerve to inquire. Again Humfrey slept.

“Must be nice, being a Magician,” Chester said. “He’s got the answer to all his problems, in one bottle or another.”

“Must be acquisitions from prior fees,” Bink agreed.

Then they blundered into a patch of curse-burrs. The things were all over their legs, itching incessantly. There was only one way to get rid of such a burr; it had to be banished by a curse. The problem was, no particular curse could be used twice in a day; each had to be different.

Humfrey was not pleased to be awakened yet again. This time it seemed he had no solution in a vial. “By the beard of my Great-Uncle Humbug, begone!” the Good Magician said, and the burr he addressed fell off, stunned. “By the snout of a sick sea serpent, begone!” And another dropped.

Chester was more direct, for several burrs were tangled in his beautiful tail. “To the grave with you, prickleface! I’ll stomp you flat as a nickelpede’s nickel! Out out, damned burr!” And three burrs fell, overwhelmed.

“Leave me,” Bink said, envying the imagination of the others. “Go itch a dragon!” And his burrs too started falling, though not so readily as those conked by the harder-hitting curses of the others. Bink just didn’t have the touch.

Crombie, however, was in trouble. Griffins were not native to this particular region of Xanth, and the burrs evidently did not comprehend his squawks. Then the golem started
translating, and they fell in droves. “By the bloody mouths of a field of wild snapdragons, drop your ugly purple posteriors into the nearest stinking privvy, sidewise! If your faces were flowers, you’d poison the whole garden! Jam your peppery pink rootlets up your—” The golem paused, amazed. “Is that possible? I don’t think I can translate it.” But the curse burrs comprehended, and suddenly the griffin’s bright feathers were free of them. No one could curse like a soldier!

Still, it was impossible to avoid all the burrs in this area, and by the time they escaped it their curses had become extremely farfetched. Sometimes two or even three curses had to be expended to make a single burr let go.

By this time they were hungry. There was nothing like a good bout of cursing to work up an appetite. “You know this area,” Chester said to the Magician before he could fall asleep again. “Where is there something to eat?”

“Don’t bother me with details,” Humfrey snapped. “I brought my own food—as you would have done too, had you had proper foresight.” He opened another vial. This time the vapor emerged to coalesce into a layered cake, complete with icing. The Magician took this from the air, broke out a perfect wedge-shaped slice, and ate that while the remainder of the cake dissolved, misted, and flowed back into its bottle.

“I realize we were remiss in not packing food for the journey,” Bink said. “You don’t suppose you might share some of that, this one time?”

“Why should I suppose anything like that?” Humfrey inquired curiously.

“Well, we are hungry, and it would facilitate—”

The Magician burped. “Go find your own slop, freeloader,” the golem translated.

It occurred to Bink that the Good Magician was not as congenial a companion as the Evil Magician had been, the last time he had braved the wilderness of Xanth. But he well knew that appearances could be deceptive.

Crombie squawked. “Birdbeak says there should be some fruit trees around. He’ll point them out.” And the griffin did his thing, pointing the direction.

In a moment they spied a giant fruit cup. The plant was the shape of an open bowl, filled to overflowing with assorted fruits. The party ran joyfully up to it—and, startled, the fruits erupted upward, filling the air with color.