Anthony, Piers - Xanth 25 - Swell Foop

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Swell Foop

by Piers Anthony

QUESTION

Cynthia crested a hill and spied the Good Magician's castle. She paused,

surveying it, her pulse accelerating with maidenly excitement. She was here;

could she handle the three Challenges? She knew they would be possible but not

easy.

Suddenly her Question seemed foolishly inadequate. She really didn't need to

bother Magician Humfrey with it; there was one sure way to get the answer on

her own. The trouble was, that way was dangerous. If she proved to be unlucky,

she could regret it for the rest of her life. So she could not afford to

gamble; she had to know before she married Che Centaur.

She spread her fair white wings and leaped into the air. She had been

trotting, perhaps to give herself more time to think, but now she would fly in

before she had a chance to change her timid mind again. After all, centaurs

weren't supposed to be femalishly irresolute. They were supposed to be

intelligent and decisive. She had been a centaur only half her life, or one-

third of it, or five-sixths of it, depending on how she chose to see it at the

moment. She was still learning.

The castle looked deceptively placid. The tower windows were open, the moat

was calm, and the drawbridge was down. Just as if anyone could walk right in.

Well, there was one way to make proof of that.

Cynthia Centaur glided to a four-hoof landing, folded her wings, and trotted

up to the drawbridge. Sure enough, it lifted just before she got there.

Unsurprised, she walked down the bank to the water. As her forehoof touched

it, colored fins appeared. Loan sharks. She backed off; she did not want to

let them take an arm or a leg. There would be no swimming today.

She spread her wings and leaped. The feathers found no purchase; she landed

back on the ground. She nodded, having confirmed another limit. She could not

walk, swim, or fly across the moat. It was a Challenge.

So what was the way? There had to be something likely but difficult, and she

would have to figure out how to make it work. That was the way of it. The Good

Magician did not like to be bothered with frivolous Questions, so he made it

awkward for querents to get in to ask them. Then they had to pay a year's

service, or the equivalent, for the Answers. Even so, there seemed to be a

fairly constant stream of them. Many of them worked off their Services by

becoming parts of Challenges for later comers. So it amounted to a cottage

industry.

None of which helped her to cross the moat. What had Magician Humfrey cooked

up for her? For the Challenges tended to relate to the abilities of the ones

whose progress they barred. It would require centaur savvy to get through.

She walked around the moat, seeking some hint. All was quiet. Until she was

halfway: 180° in precise centaur terminology. There she saw a rope supported

by a system of pulleys on either side of the moat. One end was attached to a

small boat at the outer bank, and another end was in the hands of a lovely

human woman.

"Ahoy there, centaur!" the woman cried. "Do you mean to anger?"

"Why, no," Cynthia said, surprised. "Am I somehow giving offense?"

"Frustrate, interfere, balk, thwart, oppose-"

"Cross?"

"Whatever," the woman replied crossly. "Do you intend to navigate this moat?"

"Why, hello, Demoness Metria!" Cynthia said. "Are you operating this

Challenge?"

"Yes, I'm stuck here until I help someone get across. If you want to come in,

get in the boat and I'll haul you over."

"But I weigh a lot more than you do," Cynthia protested. "It would be

difficult for you to pull me."

"That's why I have the pulley. It gives me the magic of buy."

"Of what?"

"Shop, browse, patronize, bargain, purchase-"

Cynthia fixed on the last word. "Leverage?"

"Whatever. Get in the stupid boat. I'll use the crastination to haul you

across."

Crastination? Cynthia hesitated to inquire. It was probably the name for the

fancy pulley. She wasn't sure about this, but nothing better offered, so she

set four feet in the boat and hunkered down so as not to tip it over. This was

hardly her most comfortable mode of passage, but of course the Challenges were

not designed to be comfortable.

Metria pulled on her rope. It swung her halfway across the moat. Cynthia's

boat hardly budged.

"????!!" the demoness swore up, down, and sideways. The water beneath her

bubbled and clouded as if abruptly heated.

"I think I'm still too heavy for you," Cynthia said.

"You're not too heavy! I'm just too amateurish. I can't get it right."

Obviously true. Cynthia watched as Metria swung back to her side of the moat

and landed on the bank. "Maybe if you pulled it more slowly, to get more

leverage?"

The demoness pulled more slowly-and was hauled across the moat even faster.

"????!!" The green grass around her wilted and turned brown.

"I am not sure this is working," Cynthia said delicately. "Perhaps if I looked

for some other way to get across-"

The demoness vanished from the outer moat bank in a puff of vile smoke and

reappeared at the inner bank, rope still in hand. "Absotively posilutely not!

I am supposed to haul your donkey rear across this fetid pool of snot, and I

shall do it if it vetoes us all." Now steam rose from the water, and chips

flaked from the castle wall behind her. What little vegetation remained in the

area gave up the ghost; little plant-shaped spirits were floating into the

sky.

Cynthia's maidenly ears were hurting. She had never before seen a demon quite

this enraged, and wasn't sure she would survive with her health if it got any

worse. She decided not to argue. "Of course, Metria," she said soothingly. "It

will surely work out."

"It had better moil out," the demoness gritted wrathfully, "or I might become

annoyed." Thin plumes of smoke jetted from her ears, and veins stood out in

stark red relief on the crackling surfaces of her eyeballs.

This was still beneath the level of annoyance? Three of Cynthia's knees felt

weak, and the fourth was none too strong. She had to pacify Metria before she

exploded, destroying the whole castle. Obviously the present approach wasn't

working. The demoness did not seem to know how to operate the pulley

correctly, but surely would not be amenable to suggestions by an outsider. How

could this be handled posilutely-oops, positively?

Maybe if she reverted to basics. "Metria, I'm sure there's some mistake, and

something is interfering with your effort. Maybe if we explore this from the

start, we can find out what's happening."

"Maybe," the demoness snorted. A little smoke ring spun clear of her nose,

expanding as it floated across the moat. The fin of a blue shark sliced

through it-and the fin blistered before it hastily submerged.

So far so good. "Now, I am somewhat inexperienced about demonly matters, and

perhaps my vocabulary is deficient. You mentioned a crastination, which I

assumed to be the pulley. Possibly I am in error." It galled her to say this,

because true centaurs were seldom in error, and their vocabularies were never

deficient.

Metria laughed. Waves of heat rippled outward from her; the rage was

dissipating. "Maybe I misspoke. I am trying to use the pulley to keep me here

while I pull you across. I am trying to crastinate, so I can stay here long

enough to find out what is so infernally important about your quest."

"But there's nothing important about me or my quest," Cynthia said. "I just

want to find out whether my offspring will breed true. You see, I'm not a

natural centaur; Magician Trent transformed me from human eighty years ago. So

my children might turn out human, instead of winged centaur. I can't face the

threat of such a horror, so I must find out before the fact."

"That's right; I remember now," Metria said. "You tried to fool the Magician,

and he was diseased."

"He was what?"

"Instead of being at ease, he was-"

"Oh. Not eased. Perturbed."

"Whatever," the demoness agreed crossly. "So he punished you."

"Yes. But now I like being a winged monster, and I love Che Centaur, and I

want to be sure that when I marry him I'll be able to do my part. But however

important that may be to me personally, I recognize that in the larger scheme

of the cosmos, it is inconsequential. So it must be some other quest that is

the one you want."

"No, you are the only querent scheduled for today, so it has to be you.

Humfrey's in such a dither he didn't even notice how I'm subbing for Demon

Tension in the Challenge. I'm the most curious of demonesses, and I've just

got to know what's so awful it can make even the Good Magician get all up in a

heaval. So I have to get you into the castle, not me out of it. Until my

oddity is sated."

"Your what is sated?"

"Eccentric, irregularity, peculiarity, abnormality, quirk-"

"Curiosity?"

"Whatever! So I gather you don't even know what's so important about your

Question."

"Well, it's important to me. But I think not to many others. Does it seem

important to you?"

"No. Who cares whether your baby is a stinkweed? So it must be something else.

I've just got to know."

Cynthia was beginning to be just the merest suggestion of concerned. The Good

Magician was dithered about her Question? It was true that if the Answer

turned out to be negative, she would have to seriously consider not marrying

Che, which would break both their hearts, but since when did Humfrey care

about centaur hearts? She hardly rated any such concern. "I fear you will be

disappointed. But I'll be happy to share my Answer with you, at such time as I

obtain it. Then you can rest undisgruntled."

"Rest how?"

"Calm, placid, peaceful, quiet, serene, tranquil-"

"That's six."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I usually give only five explications."

"Five whats?"

"Analogues, meanings, expressions, translations, identities-"

"Synonyms?"

"Whatever. You gave six. That damages the cadence. I should have filled in the

sixth."

"I apologize." Actually Cynthia remembered her giving six on more than one

prior occasion, but she didn't care to argue the case. "I meant merely to say

that you can rest easy, once you know what I learn from the Good Magician."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" the demoness demanded crossly.

"I fear I got distracted. Now about this crastination: I remain unclear as to

its precise application. How will crastination help you?"

"By delaying my departure, so I can overhear Humfrey's verdict. I'm trying to

stall."

Cynthia nodded. "Perhaps the word you want is 'procrastination.'"

"Yes! That's it. I couldn't quite get it. 'Amateur crastination' was as close

as I could come."

"And when an amateur does a job a professional should do, it can go wrong,"

Cynthia said.

"It can get downright bungled. I want to stand here and pull you across, using

the-" She hesitated.

"Leverage."

"Of the pulley. Instead it's been reversing, leaving you slow while I zoom

across the moat."

"Try it again, this time thinking pro instead of amateur."

Metria pulled on the rope. This time she remained in place, and Cynthia's boat

slid smoothly across the moat. She had figured it out.

"Remember-you promised," the demoness said. "And souled folk keep their

promises."

"I will tell you what I learn," Cynthia agreed. "Though I suspect it will

disappoint you. Nothing about me or my concerns is important to Magicians or

demons."

"We'll wash."

"We'll what?"

"Brine, water, pool, bay, ocean-"

"Sea?"

"Whatever." The demoness looked cross as she faded out.

"We'll see," Cynthia agreed with half a smile. There was something almost

amusing about the demoness's problem with words. Was the Good Magician really

unaware of Metria's presence? The Challenge seemed remarkably apt for this

particular individual.

She stepped out of the boat and surveyed the castle. There was a door in the

wall. She tried the handle, and it turned, and the door opened.

Beyond was a spacious chamber filled with harpies. They were dancing,

strutting in messy patterns. Feathers were flying, the walls were filthy, and

the smell was appalling. No wonder: there was bird poop all over the floor,

getting stirred up by the claws of the dancers. Cynthia stepped back,

wrinkling her nose. Centaurs were natural about natural functions, but their

manure was inoffensive and good for flowers. Harpy dung, in contrast, was

truly nasty. It required special facilities for detoxification. To have it

spread about a sealed chamber-that was dangerous.

But this seemed to be the only way into the castle. The first Challenge had

been a test of her understanding; she had found the key word and thus gotten

through. This second Challenge seemed to be a test of her fortitude; how could

she pass through this muck and stench without fainting?

The answer was that she couldn't. Cynthia had been cleanly all of her life,

whether in human or centaur form. She had regularly washed or replaced her

human clothes, then had to get used to going bare as a centaur. She had

finally reached the point where she could trot past a group of human boys,

knowing that their eyes were riveted to her bouncing breasts, and not be

unduly embarrassed. After all, clothing fetishism was a human trait, not a

centaur trait, and centaurs were not responsible for human hang-ups. Boys

weren't supposed to see the sexual parts of girls, so naturally they lived to

sneak peeks, and the upper foresection of a centaur was similar to that of a

human person. So human boys did stare at centaur fillies, and thought they

were getting away with something, but if there was embarrassment, it should be

on the part of the boys. But going bare did not mean going dirty. The idea of

going among these dirty birds repelled her.

Surely the Challenge could not be merely a matter of getting through filth.

There must be a way to avoid it. But how? The ceiling of the chamber was not

high; that was why the harpies were footing instead of flying. Cynthia could

not fly through it, assuming her wings were working now. She had to walk. Her

very hooves curled inward at the thought.

So how could she pass through this noisome chamber without tracking putrid

gook? How could she breathe? The stuff would surely get on her wings, even

when tightly folded, making them reek. The very notion was nauseating. She

wanted no part of this foul ball.

Foul ball. Could this be a pun? Puns were the bane of Xanthly existence. They

were everywhere, like poisonous toadstools, and of course even the toads did

not muck about in their stools. Puns were the lowest form of humor in much the

way buns were the lowest form of bread, and even buns had naughty connotations

to make boys snicker. Puns brought worse reactions than snickering. So it was

conceivable that an obscene dance might be called a foul ball. But puns were

also the main avenue for changing things.

Suppose she thought of another meaning for ball? She concentrated-and in a

moment the dancers rolled into one feculent mass, a huge sphere that squeezed

the limits of the chamber. But there was no way to pass it; the ball blocked

the way. So that was evidently not the answer. She relaxed her focus, and the

ball dissolved back into dancing harpies, who seemed not to have noticed their

brief transformation.

Then a dim bulb flashed just over her head. The other word-foul. That could

also be fowl. This could be a fowl ball. Harpies resembled fowl, which were

barnyard birds-chickens, ducks, turkeys, pheasants, and the like. But by a

further extension, all winged monsters could be said to have an affinity,

because of their wings. Even winged centaurs.

She concentrated, and the harpies became winged centaurs engaged in mannerly

dancing, their hooves keeping the cadence. The stench became odor, and the

odor became smell, and the smell became healthy centaur musk. Now the chamber

was bearable.

She moved on in and joined the dance. It was the Centaur Stomp, and she loved

it. In a moment a centaur stallion came to join her. The Stomp did not require

partners, but there could be couples if they wanted to be. "May I join you?"

he inquired politely. "I am Center Centaur."

"Join me to what?" she inquired in return, with a smile as she matched his

hoofbeats.

He laughed. "I knew you were clever and nice," he said.

"Oh? How?"

"It is my talent. Insight. I can see inside a person and know what is wrong."

"Being clever and nice is what's wrong with me?"

"Yes, because these are nasty challenges that make you feel uncomfortable. You

could handle them better if you had a trifle more meanness of spirit."

It was her turn to laugh. "That is a flattering liability."

"True. I regret that you are emotionally committed to another stallion. I will

let you go now."

"Thank you." He was evidently not a challenge in himself, just a bit player

who perhaps was not allowed to help her, but felt no need to be unpleasant.

She appreciated that.

Then she got a sudden headache. That was weird; she hadn't had one of those in

a long time. Was it part of the Challenge?

A filly caught her eye. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "It's my talent: causing

random headaches within a set radius. I can't control it, but fortunately it

is intermittent. Let me get clear of you, and you will be all right."

"Thank you," Cynthia said weakly as the filly stomped away. Sure enough, her

headache eased. She appreciated the filly's consideration. It was interesting

how the thoughtless messy harpies had been replaced by thoughtful centaurs

with obvious character; they weren't mere illusion. The Good Magician set up

his Challenges in style.

She stomped steadily across the hall, until she reached the far door. Then she

exited, and closed the door on the dancers. Let them have their fun; she was

through the second hurdle. She had figured out the pun and morphed it to her

own design.

She was in a short hall. In alcoves to either side were young human men. She

recognized them by their forms, though she could as readily have done so by

their action: both were looking fixedly at her breasts. They were young men,

all right. She could simply trot between them and be through.

Or could she? This was likely to be the third Challenge, which meant that

there would be something to challenge her progress. She had better discover

its nature, rather than suffer it by surprise. Sometimes the worst threats

were the least obvious ones.

First she tried the direct approach. "Hello, men. Shall we exchange

introductions?"

"If you want to," the one on the right replied, not removing his eyes from her

torso. Young men did tend to stare, but these ones were becoming downright

obvious.

There was a pause, and she realized that it would be up to her to initiate the

exchange. "I am Cynthia Centaur, coming to ask a Question of the Good

Magician."

"We are the human twins Metros and Chronos," he replied. "We are here to serve

as your third Challenge." His eyeballs seemed to be expanding.

Cynthia had schooled herself to be a true centaur, and to ignore incidental

human crudities. But there were limits. The way these men were staring

disrupted her aplomb. "May I inquire as to the nature of this Challenge?"

"You may." Both of them licked their lips. They were actually slavering.

There was another pause. They were answering, but not volunteering. "What is

the nature of this Challenge?"

"You must pass by us." They were breathing hard. This was becoming

embarrassingly obvious. Had they never before seen a maidenly chest?

But she maintained her dignity, with an effort. "Is there some reason this is

not as simple as it seems?"

"That depends on how simple it seems to you." Never once had they looked away.

The man on the left was locked on her left side, the one on the right on her

right.

Cynthia sighed inwardly. These characters were bound to make it other than

simple. But how? "Will you tell me your talents?" Then, before they could

complete the routine of agreement and silence, she continued: "Please do so."

Metros nodded. "My talent is to make any object I touch larger or smaller, by

four-fold." His right hand twitched, as if eager to make something on her

right side four times as large.

"And mine is to make it older or younger, by a similar margin," Chronos said.

His left hand twitched, as if ready to make something on her left side a

quarter its present age.

Cynthia managed not to wince. "And if I try to walk past you, you will make me

larger or smaller, or younger or older-four-fold?"

"Yes. You may choose which, by taking our right hands, which make larger or

older, or our left hands, which make smaller or younger. Or one of each, so as

to become larger and younger, or smaller and older."

"Four-fold," Cynthia said soberly. She had already gathered which hand did

which; it was elementary logic. "So I will become a monstrous centaur, too big

to squeeze through this passage, or a little one, readily balked. Or I will

become sixty-four years old, or four years old-too old or young to accomplish

those things I wish to."

"Precisely. You may be able to avoid one of us, but not both of us. If you do

not touch us, we will touch you. So you must choose, or be chosen. Or

retreat."

This did seem to be a sufficient Challenge. So competent that there needed to

be no surprise element. So deadly that she could not afford to choose any of

the alternatives. So certain that she could not avoid it. She had to figure it

out, and nullify it.

But how? She was sure the twins were not bluffing. Illusion could be

spectacular, but the Good Magician had no need to use it. He could afford the

real thing, as the harpy/centaur ball had demonstrated. She really would be

rendered older or younger, larger or smaller, depending on how she chose to be

touched. Yet how could she avoid it? There seemed to be no way.

But there had to be a way. That was the nature of each Challenge. If only she

could figure it out. She was supposed to have a fine centaur mind. She should

be able to use it now. If she was a real centaur, instead of an imitation one.

Unfortunately she wasn't sure she was genuine. That was why she was here,

after all.

This reminded her of the problem of age. She had been delivered as a human

baby in the year 1005, and been transformed to winged centaur in 1021. So

technically she had been in this form for eighty of her ninetysix years. That

was how she made it as five-sixths of her life. But when transformed she had

fled to the Brain Coral's pool, and remained there seventy-two years, until

1093, when she was released, and traveled with Gloha Goblin-Harpy and Magician

Trent, and joined Che Centaur. So her conscious life was twenty-four years.

Then she had been rejuvenated by eight years, so was now physically sixteen.

So if she were touched by Chronos, would she become three hundred eighty-four

or twenty-four? Or ninety-six or six? Or sixty-four or four? Which of her ages

would the magic talent fix on to multiply or divide?

She couldn't risk it. None of them were good for her. She wanted to stay

sixteen, parallel to Che, so they could marry as approximate equals. That was

why she had been rejuvenated: to match him. She didn't want to throw that

away. As for changing her size-she had changed it when transformed, and that

was quite enough. So she could not tolerate any more change of either size or

age.

In addition, the very thought of having these freaks touch her body revolted

her. She knew exactly where they would grab. Even if their talents didn't

change her size, she would get dirtily pawed. The dirt was all in their minds,

not hers, but it nevertheless bothered her considerably. She had not, it

seemed, yet abolished all of her original human conditioning.

So should she just give up, and go home, and hope it was all right? That did

not appeal, either. There just had to be a solution! If only she could cancel

out the twins, make them touch each other-

Surely they did touch each other, and themselves, often. How did they eat,

wash, dress? Were they constantly changing size and age? She doubted it. Each

might be immune to his own touch, but what about his brother? They must have a

way to nullify brotherly touches. That was the way she needed.

Suppose they touched with both hands at once? Would they multiply or divide?

Or would the hands cancel each other's effects?

A bulb flashed. They had to cancel. It was the only logical way. And therein

was her answer. She should take both hands, simultaneously.

But there were two of them. She might nullify one, but what about the other?

She didn't have four hands.

Another bulb flashed. She didn't need them. The twins' hands defined their

talents, but the victims weren't restricted to hands, as far as she knew.

Otherwise the victims could simply tuck their hands under their armpits and be

immune. It had to be the touch anywhere on their bodies that counted. Not that

there was any doubt where she would be touched.

Well, it was time to prove she was more centaur than human. She would use

their fixations to nullify them. She would touch them, her way. "I'm coming

through!" Cynthia cried. She galloped toward the twins.

Each of them reached forward to touch her. She reached to the right to catch

both of Metros's hands in hers. Her size did not change. She hauled him in to

her bosom. She was taller than he; his face got flattened against her right

breast while his feet dragged on the floor. He was helpless.

But that was only half the job. She half unfurled her left wing and swept it

out to enclose Chronos. It was awkward, but she angled her body to make it

possible. She brought him in against her left breast, holding him down with

the wing so that both his hands were under him, locked against her equine

chest. She held him there, and clasped his twin brother as closely as she

turned around. Then she shoved Metros quickly away, and reached across with

her hands to do the same with Chronos. The twin brothers tumbled together as

she backed hastily away from them. Both had silly vacant smiles on their

faces, as if they had been stunned by something heavenly. That irritated her,

on a background level; she had intended to nullify them, not to give them a

treat. But it couldn't be helped.

She saw one of them become huge, then small. The other grew old, then young.

Indeed, they had not been bluffing. They would have to sort themselves out.

Meanwhile she was backing through the far door. She had gotten past them.

Not without some token injury, however. She discovered that there were

scratches on her breasts and sides where the obnoxious men had scraped by. Her

torso was stinging, and blood was starting to ooze.

She shut the door, and turned around again. Her pulse was racing; she wasn't

used to physical violence, even in a good cause. But she had overcome the

third challenge. She felt like taking a shower to get her front side clean.

But it had done its job, paralyzing their minds while nullifying their hands.

She had proved she was more centaur than human.

"Welcome, Cynthia." It was Wira, the Good Magician's daughter-in-law. She

appeared to be about twenty-seven, but, like Cynthia, could be reckoned as

different ages. She was blind, and very nice.

"I'm so glad to see you, Wira," Cynthia said. "I was afraid I wouldn't make it

through those challenges."

"Maybe it would have been better if you hadn't."

Cynthia stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I shouldn't have said that," the woman said quickly. "I'm sure

everything's in good order." But there was a certain insincerity in her tone.

That was quite unlike her.

"Now, Wira," Cynthia said in her most reasonable manner. "We have been friends

for some time, because we have things in common. Remember, we were both

sixteen when we went to sleep."

"Yes, we have been, and we were," the woman agreed evasively.

Cynthia didn't like taking advantage of guilt, but she was getting really

nervous about what was going on with Magician Humfrey. "You woke in Ten-

ninety, and were youthened twenty-two years to match Hugo, so you could marry

him. I woke in Ten-ninety-three, and was youthened eight years to match Che.

He introduced me to you, when we visited the castle."

"Yes, when I was nineteen physically, forty-one chronologically. You were

eight physically and eighty-eight chronologically, so you were both half my

age and twice my age. Wasn't that odd!"

"So we had to be friends," Cynthia said. "We pretended to be big and little

sisters in spirit. Now you're twenty-seven and I'm sixteen, physically, and

we've never deceived each other." She paused meaningfully.

Tears squeezed from Wira's blind eyes. "Oh, Cynthia, I'm not deceiving you! I

just can't talk about the Good Magician's business."

This was really serious. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. You-you just came at a bad time, I think. Humfrey's in an

awful mood. I think he set the Challenges not to stop you, so much as to make

you change your mind."

"The ferociously angry demoness!" Cynthia said. "The loathsome dance. The boys

gawking at my torso."

"Yes. But it didn't work. You prevailed."

"It came close to working," Cynthia muttered. "I must confess that last

Challenge really bothered me. I hate being viewed as a naked object. It isn't

centaurly. But I just didn't want to admit defeat."

"I'm glad you won through. But I hope you don't regret it. Something weird is

going on."

"So Metria thinks. I promised to tell her what it is."

"Well, I fear you will soon find out. I've never seen Humfrey so out of

sorts."

"Seen?"

"I may be blind, but I speak the same language you do. There's not even a

Designated Wife on duty today; none of them will go near him when he's like

this." Then Wira looked at her. "Are you hurt?"

"Just some scratches. How did you know?"

"There is a slight tightness to your voice, as if you are in discomfort. Let

me summon Robert."

"Robert?"

"He uses music to heal wounds." She elevated her voice. "Robert!"

"Please, I'm not wounded, just scratched."

But Robert was already appearing. He was an ordinary human man with some kind

of instrument. He touched its strings. Music flowed-and the stinging abated.

Cynthia looked down at herself. The scratches had healed!

Robert, seeing that his job was done, nodded and departed. "Thank you!"

Cynthia called after him. He had healed her with his music, and not even

stared.

Cynthia returned to business. "So the Good Magician's been grumpy before. How

did his wives handle it then?"

Wira pondered. "I suspect they stayed clear of him, as they are doing now."

"No one has mentioned long-ago episodes? There must be some hint."

"Well, the Maiden Taiwan did mention something once. But that wasn't really

the same."

"Tell me anyway. Maybe it will help."

"Well, it seems that over a century ago Humfrey discovered the Fountain of

Youth. He offered the water to King Ebnez. The king declined, and made him

promise not to give any of the youth elixir to any person not of his own

family, and not to tell anyone where it was. So Ebnez died, and Humfrey became

king after him. He honored the restriction, but the Maiden Taiwan, who was his

wife of the time, said that the restriction really chafed him, because he saw

worthy people aging and dying when they didn't have to. He would be really

grumpy for days on end when he thought about it. But finally Ebnez came to him

as a ghost, and told him that he seemed to have good judgment so far, so he

was releasing Humfrey from that restriction. Thereafter Humfrey felt free to

use the elixir for other beneficent purposes, and did so, and was

significantly less grumpy."

"You're right: That's not quite the same. I have no information that might

free him from such a problem."

"Yes. I don't know what to advise you to do."

This sounded really bad. Cynthia's nervous tinge expanded into an apprehensive

twinge. But her curiosity grew apace. "Well, let's discover what it is."

"I suppose we had better." Wira led the way up the winding stairway to the

Good Magician's dingy little study. There was barely room for her equine body.

Humfrey looked up as Cynthia came to the doorway. "Go away," he grumped.

Not sufficiently daunted, she spoke formally. "Good Magician, I have come to

ask a Question."

He grimaced. "I prefer not to Answer it. Please depart."

This was an astonishing response. Humfrey's entire business as the Magician of

Information was Answering Questions. The required year of service enabled him

to keep a fine castle, always well stocked, with competent help at all times.

Why should he balk now? "Good Magician, if I have unwittingly given offense, I

apologize and proffer whatever amends are feasible. But I do want my Answer,

and stand ready to perform whatever Service is required."

"She did successfully navigate the Challenges," Wira said. "And she's my

friend. She is deserving."

The Magician's fossilized countenance softened, as it tended to do when Wira

addressed him. If there was any person in Xanth he could be said to like, it

was her. "My dear, it is not that easy."

"My Question is straightforward," Cynthia said. "I am sure you will have no

difficulty Answering it. It is-"

He stopped her with a suddenly lifted hand. "Desist, filly. I do not want to

hear it."

"But-"

"I see I must explain. There is an indirect crisis facing Xanth which will

require horrendously risky action. The Muse of History has decreed that I must

select for this mission the first querent whose Question I Answer. Your

Question is so simple, and the mission so difficult and dangerous, that there

is a complete lack of proportion. In addition, you are a nice person, and Che

Centaur's fiancee. I prefer not to disrupt your lives so pointlessly. Please

do not ask your Question. It is better for me to wait for someone with a more

difficult one."

This was indeed serious. But she had fought through the Challenges, and was

not about to quit now. "You don't think I'm up to this mission," Cynthia said,

nettled. "Because you know I'm not a real winged centaur, I'm only a

transformed human girl." There was the crux of her insecurity.

"If the Muse of History selects you for this mission, then you must be up to

it," he said. "You are fully your present species, in every particular but

memory. But for such a simple Question, and with so much to risk, with your

mating ceremony looming soon, it seems unfair. Now abandon this query and go

your way untroubled."

"No! I want to know. I'll do the mission. Give me my Answer." She realized as

she spoke that she hadn't even asked the Question yet. But obviously Humfrey

knew what it was.

"I believe you could fathom it for yourself. Depart, and enjoy your future

with a fine centaur."

Cynthia took a determined breath, but Wira touched her elbow before she could

translate it into a sentence. "He has really Answered you," she whispered.

"He's trying to let you go without a Service."

Indeed, he had. He had said she was fully centaur in everything but the memory

of her human origin. Breeding was not memory. But she was unwilling to accept

her Answer free. "No. I will do the Service. I insist on having my Question

Answered."

"The answer is yes!" he snapped. "Now begone!"

"But I haven't yet asked."

"So you need do no Service. Scram!"

"You must go," Wira whispered urgently.

She stood unmoved. "Yet it seems that you have indeed Answered. You tell me

that my issue will breed true to my present nature."

"Yes! All transformees breed true. Half the present winged centaurs are

transformees. You know that. So there is no need to come here."

Cynthia realized with a start that she had known that. A number of her friends

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SwellFoopbyPiersAnthony1.QUESTIONCynthiacrestedahillandspiedtheGoodMagician'scastle.Shepaused,surveyingit,herpulseacceleratingwithmaidenlyexcitement.Shewashere;couldshehandlethethreeChallenges?Sheknewtheywouldbepossiblebutnoteasy.SuddenlyherQuestionseemedfoolishlyinadequate.Shereallydidn'tneedtoboth...

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Anthony, Piers - Xanth 25 - Swell Foop

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