“Yes you are,” said Gladys, “or you’re not carrying me. And we know what the gods would think about that, don’t we?”
The centaur shook both fists in the air, possibly at the gods, but he said nothing and allowed Tod to dump the ether monkey onto Gladys’s beaded knees.
“Good-bye, then, Tod,” she said. “I think I’ll see you again, but they gave me the idea you’ve got things to do now. It was nice meeting you, dear.”
“You too,” he said. He waved as the centaur leaped into a racking canter and bore her away across the field. It felt very lonely without her, odd as she was. Tod walked slowly in the opposite direction, wondering how on earth he was going to carry out what seemed to be his part in the gods’ plans. There was no centaur for him, evidently, and he did not even know whereabouts this was in the Pentarchy. It looked as if he was meant to steal another car — preferably one with a map in the glove compartment.
The meadow, though huge, did eventually end in a hedge, in which was a gate leading out into a deep country road. Tod let himself out into the road and stood between its hedges, wishing there were some means of telling where he was. The place was wholly devoid of landmarks — although, in looking for those, he did notice for the first time that it was spring here. Spring again, or spring still? Tod wondered gloomily. Have I been away a year? A week? Two years? When the gods leave you, they seem to leave everything low and flat. He was glad to be back in the Pentarchy, but this did not prevent him feeling as lonely and ill-used as he had felt in otherworld.
There seemed nothing for it but to start walking and hope to get a lift with a car or a cart.
Tod determined from the sun that turning right probably took him more southerly than turning left did, and he turned that way because it seemed to be correct. He had not gone more than a few steps when — joy! — he heard a car coming up behind. He spun around. It was a big old car, beautifully maintained, idling along with its top down. It looked to be a Delmo-Mendacci too, of all things, like Tod’s own cherished, beloved, beautiful vehicle. It was even the same shade of subtle green. The gods provide after all! Tod thought, as he stepped to the center of the road and waved.
Between hedges bright with new leaf and cow parsley in lacy drifts along them, the car rolled to a gentle halt a few yards from Tod. And behold! it was not any old Delmo-Mendacci! It was Tod’s very own car! Tod’s cherished Delmo that he had left under wraps in the garage of his father’s castle, with strict instructions that it was not to be touched — not by anyone—until he returned from service on Arth. Driving it was Tod’s mechanic, Simic.
The gods provide indeed! Tod thought. He found himself with both hands on the Delmo’s glistening square hood, leaning over the shining eagle on the end, staring grimly at Simic. Simic stared back. Tod saw it cross the man’s mind that he could simply drive on, let in the clutch and plow on over Tod — So sorry, Your Grace — devastated — terrible accident — wasn’t expecting — didn’t recognize the young master — thought him on Arth — squashed him into the road — meat jelly—
“Don’t even think it!” Tod said.
Simic had regretfully abandoned the idea anyway. He opened the door, jumped out, and became voluble, in one smooth movement. “Well, this is a surprise, sir! You may wonder what I’m doing, sir, but it is a fact — you know and I know, sir — that machinery deteriorates something dreadful if it lies unused, and so I took the liberty, sir, of giving this car of yours regular exercise, in the manner of a dog, sir, to preserve it, entirely with your own good in mind, sir—”
“Poppycock,” said Tod. “Fish feathers. Most of all about my own good.” And as Simic then became seized of another perfect excuse and opened his mouth to begin on it, “I don’t want,” Tod said, “to know whatever lie that was going to be. I know you’re bent as a centaur’s back leg, and you know I only employ you because you’re a genius. The fact is, you’ve been using my car to go cockfighting or girl chasing, or whatever it was — and last I knew, you had two perfectly good cars of your own—”
“Sold them, sir,” Simic said sadly.
“Bad luck,” said Tod. “I hope you lost on the deal, but I bet you didn’t. How far are we from Archrest Castle?”
“About twenty miles,” Simic admitted cautiously.
Any figure Simic ever admitted to, you automatically adjusted. Make that fifteen at the most, Tod thought. In which case, this featureless but comely road was one he had raced down countless times in this very Delmo. Good. They were in central Frinjen. “How much money do you have on you?”
“Hardly any, sir,” Simic said pathetically.
“Show,” said Tod. He held out an implacable hand, and Simic, with a look of real pain, slowly produced and laid in that hand an extremely fat wallet. “Won on the cocks, did you?” Tod said pleasantly. He counted himself off a hundred in ten-shield notes, which was about a fifth of what was there, and held out his hand again. “Pen and paper, and you get the wallet back. Come on, a betting slip will do.” When Simic produced one, and a ballpoint pen, Tod handed back the wallet, laid the slip on the Delmo’s hood and wrote:
Respected progenitor, I happened back unexpectedly early and ran into Simic — you owe him $100, by the way — and have to rush south. You can probably get word of me from Michael this evening, but rest assured that I am fine, though Arth may have the law on us soon. Love to Mother.
August would recognize this as unquestionably from his son and heir. Tod handed the note, but not the pen, back to Simic. Given the means, Simic would infallibly tamper with the sum owed him, in an upward direction. “There. If you want your money back, all you have to do is walk to Archrest and give this to my father. Are the keys in the Delmo?”
“Yes — Walk?” said Simic. “I’m wearing my driving boots!”
“Bad luck,” said Tod. “Maybe you’ll flag a lift.”
“But it’s occurred to me, sir, that you could be rusty at driving after a whole year, sir, and if I were to take the wheel and drive until you became accustomed—”
“Nice try,” said Tod, “but you’re out of luck again. It’s only been three months over in Arth, and I’m not in the least rusty — just proved it, actually. So either get walking or get the sack. The choice is yours.”
Leaving Simic standing resentfully among the cow parsley — his boots were pointed and shiny and probably pinched every toe he had, and serve him right! Tod thought — Tod swung himself into the warm polished leather bliss of the driving seat of his own car and drove away, fast. Simic would certainly get to Archrest somehow in order to reclaim his money. Mother would worry — but then she always did. And August would be warned that Tod had broken his service. He might be furious, but he would get his lawyers onto it at once. So. Tod gave himself up to the full, throaty purring of the best car in his world.
He hurtled down to a crossroads, which proved to be one he knew well, and turned south. Shortly he turned again, into the main southbound highway, and cut in the overdrive. The unlucky Simic had provided both tanks full of fuel. The gods were good. Tod sang — rather badly — as he drove. He bore Simic no real malice. In fact, he had often thought that he and Simic were rather alike, with the slight difference that Tod had been born with gigantic birthmagic, and Simic with an equally large affinity for machines. Simic usually seemed to see it like that too, though no doubt at the moment he was calling curses down on Tod’s head.