Dor’s feet slipped out, and he had to fling his arms around the narrow spire to keep from sliding rapidly down. The Hoofer had trouble, too; she braced all four feet-but still skidded grandly downward, until the lessening pitch of the slope enabled her to achieve stability. Then she ducked her head, flipped her tail over her nose, and went to sleep standing. The storm could not really hurt her. She had nowhere to go anyway. She was secure as long as she never tried to face the other way. He knew that when the rain abated, the Sidehill Hoofer would be contentedly chewing her cud.
So Dor had made it to the top, conquering the last of the hurdles.
Only-what was he to do now? The mountain peaked smoothly, and there was no entrance. Had he gone through all this to reach the wrong spot? If so, he had outsmarted himself.
The water sluicing from the cloud was cold. His tattered clothing was soaked through, and his fingers were turning numb. Soon he would lose his grip and slide down, probably plunking all the way into the gook of the moat. That was a fate almost worse than freezing!
“There must be a way in from here!” he gasped.
“Of course there is, dumbbell,” the spire replied. “You’re not nearly as sharp as I am! Why else did you scheme your way up here? To wash off your grimy body? I trust I’m not being too pointed.”
Why else indeed! He had just assumed this was the correct route, because it was the most difficult one. “Okay, brilliant glass-your mind has more of a cutting edge than mine. Where is it?”
“Now I don’t have to tell you that,” the glass said, chortling. “Any idiot, even one as dull as you, could figure that out for himself.”
“I’m not just any idiot!” Dor cried, the discomfort of the rain and chill giving him a terrible temper.
“You certainly aren’t! You’re a prize idiot.”
“Thank you,” Dor said, mollified. Then he realized that he was being as gullible as the average inanimate. Furious, Dor bashed his forehead against the glass-and something clicked. oops-had he cracked his skull?
No, he had only a mild bruise. Something else had made the noise.
He nudged the surface again and got another click.
Oho! He hit the glass a third time-and suddenly the top of the mountain sprang open, a cap whose catch had been released. It hung down one side on stout hinges, and inside was the start of a spiral staircase. Victory at last!
“That’s using your head,” the glass remarked.
Dor scrambled into the hole. He entered headfirst, then wrestled himself around to get his feet on the steps. Then he hauled the pointed cap of the mountain up and over, at last closing off the blast of the rain. “Curses!” the cloud stormed as he shut it out.
He emerged into Humfrey’s crowded study. There were battered leather-bound tomes of spells, magic mirrors, papers, and a general litter of indecipherable artifacts. Amidst it all, almost lost in the shuffle, stood Good Magician Humfrey.
Humfrey was small, almost tiny, and grossly wrinkled. His head and feet were almost as large as those of a goblin, and most of his hair had gone the way of his youth. Dor had no idea how old he was and was afraid to ask; Humfrey was an almost ageless institution. He was the Magician of Information; everything that needed to be known in Xanth, he knew-and he would answer any question for the payment of one year’s service by the asker. It was amazing how many people and creatures were not discouraged by that exorbitant fee; it seemed information was the most precious thing there was.
“About time you got here,” the little man grumped, not even noticing Dor’s condition. “There’s a problem in Centaur Isle you’ll have to attend to. A new Magician has developed.”
This was news indeed! New Magicians appeared in Xanth at the rate of about one per generation; Dor had been the last one born.
“Who is he? What talent does he have?”
“He seems to be a centaur.”
“A centaur! But most of them don’t believe in magic!”
“They’re very intelligent,” Humfrey agreed.
Since centaurs did have magic talents-those who admitted it-there was no reason why there could not be a centaur Magician, Dor realized. But the complications were horrendous. Only a Magician could govern Xanth; suppose one day there were no human Magician, only a centaur one? Would the human people accept a centaur King? Could a centaur King even govern his own kind? Dor doubted that Cherie Centaur would take orders from any magic-working centaur; she had very strict notions about obscenity, and that was the ultimate. “You didn’t tell me his talent.”
“I don’t know his talent!” Humfrey snapped. “I’ve been burning the midnight magic and cracking mirrors trying to ascertain it-but there seems to be nothing he does.”
“Then how can he be a Magician?”
“That is for you to find out!” Obviously the Good Magician was not at all pleased to admit his inability to ascertain the facts in this case. “We can’t have an unidentified Magician-caliber talent running loose; it might be dangerous.”
Dangerous? Something connected. “Uh-would Centaur Isle be to the south?”
“Southern tip of Xanth. Where else would it be?”
Dor didn’t want to admit that he had neglected that part of his geography. Cherie had made nonhuman history and social studies optional, since Dor was human; therefore he hadn’t studied them. He had learned about the ogre migration only because Smash had been curious. His friend Chet lived in a village not far north of the Gap Chasm, in easy galloping range of Castle Roogna via one of the magic bridges. Of course Dor knew that there were other colonies of centaurs; they were scattered around Xanth just as the human settlements were. He just hadn’t paid attention to the specific sites.
“Crombie the soldier pointed out the greatest threat to Xanth there. Also a job I need to attend to. And a way to get help to rescue King Trent. So it all seems to fit.”
“Of course it fits. Everything in Xanth makes sense, for those with the wit to fathom it. You’re going to Centaur Isle. Why else did you come here?”
“I thought it was for advice.”
“Oh, that. The Elders’ face-saving device. Very well. Gather your juvenile friends. You’ll be traveling incognito; no conjuring or other royal affectations. You can’t roust out this hidden Magician if he knows you’re coming. So the trip will take a week or so-“
“A week! The Elders won’t let me be away more than a day!”
“Ridiculous! They made no trouble about King Trent going to Mundania for a week, did they?”
“Because they didn’t know,” Dor said. “He didn’t tell them.”
“Of course he told them! He consulted with me, and for the sake of necessary privacy I agreed to consult with the Elders and let him know if they raised any objections-and they didn’t.”
“But my grandfather Roland says he was never told,” Dor insisted. “The truth is, he is somewhat annoyed.”
“I told him myself. Here, verify it with the mirror.” He gestured to a magic mirror on the wall. Its surface was finely crazed; evidently this was one of the ones that had suffered in the course of Humfrey’s recent investigation of the centaur Magician.
“When did Magician Humfrey tell Elder Roland about King Trent’s trip to Mundania?” Dor asked it carefully. One had to specify things exactly, for mirrors’ actual depth was much less than their apparent depth, and they were not smart at all despite their ability to answer questions. “Garbage in, garbage out,” King Trent had once remarked cryptically, apparently meaning that a stupid question was likely to get a stupid answer.