Yet as Dor moved about the building, only half listening to the presentation, the compass pointed unerringly toward Amolde’s cubby.
Maybe Amolde 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 Amolde.
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 decide 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. Iris left arm was now in a sling, and he wore a packing of antipain 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 Amolde the Archivist.”
“Amolde?” 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 Amolde 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 Amolde’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.
“Amolde 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.