Two To The Fifth (4 page)

Cyrus suspected he should say no, but it was difficult to do. “Yes, if you're sure.”

“Thanks! I'll meet you at the far side.” She and the other nymphs swam away.

Tuff returned with another boulder. “She's a nice girl,” he remarked as the stone splashed into the water. “A man could do worse.”

“All she wants is for me to figure out her magic talent.”

“Well, sure, but she's still worthwhile, I'd have taken her, had she been interested. The nights get lonely. There must be something about you.” He went back for another boulder.

Cyrus was afraid he was getting in trouble, without even meaning to. Tess had been attracted to him, and it seemed the Witch also, and now Acro. Sure, he had been created handsome, but was that all that women cared about? Could this have any bearing on his destiny? If so, he really needed to sort it out soon.

In due course the boulders formed a ramp across the moat. “There you are,” Tuff said as the last one splashed into place. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Cyrus stepped carefully from boulder to boulder, crossing the moat without touching the water. The Wave hovered, as if hoping he would fall in so it could pounce, but he disappointed it. He had navigated the first Challenge.

“Congratulations,” Acro said as he stepped onto the inner bank. She was now garbed in blouse, skirt, and slippers, none of which detracted from her appeal. However, it was now possible for him to look at her without his eyeballs locking up. “I'm not allowed to help you with the other Challenges, but I will cheer you on.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't like me to kiss you?”

“I am not sure. That's probably why you shouldn't do it.”

“I don't think I quite understand.”

“It might make my mind freak out, so I would not be able to pass the remaining Challenges.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. That's very logical.”

“Robots are supremely logical. I'm half robot.”

“What's the other half?”

“Barbarian. That makes me ill-equipped to handle civilized things, especially women.”

“You are fascinating.”

He assumed that was a compliment. “Thank you.”

He looked ahead. He was in a kind of garden swarming with ants. They were large and looked aggressive.

He stepped forward. Immediately the ants formed a line, lifting front legs with weapons: little spears, clubs, swords, and whips. “I don't like the look of this,” he muttered.

“They won't let you pass,” Acro said. She was standing near an ant, but it ignored her “This is the next Challenge.”

He had gathered as much. He suspected that the little weapons would be most painful to his ankles. In fact some ants had little buckets of fire. Those would be fire ants.

That gave him an idea. Were the others of individual types? Maybe if he identified them, they would let him by. It was the kind of intellectual challenge the Good Magician was known for.

He moved toward the closest ant.

“Halt!” its tiny voice cried. “I will defend my domain to the death!”

“You're a Warrior Ant,” Cyrus said.

“True, and you shall not pass, intruder,” The ant raised its spear threateningly.

He had identified it, but it still would not let him pass. Had he figured it out wrong? He sifted through his memory bank. Endless information was there, but he didn't know how to adapt it to this situation. He had to use the thinking portion of his brain.

What had he not done? Often in Xanth things had to be taken literally, and with a groaning admixture of puns. Was he supposed to make the ant laugh, as he had with the witch?

Then a bulb flashed. That always startled him, though it was a standard effect when someone got a sudden bright idea. There was a pun of sorts. “You're a Defend Ant,” he said.

“O bleep, he got it,” the ant swore. “I have to let him pass,” It stepped aside. “Pass, jerk.”

“Thank you.” Cyrus stepped past.

But immediately there was another ant in the way. “Didn't you get the message, idiot? We don't want you here.”

“What message was that?”

“I sent you an a-mail. You lacked the courtesy to answer. You shall not pass.”

A-mail. That would be the ants' version of e-mail. But where was the pun? “I'm sorry, I didn't receive it.”

“The bleep you didn't, rogue! It's right there in your pocket.”

Cyrus looked. There was a small note tucked into his breast pocket. It must have gotten there magically; a-mail was surely like that. He took it out and read it. GO AWAY. FAILURE TO ACKNOWLEDGE THIS CORRESPONDENCE WILL NOT ALTER ITS IMPORT. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Correspondence, New he got it. “You're a Correspond Ant.”

“Bleep,” the ant said, as ungracious as the first. “Thought I had you.” It stood aside.

But there was another ant. It seemed that ants came not single-spy, but in battalions. “Not so fast, ruffian,” this one said. “I am going to keep after you until you quit. I will never give over.”

And what ant word was this describing? Cyrus got belatedly smart and sifted through his vocabulary data bank, checking through definitions for words ending in ant. There it was. “Persist Ant.”

“You're a real spoilsport, know that?” the ant complained, standing aside.

The next one was ready. “I am fully acquainted with your recent history, and know how to handle you, invader. Begone.”

Fully acquainted, knowledgeable. He sifted again. “Convers ant.”

“You're no fun at all,” the ant griped, standing aside.

Then next ant was a squalling baby. Cyrus got it right away. “Inf Ant.” The squalling increased, but the ant moved aside.

But the ants had just begun to fight. Another blocked his way. The mental energy was making Cyrus hot; he was getting sweaty. He looked for a cloth to wipe his forehead, but of course there was none.

“I can fix that,” the ant said. “No sweat. Just depart.”

No sweat? That was an odd phrase, since ants didn't sweat anyway. Which gave it away. “Antiperspir Ant.”

“We are going to have to make a judgment here,” the next ant said. “You have no—”

“Adjudic ant.”

The next ant spit in disgust. “Go—”

“Expector Ant.”

He continued on through Miscre, Disinfect, Mendic, Contest, Merch, Eleph, Inform, Flagr, Claim, and Consult. At last the last of them had been identified, and he was through the ant farm. The second Challenge was done.

Now he faced a barren waste. Dust was everywhere. It covered the ground, the cacti, the stones, even the resting animals. There was a dust-covered path wending its way onward through rocks and rills, the latter looking disgusted about the situation.

Cyrus paused. Was this all? Surely it couldn't be as easy as merely following the path to wherever it led. Yet what else was there to do?

He stepped onto the path. Dust billowed up in small clouds, settling on his legs and feet. Messy but harmless.

Then there was a stirring in the distance. A big dust cloud was whirling toward him, spreading so much dust that everything behind it was obscured. It came right up to him, and then he was in the middle of it, choking on it, unable to see anything. It was a small dust storm.

He stepped back. Then things cleared; he was technically outside the scene, which remained obscure.

This, then, was the Challenge: to follow the path through the scene—when he was unable to see anything. He might put on goggles, if he had them, to protect his eyes, and a mask to filter the air he breathed, but there would be no way to fathom the path. He was sure he would have to follow the path exactly, or he wouldn't find its end.

He pondered. First, he knew that there had to be some way through, if he could just figure it out. Second, something was stirring up the dust; if he could nullify that, he should be all right. What could it be, and how could he deal with it? It looked like a small dust storm.

He remembered something. “Dusty!” he exclaimed.

The whirlwind coalesced into a small female devil. She was pretty in a dusty outfit, with little horns. “That's Dusti,” she said, “Get it right, dummy.”

“Oh! I took you for someone else.”

“My little brother Dusty, of course. He has no ambition, I do. That's why I'm here.”

“Your purpose is to prevent me from crossing, by stirring up so much dust I can't see my way.”

She eyed him sidelong. Somehow that glance made her seem fuller bodied than before. “You're pretty smart for a querent.”

“So I have to figure out how to nullify you so I can get through.”

“Duh.”

“There has to be something here that will enable me to accomplish that.”

“You know, you're sorta cute.” She dissolved into whirling dust, then reformed, larger and fuller, “Maybe I'll kiss you. We can improvise from there.”

Was she coming on to him? This was odd indeed. “What interest would a dust devil have in a mere cyborg?”

Her head dissolved into whirling dust as she considered, then reformed. “I don't know. But there's something about you that makes me want to impress you.”

“I'm not very impressive.”

“I didn't say you were. I said I want to impress you. That's different.”

She was correct. But the larger mystery remained: what interest did any of these young women have in him? He didn't know, and none of them seemed to know either, “Well, I'm going to set about defeating you so that I can talk to the Good Magician.”

“That would impress me.” She dissolved into the whirlwind again, then lurched toward him. He felt the imprint of lips on his as the dust swirled around his head. She had, indeed, kissed him.

He focused on the Challenge. How could he get through, when he couldn't see anything? Could he get down on hands and knees and feel his way along the path under the dust?

He tried that. Immediately the dust devil enveloped him, forcing him to jam his eyes and mouth shut. He felt kisses on his ears and neck. She was indulging herself while keeping up with her business.

His strategy didn't work. There was so much dust that whatever was under it was indistinct. He could not tell what was path and what was ordinary land. He had to be wrong, because soon he banged into the trunk of a big tree.

What kind of tree was it? It hardly seemed to matter, but he was curious what variety would grow in perpetual dust. He felt the bark, and found it smooth. He tapped it, and there was a half-hollow sound. He sifted his memory, seeking to match sound to wood.

And got it. This was a beer-barrel tree, with a huge cylindrical trunk filled or partly filled with beer. Or was it? He tapped again, analyzing the sound. No, not beer, but ale; this was an ale tree. Its beverage would be a bit stronger.

That gave him a wicked idea. How much experience did Dusti have with strong ale? She was obviously of age to drink it if she wanted to, but might not have done so before. If he could get her to drink some, it might impair her judgment and make her forget to stir up so much dust.

He worked his way around the trunk until he found a spigot. He turned it on and caught a little fluid in the palm of one hand. He sipped it.

“That's certainly, really, awfully good,” he murmured. And paused, considering. Why had he chosen those superfluous words?

The question brought the answer. This was adverbi ale, that caused the drinker to use too many words ending in LY. He had taken only a sip, so only three had gotten out.

Unfortunately he didn't see how that would stop the dust devil. He might get her to drink some, but she would catch on the moment the LYs came spewing out. He needed a brew that would get her tipsy without side effects.

Still, there was hope. He crawled on, seeking another tree. There might be a better one for his purpose, as they tended to grow in groves.

He found one, and tried it—and went into a coughing tit. That was bronchi ale, and congested the lungs. That was no good.

Or was it? Maybe he could after all make it work.

He fetched the butter cup he kept in reserve. He had long since used up its butter, and saved the cup as a folded yellow sac. He opened it, held it under the spigot, and filled it with ale. Then he drew the petal flap over to seal it in. He was ready.

He stood up, “Dusti!” he called. “I have something for you.”

The whirling wind coalesced into the she-devil. “What is it?”

“A cup of ale.”

“Ale?”

“Bronchi Ale, from a local ale-barrel tree.”

She made a face. “I don't drink that stuff. It interferes with my wind.”

“Too bad.” He opened the cup and dumped it on her head.

Immediately she went into a coughing fit. “You—cough—despicable— cough—scheming—cough—lout!”

“Maybe you shouldn't have kissed me,” he remarked as the dust settled out of the air around them.

She changed to whirlwind form, but it too was racked by coughing. Its winds went yon and hither, randomly, unable to maintain a tight circle.

Cyrus walked along the path that was becoming visible again. Dusty resumed devil form and intercepted him. “You—cough—tricked—cough—me! I—cough—ought—cough—to—cough—kiss you—cough—into—cough—oblivion!”

“I'd like to see you try,” he said amicably as he strode along.

She jammed up against him, bringing her face to his. But she was so wracked by coughs that she couldn't complete the act. “Bleep—cough—it!” she swore. “Bleep—cough—it—cough—to—cough—cough!” She was unable to finish.

“This way.” he said, pausing. He caught her by her heaving shoulders, brought her in close, and kissed her on the forehead.

“COUGH you!” she said villainously. “If I—cough—could just—cough—get my breath—”

“To be sure.” He let her go and stepped off the path into the castle proper. He had made it through the third Challenge.

A woman was waiting for him just within. “Welcome, Cyrus Cyborg,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I am Wira, the Good Magician's daughter in law. He is busy at the moment, but Sofia and I will give you the necessary background.”

“Background?”

“For your Assignment. Your Service. It is important.”

“But I don't have my Answer yet.”

“That relates. This way, please.”

He followed her, two fifths bemused. He knew of Wira, of course; she was in his memory bank as Magician Humfrey's favorite daughter in law. But there was something odd about her. About the way she had looked him in the eye.

That was it, “You're not blind!” he exclaimed.

“Not any more,” she agreed. “But I am not yet fully acclimatized to vision, so tend to close my eyes when navigating the castle. It's more comfortable.”

“But how—?”

“It is a long and dull story. Nimby gave me sight.”

Nimby. That was the donkey-headed dragon aspect of the Demon Xanth, another long story. Certainly he was capable of doing it, if he chose. “I see. As it were.”

Wira smiled. She was an older woman, fifty-six chronologically, thirty-four physically, because she had been youthened to marry the Good Magician's son. But she was pretty when she smiled. “There is much to be seen,” she agreed.

They came to what looked like an expanded closet. There was a drab woman sorting a huge pile of socks. “This is Sofia Socksorter, the Designated Wife for this month,” Wira said.

Then, to the woman: “Mother Sofia, this is Cyrus Cyborg, the querent. He needs background.”

Sofia looked up. “Hello, Cyrus. I never met a cyborg before.” She had a strong Mundane accent, “I must say, you are a handsome specimen.”

He was beginning to regret being created handsome. It seemed that most of the women he encountered had inclinations to do something with him, regardless whether he properly understood the details of it. Even someone's wife? That made him nervous, “I believe I am the first cyborg in Xanth,” Cyrus said. “Which relates to my Question for the Good Magician. I need to know whether there is any suitable woman for me, and if so, where I might find her.”

She nodded wisely, “Of course you wouldn't be satisfied with just any young woman who is attracted to your face. You'll be looking for one who truly appreciates your nature. And for that Answer you will embark on a remarkable secret mission.”

This was news. Evidently this woman did have information he wanted. He knew the Good Magician was apt to be very brief and taciturn—in simple terms, grumpy—so was unlikely to provide much beyond a technical response. It was surely worthwhile talking to Sofia.

“May I help you with your chore?” he inquired. “I see you have more socks to sort that can be done in a day. It must be uncomfortably dull.”

She was surprised. “No one ever offered to help before, aside from Wira.”

“It's my empathy circuit. Am I in error to offer? I am not fully acclimatized to pure human ways.”

Both Sofia and Wira smiled. “Stay the way you are,” Wira said, “Women prefer naïveté of that nature.”

“They do?” It hadn't occurred to him that his very ignorance might be attractive.

“We do,” Sofia agreed. “Most men are too certain of their masculinity to inquire after feminine preferences, let alone sort socks.”

They settled down to help Sofia sort socks. They were of many types and colors. All were clean, having evidently been washed and dried, but were hopelessly jumbled together. Cyrus knew that the Good Magician had married Sofia because of her expertise in sorting socks, and that had solved his chronic problem. But she was in the castle only one month in five and a half, so the socks did accumulate in her absence. It had probably taken her a week to get them to this stage. Twos of a kind needed to be located and balled together for future use. It was easy to do, but tedious.

“Here is the situation,” Sofia said. “There is a young male roc bird with a bad attitude and a dangerous talent. It may not yet be of Magician caliber, but it is close, and maturing, and all too soon is apt to be the strongest in Xanth. You have to understand that Xanth could suffer enormous damage if this is not promptly dealt with. But there are complications.”

“Couldn't somebody talk to him?” Cyrus asked. “There are folk who speak animal dialects.”

“The Roc is not interested in being talked to. All he wants is power and the rewards of power. He means to take over the whole of Xanth as its monarch. Anyone who objects is rendered null.”

“Null? Do you mean killed?”

“Not exactly. His name is Ragna Roc, and his talent is to render things illusory. No one dares question him, because any who have tried have been illusioned.”

“Couldn't a Magician or Sorceress nullify him? I understand they have phenomenal powers.”

“They could if they could get close enough. But not only does Ragna delete anyone he even suspects he might not like, he lives in a hidden fancy rock candy castle perched on the Rock of Ages, with a harem of winsome roc hens. Only his closest associates know exactly where it is.”

“But there are folk who can magically fathom the direction of anything.”

“Yes. So we do know where it is. But we must not let him know we know, lest we all be deleted and need to be disillusioned. So we must pretend we don't know.”

“What about Com Pewter? Couldn't he change reality in that vicinity to nullify the Roc's power?”

“At the moment Pewter is tied up in a contest of his own with a Magnet Monster. He can't help.”

“Then how can anyone go there to deal with him?”

“Only Himself knows.”

“That is Good Magician Humfrey,” Wira clarified. “Sofia's name for him.”

“Anybody's name for him, by rights,” Sofia said. “Because he's so full of himself.”

She did not seem to have a lot of respect for the almost mythical figure of the Good Magician. Maybe that came of being buried in his stinky old socks. “Does this relate in some manner to my Service?”

“Yes. You are to be the one Ragna summons to meet him. You will bring along the Three Princesses, who will then deal with him.”

“Do you mean the Princesses Melody, Harmony, and Rhythm? According to my information they are children, only twelve years old.”

“They are not ordinary children,” Sofia said seriously. “They are general-purpose Sorceresses. Any single one of them is a full Sorceress in her own right, able to perform almost any magic she chooses. Any two of them together square that power, increasing the effect enormously. The three of them together cube it, making them the most powerful practitioners in Xanth. Nothing can stand against their united magic. But they have to be within range to do it, and Ragna would illusion them from well beyond that range if he saw them coming. So caution is necessary.”

“I see,” Cyrus said, awed. “I will of course be glad to help, but I don't see how I can. I have no separate magic that I know; I think my magic is merely to exist as a composite living machine. Ragna would have no reason to summon me.”

“Himself will see to that,” Sofia said. “Wira, do you think he's ready now?”

“I will check,” Wira said, hastening away.

“Such a dear girl,” Sofia said. “Everyone likes her. That may not be surprising; her talent is to relate to animals. Human beings are merely another variety of animal.”

“That makes sense,” he agreed.

“Some time you must get her to tell you about her adventure with Princess Ida's Moons. It's amazing. But she's so modest she doesn't volunteer it.”

“Modesty becomes a person,” he agreed.

“Have some fruit.” She proffered a bowl of pretty colored greens, reds, yellows, blues, and oranges.

“Thank you.” He picked up an orange.

“Anchors aweigh!” the fruit sang.

He almost dropped it. “It sings!”

“Well, it's a Naval Orange.”

A bell rang. “Battle stations!” the orange cried, rolling out of his hand. “All hands on deck!”

“It's still got its naval conditioning,” Sofia said from the stove, where the bell had summoned her to turn off the oven, “Maybe you would be better off with a different fruit.”

“Maybe so,” Cyrus agreed, bemused. He saw there were also some berries in the bowl, purple, orange, green, black and blue. So he took a blue berry, though it looked rather sad. “I am curious. Is there some set protocol about which wife attends the Good Magician? I know you have to take turns, but who decides who is when?”

“We got together and voted on the order,” Sofia said. “We wives get along well when we meet each other. We have a common complaint.”

“Complaint?”

“Himself.”

Oh. “I thought maybe it depended on the type of visitors anticipated.”

“Not really. Well, we had to swap out once, when the Gorgon got annoyed. A querent had the talent of making mirrors appear. He flashed one in her face, thinking it would make her stone herself. It didn't, but she was so annoyed by the trick that she was ready to remove her veil and stone him. The Maiden Taiwan had to advance her schedule and finish the Gorgon's stint.”

Cyrus smiled. “I appreciate the Gorgon's position. It was a dirty trick. I wonder what it would be like if all the wives somehow showed up together?”

Sofia laughed. “Chaos! Someone should write a story about that. It would amuse all of us no end.”

Wira returned. “The Good Magician will see you now.”

Cyrus followed her through gloomy passages and up a narrow circular flight of stone stairs. They came to a small room packed with books. A gnomishly small man sat on a high stool poring over a huge open tome. This was the fabled Good Magician.

“Father, this is Cyrus Cyborg, the querent,” Wira said.

“Grumph.”

“I need to know my true desire,” Cyrus said nervously. “My parents differ on what I should do, and—” He stopped, realizing that he had just asked the wrong question. Could he take it back? He really wanted to know whether there was any cyborg woman he might marry. “That is—”

“You will be the master of thespians,” Humfrey said.

This took Cyrus totally by surprise. “Actors?”

“Your desire is to become a playwright and direct your plays. You will form a troupe and do that. The Designated Wife, what's her name—”

“Sofia,” Wira filled in.

“Will fill you in on your Service.” The tired old eyes returned to the book. Cyrus had been answered and dismissed.

He had the Answer to the wrong Question.

The weird thing was that it was a good answer. Suddenly he knew that this was indeed his desire. To be creative in a literary manner. To write and produce plays. Somehow he had never thought of it before. The Good Magician had known.

But what would he do for a wife? He needed someone to truly understand and support him. Had he just doomed himself to become a successful bachelor playwright? Happy on the outside, lonely on the inside?

“Thank you,” he said belatedly as Wira guided him away from the study.

“That wasn't the Question I had expected you to ask,” Wira said as they walked.

“My mind got garbled,” he admitted.

“Actually I think it was a better Question. You should be able to find a suitable woman on your own.”

“If I only knew how,” he said ruefully.

She laughed. “I can tell you that. Merely make a general announcement that you are interested in a relationship provided you find a suitable woman. Women will flock to demonstrate their suitability. Select the best one.”

“I can't believe it's that easy.”

“Actually it's easier. She will select you. Naturally she will pretend that you did the selecting.”

“Naturally,” he echoed weakly.

“Don't let on that I told you. It might be considered a violation of the Female Conspiracy.”

“There's a Female Conspiracy?”

“Oops; men aren't supposed to know about that. About how we actually govern them. Don't tell.”

“I won't,” he agreed weakly. But his private respect for women was increasing significantly. He had seen the way his mother governed his father, but had assumed that was because she was barbarian and as a robot he lacked imagination. Evidently it was more than that.

Back in the sock-sorting chamber he confessed his amazement to Sofia. “He gave me my Answer, a better one than I perhaps deserved, and I will perform my Service. But it's hard to see how I qualify for the mission you have described.”

“The Challenges took care of that,” Sofia said matter-of-factly. She was a very matter-of-fact woman, just as Wira was a very understanding one. “You would never have gotten through had you not been qualified.”

“But they consisted of seemingly random elements such as a knuckle sandwich, a Tuff guy, and a Strip Tide.”

“Disparate elements,” she agreed. “A good play director may have to understand and assemble similar elements to make his production work.”

“Oh.” She was right. “Then I had to identify opposing ants. How does that relate to a play production?”

“Identifying individuals by their salient qualities, so as to fairly understand their capacities. This is necessary for proper casting in roles.”

He nodded. “So it is. And maybe I will have to relate at some point to ants. But the third Challenge had a nasty dust devil I had to squelch. I don't see how that relates.”

“You will be dealing with actors,” she said. “Creative, sensitive, emotive types who need to be carefully managed. Some will be obnoxious, especially when they don't get the lead roles they are sure they deserve. You will need to handle them, politely if possible, impolitely if necessary. Just as you handled Dusti. Who was, incidentally, playing a role herself; she's actually a nice person, for a devil.”

Again she was right, “How it is that a smart woman like you is satisfied doing a menial chore like sorting socks?”

“I am good at it, and I love the magic ambiance, even though I have no magic of my own. There's something about Xanth that makes me glad to be here.”

“And we are glad to have you here. Sofia.” Wira said. “And not just because of the socks. You handle Magician Humfrey as competently as you do the socks.”

“Well, they are two of a kind, socks and men,” Sofia said, putting together two matching stockings. “All it requires is sufficient socks appeal.”