“Uh, it’s a long story. I’m trying to find a King, and I don’t know where or when he is.”
The man removed his spectacles and rubbed his tired eyes. “That would seem to be something of a challenge. What is the name of the King, and of his Kingdom?”
“King Trent of Xanth.”
The man stood up and squeezed out of his cubby. He was fairly small and stooped, with fading hair, and he moved slowly. He reminded Dor of Amolde in obscure ways. He located a large old tome, took it down, dusted it off, set it on a small table, and turned the brittle pages. “That designation does not seem to be listed.”
Irene appeared. “He would not be a King in Mundania.”
The scholar squinted at her with mild surprise. “My dear, I cannot comprehend a word you are saying.”
“Uh, she’s from another land,” Dor said quickly. Since Irene had to stand outside the magic aisle in order to be seen and heard, the magic translation effect was not operative for her. Since Dor had been raised in the same culture, he had no trouble understanding her.
It was an interesting distinction. He, Dor, could understand both the others, and both seemed to be speaking the same language, but the two could not understand each other. Magic kept coming up with new wrinkles that perplexed him.
The scholar pondered. “Oh-she is associated with a motion picture company? This is research for a historical re-creation?”
“Not exactly,” Dor said. “She’s King Trent’s daughter.”
“Oh, it is a contemporary Kingdom! I must get a more recent text.”
“No, it is a medieval one,” Dor said. “Uh, that is-well, King Trent is in another time, we think.”
The scholar paused thoughtfully. “The Kingdom you are re-creating, of course. I believe I understand.” He looked again at Irene. “Females certainly have adequate limbs in that realm.”
“What’s he saying?” Irene demanded.
“That you have nice legs,” Dor told her with a certain mild malice.
She ignored that. “What about my father?”
“Not listed in this book. I think we’ll have to try another tack.”
The scholar’s eyes shifted from Irene’s legs to Dor’s face. “This is very odd. You address her in English, and she seems to understand, but she replies in an other tongue.”
“It’s complicated to explain,” Dor said.
“I’d better check with Amolde,” Irene said, and vanished.
The Mundane scholar removed his spectacles and cleaned them carefully with a bit of tissue paper. He returned them to his face just in time to see Irene reappear. “Yes, that’s definitely better,” he murmured.
“Amolde says we’ll have to use some salient identifying trait to locate my father or mother,” Irene said. “There may be a historical reference.”
“Exactly what language is that?” the scholar asked, again fixing on Irene’s legs. He might be old and academic, but he evidently had not forgotten what was what in female appearance.
“Xanthian, I guess,” Dor said. “She says we should look for some historical reference to her parents, because of special traits they have.”
“And what would these traits be?”
“Well, King Trent transforms people, and Queen Iris is mistress of illusion.”
“Idiot!” Irene snapped. “Don’t tell him about the magic!”
“I don’t quite understand,” the scholar said. “What manner of transformation, what mode of illusion?”
“Well, it doesn’t work in Mundania,” Dor said awkwardly.
“Surely you realize that the laws of physics are identical the world over,” the scholar said. “Anything that works in the young lady’s country will work elsewhere.”
“Not magic,” Dor said, and realized he was just confusing things more.
“How dumb can you get?” Irene demanded. “I’m checking with Amolde.” She vanished again.
This time the scholar blinked more emphatically. “Strange girl!”
“She’s funny that way,’ Dor agreed weakly.
The scholar walked to the spot Irene had vacated. “Tabhf jmmvtjpo?” he inquired.
Oh, no! He was outside the magic aisle now, so the magic no longer made his language align with Dor’s. Dor could not do anything about this; the centaur would have to move. Irene reappeared right next to the scholar. Evidently she hadn’t been paying attention, for she should have been able to see him while within the magic ambience. “Oh-you’re here!” she exclaimed.
“Bnbajohl” the scholar said. “J wtu jorvjsf-“
Then the centaur moved. Irene vanished and the scholar became comprehensible. “. . . exactly how you perform that trick.” He paused. “Oops, you're gone again.”
Irene reappeared farther down the hall. “Amolde says we’ll have to tell him,” she announced. “About the magic and everything. Thanks to your bungling.”
“Really, this is amazing!” the scholar said.
“Well, I’ll have to tell you something you may find hard to believe,” Dor said.
“At this stage, I’m inclined to believe in magic itself!”
“Yes. Xanth is a land of magic.”
“In which people disappear and reappear at will? I think I would prefer to believe that than to conclude I am losing my sight.”
“Well, some do disappear. That’s not Irene’s talent, though.”
“That’s not the young lady’s ability? Then why is she doing it?”
“She’s actually stepping in and out of a magic aisle.”
“A magic aisle?”
“Generated by a centaur.”
The scholar smiled wanly. “I fear you have the advantage of me. You can imagine nonsense faster than I can assimilate it.”
Dor saw that the scholar did not believe him. “I’ll show you my own magic, if you like,” he said. He pointed to the open tome on the table. “Book, speak to the man.”
“Why should I bother?” the book demanded.
“Ventriloquism!”’ the scholar exclaimed. “I must confess you are very good at it.”
“What did you call me?” the book demanded.
“Would you do that again-with your mouth closed?” the scholar asked Dor.
Dor closed his mouth. The book remained silent. “I rather thought so,” the scholar said.
“Thought what, four-eyes?” the book asked.
Startled, the scholar looked down at it, then back at Dor. “But your mouth was closed, I’m sure.”
“It’s magic,” Dor said. “I can make any inanimate object talk.”
“Let’s accept for the moment that this is true. You are telling me that this King you are searching for can also work magic?”
“Right. Only he can’t do it in Mundania, so I guess it doesn’t count.”
“Because he has no magic centaur with him?”
“Yes.”
“I would like to see this centaur.”
“He’s protected by an invisibility spell. So the Mundanes won’t bother us.”
“This centaur is a scholar?”
“Yes. An archivist, like yourself.”
“Then he is the one to whom I should talk.”
“But the spell-“
“Abate the spell! Bring your centaur scholar forth. Otherwise I cannot help you.”
“I don’t think he’d want to do that. It would be hard to get safely out of here without that enchantment, and we have no duplicate invisibility spell.”
The scholar walked back to his cubby. “Mind you, I believe in magic no more than in the revelations of a hallucination, but I am willing to help you if you meet me hallway. Desist your parlor tricks, show me your scholar, and I will work with him to fathom the information you desire. I don’t care how fanciful his outward form may be, provided he has a genuine mind. The fact that you find it necessary to dazzle me with ventriloquism, a lovely costumed girl who vanishes, and a mythological narrative suggests that there is very little substance to your claim, and you are wasting my time. I ask you to produce your scholar or depart my presence.”