“Uh, Amolde,” Dor said. “I know it’ll be awful hard to get out of here without the spells, but maybe we could wait till night. We really need the information, and-“
Abruptly the centaur appeared, facing the scholar’s cubby. The ogre and golem stood behind him. “I agree,” Amolde said.
The scholar turned about. He beamed. “”These are rare costumes, I agree.”
Amolde strode forward, his barrel barely clearing the shelves on either side, extending his hand. “I certainly do not blame you for being impatient with the uninitiate,” he said. “You have excellent facilities here, and I know your time is valuable.”
The scholar shook the hand, seeming more reassured by Amolde’s spectacles and demeanor than confused by his form.
“What is your specially?”
“Alien archaeology-but of course there is a great deal of routine work and overlapping of chores.”
“There certainly is!” the scholar agreed. “The nuisances I have to endure here-“
The two fell into a technical dialogue that soon left Dor behind.
They became more animated as they sized up each other’s minds and information. There was now no doubt they were similar types.
Irene, bored, grew a cocoa plant in the hall, and shared the hot cups of liquid with Dor, Smash, and Grundy. They knew it was important that Amolde establish a good rapport so that they could gain the scholar’s cooperation and make progress on their request.
Time passed. The two scholars delved into ancient tomes, debated excruciatingly fine points, questioned Dor closely about the hints King Trent had given him in both person and vision, and finally wound down to an animated close. The Mundane scholar accepted a mug of cocoa, relaxing at last. “I believe we have it,” he said. “Will I see you again, centaur?”
“Surely so, sir! I am able to travel in Mundania, am fascinated by your comprehensive history, and am presently, as it were, between positions.”
“Your compatriots found your magic as intolerable in you as mine would find a similar propensity in me! I shall not be able to tell any one what I have learned this day, lest I, too, lose my position and possibly even be institutionalized. Imagine conversing with a centaur, ogre, and tiny golem! How I should love to do a research paper on your fantastic Land of Xanth, but it would hardly be believable.”
“You could write a book and call it a story,” Grundy suggested. “And Amolde could write one about Mundania.”
Both scholars looked pleased. Neither had thought of such a simple expedient.
“But do you know where my father is?” Irene demanded.
“Yes, I believe we do,”’ Amolde said. “King Trent left a message for us, we believe.”
“How could he leave a message?” she demanded.
“He left it with Dor. That, and the other hints we had, such as the fact that he was going to a medieval region, in the mountains near a black body of water. There are, my friend informs me, many places in Mundania that fit the description. So we assume it is literal; either the water itself is black, or it is called black. As it happens, there is in Mundania a large body of water called the Black Sea. Many great rivers empty into it; great mountain ranges surround it. But that is not sufficient to identify this as the specific locale we seek; it merely makes it one possibility among many.” Amolde smiled. “We spent a good deal of time on geography. As it happens, there was historically a confluence of A, B, and K people in that vicinity in medieval times-at least that is so when their names are rendered into Xanth dialect. The Avars, the Bulgars, and the Khazars. So it does seem to fit. Everything you have told us seems to fit.”
“But that isn’t enough!” Dor cried. “How can you be sure you have the place, the time?”
“Honesty,” Amolde said. “O N E S T I.” He pointed to a spot on an open book. “This, we believe, is the unique special hint King Trent gave you, to enable you and only you to locate him in an emergency.”
Dor looked. It was an atlas, with a map of some strange Mundane land. On the map was a place labeled Onesti.
“There is only one such place in the world,” Amolde said. “It has to be King Trent’s message to you. No one else would grasp the significance of that unique nomenclature.”
Dor recaped the intensity with which King Trent had spoken of honesty, as if there had been a separate meaning there. He remembered how well aware the King had been of Dor’s kind of spelling. It seemed no one else spelled it the obvious way, onesti.
“But if that’s been there-that name, there in your maps and things -for centuries-that means King Trent never came back! We can’t rescue him, because then the name would go.”
“Not necessarily,” Amolde said. “The place-name does not depend on his presence. We should be able to rescue him without disturbing it. At any rate, we are never certain of the paradoxes of time. We shall simply have to go to that location and that time, circa AD 650, and try to find him.”
“But suppose it’s wrong?” Irene asked worriedly. “Suppose he isn’t there?”
“Then we shall return here and do more research,” Amolde said. “I intend to visit here again anyway, and my friend Ichabod would like to visit Xanth. There will be no trouble about that, I assure you.”
“Yes. You will be welcome here,” the Mundane scholar agreed. “You have a fine and arcane mind.”
“For the first time,” Amolde continued, “I look upon my exile from Centaur Isle and my assumption of an obscene talent with a certain equanimity. I have not, it seems, been excluded from my calling; my horizons have been inordinately expanded.”
“And mine,” Ichabod agreed. “I must confess my contemporaneous existence was becoming tiresome, though I did not recognize this until this day.” Now the scholar sounded just like Amolde.
Perhaps some obscure wrinkle of fate had operated to bring these two together. Did luck or fate really operate in Mundania? Perhaps they did, when the magic aisle was present. “The prospect of researching in a completely new and mystical terrain is immensely appealing; it renovates my outlook.” He paused. “Ah, would there by any chance be individuals of the female persuasion remotely resembling . . . ?” His glance ticked guiltily to Irene’s legs.
“Nymphs galore,” Grundy said. “A dime a dozen.”
“Oh, you employ contemporaneous currency?” the scholar asked, surprised.
“Currency?” Dor asked blankly.
“A dime is a coin of small denomination here.”
Dor smiled. “No, a dime is a tiny object that causes things passing over it to come to a sudden stop. When it has functioned this way twelve times, its enchantment wears out. Hence our saying-“
“How marvelous. I wonder whether one of my own dimes would perform similarly there.”
“That’s the idea,” Grundy said. “Toss it in front of a troupe of gamboling nymphs, and grab the first one it stops. Nymphs don’t have much brains, but they sure have legs.” He moved farther away from Irene, who showed signs of kicking.
“Oh, I can hardly wait to commence research in Xanth!” the scholar exclaimed. “As it happens, I have a dime ready.” He brought out a tiny silver coin, his gaze once again touching on Irene’s limbs.
“I wonder.”
Irene frowned. “Sometimes I wonder just how badly I really want to rescue my folks. I’ll be lucky if my legs don’t get blistered from all the attention.” But as usual, she did not seem completely displeased. “Let’s be on our way; I don’t care what, you do, once my father is back in Xanth.”
Amolde and Ichabod shook hands, two very similar creatures. On impulse, Dor brought out one of the gold coins he had so carefully saved from the pirate’s treasure. “Please accept this, sir, as a token of our appreciation for your help.” He pressed it on the scholar.