“We are indulging in a great deal of supposition,” Amolde said seamingly. “We could encounter disappointment. Yet if I may extend the rationale-it occurs to me that If King Trent and King Omen both survive, they may be confined together. We have already seen that the dungeons of Castle Onesti are not extensive. If there is another castle, and we find one confined there-“
“We find the other!” Irene finished. “And if we rescued them both, Good Omen would be King of Onesti again and all would be well. I’d sure like to depose hoary King Oary!”
“That was the extrapolation of my conjectures,” Amolde agreed. “Yet I reiterate, it is highly speculative.”
“It’s worth a try,” Dor said. “Now let’s plan our strategy. Probably only King Oary knows where King Trent and/or King Omen are incarcerated, and he won’t tell. I could question the stones of the castle, but probably the Kings aren’t here at all, and the stones wouldn’t know anything about other places. If the local servants don’t know anything about it, it probably isn’t known. So the question is, how can we get him to tell?”
“He ought to have a guilty conscience,” Irene said. “Maybe we could play on that.”
“I distrust this,” Dor said. “I encountered some bad people and creatures in another adventure, and I don’t think their consciences troubled them, because they simply didn’t believe they were doing anything wrong. Goblins and harpies-“
“Of course they don’t have consciences,” Irene snapped. “But Oary is a person.”
“Human beings can be worst of all, especially Mundanes,” Dor said. “Many of them have ravaged Xanth over the centuries, and King Oary may contemplate something similar. I just don’t have much confidence in any appeal to his conscience.”
“I perceive your point,” Amolde said. “But I think ‘appeal’ is not the appropriate term. A guilty conscience more typically manifests in the perception of nocturnal specters.”
“Not many specters running around this far from Xanth,” Grundy pointed out.
“We could scare him into giving it away!” Irene exclaimed.
“Tonight,” Dor decided. “We must rest and feed ourselves firsthand hide from King Oary’s troops.”
They had no trouble avoiding the troops. It took Oary’s forces some time to organize, after the devastation Smash had caused during the breakout, and only now, after the long discussion, was any real activity manifesting at the castle. Irene made vines grow, bristling with thorns; in their natural state these had been a nuisance, but now they were a menace. When the magic moved away, the vines died, for they had been extended far beyond their natural limits-but the tangle of thorns remained as a formidable barrier. That, coupled with the Mundanes’ knowledge that the ogre lurked in the forest, kept the guards close to the castle even after they emerged. They were not eager for contact with the creature who had bashed all those holes in the massive walls.
At night, rested, Dor’s party made its play. Grundy had scouted the castle, so they knew which tower contained the royal suite. King Oary was married, but slept alone; his wife couldn’t stand him. He ate well and consumed much alcoholic beverage; this facilitated his sleep.
They had fashioned a platform that Smash carried to the base of the outer wall nearest the royal tower, which happened to be on the forest side. Amolde mounted this, bringing his magic aisle within range of the King.
Irene had scouted for useful Mundane seeds and had assembled a small collection. Now she planted several climbing vines, and in the ambience of magic they assumed somewhat magical properties. They mounted wall and platform vigorously, sending their little anchortendrils into any solid substance they found, quickly binding the platform firmly in place. Amolde had to keep moving his legs to avoid tendrils that swiped at his feet, until the growing stage passed that level. The plants ascended to the embrasure that marked the King’s residence, then halted; the magic aisle extended more inward than upward.
Grundy used the sturdy vines to mount to that embrasure. He scrambled over, found himself a shrouded corner, and called quietly down: “I can see inside some, but I don’t dare get close enough to cover the whole room.”
“Talk to the plant,” Irene said in her don’t-be-dumb tone. She no longer used that on Dor, mute recognition of their changed situation, but obviously she retained the expertise.
“Say, yes,” the golem agreed. “There’s a vine that reaches inside.”
He paused, talking to the plant. “It says Oary’s not alone. He’s got a doxy in his bed.”
“He would,” Irene grumped. “Men like that will do anything.”
It occurred to Dor that this could be the reason the translator had persisted in addressing Irene as “slut” and “strumpet.” This was the type of woman King Oary nominally associated with. But Dor decided not to mention this to Irene; she already had reason enough to hate Oary.
Dor climbed the vines, finding a lodging against the watt just beneath the embrasure. “Describe the room,” he murmured to Grundy. “I’ve got to know exactly what’s in it, and where.”
The golem consulted with the plant. “There is this big feather bed to the right, two of your paces in from this wall. A wooden bench straight in from the embrasure, six paces, with her dress strewn on it. A wooden table to its left, one pace-and there’s your sword on it, and Amolde’s bag of spells.”
“Ha!” Dor exclaimed quietly. “I need that sword. Too bad it’s not the variety that wields itself; I could call it right to me.”
The golem continued describing the room, until Dor was satisfied he had the details properly fixed in his mind. He was able to picture it now-everything just so. “I hope my mind doesn’t go blank,” he called down.
“Don’t you dare!” Irene snapped. “Save your fouling up for some other time. Do I have to come up there and prompt you?”
“That might help,” Dor confessed. “You see, I can’t make things say specific things. They only answer questions, or talk in response to my words. Usually. And the inanimate is not too bright, and sometimes perverse. So I may indeed foul it up.”
“For pity’s sake!” Irene took hold of the vines and began climbing. “And don’t look up my skirt!” she said to Amolde.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” the centaur said equably. “I prefer to view equine limbs, and never did see the merit in pink panties.”
“They’re not pink!” she said.
“They’re not? I must be colorblind. Let me see-“
“Forget it!” She joined Dor, gave him a quick kiss, wrapped her skirt closely about her legs, and settled in for the duration. Dor had worried about the strength of the vines, with all this weight on them, but realized she would have a better notion than he how much they could hold.
“Well, start,” she whispered.
“But if I talk loud enough for the things to hear me, so will King Oary.”
She sighed. “You are a dumbbell at times, dear. You don’t have to talk aloud to objects; just direct your attention to them. That’s the way your magic works. As for King Oary-if that snippet with him knows her trade, he won’t be paying any attention to what's outside the castle.”
She was right. Dor concentrated, but still couldn’t quite get it together. He was used to speaking aloud to objects. “Are they really not pink?” he asked irrelevantly.
“What?”
“Your-you-knows.”
She laughed. “My panties? You mean you never looked?”
Dor, embarrassed, admitted that he had not.
“You’re entitled now, you know.”
“But I wasn’t, back when I had a chance to see.”
She released her grip on the vine with one hand and reached over to tweak his cheek, in much the manner the Gorgon had. “You’re something sort of rare and special, Dor. Well, you get this job done right, and I’ll show you.”