“Will you get on with it?” Grundy demanded from above.
“But she says not till after this job’s done,” Dor said.
“I was referring to the job!” the golem snapped. “I’ll tell you what color her-“
“I will wring your rag body into a tight little knot!” Irene threatened, and the golem was silent.
Prompted by this, Dor concentrated on the magic sword on the King’s table. Groan, he ordered it mentally. Obediently, the sword groaned. Naturally it hammed it up.
“Groooaan!” it singsonged in an awful key.
“The doxy just sat up straight,” Grundy reported gleefully as the vine rustled the news to him. “Oh, she shouldn’t have done that. She’s stark, bare, nude naked!
“Skip the pornography, you little voyeur!” Irene snapped. “It’s the King we want to rouse.” She nudged Dor. “You know the script we worked out. ‘Let me free, let me free.”
Dor concentrated again. Sword, I have a game for you. If you play your part well, you can scare the pants off bad King Oary.
“Hey, great!” the sword exclaimed. “Only they’re already off him. Boy, is he fat!”
No. Don’t talk to me! Talk to the King. Groan again and say, “Let me free, let me free!” The idea is you’re the ghost of Good King Omen, coming back to haunt him. Can you handle that, or are you too stupid?
“I’ll show you!” the sword exclaimed. It groaned again, with hideous feeling. It was definitely a ham.
“There’s someone here!” the doxy screamed.
“There can’t be,” the King muttered. “The guards prevent anyone from getting through. They know I don’t want to be disturbed when I’m conducting affairs of state.”
“Affairs of state!” Irene hissed furiously.
“Affair, anyway,” Dor said, trying to calm her.
“Let me free, let me free,” the sword groaned enthusiastically.
“Then who’s that?” the doxy demanded, hiding under the feathers.
“I am the ghooost of Goood King ooomen,” the sword answered. Dor no longer needed to prompt it.
The doxy emitted a half-stiffed squeak and disappeared entirely into the feathers, according to Grundy’s gleeful play-by-play report.
The King clutched a feather quilt about him, causing part of the doxy to reappear, to her dismay.
“You can’t be!” Oary retorted shakily, trying to see where the voice came from. The lone candle illuminating the room cast many wavering shadows, the plant reported, making such detection difficult.
“Coming back from the graaave to haaunt you!” the sword continued, really getting into it.
“Impossible!” But the King looked nervous, Grundy reported.
“He’s a tough one,” Irene murmured. “He should be terrified, and he’s only worried. We’re only scaring the doxy, who doesn’t matter. Girls can be such foolish creatures!” Then she reconsidered. “When they want to be.”
Dor nodded, worried himself. If this ruse didn’t work “Yooou killed me,” the sword said.
“I did not!” Oary shouted. “I only locked you up until I figured out what to do with you. I never killed you.”
The doxy’s face reappeared, replacing the rounder portion of her that had showed before. “You locked up Good Omen?” she asked, surprised.
“I had to, or I never would have gotten the throne,” the King said absently. “I thought he would foul up as King, but he didn’t, so there was no way to remove him legitimately.” As he talked, he hoisted his porcine torso from the bed, wrapped the quilt about it, and stalked the voice he heard. “But I didn’t kill him. I am too cautious for that. It is too hard to undo a killing, if anything goes wrong. So this can’t be his ghost.”
“Then whose ghost is it?” the doxy demanded.
“No ghost at all,” the King said. “”There's no one there.” He picked up the sword. “Just this sword I took from the Xanth Prince. I thought it was magic, but it isn’t. I tried it out, and there’s nothing remarkable about it except a fine edge.”
“That’s not true!” the sword cried. “Unhand me, varlet!”
Unnerved at last, the King hurled it out the embrasure. “The thing talks!” he cried.
“Well, that’s one way to recover my weapon,” Dor murmured.
“Try for my bag of seeds,” Irene suggested. “I can do a lot with genuine magic plants.”
Grundy had located the seeds, carelessly thrown in a corner; no doubt Oary had been disappointed when he discovered the bag did not contain treasure, though he should have been satisfied with the gold and diamonds Dor had carried. Greed knew no restraint! “You can’t get rid of me that way,” the seedbag said as Dor mentally prompted it. “My ghost will haunt you forever.”
“I tell you, I didn’t kill you!” Oary said, looking for the new voice that sounded seedy. “You’re just making that up.”
“Well, I might as well be dead,” the seedbag said. “Locked up here alone-it’s awful.”
“What do you mean, alone?” Oary demanded. “The Xanth King is in the next cell, and the sharp-tongued Xanth Queen in the third. They wanted to know what had happened to you, and wouldn’t deal with me, so now they know.”
Irene’s free hand clutched Dor’s shoulder. “Confirmation!” she whispered, thrilled.
Dor was equally gratified. The talking objects had hardly terrorized Oary, but they had evoked his confession nevertheless. Dor continued to concentrate. But you’re way out in nowhere, he thought to the bag.
“But we’re way out in nowhere,” the bag dutifully repeated. Dor was getting better at this as he went. He had never before used his talent in quite this way; it was a new aspect.
“Nowhere?” The King pounced on the bag and shook it. “You’re in the Ocna dungeon! The second biggest castle of the Kingdom! Plenty of company there! I’d be proud to be in that dungeon myself! Out, you ungrateful bag!” And he hurled it out the embrasure.
“What?” the doxy demanded. She had evidently heard only the last few words.
“Out, you ungrateful bag,” the table repeated helpfully. “That’s what he said.”
“Well, I never!” the doxy said, flushing wrathfully.
“Don’t tell me you never,” the feather quilt she had retained said. “I was right here when you-“
The doxy slapped the quilt, silencing it, then wrapped it about her and stalked out. “Help!” the quilt cried. “I’m being kidnapped by a monster?” Then it was beyond the magic aisle and said no more.
“Guards!” the King bellowed. “Search the premises! Report anything remarkable.”
There was a scream from the hall, and the sound of someone being slapped. “He said premises, not mistresses!” the doxy’s voice cried.
There was a guttural laugh. “But we do have something remarkable to report.”
“He’s seen it before!” she retorted. Her footfalls moved on away.
Guards charged into the room. Quickly they ascertained that no one except the King was in the tower. Then they spied the tip of the vine that had grown into the embrasure. They investigated it-while Dor and Irene scrambled down the wall. Grundy leaped from above them, dropping to the centaur’s back. “Take off!” he cried.
Amolde in turn launched himself from the platform, landing with heavy impact on the dark ground and galloping off. The platform was shoved violently by the back thrust of his hooves, so that the vines holding it in place were wrenched from the wall. Suddenly Irene was failing, her support gone, while Dor dangled tenuously from his vine, his grip slipping.
But Smash the Ogre was there below. He snatched Irene out of the air and whirled her around, absorbing the shock of her fall. Her skirt flew out and up-and now at last Dor saw her panties. They were green. Then Smash deposited her gently on the ground while Dor slid down as quickly as he could, weak with relief. “I’m glad you were there!” Dor gasped.