Piers Anthony - Centaur Aisle

A Del Rey Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright 1981 by Piers Anthony Jacob

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

http://www.randomhouse.com

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 81-67841

eISBN: 978-0-345-45433-1

v3.1

D or was trying to write an essay, because the King had decreed that any future monarchs of Xanth should be literate. It was an awful chore. He knew how to read, but his imagination tended to go blank when challenged to produce an essay, and he had never mastered conventional spelling.

The Land of Xanth, he muttered with deep disgust.

What? the table asked.

The title of my awful old essay, Dor explained dispiritedly. My tutor Cherie, on whom be a muted anonymous curse, assigned me a one-hundred-word essay telling all about Xanth. I dont think its possible. There isnt that much to tell. After twenty-five words Ill probably have to start repeating. How can I ever stretch it to a whole hundred? Im not even sure there are that many words in the language.

Who wants to know about Xanth? the table asked. Im bored already.

I know youre a board. I guess Cherie, may a hundred curse-burrs tangle in her tail, wants to know.

She must be pretty dumb.

Dor considered. No, shes infernally smart. All centaurs are. Thats why theyre the historians and poets and tutors of Xanth. May all their high-IQ feet founder.

How come they dont rule Xanth, then?

Well, most of them dont do magic, and only a Magician can rule Xanth. Brains have nothing to do with itand neither do essays. Dor scowled at his blank paper.

Only a Magician can rule any land, the table said smugly. But what about you? Youre a Magician, arent you? Why arent you King?

Well, I will be King, some day, Dor said defensively, aware that he was talking with the table only to postpone a little longer the inevitable struggle with the essay. When King Trent, uh, steps down. Thats why I have to be educated, he says. He wished all kinds of maledictions on Cherie Centaur, but never on King Trent.

He resumed his morose stare at the paper, where he had now printed THU LANNED UV ZANTH. Somehow it didnt look right, though he was sure he had put the THs in the right places.

Something tittered. Dor glanced up and discovered that the hanging picture of Queen Iris was smirking. That was one problem about working in Castle Roogna he was always under the baleful eye of the Queen, whose principal business was snooping. With special effort, Dor refrained from sticking out his tongue at the picture.

Seeing herself observed, the Queen spoke, the mouth of the image moving. Her talent was illusion, and she could make the illusion of sound when she wanted to. You may be a Magician, but you arent a scholar. Obviously spelling is not your forte.

Never claimed it was, Dor retorted. He did not know what the word forte meantperhaps it was a kind of small castlebut whatever it meant, spelling was not there. He did not much like the Queen, and the feeling was mutual, but both of them were constrained by order of the King to be reasonably polite to one another. Surely a woman of your extraordinary talents has more interesting things to do than peek at my stupid essay, he said. Then, grudgingly, he added: Your Majesty.

Indeed I do, the picture agreed, its background clouding. She had of course noted the pause before he gave her title; It was not technically an insult, but the message was clear enough. The cloud in the picture had become a veritable thunderstorm, with jags of lightning shooting out like sparks. She would get back at him somehow. But you would never get your homework done if not supervised.

Dor grimaced into the surface of the table. She was right on target there!

Then he saw that ink had smeared all across his essay-paper, ruining it. With an angry grunt he picked it upand the ink slid off, pooled on the surface of the table, bunched together, sprouted legs, and scurried away. It leaped off the table like a gross bug and puffed into momentary vapor. It had been an illusion. The Queen had gotten back at him already. She could be extraordinarily clever in ugly little ways. Dor could not admit being angry about being fooledand that made him angrier than ever.

I dont see why anyone has to be male to rule Xanth, the picture said. That was of course a chronic sore point with the Queen. She was a Sorceress fully as talented as any Magician, but by Xanth law/custom no woman could be King.

I live in the Land of Xanth, Dor said slowly, voicing his essay as he wrote, ignoring the Queen with what he hoped was insulting politeness. Which is distinct from Mundania in that there is magic in Xanth and none in Mundania. It was amazing how creative he became when there was a negative aspect to it. He had twenty-three words already!

Dor cracked an eyelid, sneaking a peek at the picture. It had reverted to neutral. Good; the Queen had tuned out. If she couldnt bug him with crawling illusions, she wasnt interested.

But now his inspiration dehydrated. He had an impossible one hundred whole words to do, six times his present total. Maybe five times; he was not particularly apt at higher mathematics either. Four more words, if he counted the title. A significant fraction of the way through, but only a fraction. What a dreary chore!

Irene wandered in. She was King Trent and Queen Iriss daughter, the palace brat, often a nuisancebut sometimes not. It griped Dor to admit it, but Irene was an extremely pretty girl, getting more so, and that exerted an increasing leverage upon him. It made fighting with her awkward. Hi, Dor, she said, bouncing experimentally. What are you doing?

Dor, distracted momentarily by the bounce, lost track of the sharp response he had planned. Oh, come on, he grumped. You know your mother got tired of snooping on me, so she assigned you to do it instead.

Irene did not deny it. Well, somebody has to snoop on you, dummy. Id rather be out playing with Zilch.

Zilch was a young sea cow that had been conjured for her fifteenth birthday. Irene had set her up in the moat and used her magic to promote the growth of sturdy wallflowers to wall off a section of water, protecting Zilch from the moat-monsters while she grazed. Dor regarded Zilch as a great blubbery slob of an animal, but anything that distracted Irene was to some extent worthwhile. She took after her mother in certain annoying ways.

Go ahead and play with the cow, Dor suggested disparagingly. I wont tell.

No, a Princess has to do her duty. Irene never spoke of duty unless it was something she wanted to do anyway. She picked up his essay-paper.

Hey, give that back! Dor protested, reaching for it.

You heard him, snit! the paper agreed. Give me back!

That only made Irene ornery. She backed away, hanging on to the paper, her eyes scanning the writing. Her bosom heaved with barely suppressed laughter. Oh, say, this is something! I didnt think anybody could misspell Mundania that badly!