Part 7 (1/2)

Bink looked around, chagrined. ”All of this is illusion?”

”Most of it. I could show you the whole garden as it is, but it would not be nearly as pretty.” The gra.s.s in her hand s.h.i.+mmered and became an iris flower. ”This should convince you. I am a powerful Sorceress. Therefore I can make an entire region seem like something it is not, and every detail will he authentic. MY roses smell like roses, my apple pies taste like apple pies. My body--” She paused with half a smile. ”My body feels like a body. All seems real--but it is illusion. That is, each thing has a basis in fact, but my magic enhances it, modifies it. This is my complex of talents. Therefore I have no other talent--and you can trust me to that extent.”

Bink was uncertain about that last point. A Sorceress of illusion was the last type of person to be trusted, to any extent! Yet he comprehended her point now. She had shown him her magic, and it was unlikely that she would practice any other magic on him. He had never thought of it this way before, but it was certainly true that no one in Xanth mixed types of magic talents.

Unless she were an ogre, using illusion to change her own appearance, too ... No. An ogre was a magical creature, and magical creatures did not have magical talents. Probably. Their talents were their existence. So centaurs, dragons, and ogres always seemed like what they were, unless some natural person, animal, or plant changed them. He had to believe that! It was possible that Iris was in collusion with an ogre---but unlikely, for ogres were notoriously impatient, and tended to consume whatever they could get hold of, regardless of the consequence. Iris herself would have been eaten by this time.

”Okay, I trust you,” Bink agreed dubiously.

”Good. Come into my palace, and I will tend to all your needs.”

That was unlikely. No one could give him a magic talent of his own. Humfrey might discover his talent for him--at the price of a year's service!--but that would be merely revealing what was there, not creating it.

He suffered himself to he led into the palace. It was exquisite inside, too. Rainbow-hued beams of light dropped down from the prismatic roof formations, and the crystal wails formed mirrors. These might be illusion-but he saw his own reflection in them, and he looked somehow healthier and more manly than he felt. He was hardly bedraggled at all. More illusion?

Soft pretty pillows were piled in the comers in lieu of chairs or couches. Suddenly Bink felt very tired; he needed to lie down for a while! But then the image of the skeleton in the pine forest returned to him. He didn't know what to feel.

”Let's get you out of those wet clothes,” Iris said solicitously.

”Uh, I'll dry,” Bink said, not wanting to expose his body before a woman.

”Do you think I want my cus.h.i.+ons ruined?” she demanded with housewifely concern. ”You were floundering in salt water; you've got to rinse the salt off before you start itching. Go into the bathroom and change; there is a dry uniform awaiting you.”

A uniform awaiting him? As though she had been expecting him. What could that mean?

Reluctantly, Bink went. The bathroom was, appropriately, palatial. The tub was like a small swimming pool, and the commode was an elegant affair of the type the Mundanes were said to employ. He watched the water circle around the bowl and drain out into a pipe below, disappearing as if by magic. He was, fascinated.

There was also a shower; a spray of water, like rain, emerged from an elevated nozzle, rinsing him off. That was sort of fun, though he was not sure he would want it as a regular thing. There must be a big tank of water upstairs somewhere, to provide the pressure for such devices.

He dried with a plush towel embroidered with images of irises.

The clothing was hung on a rack behind the door: a princely robe, and knickers. Knickers? Ah, well--they were dry, and no one would see him here in the palace. He donned the uniform, and stepped into the ornate sandals awaiting him. He strapped his hunting knife on, concealing it beneath the overhang of the robe.

Now he felt better--but his cold was developing apace. His sore throat had given way to a runny nose; he had thought this was merely aggravation by the salt water he had taken in, but now he was dry and it was apparent that his nose needed no external supply of fluid. He didn't want to sniff overtly, but he had no handkerchief.

”Are you hungry?” Iris asked solicitously as he emerged. ”I will fetch you a banquet.”

Bink certainly was hungry, for he had eaten only sparingly from his pack since starting along the chasm, depending on foraging along the way. Now his pack was soaked with salt water; that would complicate future meals.

He lay half buried in cus.h.i.+ons, his nose tilted back so that it wouldn't dribble forward, surrept.i.tiously mopping it with the corner of a pillow when he had to. He snoozed a bit while she puttered in the kitchen. Now that he knew this was all illusion, he realized why she did so much menial work herself. The sailors and gardeners were part of the illusion; Iris lived alone. So she had to do her own cooking. Illusion might make for fine appearance, texture, and taste, but it would not prevent her from starving.

Why didn't Iris marry, or exchange her services for competent help? Much magic was useless for practical matters, but her magic was extraordinary. Anyone could live in a crystal palace if he lived with this Sorceress. Bink was sure many people would like that; appearance was often more important than substance anyway. And if she could make ordinary potatoes taste like a banquet, and medicine taste like candy--oh yes, it was a marketable talent!

Iris returned, bearing a steaming platter. She had changed into a housewifely ap.r.o.n, and her crownlet was gone. She looked less regal and a good deal more female. She set things up on a low table, and they sat cross-legged on cus.h.i.+ons, facing each other.

”What would you like?” she inquired.

Again Bink felt nervous. ”What are you serving?”

”Whatever you like.”

”I mean--really?”

She made a moue. ”If you must know, boiled rice. I have a hundred-pound bag of the stuff I have to use up before the rats catch on to the illusory cat I have guarding it and chew into it. I could make rat droppings taste like caviar, of course, but I'd rather not have to. But you can have anything you want--anything at all.” She took a deep breath.

So it seemed--and it occurred to Bink that she was not restricting it to food. No doubt she got pretty lonely here on her island, and welcomed company. The local farmers probably shunned her--their wives would see to that!--and monsters weren't very sociable.

”Dragon steak,” he said. ”With hot sauce.”

”The man is bold,” she murmured, lifting the silver cover. The rich aroma wafted out, and there lay two broiled dragon steaks steeped in hot sauce. She served one expertly onto Bink's plate, and the other onto her own.

Dubiously, Bink cut off a piece and put it to his mouth. It was the finest dragon steak he had ever tasted--which was not saying much, since dragons were very difficult prey; he had eaten it only twice before. It was a truism that more people were eaten by dragons than dragons eaten by people. And the sauce--he had to grab for the gla.s.s of wine she had poured for him, to quench the heat. But it was a delicious burn, converting to flavor.

Still, he doubted. ”Uh--would you mind ... ?”

She grimaced. ”Only for a moment,” she said.

The steak dissolved into dull boiled rice, then back into dragon meat.

”Thanks” Bink said. ”It's still a bit hard to believe.”

”More wine?”

”Uh, is it intoxicating?”

”No, unfortunately. You could drink it all day and never feel it, unless your own imagination made you dizzy.”

”Glad to hear it.” He accepted the elegant gla.s.s of sparkling fluid as she refilled it, and sipped. He had gulped down the first too fast to taste it. Maybe it was actually water, but it seemed to be perfect blue wine, the kind specified for dragon meat, full-bodied and delicately flavored. Much like the Sorceress herself.

For dessert they had home-baked chocolate-chip cookies, slightly burned. That last touch made it so realistic that he was hard put to it to preserve his disbelief. She obviously knew something about cooking and baking, even in illusion.

She cleared away the dishes and returned to join him on the cus.h.i.+ons. Now she was in a low-cut evening gown, and he saw in more than adequate detail exactly how well-formed she was. Of course, that too could be illusion-but if it felt the same as it looked, who would protest?

Then his nose almost dripped onto the inviting gown, and he jerked his head up. He had been looking a mite too closely.

”Are you unhappy?” Iris inquired sympathetically.

”Uh, no. My nose----it--”

”Have a handkerchief,” she said, proffering a lovely lace affair.

Bink hated to use such a work of art to honk his nose into, but it was better than using the pillows.

”Uh, is there any work I can do before I go?” he inquired uneasily.

”You are thinking too small,” Iris said, leaning forward earnestly and inhaling deeply. Bink felt the flush rising along his neck. Sabrina seemed very far away--and she would never have dressed like this, anyway.

”I told you--I have to go to the Good Magician Humfrey to find my magic---or be exiled. I don't really think I have any magic, so---”

”I could arrange for you to stay, regardless,” she said, nudging closer.