Dor whirled on him-and of course, since the golem was in his hand, Grundy whirled too. 'What do you mean by that?'
'Merely that men notice things about women that boys don't. Don't you know what Millie's talent is?'
'No. What is it?'
'Sex appeal.'
'I thought that was something all women had.'
'Something all women wish they had. Millie's is magical; any man near her gets ideas.'
That didn't make sense to Dor. 'My father doesn't.'
'Your father stays well away from her. Did you think that was coincidence?'
Dor had thought it was his own talent that kept Bink away from home so much. It was tempting to think he was mistaken. 'What about the King?'
'He has iron control. But you can bet those ideas are percolating in his brain, out of sight. Ever notice how closely the Queen watches him, when Millie's around?'
Dor had always thought it was him the Queen was watching disapprovingly, when as a child Millie had taken him to the palace. Now he was uncertain, so he didn't argue further. The golem was always full of gossipy news that adults found hilarious even when the news was suspect. Adults could be sort of stupid at times.
They came up to a pavilion in the Castle Roogna orchard. It had a drying stone set up for just such occasions as this. As they approached it, warm radiation came out, which started the pleasant drying of their clothes. Few things felt as good as a drying stone after a chill soaking! 'I really appreciate your service, drier,' Dor told it.
'All part of the job,' the stone replied. 'My cousin, the sharpening stone, really has his work cut out for him. All those knives to hone, you know. Ha ha!'
'Ha ha,' Dor agreed mildly, patting it. The trouble with talking with inanimate objects was that they weren't very bright-but thought they were.
Another figure emerged from the orchard, clasping a cluster of chocolate cherries in one hand. 'Oh, no!' she exclaimed, recognizing Dor. 'If it isn't dodo Dor, the lifeless snooper.'
'Look who's talking,' Grundy retorted. 'Irate Irene, palace brat.'
'Princess Irene, to you,' the girl snapped. 'My father is King, remember?'
'Well, you'll never be King,' Grundy said.
''Cause women can't assume the throne, golem! But if I were a man-'
'If you were a man, you still wouldn't be King, because you don't have Magician-caliber magic.'
'I do too!' she flared.
'Stinkfinger?' Grundy inquired derisively.
'That's green thumb!' she yelled, furious. 'I can make any plant grow. Fast. Big. Healthy.'
Dor had stayed out of the argument, but fairness required his interjection. 'That's creditable magic.'
'Stay out of this, dodo!' she snapped. 'What do you know about it?'
Dor spread his hands. How did he get into arguments he was trying to avoid? 'Nothing. I can't grow a thing.'
'You will when you're a man,' Grundy muttered.
Irene remained angry. 'So how come they call you a Magician, while I am only-'
'A spoiled brat,' Grundy finished for her.
Irene burst into tears. She was a rather pretty child, with green eyes and a greenish tinge to her hair to match her talent, but her thumbs were normal flesh color. She was a girl, and a year younger than Dor, so she could cry if she wanted to. But it bothered him. He wanted to get along with her, and somehow had never been able to. 'I hate you!' she screeched at him.
Genuinely baffled, Dor could only inquire: 'Why?'
'Because you're going to be K-King! And if I want to be Q-Queen, I'll have to-to-'
'To marry him,' Grundy said. 'You really should learn to finish your own sentences.'
'Ugh!' she cried, and it sounded as if she really were about to throw up. She looked wildly about, and spotted a tiny plant at the fringe of the pavilion. 'Grow!' she yelled at it, pointing.
The plant, responsive to her talent, grew. It was a shadowboxer, with little boxing gloves mounted on springy tendrils. The gloves clenched and struck at the shadows formed by distant lightning. Soon the boxer was several feet high, and the gloves were the size of human fists. They struck at the vague shadows of the pavilion's interior. Dor backed away, knowing the blows had force.
Attracted by his motion, and by the sharper shadow his body made, the plant leaned toward him. The gloves were now larger than human fists, and mounted on vines as thick as human wrists. There were a dozen of them, several striking while several more recoiled for the next strike, keeping the plant as a whole in balance. Irene watched, a small gloat playing about her mouth.
'How did I get into this?' Dor asked, disgruntled. He didn't want to flee the pavilion; the storm had
