“Was that King Trent?”
“That’s what he called himself. But he couldn’t do magic. He drank the drink, all-trusting the way they all are, the fools, and went to sleep just like you. You’re all such suckers.”
“Smash! Grundy!” Dor cried as loudly as he could, his head still glued to the table. “We’ve been betrayed! Drugged! Break out of here!”
But now many guards charged into the hall. “Remove this carrion,” King Oary commanded. “Throw them in the dungeon. Don’t damage the girl; she’s too pretty to waste. Put the freak horse in the stable.”
Smash, who had gulped huge quantities of the drugged drink, nevertheless had strength to rouse himself and fight. Dor heard the noise, but was facing the wrong way. Guards charged, and screamed, and retreated. “Give it to them, ogre!” Grundy cried, dancing on the table. “Tear them up!”
But then the violence abated. “Hey, don’t slow down now!” Grundy called. “What’s the matter with you?”
Dor knew what had happened. Smash had wandered outside the magic aisle, and lost his supernatural strength. Now the flagons of drugged drink took their toll, as they would on any normal creature.
“Me sleep a peep,” Smash said, the last of his magic expended in the rhyme.
Dor knew this fight was lost. “Get out of here, Grundy,” he said with a special effort. “Before you sleep, too. Don’t let them catch you.” The unconsciousness overcame Dor.
Dor woke with a headache. He was lying on sour-smelling hay in a dark cell. As he moved, something skittered away. He suspected it was a rat; he understood they abounded in Mundania. Maybe that was a blessing; the magic creatures of the night could be horrible in Xanth.
There was the sound of muted sobbing. Dor held his breath a moment to make certain it wasn’t himself.
He sat up, peering through the gloom to find some vestige of light.
There was a little, which grew brighter as his eyes acclimatized; it seemed to be a candle in the distance. But there was a wall in the way; the light filtered through the cracks.
He oriented on the sobbing. It was from an adjacent chamber, separated from his own by massive stone pilings and huge wood timbers.
This must be the lower region of the castle, these cells hollowed out from around the foundations. There were gaps between the supports, big enough for him to pass his arm through but not his body.
“Irene?” he asked.
“Oh, Dor!” she answered immediately, tearfully. “I thought I was alone! What has become of us?”
“We were drugged and thrown in the dungeon,” he said. “King Oary must have done the same to your parents, before.” He couldn’t quite remember where he had gotten that notion, or how he himself had been drugged; his memory was foggy on recent details.
“But why? My father came only to trade!”
“I don’t know. But I think King Oary is a usurper. Maybe he murdered the rightful King, and your folks found out. Oary knew he couldn’t fool us long, so he practiced his treachery on us, too.”
“What do we do now?” she demanded hysterically. “Oh, Dor, I’ve never felt so horrible!”
“I think it’s the drug,” he said. “I feel bad, too. That should wear off. If we have our magic, we may be able to get free. Do you have your bag of seeds?”
She checked. “No. Only my clothing. Do you have your gold and gems?”
Dor checked. “No. They must have searched us and taken everything they thought was valuable or dangerous. I don’t have my sword either.” But then his questing fingers found something small. “I do have the jar of salve, not that it’s much good here. And my midnight sunstone; it fell into the jacket lining. Let me see.” He brought it out. “No, I guess not. This has no light.”
“Where are the others?”
“I’ll check,” he said. “Floor, where are my companions?”
There was no answer. “That means we have no magic. Amolde must be in the stable.” He seemed to remember something about that, foggily.
“What about Smash and Grundy?”
“Me here,” the ogre said from the opposite cell. “Head hurt. Strength gone.”
Now Dor had no further doubt; the magic was gone. The ogre wasn’t rhyming, and no doubt Irene’s hair had lost its color. Magic had strange little bypaths and side effects, where loss was somehow more poignant than that of the major aspects. But those major ones were vital; without his magic strength, Smash could probably not break free of the dungeon.
“Grundy?” Dor called inquiringly.
There was no answer. Grundy, it seemed, had escaped capture. That was about the extent of their good fortune.
“Me got gauntlets,” Smash said.
Include one more item of fortune. If the ogre should get his strength back, those gauntlets would be a big help. Probably the castle guards had not realized the gauntlets were not part of the ogre, since Smash had used them for eating. The ogreish lack of manners had paid off in this respect.
Dor’s head was slowly clearing. He tried the door to his cell. It was of solid Mundane wood, worn but far too tough to break. Too tough, too, for Smash, in his present condition; the ogre tried and couldn’t budge his own door. Unless the centaur came within range, none of them had any significant lever for freedom.
The doors seemed to be barred by some unreachable mechanism outside: inside, the slimy stone floor was interrupted only by a disposal sump-a small but deep hole that reeked of old excrement. Obviously no one would be released for sanitary purposes either.
Smash banged a fist against a wall. “Ow!” he exclaimed. “Now me miss centaur!”
“He does have his uses,” Dor agreed. “You know, Smash, Arnolde didn’t really usurp Chet’s place. Chet couldn’t come with us anyway, because of his injury, and Amolde didn’t want to. We pretty much forced him into it, by revealing his magic talent.”
“Ungh,” the ogre agreed. “Me want out of here. No like be weak.”
“I think we’ll have to wait for whatever King Oary plans for us,” Dor said grimly. “If he planned to kill us, he wouldn’t have bothered to lock us in here.”
“Dor, I’m scared, really scared,” Irene said. “I’ve never been a prisoner before.”
Dor peered out through the cracks in his door. Had the flickering candle shadow moved? The guard must be coming in to eavesdrop.
Naturally King Oary would want to know their secrets-and Irene just might let out their big one before she realized. He had to warn her-without the guard catching on. They just might turn this to their advantage.
He went to the wall that separated them. “It win be a good idea to plan our course of action,” he said. “If they question us, tell them what they want to know. There’s no point in concealing anything, since we’re innocent.” He managed to reach his arm through the crevice in the wall nearest her. “But we don’t want them to force us into any false statements.” His hand touched something soft. It was Irene. She made a soft “Eeek!” then grasped his hand.
“Let me review our situation,” Dor said. “I am King during King Trent’s absence.” He squeezed her hand once. “You are King Trent’s daughter.” He squeezed again, once. “Amolde the Centaur is also a Prince among his people.” This time he squeezed twice.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “Amolde’s not-“ She broke off as he squeezed several times, hard. Then she began to catch on; she was a bright enough girl. “Not with us now,” she concluded, and squeezed his hand once.
“If the centaur does not return to his people on schedule, they will probably come after him with an army,” Dor said, squeezing twice.
“A big army,” she agreed, returning the two squeezes. “With many fine archers and spear throwers, thirsty for blood, and a big catapult to loft huge stones against the castle.” She was getting into it now. They had their signals set; one squeeze for truth, two for falsehood. That way they could talk privately, even if someone were eavesdropping.
“I’m glad we’re alone,” he said, squeezing twice. “So we can talk freely.”
“Alone,” she agreed, with the double squeeze. Yes, now she knew why he was doing this. She was a smart girl, and he liked that; nymphlike proportions did not have to indicate nymphlike stupidity.
