At night, rested, Dor’s party made its play. Grundy had scouted the castle, so they knew which tower contained the royal suite. King Oary was married, but slept alone; his wife couldn’t stand him. He ate well and consumed much alcoholic beverage; this facilitated his sleep.
They had fashioned a platform that Smash carried to the base of the outer wall nearest the royal tower, which happened to be on the forest side. Amolde mounted this, bringing his magic aisle within range of the King.
Irene had scouted for useful Mundane seeds and had assembled a small collection. Now she planted several climbing vines, and in the ambience of magic they assumed somewhat magical properties. They mounted wall and platform vigorously, sending their little anchortendrils into any solid substance they found, quickly binding the platform firmly in place. Amolde had to keep moving his legs to avoid tendrils that swiped at his feet, until the growing stage passed that level. The plants ascended to the embrasure that marked the King’s residence, then halted; the magic aisle extended more inward than upward.
Grundy used the sturdy vines to mount to that embrasure. He scrambled over, found himself a shrouded corner, and called quietly down: “I can see inside some, but I don’t dare get close enough to cover the whole room.”
“Talk to the plant,” Irene said in her don’t-be-dumb tone. She no longer used that on Dor, mute recognition of their changed situation, but obviously she retained the expertise.
“Say, yes,” the golem agreed. “There’s a vine that reaches inside.”
He paused, talking to the plant. “It says Oary’s not alone. He’s got a doxy in his bed.”
“He would,” Irene grumped. “Men like that will do anything.”
It occurred to Dor that this could be the reason the translator had persisted in addressing Irene as “slut” and “strumpet.” This was the type of woman King Oary nominally associated with. But Dor decided not to mention this to Irene; she already had reason enough to hate Oary.
Dor climbed the vines, finding a lodging against the watt just beneath the embrasure. “Describe the room,” he murmured to Grundy. “I’ve got to know exactly what’s in it, and where.”
The golem consulted with the plant. “There is this big feather bed to the right, two of your paces in from this wall. A wooden bench straight in from the embrasure, six paces, with her dress strewn on it. A wooden table to its left, one pace-and there’s your sword on it, and Amolde’s bag of spells.”
“Ha!” Dor exclaimed quietly. “I need that sword. Too bad it’s not the variety that wields itself; I could call it right to me.”
The golem continued describing the room, until Dor was satisfied he had the details properly fixed in his mind. He was able to picture it now-everything just so. “I hope my mind doesn’t go blank,” he called down.
“Don’t you dare!” Irene snapped. “Save your fouling up for some other time. Do I have to come up there and prompt you?”
“That might help,” Dor confessed. “You see, I can’t make things say specific things. They only answer questions, or talk in response to my words. Usually. And the inanimate is not too bright, and sometimes perverse. So I may indeed foul it up.”
“For pity’s sake!” Irene took hold of the vines and began climbing. “And don’t look up my skirt!” she said to Amolde.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” the centaur said equably. “I prefer to view equine limbs, and never did see the merit in pink panties.”
“They’re not pink!” she said.
“They’re not? I must be colorblind. Let me see-“
“Forget it!” She joined Dor, gave him a quick kiss, wrapped her skirt closely about her legs, and settled in for the duration. Dor had worried about the strength of the vines, with all this weight on them, but realized she would have a better notion than he how much they could hold.
“Well, start,” she whispered.
“But if I talk loud enough for the things to hear me, so will King Oary.”
She sighed. “You are a dumbbell at times, dear. You don’t have to talk aloud to objects; just direct your attention to them. That’s the way your magic works. As for King Oary-if that snippet with him knows her trade, he won’t be paying any attention to what's outside the castle.”
She was right. Dor concentrated, but still couldn’t quite get it together. He was used to speaking aloud to objects. “Are they really not pink?” he asked irrelevantly.
“What?”
“Your-you-knows.”
She laughed. “My panties? You mean you never looked?”
Dor, embarrassed, admitted that he had not.
“You’re entitled now, you know.”
“But I wasn’t, back when I had a chance to see.”
She released her grip on the vine with one hand and reached over to tweak his cheek, in much the manner the Gorgon had. “You’re something sort of rare and special, Dor. Well, you get this job done right, and I’ll show you.”
“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
