The ifrit had been right. This was no place for the like of him. Already he was hungrier, and there no food here. How could he get out?
He could smash through a mirror and through the wall behind it, of course-but would that accomplish anything? There were situations in which blind force was called for-but other situations, his Eye Queue curse reminded him obnoxiously, called for subtler negotiation. The trick was to tell them apart. One could not conquer a mirror by breaking it; one could only forfeit the game.
Smash stared into the scratched mirror, and his distorted image stared back. The image was almost as ugly as he was, but the distortion hampered it, making it less repulsive than it should have been.
Probably that was why it was snarling.
He turned and contemplated the three strands of string on the floor. He saw where the first one started: it came from another mirror. So he had entered here through a mirror. Surely that was also the way to leave. If he found some means to make another blinding flash, would he be able to step through, as before? But he had no flash-material.
Then he remembered what he had beard in the Gap Dragon's Ear. Could that relate? It had sounded like his voice, talking about a mirror. He decided to try it.
He positioned himself squarely before the mirror. He elevated his hamfist. 'Mirror, mirror on the wall,'
he intoned, imitating his own voice as well as he could. 'Pass this fist or take a fall.' Then he punched forward.
His fist smashed through the glass and into the wall behind it. The mirror tinkled in pieces to the floor.
Smash leaned forward to peer through the hole in the wall. It opened on another hall of mirrors. Sure enough, there was no escape there; he was caught among the mirrors until he found the proper way out.
He tromped to the next mirror. He raised his fist again and spoke his rhyme. The he punched through, with the same result.
This did not seem to be working. But it was the only clue he had. Maybe when the other mirrors saw what was happening, they would capitulate. After all, this technique had been effective with the shocking doorknobs. The inanimate tended to be stupid, as Prince Dor had shown, but it did eventually learn what was good for it.
The change happened sooner than anticipated. His fist did not strike the third mirror; it passed through without resistance. His arm and body followed it, and he did a slow fall through the aperture.
He rolled on something soft and sat up. He sniffed. He looked. He salivated.
He sat on a huge bed of cake, replete with vanilla icing. Pastries and sweets were all about him, piled high: doughnuts, strudel, eclairs, tarts, cookies, creampuffs, gingerbread, and more intricate pastries.
Smash had been growing hungry before; it had been well over an hour since he had last filled up. Now he was ravenous. But again the damned curse of the Eye Queue made him pause. The purpose of these worlds inside the gourd seemed to be to make him unhappy. This food did not fit that purpose-unless there were something Wrong with it Could it be poisoned? Poison did not bother ogres much, but was best avoided.
One way to find out. Smash scooped up a glob of floor and crammed it in his big mouth. The cake was excellent. Then he got up and explored the region, keeping himself busy while waiting for the poison to act. He had not eaten enough to cause real damage to the gross gut of an ogre, but if he felt discomfort, he would take warning.
He was in a large chamber completely filled with the pastries. There was no apparent exit. He punched experimentally through a wall of fruitcake, but the stuff seemed to have no end. He suspected he could punch forever and only tear up more cake. There appeared to be no reasonable limit to the worlds that fit inside the gourd. How, then, was he to escape this place?
His stomach suffered nothing but the ravages of increasing hunger, so he concluded the food was not poisoned. Still he hesitated. There had to be some trap, something to make him hurt. If not poison, what?
There seemed to be no threat, no spitball-shooting tanks, no ifrit, not even starvation from delay.
Well, suppose he fell to and ate his fill? Where would he be? Still here, with no way out. If he remained long enough, stuffing himself at will, he would lose his soul by default in three months. No point in that.
Yet, no sense in going hungry. He grabbed a bunk of angelcake and gulped it down. He felt angelic.
That was no mood for an ogre! He chomped some devilsfood, and felt devilish. That was more like it.
He gulped some dream pie, and dreamed of smiting the Night Stallion and recovering the lien on his soul.
Wait. He forced himself to stop eating, lest he sink immediately into the easy slough of indulgence.
Better to keep hungry and alert, his cursed taskmaster of an Eye Queue told him. What did the Eye Queue care about hunger? It didn't have to eat! But he went along with it for the moment, knowing it would give him no peace otherwise. He would reward himself only for making progress in solving this particular riddle. That was discipline no ordinary ogre could master, infuriating as it was.
Still, time was passing, and he had no idea how to proceed. There had to be something. After all, it wasn't as if he could simply eat his way out of here.
That thought made him pause. Why not eat out? Chew a hole in the wall until he ran out of edibles-which would be another world.
No. There would be too much cake for even an ogre to eat. Unless he knew exactly where a weak spot was-Weak spot Surely so. Something that differed from the rest of this stuff.
Smash started a survey course of eating, looking for the difference. All of it was excellent. A master pastry chef had baked this chamber.
Then he encountered a vein of licorice. That was one confection Smash didn't like; it reminded him of manure. True, some ogres could eat and like manure, but that just wasn't Smash's own taste. Naturally he avoided this vein.
Then his accursed, annoying, and objectionable Eye Queue began percolating again. The Eyes of the vine saw entirely too much, especially what wasn't necessarily there. Manure. What would leave manure in the form of a confection?
Answer: some creature in charge of a chamber of confections. The Night Stallion, perhaps. When the Stallion departed, he would leave his token of contempt. Big brown balls of sweet manure.
What exit would the Stallion use? How could that exit be found?
Answer: the trail of manure would show the way. Horses hardly cared where they left it, since it was behind them. They left it carelessly, thoughtlessly, often on the run.
Smash started digging out the licorice. But when he did, the foul stuff melted into other cake, transforming it into licorice, too. That obscured the trail. He had to do something about that.
He cast about, but came up with only the least pleasant solution. He would have to eat it. That was the only way to get rid of it. To consume the manure of the Stallion.
Fortunately, ogres didn't have much pride about what they ate. He nerved himself and bit in. The licorice- cake was awful, truly feculent, but he gulped it down anyway.
Now his gorge was rising violently inside him. Ogres were supposed never to get sick, no matter how rotten the stuff they ate. But this was manure! He ate on.
Smash came to a round hole in the material of the chamber. The dung had led him to it-since this was the exit the Stallion had taken. Smash scrambled through the passage, knowing that if he could just choke down his revolted, revolting stomach a little longer, he would win this contest, too.
He came to a drop-off and tumbled out, spinning and turning in air. Now he was falling through darkness.
That last jolt of weightlessness was too much. His stomach burst its constraints and heaved its awful contents violently out. The reaction sent him zooming backward through space. Smash puked, it seemed, for eons, and worked up a velocity to rival that of the brass spaceship. He hoped he didn't get lost in space beyond the stars.
Chapter 10. Fond Wand
He was retching into the gourd patch. Apparently he had jetted himself right out of the gourd! Chem was using the hardened rind of an empty gourd to scoop the vomit away, making room for more as it flowed voluminously from Smash's mouth.
As he realized where he was, his sickness abated. He looked about.
