won his biggest bet because of cheating by another Citizen. How far did this go?
How far, indeed! The first four lines of that poem had matched his recent experience, deliberately. Then the key word: silence. And he had been struck by the silence-spell. Then love; and he had become betrothed to Sheen. That was not love, precisely, but related; she certainly wanted and deserved love.
In fact, those key words aligned beautifully with his experience - almost like a prediction of the Oracle. Yet the words had become the random product of the Game Computer. No magic there! So it must be coincidence. It was possible to make seeming sense of almost anything, as those two poems had shown. Still -
Why not? Stile decided to go for it. 'That is one form no goblin would suspect. The nether passages must be overrun with roaches. What Herd Stallion would go to the enormous effort to achieve so lowly a form? It is beneath consideration - therefore the safest of all forms for the accomplishment of such a hazardous mission.'
'Urn,' the Stallion blew, heeding the logic but not the aesthetics.
'Actually, some roaches are quite elegant,' Stile commented innocently. 'When I was a serf in Proton, I had to deliver a horse to the dome of a Citizen who specialized in exotic creatures. He had a roach farm with some quite beautiful specimens. I remember some deep red ones, huge and sleek-surely the royalty of roaches. And others were frilly, like butterflies, only without wings-'
There was a convenient nut tree in the copse - unicorns generally had good taste about such things - so Stile could eat without using magic. There was also a small spring. This was really an oasis, probably known to every wild creature. There was a real advantage of traveling with such an animal - not only protection, but also the convenience of familiarity with the terrain. Stile had now traveled with three unicorns - Neysa, Clip, and the Herd Stallion - and this aspect was the same with each one. Stile had always liked horses; he knew he would always like unicorns better.
He had dreamed for more than fifteen years of becoming a Citizen of Proton, perhaps setting up his own racing stable. Now he was a Citizen - and all he really wanted was to stay here in Phaze, on any basis. He liked magic - not merely his ability to perform it, but more importantly, the very framework in which magic existed. He liked the verdant hills, the little streams, the various features of this irregular landscape. He liked the whole sweet outdoors, with its fresh air and unpredictable weather and feeling of freedom. Oh, there were horrors here - but even so, it was a better world than Proton. Three centuries of unrestricted development and narrow exploitation had destroyed the environment of Proton, so that comfort now existed only within the force-field domes. Stile liked civilization, but, after encountering Phaze, he feared it was at too great a price.
Stile became aware of a warm sensation on the left side of his face. Oh, yes - his spell to trace the sender of the message that had brought him Sheen was still in operation. Old spells never died, and faded away only slowly - which inertia was fortunate, since any given spell was effective only once. The warmth was faint, indicating that he was far from the source, but at least he could still trace it down. He would do so the moment Clip was safe.
He heard a musical groan, as of someone stepping on an accordion. The Stallion writhed, shimmered - and shrank to a gross, many-legged lump of flesh.
A spell leaped to Stile's lips. But he choked it back, realizing that this was not a magic attack. It was the Stallion's effort to master a new form.
Stile ambled over, peering down at the grotesque caricature of a roach. 'Now that is the ugliest insect I've ever seen,' he remarked. 'But certainly the biggest.' Indeed, it was almost the size of a man.
The monstrous bug waved its feelers, thrashed its legs about, and blew a furious peep from the miniature horn on its snout. Then it swelled rapidly into Stallion-form again, snorting fire from the effort.
'Oh, it's thou!' Stile exclaimed innocently. 'I was about to step on it.'
The Stallion glared and gave a snort that singed the hairs of Stile's arms. Then he tried again. This time he got the size right, but not the shape. He became a miniature unicorn. 'I'm afraid that won't do,' Stile said around a mouthful of nuts. 'The goblins know that's not a normal 'corn size.'
The Stallion re-formed, pawing the ground. Obviously he was putting forth terrific effort; his hooves were beginning to glow red, and wisps of smoke rose from his ears.
A third time he tried. This time he got it right - normal-sized roach, with a silvery body and golden head. The bug took one step - and exploded back into the Stallion. He just had not been able to hold it for more than two seconds.
'Maybe you'd better let it rest a while,' Stile suggested. 'Give your system time to acclimatize to the notion. We're not at the goblin demesnes yet.'
The Stallion played an affirmative chord. Stile conjured ten pounds of fine oats for the equine repast, then stood abashed. He should not have used his magic here. But it seemed no one had been paying attention; maybe that was not the kind of spell the enemy was looking for. In due course he remounted, and they were off again. The strength of this unicorn was amazing; having run for hours and struggled to master a difficult new form, he was, after this brief respite, galloping at unreduced speed. Neysa and Clip were good unicorns, but neither could have maintained this velocity so long.
By nightfall the grim White Mountains were near. The Stallion had been moving toward them at a slant, northwest, circling the demesnes of the ogres. No need for any ogre trouble, this trip! Actually, Stile had settled with the ogres, establishing that he was not their enemy, but ogres were not too bright and there could still be trouble.
Now the sun was dropping below the horizon. The Stallion galloped along west, parallel to the mountain range, then stopped. Stile saw the guiding star to their north, showing them to the entrance to the goblins' somber nether world.
But the region was guarded. Goblins patrolled the cliff-like fringe of the mountain range. How could they get in?
Stile had the answer to that. He was larger than a goblin, but close enough so that some stooping in the dark should enable him to pass. He scraped up handfuls of dirt and rubbed it over his face and arms, then removed his clothing and coated his bare body too. Goblins wore little clothing; Stile's Proton underpants sufficed for a costume. Goblin feet and hands, however, were far larger than his own, while their limbs were shorter. Stile experimented and finally fashioned a framework for each foot from small branches and dirt, making his extremities seem goblin- sized. He did the same for his head. Magic would have been much easier for disguising himself, either physically or by means of illusion, but he did not dare use that here. He was facile with his hands and knew how to improvise; his head was actually expanded by a gross turban fashioned from his former clothing.
'Grotesque,' the Herd Stallion said, eyeing Stile in man-form. 'The human shape is ugly enough to begin with, but thou hast improved on it.'
'Just do thine own shape-change,' Stile said. 'And keep it stable.'
'I can but try,' the Stallion said grimly. He shifted back to 'corn-form, gathered himself, and phased down to bug-form. This roach was not handsome, but it did seem to be stable. Stile watched it take a step, moving all its legs on one side, followed by those on the other side. The thing trembled and started to expand, then got hold of itself and squeezed back into bug shape. It seemed it would hold.
Stile put down his open hand. The roach hesitated, then crawled on, moving clumsily. It evidently took special coordination to handle six legs, and it was hard for the Stallion to do this while hanging on to this awkward little size. Perhaps it was like juggling six balls in the air while walking a tightrope. As it happened, Stile had done such tricks in the past - but it had taken him time to master them. 'Just don't lose control and convert to equine form on my head,' Stile murmured as he set the roach on the framework he had wound there. 'Don't drop anything, either.'
The roach, catching the reference to droppings, began to shake with laughter. It expanded to triple roach size, emitted several little sparks, wrestled with itself, and recovered control. Stile decided not to make any more jokes.
The darkness was almost complete now. Stile nerved himself and walked forward, following the flash of light projected on the ground by his little guiding star. He hunched down as well as he could, making himself humpbacked and shorter. Stile was an experienced mimic, and this was another Game talent that served him in good stead now. He walked like a goblin, swung his arms like a goblin, and glared about like a goblin. Almost, he began to hate the world the way a goblin would.
