a mere courtyard. And the north wall lacked its upper courses; the huge stones stair-stepped down in the center, and the round support tower was incomplete.
A herd of centaurs was laboring on this section, using hoists and massive cables and sheer brute force to draw the blocks to the top. They worked with somewhat less efficiency and conviction than Dor would have expected, based on his knowledge of the centaurs of his own day. They looked rougher, too, as if the human and equine sections were imperfectly joined. Dor was reminded that not only had new species risen in eight hundred years, the old ones had suffered refinement.
Dor marched up to the centaur supervisor, who stood outside the moat, near a crude wooden scaffold supporting the next block to be hoisted. He was sweating as he trotted back and forth, calling out instructions to the pulley crew, trying to maneuver the stone up without cracking into the existing wall. Horseflies buzzed annoyingly about his hindquarters-not the big flying-horse variety, but the little horse-biting variety. They buzzed off quickly when Jumper came near, but the centaur didn't notice.
'Uh, where is King Roogna?' Dor inquired as the centaur paused to give him a harried glance.
'Go find him yourself!' the surly creature retorted brusquely. 'Can't you see we're busy here?'
The centaurs of Dor's time were generally the soul of courtesy except when aroused. One notable exception was 'Uncle Chester,' sire of Dor's centaur playmate Chet. This centaur supervisor was reminiscent of Chester, and the other members of this herd resembled him too. Chester must have been a throw-back to this original type: ugly of facial feature, handsome of posterior, powerfully constructed, surly of disposition, yet a creature of sterling qualities once his confidence was won.
Dor and his party retreated. This was obviously not the occasion to bug the centaurs. 'Stone, where is King Roogna?' Dor inquired of a section of a block that had not yet been transported across the moat.
'He resides in a temporary hut south of here,' the stone responded.
As Dor had suspected. There would have to be a lot more work on the Castle before it was habitable for a King, though in the event of war the inner court should be safe enough for camping. No one would choose to live there while the centaurs were hoisting massive rocks about.
They went south. Dor was tempted to make a detour to the spot where his cottage cheese existed in his own day, but resisted; there would be nothing there.
They came across a hut adapted from a large pumpkin, set in a small but neat yard. A solid, graying man in soiled shorts was contemplating a chocolate cherry tree while chewing on the fruit: evidently a gardener sampling the product. The man hailed them without waiting for an introduction: 'Welcome, travelers! Come have a cherry while they are available.'
The three stopped. Dor plucked a cherry and found it excellent: a delicious outer coating of sweet brown chocolate, a firm cherry exterior with a liquid center. Millie liked the fruit too. 'Better than candied cave-lice,' she opined. Jumper was too polite to demur, but evidently had another opinion.
'Pretend it is a swollen tick,' Dor suggested in a low voice. The spider waved a foreleg, acquiescing.
'Well, let's try it again,' the gardener said. 'I'm having some difficulty with this one.' He concentrated on the tree.
Nothing happened.
'Are you trying to do a spell?' Dor inquired, plucking another cherry. 'To add fertilizer to it, or something?'
'Um, no. The centaurs provide plenty of fertilizer. As a matter of fact-' The man's eyes widened, startled. 'Hold that cherry a moment, sir, if you please. Don't bite into it.'
Dor paused, cherry near mouth. The first had been so good, he was a bit put out to have the gardener deny him the second so arbitrarily. He looked at the fruit. It lacked the chocolate covering, and its surface was bright red and hard. 'I won't,' he agreed. 'This must be a bad one.' He flipped it away.'
'Don't-' the man cried, too late. 'That's a-'
There was an explosion nearby. Millie screamed. The noise was deafening, and heat blasted at them.
All four of them stumbled to the side, away from the blast.
The concussion subsided. Dor looked around dazedly. There was a wisp of smoke rising from the vicinity of the explosion. 'What was that?' Dor asked, shaken. He discovered he had his sword in hand, and put it away self-consciously.
'The cherry bomb you threw,' the gardener said. 'Lucky you did not bite into it.'
'The cherry-that was a chocolate cherry, from this-' Dor looked at the tree. 'Why, those are cherry bombs, now! How-?'
'This must be King Roogna,' Millie offered. 'We didn't recognize him.'
Nonplused, Dor worked it out. He had pictured King Roogna as a man somewhat like King Trent, polished, intelligent, commanding of demeanor, a man nobody would care to take lightly. But of course the folklore of eight hundred years would clothe the Magician in larger-than-life grandeur. It was not a person's appearance that counted in Xanth, it was his magic talent. So this pudgy, informal, gardener-type man with the gentle manner and thinning, graying hair and sweaty armpits, unprepossessing-this could indeed be the King. 'This tree-he changed it from chocolate cherry to cherry bomb-Magician King Roogna's talent was adapting magic to his purpose-'
'Was?' the King inquired, raising a dust-smeared eyebrow.
Dor had been thinking of the historical figure, who was of course contemporary in the tapestry world. 'I, uh, is. Your Majesty. I-' He started to bow, changed his mind in midmotion, started to kneel, changed his mind again, and found himself dissolving in confusion.
The King set a firm, friendly hand on his shoulder. 'Be at ease, warrior. Had I desired obeisance, I would nave made it known at the outset. It is my talent that sets me apart, rather than my office. In fact, my office is insecure at the moment. My troops are all on furlough because we have no quarters yet for them, and
