The Dastard (28 page)

“This would be an unhappening of the breaking of a rule, so that it never happened.”

“You must not either break the rule or unhappen it. That's the truce.” Actually the deal was to allow magic if the other party agreed. But it was obvious that Melody would agree to nothing. There might not be enough googollies in all the universe to give the man any chance.

The Dastard shrugged, seeming unperturbed. “Have it your way. What's there to eat?”

Melody waved a hand nonchalantly. “Anything you want.”

“Anything?”

She flushed, for a reason Becka did not understand. Evidently the Dastard had blown yet another nonexistent chance. “Shoefly pie, then,” she said abruptly. “Made from the best flying shoes.” She led the way to the dining room.

They had shoefly pie. “It's good,” the Dastard said.

“Thank you.” But ice almost crackled off the words.

“I was making a statement of fact, not complimenting you.” Worse yet.

“That's good. I didn't want your compliment.”

“Then why did you thank me?”

“I was being polite.”

“Isn't that the same as lying?”

She flushed again. “I apologize for lying.”

The Dastard had scored, but not in any way he wanted. If only the princely clothing had brought a princely manner! Yet he still seemed unbothered. Maybe he simply didn't realize what a disaster this was. “Let's go open that door.”

“What door?”

“You know which one.” His eyes flicked toward it.

“No! That door must not be opened.”

The Dastard considered. “Suppose we contest for it?”

“Suppose we do what?”

“We can play a game of some sort. If I win, we open the door.”

“No !”

“Aren't you curious about what's there?”

“No !”

“Isn't that a lie?”

Once more she flushed. The man simply didn't realize that catching Melody in trifling nuances of deception would never make her warm to him. Social etiquette was fashioned of complimentary deceptions. “Not curious enough.”

He shrugged. “Then let's play for other stakes. If I win, you kiss me.”

“No !”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Nothing!”

“So shall we just sit here for six more hours and do nothing, leaving our problem unsolved?”

Melody angled her head, studying him. “You spoke of what I would have to do, or allow to be done, if you won a contest. What if you lose?”

“Name your penalty.”

“You will leave Xanth and never return.”

The Dastard considered. “There's a flaw.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could agree, but since I have no conscience, I wouldn't keep my word.”

“Then you wouldn't keep your word to make no more mischief if you married me.”

“I'm not giving my word for that. I'm just saying that I wouldn't have any inclination to make mischief, because I would already have what I want, and I would have some conscience.”

“I don't trust that.”

He shrugged. “Do you have a better idea?”

“No! Maybe I'll just have to take your worthless word.”

“About what?”

“About leaving Xanth forever if you lose the game.”

“Very well. What game?”

“We invented one to go with the castle, sort of. Will you play it?”

“Yes, if the terms are right.”

“If you lose, you leave Xanth. If you win, I'll kiss you. Once.”

“You kissed me before,” he reminded her.

“That was when the Sea Hag was Possessing me. Now I'm in charge of myself. It's different.”

He considered. “No. A kiss isn't enough. I want to marry you.”

“No !”

“Then I want to open the door.”

“All right! I win, you leave Xanth. You win, we open the door.”

So he had neatly maneuvered her into making his deal of the moment. But did he have any plan to win their larger contest? Becka couldn't see any.

“Agreed. What's the game?”

“It's called Swamp Road. It's like tic-tac-toe, only different.”

“Show me.”

She fetched a sheet of paper, a pencil, and an eraser from the castle supplies. Her hands in the cupboard made Becka feel ticklish, but she couldn't laugh. “Here's a small sample diagram. We play it on larger ones, but this will show the way.” She sketched it lightly. “This is the neighboring village, where some of the castle servants live. It is laid out in a square or oblong in a swampy area. There are nine houses, with fourteen dirt roads connecting them to each other, so they can visit each other freely. When it rains, water runs over the roads, but usually doesn't hurt them. Still, it's a nuisance, and they worry about heavy rains. None of them want to be isolated by having their roads wash out, preventing them from visiting others. So when a road-paver comes, one of them may have a road paved to a neighboring house so it won't wash away.”

“This is a game?”

“Yes. I'm giving the background. When one resident paves a road, that makes the water flow less freely through the swamp at that point, so the water level rises. That washes out one of the remaining dirt roads. The homeowners panic, and pave over another road so that it won't wash away. But that makes the water rise still higher, and another dirt road washes out. The homeowners are afraid that if they don't hurry, some of them will get cut off from the rest and be isolated. That would be awful. It would mean that the swamp had defeated them.”

“So what's the game?”

“One player is the paver. The other is the swamp, or the washer, we call it. They take turns: First the paver paves one road, then the swamp washes out one. If the game ends with all the houses still connected, however deviously, the paver wins; if any house or houses are isolated, the swamp wins. We mark the paved roads by darkening a line between houses; we mark a washout by drawing two lines across a road, like a ditch.” She demonstrated, darkening one line and making a gap in another.

“That's it?”

She smiled grimly. “It's enough to make a good game. Let's walk through it once on the sample diagram; then we can play a serious game.”

“But just darkening lines, or erasing them on paper is dull.”

“We can make it seem real, via illusion, if you wish.”

“Yes. Reality by illusion.”

Melody hummed a tune. The surface of the table expanded enormously, until it was the size of a village, and they were standing at its edge. Rain was drizzling down on a grid of dirt roads. At each intersection was a little thatch house. There were nine houses, with the roads between them forming four squares. There were also two diagonal roads, bisecting the grid from northeast to southwest, but no diagonals from northwest or southeast. There was a total of fourteen roads. Becka was impressed again; it did look real. Some of the houses even had gardens, and toys outside, as if there were children.

“Here's how to pave a road,” Melody said. She took a wand that appeared in her hand and stroked it along the road's surface. Immediately the road became hard and raised. “You can pave only an existing dirt road; most diagonal routes don't exist. And here's how to wash one out.” She used the wand to make two strokes crossing the road. A ditch appeared, with water coursing through it. “Now you try it.” She handed the wand to the Dastard.

He used it to pave another road, and to wash out one. “That's easy enough. But I want to see how the game actually plays.”

“Yes.” Melody took back the wand and stroked it across the paves and ditches, and they disappeared. “We can play as many practice games as you want. They generally favor the paver. Do you prefer to pave?”

“No. I prefer unhappening things.”

They walked through a game, with Melody paving and the Dastard washing. In the end, he succeeded in isolating one house on the corner. “So you see, that's your win,” Melody said. “But I could have prevented you.”

“I'm ready,” the Dastard said. “Let's play a larger game.”

“But there are tricks. You'll be at a disadvantage.”

“No I won't. I understand this game.”

She shrugged. “If you're sure.” She waved the wand, and a larger grid appeared, four houses square, with twenty-nine roads connecting them.

“Larger.”

She waved the wand again, and a grid of twenty-five houses appeared, with a total of forty-seven roads. The Dastard nodded.

“Let's review the terms,” the princess said. “If I win, you agree to leave Xanth. If you win, we open the forbidden door.”

“Yes.”

She hesitated. “But you may renege, because you have no soul, and therefore no conscience.”

“Yes.”

“So why should I make any such deal?”

“Because you hope that I might honor the deal if I lose, and you're curious about what's in that chamber if you lose.”

Melody flushed again, meaning that he had scored again. He was clearly smart enough. “All right, let's do it.”

They started playing the game. Becka couldn't tell who had the advantage, so she did what they couldn't: She indulged her girlish curiosity. She looked inside the forbidden room without opening the door. It was part of the castle, and she was the castle, and could see anywhere within it.

The chamber was empty except for a manlike figure standing in the center, facing the door. Across the back of his shirt was printed the word FACTOR. That was all.

Becka couldn't make sense of it. This was no terrifying sight. There was no dragon or bug-eyed monster or other horrendous creature. Just this standing man-thing named Factor. Why should the princesses be so wary of him?

She returned her attention to the game. The castle was as it had been before, but the chamber with the game seemed to be as big as all the rest of it, with the rain and marsh. That illusion was remarkable. The two people were even getting wet in the drizzling rain.

The Dastard washed out a road. Melody paved one to maintain the connection to a house that was threatened with isolation. He washed out another. She went to pave another--and paused, horrified. “Oh, no!”

Becka looked. There were two houses at risk, and only one of them could be saved. The Dastard was winning.

Melody paved. The Dastard washed. And it was done. He had won.

Melody clapped her hands. The illusion vanished. They were standing in the castle chamber, looking at the grid on the table. Both were dry again, as if never wet by the rain. It did not change the fact that the Dastard had won.

“Maybe you'd rather have a kiss?” the princess inquired. Becka could not be certain whether this was sarcastic.

“No. Open the door.”

“I really don't think this is wise.”

“I don't care.”

She spread her hands. “This way.”

They went to the forbidden chamber. Melody produced a key, put it in the lock, turned it, and hesitated. “You're sure?”

“Yes.” The Dastard jammed in beside her and pushed open the door.

They stood side by side, looking in. “It's the Factor,” Melody said, shuddering. “The Random Factor.”

Now Becka saw that the front of the man-thing's shirt said RANDOM. Still, what did it mean?

“So what?” the Dastard asked.

“There's absolutely no predicting what he will do. It can be anything, but surely something significant. And we can't stop it.”

Hence the name, Becka realized. A random factor could not be anticipated.

“This is all?” the Dastard asked, a sneer in his tone.

The figure raised his arms, pointing at the two in the doorway. There was a flash of magic. Then the door slammed shut and the Factor became inert.

Becka was mystified. As consequences went, it didn't seem like much.

Princess Melody and the Dastard stared at each other with strange expressions. Something had definitely happened--but what?

The Dastard stared at Princess Melody. She was lovely, and he sincerely appreciated that, but that wasn't what bothered him. He was feeling something weird, and it was somehow associated with her.

She was staring back at him, her expression changing from horrified to smug. “Do you know something? I feel better now that the Random Factor has struck and not accomplished anything. I was afraid he would turn us into toads or something.”

“He didn't do that,” the Dastard said. “But he did something. I can feel it.”

“I can't feel anything. And you know what? I don't care. Let's go up to the bedroom and have some wicked fun.”

He stared at her with downing horror. “Melody, what has happened to you?”

“Nothing! I'm just coming to my senses. Here we've been pussyfooting around, playing stupid swamp games, when we could have been having some real sport.”

“I don't understand.”

She shot him an arch glance. “Yes you do. I mean chasing storks.”

“But you don't want to do that.”

“The %%%% I don't! So are you coming, or do I have to start without you?” She caught the hem of her gown and lifted it enough to show a fair ankle.

“But Melody, this is against everything you stand for. What of your princessly honor?”

“Princesses lead pretty dull lives. Now get your donkey in gear and go to the bedroom.”

“How can you swear? How can you suggest such a thing?”

“Are you suddenly turning prudish on me, Das? Is that what the Factor did to you?”

“No. I'm not sure what he did. I just know that this is not right.”

“~ ~ ~ ~!” she snapped. “I sure misjudged you. I thought you were a man.” She drew her gown up enough to show a fair knee.

He stared at her with burgeoning horror. “You have been taken over again by the Sea Hag!”

She burst out laughing. “The Sea Hag! Ludicrous. I wouldn't let that wizened old fraud near my luscious body. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Your swearing. Your attitude. That's the way she is.”

Melody considered. “Well, maybe she's got a point. Certainly I learned some useful words from her, and what she doesn't know about the power of panties isn't worth laundering. Why honor foolish restrictions? But she's not here. For all I care, she can stay plugged up forever.”

He peered at her. “She's really not there?”

“What the #### do you care, Das? I can do anything with my body she could have. Here, I’ll show you.” She put the other hand to her blouse and tore it halfway asunder.

“This--this is beyond my understanding,” the Dastard said, his left eyeball glazing. “I can't think what happened to you.”

The princess paused. A bulb flashed over her head. “Well, I can. Suddenly it's obvious.”

“What is obvious?” Actually there was an answer: the left half of her bosom, as he faced her, or her right side as she would see it. Fortunately his right eye remained free. But he was pretty sure she wasn't talking about that.

She smiled smirkily. “You don't get it, do you, Das?”

That was because it was out of reach, and he was not about to step forward. But again, that wasn't what she meant. “Don't get what?”

“What the Random Factor did to us.”

“No, I don't get it. This makes no sense, and it appalls me.”

“Well, you asked for it, idiot,” she said.

“Asked for what?” He remained baffled, but deeply concerned. He wished she would restore her décolletage.

“Well, I'll tell you, moron. He exchanged our souls.”

“But I have no soul.”

“Now you do, dummy. You've got mine. And you know something? I feel better off without it.”

“I have your soul?” he repeated blankly. But as he spoke, he realized it was true. Suddenly he cared about things like decency and fairness and justice. That was why he suddenly had compunction about taking advantage of her offer. He had a conscience. And it was evident that Melody did not. “Oh, no!”

“Why the $$$$ not? I never appreciated what a relief it would be to lack a soul.”

“But we can't have exchanged souls, exactly,” he said, troubled on another score.

“Why not?”

“Because it would be a one-way exchange. How can you exchange something for nothing?”

“Well, we did. You have a conscience now, and I don't.”

Then a bulb flashed over his head. “Our magic talents! Did they exchange too?”

“Let's find out.” She hummed. Nothing happened. She hummed louder. Still there was no result. “I've lost my talent!” she cried, alarmed.

The Dastard hummed, thinking of an illusion. It formed: a pretty flower in mid-air. “I have your magic.”

“Then what the &&&& do I have?” she demanded irritably.

“You must have my talent, which I originally traded for my soul. We traded souls and talents. You must be able to unhappen things.”

“This is weird,” she said. “But interesting.”

“Don't try to use it!” he said. “Careless use can be dangerous.”

“Dangerous to whom?” she inquired.

“To anyone! To you. There are special aspects.”

“Well, I'll risk it,” she said. “It promises to be fun.” She eyed him speculatively. “I suddenly realize that there's an aspect of experience I need to catch up on. If you don't want to go to the bedroom, we can do it right here.” She ripped her blouse the rest of the way.

The Dastard realized that something had to be done immediately. His conscience would not permit him to do any such thing with her. But how could he stop her from ripping off the rest of her clothing? He couldn't even see her clearly; now both eyeballs were glazed. What a torso she had!

The Random Factor! It had made the switch; it could make it back. The Dastard wrenched his eyes clear and ran for the door, which remained unlocked, and turned the knob. He shoved the door.

“No you don't!” Melody cried, leaping to intercept him. But she was too late; the door swung open.

The Factor was there. It pointed at them--and the scene changed. It became completely weird. The door slammed shut, but they were somewhere else.

The Dastard looked around. It was clear that the Factor had not exchanged them back, for he still cared about decency, motherhood, and apple pie-but what had it done? He could not make sense of what he saw.

“Oh, goody!” the princess said with heavy irony. “It's a comic strip! Are you proud of yourself, you blithering idiot?”

“It's a what?”

“From Ptero, you numbskull. Between major residential sections are strips of the puns and characters that are too awful to allow elsewhere. We're in for it now.”

“Puns?” he asked blankly.

“You don't know what a pun is? Where have you been all your life?”

“I know what a pun is. But what has that to do with this?”

“You'll see. I'm getting out of here.” She turned and tried to flee from wherever they were, meanwhile drawing the tatters of her blouse up to cover her front. She was evidently too concerned about this new problem to waste time dazzling him at the moment.

But she was blocked by several odd figures. One was an animated stick bent into the shape of a capital R. It looked exceedingly old and worn, and was of antique design. It moved threateningly, and she retreated from it.

“What is it?” the Dastard asked, trying to come to her rescue.

“Don't you recognize it, you ninny? It's an R-cane.”

“An arcane stick?”

“It will make me look obscure!” Indeed, the cane was trying to fit itself to her hand, so that she would have to use it.

“Oh--a pun,” he said, finally catching on. As he did so, the R-cane came to his hand, and he found himself feeling rather obscure and esoteric. That didn't bother him. “It's not so bad.”

She did not deign to answer. Instead she tried to run in another direction. But there she encountered a woman in a strange outfit.

“Get out of my way, weirdy!” Melody snapped. Somehow she seemed less endearing than before.

“I know where your soul is,” the woman said.

Could she help? “Who are you?” the Dastard asked.

“My name is Voyant. Claire Voyant. I know where things are.”

“Do you know how to exchange souls back?”

“No, of course not. That's a process, not a thing.”

“Do you know the fastest way out of this comic strip?” Melody asked.

“No. That's another process, not a thing.”

“Then to ££££ with you,” Melody said, and plunged on.

“She's bit impatient at the moment,” the Dastard explained apologetically. The princess' nice soul was making him a nicer person than he had ever been, and now he valued courtesy. Then he thought of something else: “Do you know where there is a person who will know how to undo recent damage?”

“That would be the Funct.”

“Who?”

“The Demon Funct. He can shut anything down.”

The Dastard realized that this would be D. Funct,“ another pun. He was beginning to appreciate why Melody disliked the comic strip. Still, if the demon could make the soul exchange defunct, that should help. ”Where is the demon?"

“The far side of Xanth.”

Oh. That was not much help. “Thank you,” he said, and went on after Melody.

She was conversing with a female centaur. No, as he caught up, he discovered that the dialogue was all one way; the centaur was talking so steadily that no one else could squeeze a word in. “I just love to talk, and I never stop,” she was saying. She proceeded to prove it by not stopping.

He noticed that she had a really fine bare bosom, even for a centaur. It was almost enough to make his eyeballs crystallize; they had already been roughed up by Melody's brief exposure. She noticed his noticing, and was not affronted; centaurs were extremely nonchalant about bodies. “I do have a fine bust, don't I? That's why my name is the Filly Buster.” She went right on talking about other things. It didn't seem to matter to her what she talked about, as long as she never gave another person a chance to speak. It seemed to him that her name should reflect her talkativeness, but evidently centaur naming conventions were different.

By this time the Dastard was almost as eager to get out of the comic strip as the princess was. Puns were all right in their place, but enough was enough.

They lunged onward. They came to a region where pans were lying on the floor so thickly that it was hard to avoid stepping on them. Many were battered and dirty, and some were rusted. “Dead pans,” Melody muttered with disgust. “Thrown away; this must be the pan graveyard.”

The Dastard saw that many of the pans were labeled. One rather sick looking one said DEMIC, a nervous looking one said IC, and a tasty looking one said CAKE. He realized that these were yet more puns: pandemic, panic, and pancake. There was a flowery one labeled SY, and a half digested one labeled CREAS, a mind boggling one labeled TY, an elegant one labeled ACHE, and a very fancily illustrated one labeled ORAMA. After that he stopped looking, just trying to get past this region.

But it wasn't any better beyond the pans. There was a series of gaps in the clutter, but as he passed through them, each flashed a scene of something disgusting. “What are these?” he asked as he caught up to the princess.

“Inter-lewds, of course,” she said, making him feel stupid. “Do they give you any hot ideas?” She made as if to tear off her blouse again, but moved on when he turned away.

The lewds gave way to a proliferation of paths. They twisted everywhere, like so many wriggling worms. “Maybe one of these paths leads out,” he said.

“But which one?” she demanded, frustrated. To be soulless, he realized, was not to be without emotion, but the emotions tended to be shallow and selfish. As he had been.

He saw a ghoul sitting on a pile of ashes between several of the paths. “Can you tell us which path goes out of here?” the Dastard inquired.

“Tell a path,” the ghoul ash replied tastefully.

“Tell a path what?”

“Read its mind.”

The Dastard had the sick feeling that he had fallen into another pun. He forged on, determined to win free of this punishment.

Melody almost fell into a ragged hole in the floor. The Dastard caught her arm just in time to pull her back from the brink. “Let go of me, dope!” she snapped.

“But you were about to fall into the chasm.”

“Can't you see it's a micro-chasm? I can step right over it.”

Oh. He had been snared by a very small pun this time.

Ahead was a young pretty woman with no clothing. She wore a placard saying PEN NAME. “Look, a nymph!” the Dastard said, interested. The sight of nymphs did not freak men out in the same manner as the flesh of real women did, but they were fun to watch.

“No she isn't,” Melody said. She swept her hand through the figure, and there was no contact: it was illusory. It was a pseudo nymph.

Was there no end to this? They struggled onward. Now he heard a kind of tapping or beeping, with some long beeps and some short ones. Overall, the sound was very sad, as though generated by an extremely regretful person. “What is that?” he asked.

“Isn't it obvious? That's remorse code.”

She had made him feel like an idiot again. Obviously she had had prior experience with comic strips, and knew how they operated.

They came to a female ogre. The ogress was huge and hairy. “Me fork for stork,” she said eagerly.

A sex-crazed ogress? “What's your name?” he asked.

She pulled out a plaque with her name. It said ViOgra.

The Dastard didn't even try to fathom the pun, if there was one. He moved on.

“At last!” Melody said. “Something useful.” She was looking at several girls running by in their underwear. The Dastard was immediately freaked out by the sight of all those panties, but he did see that they had printing on them.

He managed to get out a question. “What are these?”

“News briefs, of course,” she said witheringly.

He read the print on each panty as it flashed by: DON'T BE LOST DON'T YOU POUT JUST BE HAPPY THIS WAY OUT!

They followed the last panty, and suddenly they were back in the castle, free of the comic strip. They were next to the forbidden chamber; either they had not gone anywhere in the comic strip, or had circled around to their starting place. The Dastard collapsed to the floor, breathing hard. What an experience!