Geis of the Gargoyle

by Piers Anthony

  “So it was you I saw at the door yesterday,” Iris said.

  “Of course it was, until I got overridden by a more recent memory,” Magpie said, helping her into the wonderful bath. “Sometimes I wonder just what adventures you're getting into, in your latter life.”

  That seemed to make sense of a sort. “But what is this place?” Iris asked as she luxuriated in the scented water.

  “Why are we being treated so well?”

  “I can give you only a partial answer,” Magpie said.

  “The chalet belongs to a young man of noble aspect named Arte Menia. You are being treated well because the cook likes you.”

  “But the cook doesn't know I am a Sorceress,” Iris protested. “And anyway, he's a demon, so he doesn't care about mortal women.”

  “Now there you are wrong, dear,” Magpie said as she scrubbed Iris' back. “Male demons can become quite intrigued by illusion-enhanced mortal women, and female demons can delight in seducing mortal men. Of course this is mostly casual byplay for them, as they seldom form lasting attachments.”

  “But Magpie, you—”

  “I happen to like maidens in distress,” the demoness replied. “They can lead interesting lives.”

  Iris was surprised. She had somehow taken Magpie for granted, before; it hadn't seemed unusual to have a demoness maidservant. “You have served other maidens?”

  “Many,” Magpie agreed. “Did I ever mention Rose of Roogna?”

  “No, you didn't.”

  “Good. It wouldn't have been proper.”

  When the bath was done, Iris rose and stood before the full-length mirror. She looked splendid. She knew 999 illusions, give or take a few, so normally used illusions the way artists used their rainbow of colored big hogments or little pigments, to give the viewer sights as beautifully rendered as fine paintings. In fact she regarded herself as an artist with illusions. But right now she didn't need any illusion. For this moment, here in the bathing chamber. Iris saw herself as young, healthy, slender, and with enough non-slenderness to be appealing to whatever man might better not be watching.

  “Venus rising from the sea,” Magpie murmured appreciatively. “It seems too bad to cover it up.” She nevertheless produced a lovely pair of p*nties and br*, and then an ornate robe.

  One of the children woke. “You put on what?” Surprise asked.

  “Undies,” Magpie said quickly. “Now go take your own bath.”

  That sobered the child in a hurry. But then Surprise had an idea. “Can we have another vegetable fight?”

  “May we,” Magpie said sternly.

  “May we?” The other children were waking now.

  “Have a fruit fight instead,” Magpie suggested, producing several soap bars in the shape of lemons, grapes, apples, cherries, and such. One was even in the form of a small explosive pineapple: the kind that acted just like a real pineapple, but on a harmless scale.

  The children gazed at those a bit suspiciously, suspecting that the fruits might be better at cleaning than at splatting. Then Magpie produced soap in the shape of a giant watermelon that would make a horrendous splash and get water all over everything outside the tub, and that decided the children. They grabbed the small soaps and rolled the big one. “Last one in's a rotten eggplant!”

  “I will watch them,” Magpie said. “You go on to meet Arte Menia now.”

  “Who?”

  “The master of the house. He returned from his long business trip last night, and learned of your presence, so you must make his acquaintance now. It would not be mannerly to remain in his house otherwise.”

  Indeed it would not; Iris had been brought up to be properly behaved, and this was integral to such behavior.

  “Where is he?”

  “Downstairs in the office foyer. He has some paperwork to catch up on.”

  So Iris gathered her elegant borrowed robe around her and tripped daintily down the stairs to the office foyer.

  There was a handsome young man sorting papers. “Excuse me,” she said. “I am the Sor—I am Iris.” Because some innate caution reminded her to maintain the secret of her identity. “I have been your—I stayed overnight.” She wasn't certain whether she counted as guest or scullery maid.

  The man stood. He had wavy brown hair and a small butt. “I am glad to meet you. Iris. I am Arte, master of this house. Rum told me you were beautiful, but he understated the case.”

  Iris blushed, for she was using no illusion at the moment, so was being complimented for her natural appearance. That was a rarity. “Thank you,” she said. “Rum has been most kind. The children and I were freezing in the storm, and he gave us food, shelter, and work to do.”

  “Yes, he's shorthanded,” Arte said. His eyes were shades of gray. “But you will not have to work any more.

  You are obviously a fine lady.” He took her hand in his, lifted it and kissed it. His hand and lips-were warm and firm.

  Iris felt such a thrill she almost swooned. What a noble man he was! She opened her mouth to say something responsive, but all that emerged was an embarrassing titter.

  “You must have breakfast with me,” Arte said, drawing her from the study toward the banquet hall. He seated her across from him with a flourish so that they could look into each other's eyes.

  Rum appeared. “What will it be this morning, master?” the demon asked.

  “The usual for me, and something that tries to approach the worthiness of the lady for her.”

  “Very good, sir.” Rum vanished.

  “But I can fetch my own—” Iris started.

  Arte put his firm hand on her trembling one. “I would not care to be deprived of the exquisite pleasure of your company for even a moment, now that I have met you.”

  He smiled, showing his even white teeth and half a dimple. Dazzled, she was afraid she was going to melt, which would be embarrassing.

  Rum reappeared with two steaming platters. “A fried dragon egg for you, master, with hedgehog bacon on the side, and a nuclear fruit for the lady.” He set them down and disappeared.

  Iris looked at the meal. She had never heard of anyone having dragon's eggs for breakfast routinely; they were not the easiest things to come by. Certainly a dragon's egg was considered to be the most manly breakfast available.

  As for hers—it looked good, being a cluster of flowerlike balls of scintillating circles and ellipses surrounding glowing spheres in the center. But she wasn't sure how to eat it.

  “Merely pop it in your mouth,” Arte recommended, divining her doubt. He lifted one of the bacon strips, which Iris recognized as deriving from the kind of pig that was made from the leaves of a certain type of hedge that often hogged the best soil of Xanth.

  Dubiously, she lifted one of the balls and put it in her mouth. And froze, awed by the experience. Because there was an immediate and extremely potent explosion of taste.

  It was the most delightful gustatory sensation she had ever experienced. She felt as if she was wafting across a field of roses and being buoyed by the exquisite scents.

  After a brief eternity or a very long instant she settled softly back to a semblance of reality. “Oh,” she breathed rapturously. “What is it?”

  “The fruit of the nuclear plant,” Arte said. “The plant detonates when taken from the ground, and the fruit taste explodes when eaten. It is considered a delicacy suitable for a lady, though admittedly unworthy of a lady as lovely and gracious as you.”

  “But it's by far the best-tasting fruit I've had,” she protested. “I've encountered nothing remotely like this before.”

  “Then you have been eating below your station.” He took a bite of his egg.

  Iris considered the rest of her plate. The fruits were of different colors, being green, blue, yellow, purple, and polka dot. She had eaten a red one, which had turned out to be rose-flavored. What experience awaited her with the other colors?

  She tried a yellow one. This time the explosion carried her into a realm of buttercups brimmin
g with the sweetest, creamiest butter, fragrant vanilla plants, and tangy lemon drops. She would have thought it the finest taste in all Xanth, had she not just experienced the rose flavor. As it was, she gave up trying to make comparisons and just let herself drift through the little slice of paradise.

  By the time Arte had finished his most manly egg and Iris had imbibed the last maidenly fruit, she was so pleasantly dizzy that everything seemed clothed in warm fuzz.

  “I must show you the premises,” Arte said, standing firmly.

  Iris tried to stand, but now felt so delicate she almost swooned. Fortunately he caught her in his manly strong arms before she fell. “But I see you are tired,” he said.

  “Let me take you to my room to lie down.”

  This made such perfect sense that she was more than satisfied to accept his guidance. Soon they were in his private room, which was even fancier than the one she and the children had used. It had an emperor-sized bed that looked wonderfully inviting.

  Then he kissed her. This was like nuclear fruit intensified. Her wits exploded into nothingness, and she completed the swoon she had started downstairs.

  In a moment, or perhaps two instants, she recovered.

  She found herself lying on the bed with Arte. Neither of them had any clothing on.

  “Oh,” she said with a maidenly gasp. “What happened?” For it occurred to her that something might have.

  She knew that women had a power men lacked: to signal a stork while asleep. Had she been so uncouth as to try that?

  “You said something about summoning the stork,” he said. “So I removed our clothing. But then it occurred to me that you were not wholly rational, so I waited.”

  “You mean you—we—didn't—?”

  “I apologize if you wished otherwise,” he said. “But I remembered that sometimes folk are not in their normal emotional state after eating nuclear fruit.”

  That was the understatement of the hour! She had been a third of the way freaked out with the pleasure of the fruit. She would have thought that he might take advantage of that state. But it seemed he hadn't. Her body, now that she thought about it, indicated that he hadn't.

  She might have been angry if he had. But now that she knew he hadn't, she had the opposite mood. She liked him even better. “Then let's do it now!” she said.

  “I thought you'd never ask,” he said.

  He put his arms around her, and she turned into him for another kiss. They drew close together.

  The door crashed open. Several children piled into the room. “There you are!” Surprise cried jubilantly.

  Iris barely had time to plunk an illusion blanket over their bare bodies. “Whatever are you up to?” she demanded, not entirely pleased by the intrusion. She suspected that Arte had a similar sentiment.

  “We finished our bath and now we're hungry,” Surprise said. “So we came looking for you. Who is that man in bed with you?”

  Arte glanced at the illusion blanket. His eyes narrowed significantly. Evidently he was catching on to the nature of her magic. But he did not make an issue of that at the moment. “I am Arte Menia, the master of this house. Who are you?”

  “They are the children I was traveling with,” Iris said quickly. “They are innocent waifs who mean no harm.”

  “Then let them get themselves down to the kitchen for their breakfast,” Arte said tersely.

  Iris drew the illusion blanket closely about her body as she sat up. “Go down to the kitchen; Rum will feed you,” she said.

  “Okay,” Surprise said. The children piled out, slamming the door behind them.

  “Now where were we?” Arte inquired, turning to her.

  Iris let the blanket dissolve. “We were about to address a stork, I think,” she said.

  “Yes, I believe you are correct.” He paused. “But tell me one thing: how did you make that blanket appear, saving us from a drastic violation of the Adult Conspiracy?”

  She had to tell him. “It's my talent. The blanket wasn't real. It's illusion. I—”

  “Your talent makes illusion blankets!” he said. “How fortunate for this occasion!”

  “Um, yes,” she agreed, that bit of caution still clinging to her. “What is your talent?”

  “To persuade others of my sincerity,” he said.

  “Persuasion?” she said, dimly alarmed. “You mean I don't really want to do this, but your magic makes me think I do?”

  He laughed. “By no means. I wish I had such a talent, for it would make me far more successful than I am. No, it is merely my sincerity I am persuasive about.”

  “Isn't that the same thing?”

  “It is not. I'll make a demonstration.” He looked at her.

  “We can summon ten storks at once.”

  Iris laughed. “That's impossible!”

  “True. I was unable to persuade you that it was. But do you believe that I would sincerely like to do it?”

  She considered. “Yes, I believe you would like to.”

  “So you believe in my sincerity, not in the impossible. That is the distinction.”

  She nodded. “Now I understand. You can make me believe in your feeling, but not in the validity of what you may propose.”

  “Yes. So I can make you believe that I sincerely desire to summon the stork with you, but I can't make you believe that you want to summon the stork with me.”

  “That's a relief,” she said. “Because I do want to do some summoning with you, and I'd hate to think it wasn't a real desire.” She lay down again by him, and kissed him.

  “I think I have looked all over Xanth for a woman like you,” he said dreamily, “and here you show up by chance at my house. I bless the storm that caused you to blunder here.” His competent hand ran across her back and down to her—

  The door burst open again. There was Surprise. “I finished breakfast,” she announced, “and dashed back here so I could see what you were doing.”

  Iris barely had time to conjure the illusion blanket to get unbare. “We aren't doing anything,” she said, frustrated.

  “But we would like to be,” Arte added.

  “Let me see,” Surprise said. It was evident that she had some faint suspicion that there might be a Conspiracy thing going on, and like all children, she was insatiably curious about it. She walked into the room and reached for the blanket.

  “I really would prefer that you not do that,” Arte said.

  The child paused. “Oh. Sorry.”

  Iris realized that Surprise had not distinguished between sincerity and possibility. She hadn't separated his desire from hers. That was fortunate, because if she grabbed for the blanket, it would be something else she got hold of.

  But the child wasn't out of incidental mischief. “What's this?” she asked, heading for Arte's pile of clothes.

  “Don't touch that!” the man cried, sincerely alarmed.

  But it seemed that he forgot to use his talent to persuade Surprise of that.

  “Don't touch what?” she asked. “This?” She picked up what looked like a miniature fat barrel on a string. It must have fallen out of Arte's pocket when he dumped his clothing down with flattering haste.

  “Yes, that!” Arte shouted, reaching for it.

  The child backed up just far enough to remain out of his reach. That was another incidental talent all children had.

  She looked at the trinket. “Why?”

  “Because it's mine!” Arte rasped. He lurched off the bed so suddenly that Iris had to make a hasty illusion of a towel wrapped around his middle, lest an awful breach of Conspiracy occur. He grabbed for the object.

  Surprise backed up another step. “Say 'please,' “ she said, imitating the obnoxious lessons of adults on manners.

  “You little &&&&!” Arte said, definitely breaching the Conspiracy. The air wavered in an expanding dirty pattern, appalled, and the stench of brimstone wafted out. “Give it to me!”

  Surprise scooted around to the side, leaving him lumbering into the
wall. She joined Iris. “Is it fun on the bed?” she asked innocently.

  “Well, it was about to be,” Iris said. “Please go back to the kitchen, and we will join you there in a while.” She did not dare express her reason for wanting privacy.

  Arte caromed off the wall, reoriented, and came after Surprise again. “Give it to me!” he repeated mindlessly.

  The child ducked and zipped past him, holding her closed fist aloft. But this time he was more alert. He turned on a dimepede that had the misfortune to wander out from under the bed at that moment, and leaped after her. His lunge was so strong that something flew up from the floor and landed on the bed. But Surprise was already going out the door. “Nyaa nyaa,” she said, being definitely ill behaved, and slammed the door in his face.

  Arte wrenched the door open and plowed after her. Iris watched them go, bemused. This had certainly showed her another side of suave Arte, and not just his hind section, which she had forgotten to cover with illusion. The thing about an illusion towel was that it didn't have to be complete to stay in place; just the front half would do. Why did the man care so much about a stupid ugly little trinket that he would use a forbidden word and chase after a child, clad only in half an illusion? Iris wasn't much concerned about Surprise, who could be uncommonly evasive when she had a mind to be, but about Arte, whose body she had been about to clasp. What could be more compelling to a man than stork summoning? Why hadn't he simply let the child play with it awhile in another room, being distracted until there was a chance to complete their business with the stork?

  She looked at the thing that had landed on the bed. It was a sock. Arte had kicked up one of his socks as he charged after Surprise. She picked it up and twisted it into a knot, reflectively. But it smelled, so she stuffed it under the pillow.

  Well, it seemed that her liaison was doomed for now.

  She would speak most firmly to Surprise about that, at a later time. But now there was nothing to do but get up and get dressed, because even if Arte returned soon, the mood had definitely soured. She abolished the illusion blanket, and stared. For there was the trinket under it.