Trent caught Bink's look of apprehension. "Have you anything to say to me?" he inquired, as if routinely.
"Yes. How did they manage to exile you without getting turned into toads or turnips or worse?"
Trent frowned. "That was not precisely what I meant, Bink. But, in the interest of harmony, I will answer. An aide I trusted was bribed to put a sleep spell on me. While I slept, they carried me across the Shield."
"How do you know it won't happen again? You can't stay awake all the time, you know."
"I spent much time pondering that whole problem in the long early years of my exile. I concluded that I had brought the deception upon myself. I had been faithless to others, and so others were faithless to me. I was not entirely without honor; I breached my given word only for what I deemed to be sufficient cause, yet-"
"That's the same as lying" Bink said.
"I did not think so at the time. But I dare say my reputation in that respect did not improve in my absence; it is ever the privilege of the victor to present the loser as completely corrupt, thus justifying the victory. Nevertheless, my word was not my absolute bond, and in time I realized that this was the fundamental flaw in my character that had been my undoing. The only way to prevent repetition was to change my own mode of operation. And so I no longer deceive-ever. And no one deceives me."
It was a fair answer. The Evil Magician was, in many respects, the opposite of the popular image; instead of being ugly, weak, and mean-Humfrey fitted that description better-he was handsome, strong, and urbane. Yet he was the villain, and Bink knew better than to let fair words deceive him.
"Fanchon, stand forth," Trent said.
Fanchon stepped toward him; open cynicism on her face. Trent did not gesture or chant. He merely glanced at her with concentration.
She vanished.
A soldier swooped in with a butterfly net, slamming it down on something. In a moment he held it up--a struggling, baleful, lizardlike thing with wings.
It really was a basilisk! Bink quickly averted his eyes, lest he look directly at its horrible face and meet its deadly gaze.
The soldier dumped the thing into the cage, and another smoke-glass-protected soldier shoved on the lid. The remaining soldiers relaxed visibly. The basilisk scrambled around, seeking some escape, but there was none. It glared at the wire confinement, but its gaze had no effect on the metal. A third soldier dropped a cloth over the cage, cutting off the view of the little monster. Now Bink himself relaxed. The whole thing had obviously been carefully prepared and rehearsed; the soldiers knew exactly what to do.
"Bink, stand forth," Trent said, exactly as before.
Bink was terrified. But a comer of his mind protested: It's still a bluff. She's in on it. They have rigged it to make me think she was transformed, and that I'm to be next. All her arguments against Trent were merely to make her seem legitimate, preparing for this moment.
Still, he only half believed that. The omen lent it a special, awful conviction. Death hovered, as it were, on the silent wings of a moth hawk, close...
Yet he could not betray his homeland. Weak-kneed, he stepped forth.
Trent focused on him-and the world jumped. Confused and frightened, Bink scrambled for the safety of a nearby bush. The green leaves withered as he approached; then the net came down, trapping him. Remembering his escape from the Gap dragon, he dodged at the last moment, backtracking, and the net just missed him. He glared up at the soldier, who, startled, had allowed his smoked glasses to fall askew. Their gazes met-and the man tumbled backward, stricken.
The butterfly net flew wide, but another soldier grabbed it. Bink scooted for the withered bush again, but this time the net caught him. He was scooped inside, wings flapping helplessly, tail thrashing and getting its barb caught in the fabric, claws snarled, beak snapping at nothing.
Then he was dumped out. Two shakes, three, and his claws and tail were dislodged. He landed on his back, wings outspread. An anguished squawk escaped him.
As he righted himself, the light dimmed. He was in the cage, and it had just been covered, so that no one outside could see his face. He was a cockatrice.
Some demonstration! Not only had he seen Fanchon transformed, he had experienced it himself--and killed a soldier merely by looking at him. If there had been any skeptics in Trent's army, there would be none now.
He saw the curling, barbed tail of another of his kind. A female. But her back was to him. His cockatrice nature took over. He didn't want company.
Angrily he pounced on her, biting, digging in with his talons. She twisted around instantly, the muscular serpent's tail providing leverage. For a moment they were face to face.
She was hideous, frightful, loathsome, ghastly, and revolting. He had never before experienced anything so repulsive. Yet she was female, and therefore possessed of a certain fundamental attraction. The paradoxical repulsion and attraction overwhelmed him and he lost consciousness.
When he woke, he had a headache. He lay on the hay in the pit. It was late afternoon.
"It seems the stare of the basilisk is overrated," Fanchon said. "Neither of us died."
So it had really happened. "Not quite," Bink agreed. "But I feel a bit dead." As he spoke he realized something that had not quite surfaced before: the basilisk was a magical creature that could do magic. He had been an intelligent cockatrice who had magically stricken an enemy. What did that do to his theory of magic?
"Well, you put up a good fight," Fanchon was saying. "They've already buried that soldier. It is quiet like death in this camp now."
Like death-had that been the meaning of his omen? He had not died, but he had killed-without meaning to, in a manner completely foreign to his normal state. Had the omen been fulfilled?
Bink sat up, another realization coming. "Trent's talent is genuine. We were transformed. We really were."
"It is genuine. We really were," she agreed somberly. "I admit I doubted-but now I believe."
"He must have changed us back while we were unconscious."
"Yes. He was only making a demonstration."
"It was an effective one."
"It was." She shuddered. "Bink-I-I don't know whether I can take that again. It wasn't just the change. It was-"
"I know. You made a hell of an ugly basilisk."
"I would make a hell of an ugly anything. But the sheer malignancy, stupidity, and awfulness-those things are foul! To spend the rest of my life like that--"
"I can't blame you," Bink said. But still something nagged at his mind. The experience had been so momentous that he knew it would take a long time for his mind to sift through all its aspects.
"I didn't think anyone could make me go against my conscience. But this--this--" She put her face into her hands.
Bink nodded silently. After a moment he shifted the subject. "Did you notice--those creatures were male and female."
"Of course," she said, gaining control of herself now that she had something to orient on. "We are male and female. The Magician can change our forms but not our sexes."
"But the basilisks should be neuter. Hatched of eggs laid by roosters--there are no parent basilisks, only roosters."
She nodded thoughtfully, catching hold of the problem. "You're right. If there are males and females, they should mate and reproduce their own kind. Which means, by definition, they aren't basilisks. A paradox."
"There must be something wrong with the definition,'' Bink said. "Either there's a lot of superstition about the origins of monsters, or we were not genuine basilisks."
"We were genuine," she said, grimacing with renewed horror. "I'm sure now. For the first time in my life, I'm glad for my human form." Which was quite an admission, for her.
"That means Trent's magic is all-the-way real," Bink said. He doesn't just change the form, he really converts things into other things, if you see what I mean." Then the thing that had nagged at his mind before came clear. "But if magic fades outside Xanth, beyond the narrow magic band beyond the Shield, all we would have to do--"
"Would be to go into Mundania!" she exclaimed, catching on. "In time, we would revert to our proper forms. So it would not be permanent."
"So his transformation ability is a bluff, even though it is real," he said. "He would have to keep us caged right there, or we'd escape and get out of his power. He has to get all the way into Xanth or he really has very little power. No more power than he already has as General of his army-the power to kill."
"All he can get now is the tantalizing taste of real power," she said. "I'll bet he wants to get into Xanth!"
"But meanwhile, we're still in his power."
She set out the bricks, catching the limited sunlight. "What are you going to do?" she asked.
"If he lets me go, I'll travel on into Mundania. That's where I was headed before I was ambushed. One thing Trent has shown me--it is possible to survive out there. But I'll make sure to note my route carefully; it seems Xanth is hard to find from the other direction."
"I meant about the Shieldstone."
"Nothing."
"You won't tell him?"
"No, of course not," he said. "Now we know his magic can't really hurt us worse than his soldiers can, some of the terror is gone. Not that it matters. I don't blame you for telling him."
She looked at him. Her face was still ugly, but there was something special in it now. "You know, you're quite a man, Bink."
"No, I'm nothing much. I have no magic."
"You have magic. You just don't know what it is."
"Same thing."
"I followed you out here, you know."
Her meaning was coming clear. She had heard about him in Xanth, the traveler with no spell. She had known that would be no liability in Mundania. What better match-the man with no magic, the woman with no beauty. Similar liabilities. Perhaps he could get used to her appearance in time; her other qualities were certainly commendable. Except for one thing.
"I understand your position," he said. "But, if you cooperate with the Evil Magician, I won't have anything to do with you, even if he makes you beautiful. Not that it matters--you can get your reward in Xanth when he takes over, if he honors his given word this time."
"You restore my courage," she said. "Let's make a break for it."
"How?"
"The bricks, dummy. They're hard now. As soon as it's dark, we'll make a pile--"
"The grate keeps us in; its door is still locked. A step won't make any difference. If just getting up there were the only problem, I could lift you-"
"There is a difference," she murmured. "We pile the bricks, stand on them, and push the whole grate up. It's not anchored; I checked that when they brought us in here. Gravity holds it down. It's heavy, but you're strong--"
Bink looked up with sudden hope. "You could prop it up after I heave. Step by step, until-"
"Not so loud!" she whispered fiercely. "They may still be eavesdropping." But she nodded. "You've got the idea. It's not a sure thing but it's worth a try. And we'll have to make a raid on the store of elixir, so he can't use it even if someone else comes out to tell him where the Shieldstone is. I've been working it all out."
Bink smiled. He was beginning to like her.
At night they piled up the bricks. Some crumbled, for the scant sunlight had not been sufficient to bake them properly, but on the whole they were surprisingly sturdy. Bink listened carefully for the guards, waiting until they took what they called a "break." Then he stepped to the top of the brick pile, braced his hands against the edge of the grate and shoved.
As his muscles tightened, he suddenly realized that this was Fanchon's real reason for demanding the privacy curtain of the privy. It had not been to hide her unsightly anatomy, but to hide the bricks-so they would be preserved for this moment, this effort to escape. And he had never caught on.
The revelation gave him strength. He shoved hard-and the grate rose with surprising ease. Fanchon scrambled up beside him and jammed the privy pot under the lifted edge.
Ugh! Maybe some year someone would develop a pot that smelled of roses!
But it did the job. It supported the grate as he eased off. Now there was room to scramble out. Bink gave her a boost, then hauled himself up. No guards saw them. They were free.
"The elixir is on that ship," Fanchon whispered, pointing into the darkness.
"How do you know that?" Bink asked.
"We passed it on our way to the-transformation. It's the only thing that would be guarded so carefully. And you can see the catapult aboard it."
She had certainly kept her eyes open. Ugly she might be, but she was smart He hadn't thought to survey the premises with such an analytic eye!
"Now, getting that elixir will be a problem," she continued. "I think we'd better take the whole ship. Can you sail?"
"I've never been on anything bigger than a rowboat in my life, except maybe Iris's yacht, and that wasn't real. I'd probably get seasick."
"Me too," she agreed. "We're landlubbers. Sa they'll never look for us there. Come on."
Well, it was better than being changed into a cockatrice.
They crept down to the beach and entered the water. Bink looked back nervously--and saw a light moving toward the pit. "Hurry!" he whispered. "We forgot to put the grate back down; they'll know we're gone right away."
At least they were both reasonably good swimmers. They shed their clothing-what had happened to it during the transformations? Again, no explaining the details of magic-and stroked silently for the sailboat moored a quarter mile out. Bink was alarmed by the dark depths of the water beneath him; what type of monsters dwelled in Mundane seas?
The water was not cold, and the exertion of swimming helped warm him; but gradually Bink tired and felt chilled. Fanchon suffered similarly. The ship had not seemed far, viewed from land--but that had been walking distance. Swimming distance was quite another matter.
Then the hue and cry commenced back at the prison pit. Lights flared everywhere, moving around like fire-flies--but setting no fires. Bink had an infusion of new strength. "We've got to get there fast," he gasped.
Fanchon didn't answer. She was too busy swimming.
The swim was interminable. It drained strength from Bink, making him become more pessimistic. But at last they came up to the ship. A sailor was standing on the deck, a silhouette in the light of the moon, peering at the shore.
Fanchon drew close to Bink. "You go-other side," she gasped. "I-distract."
She had guts. The sailor might put an arrow in her. But Bink stroked laboriously around the keel, moving to the far side. The ship was about forty feet long, large by Xanth standards. But if any part of what Trent had said about Mundania was true, there were much larger ships there.
He reached up and put his fingers on the edge of the hull. He tried to think of the name of this portion of a ship's anatomy, but could not. He hoped there weren't other sailors watching. He had to haul himself up slowly over the gunwale-that was the name- as not to rock the boat.
Now Fanchon, with superlative timing, made a clamor, as of someone drowning. The sailors went to the rail-four of them in all-and Bink heaved himself up as silently as he could. He scraped, for his muscles felt leaden, unresponsive. His wet body slapped against the deck, and the ship tilted back a bit under his weight--but the sailors stood riveted to the other side, watching the show.
