Harpy Thyme (22 page)

They entered, as the door was open. They passed through a cavelike labyrinth of passages and emerged in a great central chamber that seemed to take up most of the building, extending right up to the dome. There were tiers of benches all around, making the chamber resemble a monstrous covered bowl.

And there, lying curled on the floor, was a giant, asleep. So the rumors had been true after all.

“How did he get in here?” Gloha asked. “He's way too big for the passage we used.”

“He must have lifted up the lid and stepped in,” Marrow conjectured. “Perhaps he was looking for a dry place to sleep.”

“As we are,” Trent agreed. “Let's hope he is friendly.”

“I suppose we had better find out,” Gloha said. “Maybe we should wake him, and if he tries to eat us, you can transform him into something harmless.”

“Agreed,” Trent said.

They advanced cautiously on the sleeping creature. They stood by his ear. The air near him was foul, and Gloha realized that it was his putrid breath. But maybe they could stay clear of the giant, once they ascertained his nature.

“Giant,” she said carefully into the ear. “Please wake up and tell us whether you are friendly to regular folk.”

The giant snorted. The air grew even worse. His eyes opened. He turned his head on the ground and peered at them. “Oh, hello,” he said, his breath nearly knocking them over both by its physical force and its stench. “I am Graeboe Giant.”

“Graeboe!” Gloha gasped. “I met your brother!”

“I don't have a brother,” he protested.

“Greatbow,” she said, trying her brave little best not to choke impolitely. “He said you were ailing.”

“Ah, my cousin! Yes, I have an unconscionable malady, and can no longer maintain my invisibility. I did not realize you were here, or I would not have intruded upon you. My apology. I shall depart, for I know my presence is uncomfortable for normal folk.”

“No, we intruded on you,” she protested. “You were here first. We should be the ones to go.”

“As you wish,” he said. “Stand back, please, for I shall now lift my head.”

They retreated as the giant lifted his head and propped it with a hand. He was too big to sit up in the building. It was obvious that Graeboe was not unfriendly. But his breath-!

Marrow met them at the edge of the passage out. “I have just checked the exterior,” he announced. “It is raining canines and felines, and lightning is striking every available target. I think it will not be convenient to depart these premises for the nonce.”

“But there's a foul-smelling giant in there,” Gloha said.

“Perhaps we can do something about that,” Trent said. “Metria?”

“Why should I help you deal with the stink?” the demoness inquired, appearing. “I enjoy seeing you mortals sweat.”

“Because we shall be unable to remain here unless we can breathe,” he responded evenly. “So we shall have to go elsewhere, and you will not have the dubious pleasure of snooping on our otherwise surely interesting dialogue with the giant.”

“You can't go elsewhere. Its raining bovines and equines.”

“Dogs and cats,” Gloha said.

“Whatever. You're stuck here.”

“Not if I transform Gloha to a creature that likes water, such as a gargoyle.”

Metria considered. “Um. You could do that. Very well, what do you want?”

“A sprig of parsley.”

She vanished, and reappeared a moment later with the sprig. “I wouldn't let you manage me like this, if you hadn't kissed me,” she said.

“Surely true,” he agreed, taking the parsley. “I wouldn't have asked you, if I hadn't kissed you.”

Metria looked stunned. That, too, Gloha was coming to understand. Trent had that effect on women who came to know him. Even demon women, it seemed.

He walked to Graeboe. “Here is a sprig of parsley. It has the magic property of purifying breath. If you will eat it, it may solve a problem.”

“I didn't know that!” Graeboe exclaimed, pleased. He moved a huge hand and tried to take the sprig, but it was much too small.

“I shall stick it under your fingernail,” Trent said. He fitted the sprig into the massive crevice. The giant lifted his hand and sucked the sprig from the finger.

The air cleared. “Thank you,” Graeboe said. “Even I can smell the difference.”

“Well, it wasn't really your fault,” Gloha said. “You can't be blamed for your illness.”

“It is kind of you to say that,” the giant said. Now his breath smelled like new-mown hay. “I really don't like being objectionable, so I have tried to stay away from other creatures.”

“Exactly what is your ailment?” Marrow asked.

“I am not entirely clear about that,” Graeboe said. “It came on me gradually. I went to ask the Good Magician, but he refused to talk to, me, understandably. He merely sent word that help would come if I remained in this region long enough.”

Gloha took note; that was the word Marrow had received.

“What are the symptoms of your malady, apart from the breath?” Trent asked.

“Increasing general weakness and susceptibility to illnesses. I sleep much more than I used to, yet remain tired. I fear I will not be able to remain in Xanth much longer.”

“Oh? Where will you go?” Gloha asked before she thought.

The giant smiled sadly. “To fertilize the trees, I think, lovely little lass. At least I shall then be able to do something some good.“ He glanced around. ”I can hear thunder outside. This dome seems to attract it. I think you will not want to go out soon. I have food; do you care to share it?"

“Yes,” Gloha said. She liked the giant, now that she could breathe freely near him. Possibly his compliment had something to do with it.

Graeboe brought out a snack from his purse: a gross of pickle pies and a keg of green wine. They accepted tiny portions, which were all they could eat, and settled down on the floor beside him.

It remained light in the dome, though it was dark outside. “Perhaps we could play a game, or something, to pass the time,” Gloha suggested politely.

Graeboe brightened. “Do you like angry word puzzles?”

“I love them,” Gloha said.

So they drew lines in the dust and alternated filling them in with words, and it was fun. The giant was ill and weak and somewhat homely, but not stupid; he had a good vocabulary and a fair sense of humor. Gloha realized that just because a person was different did not mean he was necessarily unpleasant. Then they settled down to sleep, hoping that the storm would be through by morning. Trent spied a flea and transformed it into a pillow bush, so they had plenty of pillows, including a huge pile of them for the giant's head.

Gloha woke to the sound of a general stirring or rustling, as of an enormous throng of people getting ready to witness some rare event, or maybe just a flock of birds cleaning bugs from a spreading acorn tree. She opened her eyes- and saw that her first impression was the correct one. The tiered benches of the bowl chamber were filling with people.

Startled, she looked at her companions. Magician Trent and the Giant Graeboe were still asleep, but Marrow, who didn't need sleep, was alert. “What's happening?” she whispered to the skeleton.

“The Curse Fiends are assembling,” he replied. “Oh, they must be getting ready to put on a play. We must depart before we get in their way.”

“Adipose chance,” a ball of smoke said.

“What kind of chance, Metria?”

The smoke expanded into the nether portion of an extremely well endowed woman. “Corpulent, obese, fleshy, potbellied, rotund, blubbery-”

“Fat?”

The top half of the figure formed. “Whatever,” the face said crossly as the overall figure slimmed down. “They have latched down the dome and magically sealed the premises, so we can't get out.”

“They can trap a demon?” Gloha asked, surprised.

“I don't quite understand about that,” Metria said, disgruntled. “I've been having weird effects, since associating with you folk.” Her eye fell on Trent. “Since the Madness.” Gloha got another glimmer. She remembered how intrigued Cynthia had become with the handsome Magician, and had felt the attraction herself. Metria had played the part of the one woman Trent had loved, and it had affected her. Maybe she didn't really want to depart just yet. But of course she wouldn't admit to having anything that could be seriously mistaken for human feeling. So containing magic that ordinarily might not restrain her now had greater force. At least it was a pretext to stay near Trent.

But that was an incidental concern. Gloha addressed the major one. “What do they want of us?”

“I suspect we shall discover that in one and a half moments,” Marrow said. “One of them is approaching.”

Sure enough, in one and a half moments the man reached them. Trent and Graeboe woke to the sound of his footsteps. Neither spoke, evidently realizing that they needed more information before reacting.

“Who is responsible for this intrusion of our premises?” the man demanded.

Metria huffed into harridan form. “Listen, oinkface-” she started.

Gloha realized that this would never do. “Cumulo Fracto Nimbus,” she said quickly, realizing why the nasty cloud had chosen to harass them. “He blew up a storm last night, and we had to hurry to cover. This building seemed to be unoccupied, so we camped here for the night. We'll be glad to get on our way-”

“Chubby chance,” he said sourly. “You have intruded on our demesnes, and must pay the penalty.”

Gloha felt like huffing into harridan form herself. “Penalty? Just because we came in out of the rain?”

“Perhaps we should exchange introductions,” Marrow said diplomatically.

“Certainly. I am Contumelo Curse Friend, Playmaster for the Thunderdome.”

“I am Gloha Goblin-Harpy, and these are Marrow Bones, the Demoness Metria, Graeboe Giant, and Magician Trent.”

She had thought that the last name would faze the man, but it didn't. Maybe the Curse Fiends were too insular to be aware of who was who in the rest of Xanth. “Well, strangers, you have usurped our stage for a play, disrupting our scheduled event. You must therefore provide us with equal measure before departing the premises.”

Gloha looked around, but none of the others seemed inclined to argue this case. They were leaving it to her. Probably Marrow was too polite to argue with anyone, and Trent was biding his time in case he should have to transform someone. “What kind of measure?”

“A play, of course. The people have made the arduous journey across the lake to come to our new theater, and they must be entertained. If you ilk hadn't occupied our stage, preventing our scheduled company from setting up its props-”

“Ilk?” Metria said. She was all too ready to argue, but would probably just get them all into more trouble. “I'll show you ilk, you o'erweening wretch!” She began to huff into a truly awful configuration.

“What kind of wretch?” Contumelo inquired.

The smoky shape paused in mid-huff. “Pompous, insolent, swaggering, presumptuous, haughty, o'erbearing-”

“Arrogant?”

“Whatever,” the half shape agreed crossly. “Oh, now look what you've done! I've forgotten what I was huffing into.”

“Perhaps a frog,” Contumelo suggested, almost smiling.

“Thank you.” A huge green frog formed. “Hey, wait half a moment!” the frog exclaimed. “That wasn't it. I have three quarters of a mind to-”

“Really? I would have taken it for half a wit.”

The frog seemed about to explode into a mushroom-shaped cloud.

“What kind of play did you have in mind?” Gloha asked quickly.

“Something we just might find useful in our repertoire,” Contumelo replied. “Of course we would have to rewrite any abysmal effort that such poor players as you might essay, but after you strut and fret your hour upon the stage you will be heard no more. Sometimes we glean inspiration from the unlikeliest sources.” A sneer hovered somewhere in his vicinity without quite getting established.

Even Marrow was beginning to look annoyed, which was an unusual effect considering the bony blankness of his countenance. Graeboe, who had been completely amiable hitherto, was starting to frown. Only Trent continued to look mild-which might be the worst sign of all.

“So if we put on a play for you-something that maybe makes you laugh-then you'll let us go in peace?” Gloha asked, hoping to avert what was threatening to be an ugly scene.

“Your mere attempt will surely make us laugh. What we require is something useful, as I just informed you.”

Gloha sent a somewhat disheveled gaze across the others. “Then maybe we should try to do that,” she said uncertainly.

Now Trent spoke. “We shall need props and scenery.”

“You should have thought of that before you intruded, bumpkin,” Contumelo said.

Trent started to gesture toward the man, but Graeboe spoke. “I think some folk are not aware of the impression they make on others. It was some time before I realized why folk were avoiding me, as my illness developed.”

The Magician glanced at him and nodded. Gloha relaxed; Contumelo had just been spared a transformation he surely wouldn't have liked. “Perhaps we can provide our own props,” Trent said.

“I should hope so,” the Curse Fiend said. “We shall give you half an hour to prepare. Then we shall expect you to perform. Of course all five of you must have significant parts; we don't tolerate slackards.” He spun neatly about on heel and toe and stalked away.

“Half an hour!” Gloha exclaimed. She would have snorted, but she didn't have the nose for it. “How can they expect us to get a play ready when we have no chance to make up scenery, to write a play, to rehearse-when we've never done anything like this before?”

“They don't,” Marrow said. “They expect us to fail, and be their laughingstock.”

“Yes, I remember now,” Metria said. “They hired the Black Wave to complete this stadium, and they like to lure strangers in and make them perform. Then they punish the strangers when they don't do well enough. It's how they relieve the dullness of their routine lives.”

“And Fracto is in on it!” Gloha said, realizing. “Of course.”

“How do they punish the failures?” Marrow asked.

“They hit them with one of their massed curses. It so dazes the victims that they can barely wander away, and it may be a long time before they are able to function normally again.”