a safely sedate beverage?”
Imbri obliged, sniffing her way along the table. “Seam Croda,” she sent “Poot Frunch. June Pruice.”
“I’ll take that last,” Ichabod said. “That sounds like my style. I think it is presently June in my section of Mundania.”
Chameleon came to join them. “Wasn’t that a wonderful wedding?” she asked, delicately mopping her eyes. “I cried real tears.” She picked up a drink.
“Wait!” Imbri projected and Ichabod cried together. It was an unclassified beverage.
But Chameleon was already sipping it. It seemed she had to replace the fluid lost through her tears. Then her feet sank into the floor. “Oh, my—I’m afraid I took a Droft Sink!” she exclaimed. “I’m sinking!”
Imbri and Ichabod managed to haul her back to floor level. “I wouldn’t want to seem to criticize the Queen, who I am sure put a great deal of attention into this spread of refreshments,” Ichabod said. “But in some quarters it might be considered that certain types of practical jokes become, shall we say, tiresome.”
Now the Queen herself approached. “Have you taken any of these drinks?” she inquired brightly. She had clothed herself in a fantastically bejeweled royal robe that was perhaps illusory. “I trust you find them truly novel and not to be taken lightly or soon forgotten. I want this occasion to make a real impression on the guests.”
Mutely, the three nodded. The drinks were all that the Queen described.
Queen Iris picked one up herself and sipped delicately.
Then she spit it out again, indelicately. Her pattern of illusion faltered, revealing a plain housedress in lieu of her robe. “What’s this?’ she demanded.
“A truly novel beverage that makes a real impression and is not soon forgotten,” Ichabod murmured.
“Don’t get flip with me, Mundane!” the Queen snapped, a miniature thundercloud forming over her head. “What’s in this cup?”
Imbri sniffed. “Drapple ink,” she projected.
“Drapple ink!” the Queen exclaimed, her gems reforming and glinting furiously. “That’s meant for signing official documents indelibly! What’s it doing on the refreshment stand?”
Ichabod picked up another cup of Boot Rear. “Perhaps this one is better, your Majesty,” he suggested, offering it to her. “It certainly made an impression on me.”
The Queen sniffed it. She took a step forward, as if shoved from behind. “That’s not what I ordered!” she cried, and now her gems shot little lances of fire. “Some miscreant has switched the drinks! Oh, wait till I get my claws on that chef!”
So Queen Iris had not been responsible for the joke. Chameleon looked relieved.
The Queen paused, turning back. “Oh—Chameleon,” she called. “I really came to ask if you had seen my husband the King. He doesn’t seem to be here. Would you look for him for me, please?”
“Of course, your Majesty,” Chameleon agreed. She turned to Imbri. “Will you help me look, please? He might be in a dark room, meditating.”
“And we have another message to give him,” Imbri reminded her, remembering. “Beware the Horseman, or break the chain.”
“If only we knew what chain.” Chameleon sighed. “I haven’t seen any chains.”
“I’ll help, too,” Ichabod said. “I do love a mystery.”
They looked all through the downstairs castle, but could not find the King. “Could he be upstairs, in the library?”
Ichabod asked. “That’s a very nice room, and he is a literate man.”
“Yes, he is often there,” Chameleon agreed.
They went upstairs, going to the library. A ghost flitted across the hail, but was gone before Imbri could send a dreamlet to it. If she ever had a moment when she wasn’t busy, she would catch up to a ghost and inquire where Jordan was, so she could give him the greeting from the ghosts of the haunted house in the gourd world.
The library door was closed. Ichabod knocked, then called, but received no answer. “I fear he is
Imbri obliged, sniffing her way along the table. “Seam Croda,” she sent “Poot Frunch. June Pruice.”
“I’ll take that last,” Ichabod said. “That sounds like my style. I think it is presently June in my section of Mundania.”
Chameleon came to join them. “Wasn’t that a wonderful wedding?” she asked, delicately mopping her eyes. “I cried real tears.” She picked up a drink.
“Wait!” Imbri projected and Ichabod cried together. It was an unclassified beverage.
But Chameleon was already sipping it. It seemed she had to replace the fluid lost through her tears. Then her feet sank into the floor. “Oh, my—I’m afraid I took a Droft Sink!” she exclaimed. “I’m sinking!”
Imbri and Ichabod managed to haul her back to floor level. “I wouldn’t want to seem to criticize the Queen, who I am sure put a great deal of attention into this spread of refreshments,” Ichabod said. “But in some quarters it might be considered that certain types of practical jokes become, shall we say, tiresome.”
Now the Queen herself approached. “Have you taken any of these drinks?” she inquired brightly. She had clothed herself in a fantastically bejeweled royal robe that was perhaps illusory. “I trust you find them truly novel and not to be taken lightly or soon forgotten. I want this occasion to make a real impression on the guests.”
Mutely, the three nodded. The drinks were all that the Queen described.
Queen Iris picked one up herself and sipped delicately.
Then she spit it out again, indelicately. Her pattern of illusion faltered, revealing a plain housedress in lieu of her robe. “What’s this?’ she demanded.
“A truly novel beverage that makes a real impression and is not soon forgotten,” Ichabod murmured.
“Don’t get flip with me, Mundane!” the Queen snapped, a miniature thundercloud forming over her head. “What’s in this cup?”
Imbri sniffed. “Drapple ink,” she projected.
“Drapple ink!” the Queen exclaimed, her gems reforming and glinting furiously. “That’s meant for signing official documents indelibly! What’s it doing on the refreshment stand?”
Ichabod picked up another cup of Boot Rear. “Perhaps this one is better, your Majesty,” he suggested, offering it to her. “It certainly made an impression on me.”
The Queen sniffed it. She took a step forward, as if shoved from behind. “That’s not what I ordered!” she cried, and now her gems shot little lances of fire. “Some miscreant has switched the drinks! Oh, wait till I get my claws on that chef!”
So Queen Iris had not been responsible for the joke. Chameleon looked relieved.
The Queen paused, turning back. “Oh—Chameleon,” she called. “I really came to ask if you had seen my husband the King. He doesn’t seem to be here. Would you look for him for me, please?”
“Of course, your Majesty,” Chameleon agreed. She turned to Imbri. “Will you help me look, please? He might be in a dark room, meditating.”
“And we have another message to give him,” Imbri reminded her, remembering. “Beware the Horseman, or break the chain.”
“If only we knew what chain.” Chameleon sighed. “I haven’t seen any chains.”
“I’ll help, too,” Ichabod said. “I do love a mystery.”
They looked all through the downstairs castle, but could not find the King. “Could he be upstairs, in the library?”
Ichabod asked. “That’s a very nice room, and he is a literate man.”
“Yes, he is often there,” Chameleon agreed.
They went upstairs, going to the library. A ghost flitted across the hail, but was gone before Imbri could send a dreamlet to it. If she ever had a moment when she wasn’t busy, she would catch up to a ghost and inquire where Jordan was, so she could give him the greeting from the ghosts of the haunted house in the gourd world.
The library door was closed. Ichabod knocked, then called, but received no answer. “I fear he is
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