For the first time he wondered what Mundania was really like. Was it actually possible to survive without magic? It would not be nearly as nice as Xanth, but the absence of spells should represent a formidable challenge, and there should be some decent places in it. The people should not be evil; after all, his ancestors had come from Mundane stock. Indications were that language and many customs were the same.
He heaved himself over the rise of the pass, braced for his first real glimpse of the new world-and suddenly he was surrounded by men. An ambush!
Bink whirled to run. Maybe he could trick them into plunging into the Shield, and be rid of them the easy way-not that he wanted to be responsible for their death. Anyhow, he had to try to escape them.
But as he turned, his body responding somewhat slower than his thoughts, he found a man behind him, blocking the way with drawn sword.
The sensible thing to do was to give up. They had him outnumbered and surrounded, and they could have put an arrow into his back if they had wanted to kill him outright. If all they wanted to do was rob him, he had almost nothing to lose.
But being sensible had never been Bink's strong point. Not when he was under pressure, or surprised. Reflecting after the fact, he was very sensible and intelligent, but that wasn't much use at this stage. If only he'd had a talent like that of his mother, only stronger, so that he could turn time back a couple of hours and replay ail his crises to better advantage-Bink charged the man with the sword, swinging his staff to block the blade. But someone tackled him, bringing him down hard before he took two steps. Bink's face struck the dirt, and he took a mouthful. Still he fought, twisting about to get at the man who held him.
Then they were all on him, bearing him down. Bink had no chance; in moments he was tied and gagged.
A man thrust his tough face close to Bink's eyes as two others held him erect. "Now get this, Xanth- you try any magic, we'll knock you out and carry you."
Magic? They didn't know that Bink had none he could use-or that if he had, it would be no good out here beyond the Shield. But he nodded, showing he understood. Maybe they would treat him better if they thought he could somehow strike back.
They marched him down the other side of the pass and to a military camp on the mainland beyond the isthmus.
What was an army doing here? If it were an invasion of Xanth, it could not succeed; the Shield would kill a thousand men as readily as one.
They brought him to the main tent. Here, in a screened enclosure, sat a handsome man in his forties, wearing some sort of green Mundane uniform, a sword, a neat mustache, and an emblem of command. "Here is the spy, General," the sergeant said respectfully.
The General glanced at Bink, appraising him. There was dismaying intelligence in that cool study. This was no bandit thug. "Release him," he said quietly. "He is obviously harmless."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant said respectfully. He untied Bink and removed his gag.
"Dismissed," the General murmured, and without a word the soldiers were gone. They were certainly disciplined.
Bink chafed at his wrists, trying to rub the pain out, amazed at the General's confidence. The man was well formed, but not large; Bink was younger and taller and surely stronger. If he acted quickly, he might escape.
Bink crouched, ready to jump at the man and knock him down. Suddenly the General's sword was in his hand, pointing at Bink. The man's draw had been a blur; the weapon had jumped to his hand as if by magic, but that obviously could not be the case here. "I would not advise it, young man," the General said, as if warning him not to step on a thorn.
Bink staggered, trying to brake without falling on the point of the sword. He did not succeed. But as his chest bore on that blade, the sword retreated, returning to its scabbard. The General, now on his feet, caught Bink by his elbows and stood him back upright. There was such precision and power in the action that Bink knew he had grossly underestimated this man; he had no chance to overcome him; with or without the sword.
"Be seated," the General said mildly.
Cowed, Bink moved awkwardly to the wooden chair and sat on it. Now he was conscious of his own dirty face and hands, the disorganization of his apparel, in contrast to the impeccable nearness of the General. "Your name?"
"Bink." He did not give his village, since he was no longer affiliated with it. What was the purpose of this question, anyway? He was a nonentity regardless of his name.
"I am the Magician Trent. Perhaps you know of me."
It took a moment for the import to register. Then Bink didn't believe it. "Trent? He's gone. He was--"
"Exiled. Twenty years ago. Precisely."
"But Trent was--"
"Ugly? A monster? Crazy?" The Magician smiled, showing none of these traits. "What stories do they tell of me today in Xanth?"
