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faltered. The handsome centaur image frowned. “Night—tire quickly—creature of day—must give it up.” He stumbled. “By night I sleep.”
    She saw that it was so. “Then we’ll hide, so you can rest,” she sent.
    “You go. I came only to free you,” he said, speaking more clearly now. He might be slow, but he did catch on with practice. “Pretty mare, black like deepest night.”
    Imbri was flattered and appreciative, though he was only telling the truth. She was as black as deep night because she was a night mare. But any notice by a stallion was a thing to be treasured.
    Nonetheless, she did have a mission and had to complete it without delay. “When will I see you again?”
    “Come to the baobab at noon,” he said. “Nice tree. If I am near, I will be there. Do not betray me to the human kind; I do not wish to be caught and ridden again.”
    “I’ll never betray you, day horse!” she exclaimed in the dream, shocked. “You freed me! I’ll always be grateful!”
    “Farewell,” his dream image said. He turned and walked north as the dreamlet faded out. Imbri saw the brass circlet on his foreleg glint faintly in the moonlight.
    “The baobab tree!” Imbri sent after him. She knew of that growth from her dream duties; sometimes human people camped out there, and it was conducive to bad dreams at night, a little like a haunted house. It was at the edge of the Castle Roogna estate, out of sight of the castle but impossible to overlook. She would certainly be there when she had the chance.

 
    Chapter 3. Centycore et Cetera
     
     
    B y midnight Imbri reached Castle Roogna. She skirted it and went to Chameleon’s home, which was a large cottage cheese. Imbri had once delivered a dream here to Chameleon’s husband Bink; it had been a minor one, for the man did not have much ill on his conscience, but at least she knew her way around these premises despite lacking the seniority required to bring dreams to Kings. She phased through the hard rind and made her way—should that be whey, in this house? she wondered—to Chameleon’s bed.
    But a stranger occupied that bed. Chameleon, according to the image the Night Stallion had formed, was a crone; this person was a lovely older woman of about fifty. Had she come to the wrong address?
    “Where is Chameleon?” Imbri inquired in a pictureless dreamlet. Maybe this woman was visiting, and would know.
    “I am Chameleon,” the woman replied in the dream.
    Imbri stood back and considered. The reply had been direct and honest. The Night Stallion must have made an error, forming the image of some other woman. Imbri had never known him to make an error before, but obviously it was possible.
    Something else bothered her. Chameleon was sleeping alone, yet she was a family person. Where were her husband and son?
    Imbri projected a dream. It was of herself as another centaur filly, standing beside the bed. “Chameleon, I must give you a message.”
    The woman looked up. “Oh, am I to have a bad dream? Why do they always come when my family’s away?”
    “No bad dream,” Imbri reassured her. “I am the night mare Imbri, come to be your steed and bear a message for the King. When you wake, I will remain. I will talk to you in your sleep, as now, or in daydreamlets.”
    “No bad dreams?” The woman seemed slow to understand.
    “No bad dreams,” Imbri repeated. “But a message for the King.”
    “The King’s not here. You must seek him at Castle Roogna.”
    “I know. But I can not go to him. I will give you the message to relay to him.”
    “Me? Repeat a dream?”
    “Repeat the message.” Imbri was getting impatient; the woman seemed to have very little wit.
    “What message?”
    “Beware the Horseman.”
    “Who?”
    “The Horseman.”
    “Is that a centaur?”
    “No, he’s a man who rides horses.”
    “But there are no horses in Xanth!”
    “There is one now, the day horse. And there are the night mares, like me.”
    “But then people don’t