Split Heirs

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

“It’s all the same to me,” said Wulfrith with a shrug. “I’m out of all this, and happy to be out.” He started for the door.

  “Whoa! You can’t go out that way!” Arbol shouted. “The guards will stop you.”

  Under the mask, Wulfrith’s face twisted into a wicked smile. “I’ll take care of the guards,” he said, flexing his fingers. Now that he knew the crown would be going to the right person, he felt no qualms about merely walking out of the tower room. There was a spell he’d come across in one of the old library books—a spell written on a parchment being used to mark some long-dead reader’s place in the Garden of Exhausting Pleasures—and he wanted to try it out. It was a bit of a variation on his own shape-changing spell which had so impressed Clootie: The change in the victim’s shape would reverse itself without warning at intervals, leading the hapless subject to believe that he was off the hook only to discover he was on again, off again, on again, until he went quite satisfactorily mad.

  “Suit yourself.” It was Arbol’s turn to shrug. “But listen: I want you to go back to my mother’s apartments and tell her that everything’s all right now. Don’t go running away or anything.”

  “Run away?” Wulfrith’s grin got wickeder. “And miss being a witness when they make you suffer through that last rite? Not for the world!”

  Arbol grew thoughtful. “You know, maybe you shouldn’t say anything to Mom. She just makes things more complicated than they are. She might even insist that I have to repeat all the rites they did to you or they don’t count.”

  Wulfrith clucked his tongue and said, “Awwwwwwww,” like he really didn’t mean it at all.

  “Oh, come on!” the prince wheedled. “Make believe you’re me, all right? You’ll get good seats for the last rite, and when it’s over and I’m crowned you can rip off that mask and we can both jump up and yell Surprise! Then we’ll turn the coronation into a big wedding and—”

  “Whose wedding?”

  “Yours. You’re marrying Lady Ubri, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not.” Wulfrith had never sounded surer of anything in his life. “That’s just what she’s been telling everyone, and I’ve been stuck up here or too busy with the rituals to say anything about it. She thinks I’m you. You marry her.”

  “Me? I don’t even like her. She can’t tell any good jokes.”

  “Well, I don’t like her either, any more. She’s a lot of fun, but—” Wulfrith couldn’t quite put his second thoughts about the lady into words. He was certainly grateful to her for everything she’d taught him, but he felt the same student/teacher gratitude toward Clootie and he had absolutely no desire to marry the old wizard either.

  “Never mind, we’ll find someone who’ll take her,” Arbol said. “Someone who likes swordfish. Now go back to Mom.”

  “See you on the throne,” Wulfrith called over his shoulder as he slipped out the door.

  Arbol heard the guards raising the challenge, then heard Wulfrith utter a number of strange words that made no sense. The prince next caught a sharp whiff of something acrid wafting under the door. The guards’ voices ended in terrified squeaks that trailed off as the pit-a-pat of little rodent paws scampered down the stairs, followed at leisure by Wulfrith’s own footfalls.

  “How did he do that?” the prince wondered aloud. Then, true to her Gorgorian heritage, she yawned once and forgot all about it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Black Weasel was not in a good mood. Having spent the better part of a day divvying up his men into four parties—two to search for Dunwin’s gods-blasted sheep-turned-dragon, one to hunt up Dunwin’s friend the wizard, and one to accompany the Weasel himself back to the palace—he was at his tether’s end. The Bold Bush-dwellers might have grown from boys to men, but he couldn’t truthfully say that any of them had grown up.

  “All that miserable bickering,” he complained to the Purple Possum as they lightly slipped from tree to tree along the road, in accordance with the best tradition of Applied Woodsy Lore for Righteous Rebels. “Sniveling and fighting over who got to go look for dragons and wizards and who got the honor of coming along with me.”

  “Don’t take it so bad, Black Weasel,” the Possum said. “We finally convinced some of them to come with you.”

  “‘Some’? Since when is two ‘some’?”

  “Three if you count me,” the Possum prompted.

  “A fine thing!” the Black Weasel exclaimed bitterly. “A leader of my stature, and the best I’ve got for an escort is the dregs of the forest from a forest famous for its dregs.”

  A loud crash echoed through the roadside woodland as if to affirm the Weasel’s words. Spurge picked himself up off the dirt track and looked sheepish. “Sorry.”

  “Idiot.” The Black Weasel’s hand darted out of the trees, siezed Spurge by the collar, and hauled him back through the branches. Up close to the hapless former messenger’s face he snarled, “How many times must I tell you? Bold Bush-dwellers do not just saunter down the road while en route to reconquering the enemy stronghold. It could cause us all sorts of inconvenience, particularly if we should happen to run into a Gorgorian patrol.”

  “Well, I told you years ago that I wasn’t any good at this,” Spurge said by way of excuse.

  The Black Weasel shook him so hard that it took the Purple Possum a minute or two before he could make his leader let go. By that time poor Spurge’s tongue was hanging all the way down to his chin and his eyes were rotating in opposite directions.

  “Wonderful!” the Weasel declaimed. “This was all that saw fit to attach its worthless self to my train!”

  “It’s not like he had a choice,” the Possum murmured. “The other parties wouldn’t take him.” He jerked his head backward. “Or him.”

  “What about me?” Dunwin demanded.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “It was so too something.” If the Black Weasel was in a foul mood, Dunwin was in a fouler one. When the Bold Bush-dwellers split up into their various search parties, naturally he had wanted to join one of the two sheep-seeking groups on the sensible premise that he would know Bernice when he saw her.

  Unfortunately, his wishes had been ruthlessly and unanimously squashed. In the short span of time Dunwin had spent among the Black Weasel’s men he had managed to acquit himself so skillfully in all forms of armed and unarmed combat that there wasn’t a Bold Bush-dweller alive who didn’t hate his guts. It was pure envy, seasoned with a healthy dollop of fear, that ostracized Dunwin. He had tried to bull his way into the search party of his choice, only to have the Purple Possum in person intervene.

  “Now, now, Dunwin,” the Possum said. “Think this through. What if the dragon-searching party you’re with isn’t the one that finds Bernice? You could still be wandering around aimlessly around the hills looking for her while the successful search party rejoins us in the capital. But! If you come with us, you’ll be right there to greet your sheep the instant they bring her in. Besides, unless I can convince one more warrior to accompany the Black Weasel, he’ll have a fit of the sulks, call off the whole search party idea, and who knows when you’ll see Bernice again! So come with us. It makes more sense, doesn’t it?”

  Dunwin allowed that it did, but it still didn’t sit right in his craw. He expressed his frustrations by refusing to flit lightly from tree to tree, the way he’d been taught. Instead he just clomped along slashing the roadside underbrush and branches into splinters with his sword and making enough racket to attract every Gorgorian patrol in the hills.

  For some reason, though, there did not seem to be any Gorgorian patrols in the hills. The four travelers commented on this phenomenon freely that night as they made camp.

  “Maybe they’re all still in mourning for the king,” the Possum suggested.

  “The vile, lawless, accursed usurper, you mean.” The Black Weasel was swift to correct him. “Well, if they are, it’s all to our advantage. From what I hear, these Gorgorian swine use any excuse to get rip-roaring drunk.” An ir
onic smile curled his upper lip. “What better way to send off their louse-ridden leader than in floods of strong drink? And what better time for us to strike than while the invaders are helplessly stewed to the eyeballs?”

  “Daddy Odo used to serve me stewed sheep’s eyeballs on my birthday,” Dunwin remarked dully. He poked the fire with a dry branch.

  “Euw,” said Spurge, turning pale green.

  “Didn’t use any of your Bernice’s relatives for the purpose, I hope?” the Possum inquired politely.

  “Speaking of stew, is dinner ready yet?” the Weasel asked, peering into the depths of the little cookpot merrily bubbling over the flames. “Which of you men’s in charge of it tonight, eh?”

  “Me.” Spurge raised his hand. “I did my best. Don’t blame me if it’s no good. We passed a perfectly decent-looking farmhouse a ways back today. Would’ve been the simplest thing in the world for me to slip ’round to the front door and offer to chop up some firewood in trade for a chicken and some veggers, but oh no! Live off the woodland, you said. So I tried. I’m not much good at that, either, so don’t blame me for how it tastes. It’s not much of a stew, ’thout any meat except some of that dried stuff the Possum carries in his pouch, but I managed to scare up enough trimmings besides to—”

  “Are you done?” the Weasel snarled. Spurge nodded. “Then so is the stew. Dish it out now. I want us to eat, sleep, and get an early start in the morning.”

  There wasn’t much stew, but that didn’t matter since there weren’t very many takers. Spurge refused to sample his own concoction because the Black Weasel had hurt his feelings. Dunwin was too upset about Bernice to do more than stare at his portion, announce that there were mushrooms in it (he hated mushrooms), and dump it back into the pot untasted. The Black Weasel and the Purple Possum shrugged and fell to.

  Shortly after dinner, they fell over.

  It was several days later when the Black Weasel opened one eye and saw that there was a plain whitewashed ceiling over him instead of the leafy forest canopy he’d expected. He turned his head and pain shot from the base of his spine all the way up his backbone to the top of his skull. Clean sheets wrapped him, but they were soaked with sweat, and the smell of a sickroom overwhelmed the feeble scent of the wildflower bouquet on the table beside him. He groaned.

  “Oh, good. You’re alive.” A plump, pretty woman leaned over the Black Weasel’s bed to wipe his clammy brow. “That means the worst is over. You’ll be on your feet by tomorrow and on your way the day after.”

  “Who—who are you?” the Black Weasel asked. “Where am I? Where are my men?”

  The lady chuckled, a sound warm and comforting as fresh-baked bread. “I’m the Widow Giligip and you’re in my farmhouse. Your sick friend’s dossed out in the main room, in front of the fireplace—he’s fine too, never fear—and as for the other two…” She hesitated, a look of concern darkening her rosy face.

  “Yes? Yes? Tell me!”

  “Well, the big one’s been a tremendous help to me these past two days, looking after my livestock so kind the way he does, especially the sheep, but the other one—he’s run off. Just bolted for the hills hollering that no one was to blame him for anything. Did that soon after they brought you here and I recognized what was wrong with you.”

  A nasty suspicion accompanied by nastier stomach cramps clutched at the Black Weasel’s soul. “Which was—?”

  “Mushroom poisoning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Still holding tight to the short straw, Wennedel edged his way down the hillside toward the gigantic green beast. The nearer he got, the bigger it seemed, the stronger it stank, and the more he wanted his mother. His comrades’ assurances that they would keep their loaded bows trained on the beast’s heart the whole time were cold comfort. They were all holed up safely behind a fall of boulders, and how could he be sure any of them knew where a dragon kept its heart?

  They did know where a man’s heart lay, though, and had offered to show Wennedel his own, all nice and red and out in the open, if he refused to accept the mission which Fate and the short straw had awarded him.

  “Uh…Dragon?” Wennedel’s voice came out like a mouse’s squeak. He was facing the monster’s rump and got no reply. “Your—Your Dragonness?” he tried.

  Still no response. He inched a little closer to the front end of the beast. The dragon was sitting very still. It had been thus motionless from the instant the search party spotted it, down in this small dip between the mountain peaks. There was a stream running past the dragon’s front end and plenty of rich grass all around, liberally sprinkled with bright yellow, white, and red flowers—all in all a very pleasant spot, if not for having a monster plunked down in the center of it.

  “Um, yoo-hoo?” Wennedel tried again to rouse the dragon’s attention. To no avail. The beast remained unmoved, its beady eyes fixed upon a particularly thick clump of flowers. “Draggie? Thou dragon? O Ineffable Dragonhood?”

  “Shut up, twit,” said the dragon, and with one short sweep of its tail batted Wennedel all the way back up the hillside and over the boulders. Then it dipped its head and tore up the whole clump of flowers with its teeth. It munched on these very awkwardly—dragon’s teeth being all wrong for the task—then made a face and spat out the mangled blossoms.

  Meanwhile, the Bold Bush-dwellers had checked Wennedel for vital signs and, relieved to find him still breathing, got him restored to consciousness, back on his feet, and shoved downslope once more. The poor lad staggered badly, but he managed to reach the dragon.

  “You again?” the monster remarked, raising the draconian equivalent of an eyebrow. “Can’t I be miserable in peace?”

  “You’re miserable?” Wennedel could not keep the wonder out of his voice. “You’re a dragon! You can’t be miserable.”

  The dragon took this information coldly. “Why not? I was minding my own business, getting on with my life—not that my future was anything to frisk and gambol about, but I suppose we’re all meant to end as mutton someday, one way or another—when suddenly I’m fleeced, flayed, and fixed up in this absurd coat of clinky-clanks!” At this point, the beast reared up onto its haunches, the better to use its forepaws to indicate its own scaly belly.

  As the dragon rose, Wennedel followed it with his eyes. The creature was imposing enough crouched on all fours, but when it sat up to its full height it was astounding. The Bold Bush-dweller was not feeling very bold at all, now, and there was a suspiciously damp feeling to his breeches.

  “Mu—mu—mutton?” he cheeped. It was a foolish remark, as he well knew, but he was desperate for something to say to fill the dragon-heavy silence. “You did mention mutton?”

  Down came the dragon with a crash that knocked Wennedel from his feet. Its tone was icy when it spoke. “Yes, I mentioned the m-word. So what? I was raised to be a decent ewe from the moment I was lambed, but I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Victimized, torn from my home, separated from my one and only darling, precious, beloved—um—well, actually we’re just good friends, but—”

  “Bernice!” Wennedel cried out with joy, and did a little jig of triumph.

  “Twit,” said the dragon, and lobbed him back over the boulders. “Calling me by name when we haven’t even been properly introduced,” she grumbled. “Of all the nerve!”

  It was some time and several formal introductions later that Bernice stopped her grousing. The rest of the Bold Bush-dwellers of the Search Party of the First Part came out of hiding, encouraged by the knowledge that this was the right dragon—a dragon so new to dragonhood that she was still trying to eat sheep fodder. They made haste to ingratiate themselves with her, informing Bernice of sundry helpful facts. Some of these concerned dragons—their powers and privileges—while others dealt with the current political situation in the capital.

  “Ah!” said Bernice when they were done. “Now ask me if I care.”

  “But you must care!” the Puce Mongoose insisted. “We’re giving you the
opportunity to fight for the liberation of Old Hydrangea.”

  “And I’m giving you the opportunity to leave my valley with your head still attached to your shoulders,” Bernice countered. “Hydrangeans! Gorgorians! What difference does it make to me what they call themselves before they chow down on my chops? I say it’s all mint sauce and I say to hell with ’em!”

  “They can’t, you know. Eat you, I mean.” It was the Blue Badger who spoke. He weighed his words carefully, sensing that Bernice was not the sort of beast—sheep or dragon—to do anything for anyone unless there was plenty in it for her. “Not us Hydrangeans, anyhow.”

  “Really? Then who was it devoured my Grandam Selma if not Hydrangeans? And her grandam before that! Don’t tell me it was Gorgorians because there wasn’t even a whiff of Gorgorians anywhere around here in those days!”

  The Badger raised his hands in surrender. “I admit that we Hydrangeans have been known to eat the odd bit of—the m-word. However, that’s not your lookout any longer.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Not when you’ve become the d-word.”

  A look of profound revelation washed over Bernice’s face. “By golly, that’s right!” She gave the tender valley flowers a wistful glance. “No wonder they don’t taste the same.” An appalling rumble came from her stomach. “No wonder I’m sooooo hungry,” she concluded, sounding miserable enough to convince Wennedel, had he been awake to hear her.

  The Blue Badger nibbled his lip, considering his next move. What he had to say must be put just so, for the unlucky turn of a word could mean the difference between a future as the Blue Badger, Hero of Restored Hydrangea or as the Blue Badger, Passing Gas-bubble in a Dragon’s Gut.

  “You wouldn’t be hungry for long if you came to the capital with us,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Your problem, you see, is that you’re all confused by your new body. You don’t know what’s good for it and what’s bad. What we’ve already told you about dragons—able to talk, incredibly strong, insufferably wise—is just the tip of the dagger. You deserve better. You deserve more.”