Split Heirs

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how big you’ve gotten.”

  “Size isn’t everything.”

  “Is it my imagination, or did you always used to talk back to m—ulllp!” Dunwin almost lost his grip on the dragon’s neck as Bernice made another jerky sideways hop to avoid Arbol’s blade. “Don’t do that, please,” he said.

  “No, I’ll just stand still and get sliced,” Bernice commented drily. “Sure I will.”

  “Let that sorry bastard go, you coward!” the princess bawled, turning red in the face. “Let’s settle this like men!”

  Bernice didn’t respond to Arbol, but the look she gave her was sarcastic enough for a whole brigade of Gorgorian drill-sergeants. “Dunwin,” she said quietly, “I’m going to put you down now.”

  “But I just found you again!” Dunwin protested.

  “I know, dear,” Bernice said. “But another thing about life is you don’t get anywhere until you establish your priorities.”

  “What’s ‘priorities’?”

  “It’s like making a list of what you’ve got to do first, second, third, and so on. You know, first you find a nice meadow, then you crop the grass, then you chew your cud, then you turn into a dragon.” Arbol lunged at her with the blade and she slithered backward so fast Dunwin almost lost his grip again. “So right now, dear, my priorities are first to put you down, second to devour that foul-mouthed wench with the sword, and then we can snuggle.”

  “You’re going to eat her?” Dunwin was aghast. “Bernice, you never used to eat people.”

  “No, I didn’t, did I.” It was not a question, but a realization. A dangerous note crept into Bernice’s voice as a second realization crept in to keep the first one company. “As a matter of fact, as I recall, it used to be people who ate me. Not me personally, perhaps, but there was the nasty affair of Cousin Veronica, and the unfortunate matter of Aunt Ingrid, and the tragic loss of Great-Aunt Fern, and the unspeakable shish-kebabbing of Cousin Kimberly, and—” Bernice’s eyes got narrower and narrower with every name. A low growl rose in her throat that finally burst out in a roaring, “It’s payback time!”

  Before he could say “mint jelly,” Dunwin was flung clean off the angry dragon’s neck. He landed smack on top of the thickest part of the crowd. As he picked himself up off several flattened peasants he said, “See? She gave me a nice, soft place to land. She does care!”

  “Looks like the only thing that monster cares about is killing our prince,” muttered the peasant at the bottom of the pile. “I mean, princess.”

  “If that’s so,” said the next man up, “’twon’t be half the holiday the beast’d fancy. I never did see a girlie swing a sword like that!”

  The peasant’s remark was almost identical to something Lord Bulmuk the Gorgorian was saying at about the same time, which was, “She’s good. You sure she don’t have a man-thing under those skirts?”

  “Certainly not!” one of the Hydrangean nobles huffed. “You were there for the Disaster of the Bath. What did you think then?”

  Bulmuk pondered, then said, “I thought, Nice ones!”

  Now the battle between former prince and former sheep joined in earnest. The crowd watched with a mixture of astonishment, admiration, and awe as Arbol gave a display of swordsmanship that was Hydrangean in elegance, Gorgorian in efficiency. Even Bernice was impressed.

  “Not bad,” she said, making another of those easy dodges of hers. “For lunch.”

  “Coward,” Arbol repeated, breathing hard. “You’d be a pile of cutlets on my blade by now if I weren’t wrapped up in this stupid dress.”

  “For the first time in my life, I’m sure I’ll never be anybody’s cutlets,” the dragon responded. She spat a thin stream of fire at the princess’s feet, deliberately letting it fall short. The hem of Arbol’s skirt caught a spark, which the princess extinguished with some common spit of her own. Bernice whistled. “Right on target. Good shot.”

  “The Companions and I used to have spitting contests off the top of the Tower of Architectural Misgivings,” Arbol replied, smiling grimly. “I could hawk a wet one onto the head of any of the courtyard workers you picked, better than nine out of ten.”

  Something odd and unsheepish stirred in Bernice’s armored bosom. As she’d told Dunwin, life was full of changes, but she wasn’t prepared for this one. It went beyond mere shape and size, all the way to attitude. Sheep just wanted to eat, sleep, reproduce, and avoid milkmen with cold hands and butchers with sharp knives. They wanted to get on with their lives any way they could, but dragons were different. Dragons seemed to be born with a natural appreciation of that fine old Hydrangean concept, style. Too much style and you got chivalry, too much chivalry and you got killed for stupid reasons, but dragons never reached that point.

  All Bernice knew was that for the first time it mattered to her that this fight to the death be a fair one.

  “Lose the skirt before you trip, clumsy,” she directed the princess. “I’ll wait.”

  Arbol gave her a suspicious look, but managed to slash the heavy skirt off with her sword. It was a rush job, leaving her wearing a ragged tunic that fell above the knee. With her legs clear, she kicked off her elaborately jeweled shoes as well, then sprang back into her fighting stance. She was too preoccupied to know or care where the flying shoes landed. She had a dragon to slay.

  One shoe sailed over the heads of the crowd and clonged a scruffy old drunk who was holding up a nearby tavern wall. The effect was stimulating instead of stunning. Royal Hydrangean cobblers were justly famous, their work in demand among shoe-fanciers and fetishists alike. When you got hit in the head with a work of Art, it was an eye-opening experience.

  “Coo,” Odo breathed, rubbing his head with one hand and using the other to retrieve the sparkling shoe. “How’d this get here?” The gems seemed to dance in the sunlight. “Worth a pretty, I’d say. A man tries to trade something like this for a drink somewhere, he won’t get throwed out, I’ll be bound.” He glowered at the closed tavern door. “Tell me ye don’t take baubles,” he growled. He dug into his pouch and pulled out a pair of old medallions decorated with miniature portraits. “Call ’em ‘objects dirt’ to my face, would ’ee?” He hammered on the door, but got no response. While he’d been stupefied, the tavernkeeper had locked up shop to go watch the dragon-doings. Grumbling, Odo wandered off until he tripped over a pile of peasants.

  “What’re you doing there, blocking honest men’s way?” he shouted, wanting to take out his ill humor on someone.

  “Go sit on a clam, Grampa,” one of the sprawled peasants replied. “We was just landed on by a hero. It ain’t something you get over in a hurry.”

  “A hero?” Odo echoed. “Such as takes up the righteous causes of poor, downtrodden scum o’ the earth who’s been unfairly thrown out of taverns?”

  “Could be. Tried to kill the dragon barehanded, he did, so a tavern keeper wouldn’t be nowt to him, I fancy. That’s him over there, trying to get back at the dragon.” The peasant jerked his thumb.

  Odo shaded his eyes and looked in the direction the fellow pointed. There was a healthy slice of humanity standing in his way, but his quarry towered head and shoulders above most of them. Odo could hardly believe what he saw. He gave himself a few extra knocks in the head with the princess’ discarded shoe to make sure, then looked again.

  “Dunwin!” he cried. He started fighting his way through the crowd to reach his boy.

  Meanwhile, Arbol’s second shoe had come in for a hard landing on Clootie’s head. The Old Hydrangean wizard moaned and stirred, opening his eyes slowly.

  When he saw where he was and what was going on, he closed them again, fast. “By all the useless gods of my ancestors,” he murmured, “did I lose my mind in that unspeakable dungeon?” He decided that he would be happier if he curled himself into a ball and stayed where he was. He would have done so, too, if not for some inconsiderate lout who grabbed hold of his shoulders and shook him unmercifully.

/>   “Go away or I’ll turn you into a porcupine,” Clootie mumbled.

  “Can you? Oh, that’s wonderful!”

  Clootie had to open his eyes then, if only to see who this lunatic was who seemed so eager to spend the rest of his days as a living pincushion. “Wulfrith?”

  “I didn’t know you’d learned how to control the shape-changing spell,” Wulfie went on. “That’s great! And wait until you see what I’ve learned. There’s this library and this alcove and this Gorgorian woman and—” An ear-splitting roar shook several tiles loose from the surrounding rooftops. “—and I guess it’ll all have to wait until after the dragon,” Wulfrith concluded. “Excuse me, I’ve got to go help Arbol.” He scampered away before Clootie could even stand up.

  “Ungrateful whelp!” the wizard yelled after his apprentice, waving the princess’s cast-off shoe.

  “They’re all like that,” came a sweet, though weary, voice. “Children! When they’re little, they step on your toes, when they’re big, they step on your heart. Then they take their clothes off in public.”

  Clootie turned around and found himself facing the queen. For a wonder, she was unaccompanied.

  “I know you!” he exclaimed. “You’re old Fumitory’s daughter. You’re the one who kept trying to talk some sense into everyone at my trial.”

  Artemisia gave the wizard her most charming smile. “Of course. Anyone with a grain of sense could tell you were innocent. Unfortunately, that lets out the Gorgorians. I’m so pleased to see you’ve made a heroic escape. I expected no less from a wizard of your magnificent powers, to say nothing of your splendid good looks.”

  Clootie had spent enough time around the palace in the Good Old Pre-Gorgorian days to know that Artemisia wanted something from him, which was why she was giving him this two-shovel snow job. Any stable in the realm would be happy to hire her on the spot. Still, she was a fine figure of a woman, and just because a man had spent the best years of his life in a mountain cave didn’t mean everything was petrified.

  “You are too kind, Your Majesty,” he said. “I appreciate all you tried to do for me.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that,” the queen replied. She cast a nervous glance over one shoulder. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind doing me a small favor, in that case?”

  Clootie bowed low, a gallant gesture which allowed him a long, slow look at Artemisia from neckline to knees. “Anything, Your Majesty. How may I serve?”

  The crowd gasped as a huge gout of flame went up from the battleground. Women were shrieking and men were cheering, then men shrieked and women cheered for a change. The queen grabbed Clootie’s hand, her face pale.

  “I managed to break free of my captor when Arbol cut off her skirt and showed all that leg. Bulmuk drooled on his hands and I was able to slip away. Even as we speak, the Gorgorian beast is wallowing through the crowd after me. I can’t just stand idly by while my child is in danger of death and indecent exposure. I must go to her! I must make her put something on! Use your powers to take me to her side, I implore you.”

  Clootie did not hesitate. ‘At once, Your Majesty.” He plunged into the mob, jerking Artemisia after him. It was rough going, but they were determined. Most of the women moved aside when shoved, but the men were another story. With them, Artemisia bellowed, “Make way for your queen!” If that didn’t work, Clootie would tap the stubborn party on the shoulder and whisper, “Hello, I’m the wizard who turned your prince into a princess. How would you like to spend the rest of your life singing soprano?” That did it. Before long they were clear of the crowd, right out in the open with an excellent view of the battle.

  The fight was winding down. Even with her skirts hacked off, Arbol was starting to tire. If Bernice wanted to escape the princess’s sword, all she had to do was jump. One dragon-sized jump left a lot of open territory between the combatants, territory Arbol had to sprint across if she wanted to reach her foe. Sometimes Bernice would allow the princess to get into sword range, sometimes she would spit flame, forcing Arbol to race backward. The fight went run-swing-leap-run-flame-run away-run back-swing and so on. All that roadwork took it out of a person, especially when she was hauling a heavy sword.

  “Stop it!” the queen cried out in anguish, pounding Clootie’s back. “Use your magic to turn that dragon into something harmless!”

  Clootie tried, but the spell fell flat. The scholar in him made a mental note that here was proof that living things, once transformed, did not resume their original shapes so easily, if at all. The man in him felt his heart go out to the poor, unhappy queen and mother. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried.”

  Arbol leaned against the post where she had been so recently shackled and gathered her strength for one last lunge. The cheers of her Companions filled her ears. She could hear Pentstemon yelling something about who cared if the prince was a girl, what a follow-through!

  Someone else shouted, “Yep, the lady sure is a spunky little vixen!” Arbol promised herself that if she survived this fight, she would hunt that person down and kill him.

  Unfortunately it didn’t look as if there would be much chance of that. The dragon had backed off, not out of fear but sportsmanship; it was allowing her time to catch her breath. Sweat streamed into her eyes, blurring her vision. She took one last look around the square. There was that dumb hero, who’d tried strangling the beast. He was pushing his way to the front, hollering, “Don’t hurt her! Don’t hurt her!” Arbol didn’t know if he meant her or the dragon.

  There was Wulfie, too, who had magically freed her from her shackles. She wondered where he’d picked up that little trick, and whether he had any more. If so, she hoped he wouldn’t use them on the dragon. This fight was a matter of honor. Judging by the expression of consternation on Wulfie’s face, it didn’t look as if she’d have to worry about that; just about staying alive.

  Funny: Wulfie’s face looked an awful lot like that free-lance hero’s face. Wulfie’s face also looked an awful lot like hers. “Later,” Arbol said to herself, wiping the sweat away. “I’ll worry about that later.”

  If there was a later. Arbol hoped there would be. She had an awful lot of questions she wanted to ask people, starting with her mother. Speaking of whom, there stood Artemisia, next to the wizard they’d charged with Illegal Transformation of a Prince. Arbol knew it was a silly accusation: She’d always been shaped the same way, from the time she was old enough to notice such things. Now she understood that this shape meant “female”. What she didn’t understand was why Mother had kept it a secret from her all these years.

  So she was a girl. Big fat green scaly deal. She could still whip any of her Companions in a fight, she could still out-spit, out-drink, and out-cuss most Gorgorians, and she even understood how to get her own way at Council sessions. You just kept chopping heads off until people saw your point of view. The only disadvantage she could see to being a girl was some moron would always turn up and start calling you a spunky little vixen.

  Arbol tried to raise her sword for the charge. It was too heavy, all of a sudden. Her muscles felt like ribbons. The dragon watched her, beginning to look impatient. There was probably just so long the beast would give her to get her strength back, then ready or not, here it would come. She braced herself against the pole and prepared for death.

  A cold smile curved Bernice’s lipless mouth. She only had eyes for Arbol. She didn’t even notice that five other people had detached themselves from the mob and were doggedly making their way to the princess’ side.

  “Soup’s on,” said the dragon, and took a deep breath, readying a health stream of flame. No one had ever asked her, but Bernice was fairly sure she preferred her meat well-done.

  “I wouldn’t,” said a voice as chill and heartless as her own. A heavy paw fell on the dragonly equivalent of Bernice’s shoulder, that tricky little joint just above where the wings attached. She swiveled her neck and saw a face as green and scaly as her own.

  “Why not?” she hissed defi
antly.

  “Because there are rules,” the other dragon replied. He lowered his head and began to whisper in her ear.

  An uneasy ripple ran through the crowd. “Does this mean we’re goin’ t’ have to scare up another royal virgin?” someone asked.

  “Ha! Like we could.” Someone else in the mob guffawed. “First come, first served, that’s what I say. Here, you! You other dragon. Clear off.”

  The second dragon gave this upstart a cool glance. “My name is Antirrhinum and as soon as I have explained matters to this beguiling creature, I am going to rip your liver out. Then we can talk.” He returned his attention to Bernice while the unlucky speaker scampered away.

  The five people who had joined Arbol at the stake closed ranks while the two dragons conferred. On the far side of the square, a bunch of men wearing grubby tunics and tights in a variety of woodsy shades gathered together to form their own subsidiary mob. They were all gesturing, arguing, and pointing at the dragons. Pretty soon the din they made grew so loud that the original crowd dispatched a representative to complain about the noise to the Gorgorian nobles.

  Before Lord Bulmuk and his cohorts could do anything to restore order, the two dragons raised their heads in a menacing manner. Dead silence fell over the square.

  “Pitiful,” Bernice commented. “Look at them shake! Just pitiful. I like it.”

  “So you see now why we must have these rules of ours, dear Bernice,” said Antirrhinum. “In the first place, the majority of humans are not especially succulent morsels, but they do provide excellent sport-hunting on occasion. It wouldn’t do to slaughter them at random, easy though it would be—we must practice conservation. And there are certain hazards, if one gets them sufficiently angry—while a lone human, even a hero, is generally harmless, they can be quite clever when they gang up. Shall I continue to explain?”

  “Please do.” Bernice linked forepaws with Antirrhinum and the pair waddled a short distance away.

  “Hey!” Ubri called from her place among the Gorgorian nobles. “Hey, Dragon, aren’t you forgetting something?”