Split Heirs (12 page)

Wulfrith blinked in surprise. “Are you sure, Master Clootie?” he asked.

“Of course I'm sure!”

“I've never had a day off before.”

“Then it's overdue, isn't it?”

Wulfrith couldn't argue with that, and knew he probably shouldn't argue at all, but the whole idea of time off was so new he needed time to absorb it. “But who'll look after the cave?” he asked.

“
I
will, of course! You go have your fun.”

“But what'll
you
do? Don't you want to celebrate, too?”

“I'll celebrate right here, lad; I've got eleven more bottles and a spell for succubi that I want to try.”

“What's succubi?”

“Never you mind, you just get on down to the village!”

“Yessir.” Wulfrith turned and scampered off, as Clootie struggled with the wire cage on the second bottle.

Chapter Eleven

Phrenk settled disconsolately at the table nearest the door
—
or rather, nearer the door, there being only two tables. He was fairly sure there had been three, or maybe even four, at the time of his previous visit, but only two remained at present. A pile of kindling by the hearth gave a clue as to the fate of the other.

Mungli settled beside him, looking around with interest. It was the first time she had ever been inside a Hydrangean building that was almost as dirty as a Gorgorian tent, and it made her oddly homesick
—
not that she had any desire at all to ever see the inside of a tent again; what it made her homesick for was the tidy interior of the Palace of the Ox, and specifically the queen's quarters. She felt that she would be quite happy to never see another smelly oxhide tent for as long as she lived. After all, a woman who couldn't speak would be unable to join the women's councils and learn traditional Gorgorian sorcery. Without that, the only thing of any possible interest in the Gorgorian tents would be the Gorgorian men. She could do without those; the queen's messengers might be less enthusiastic, but they were also cleaner and less hazardous to one's health.

A large woman emerged from the kitchen, spotted the two of them, and smiled immensely.

“Good to see you again, sir!” Armetta called. “And is this your esteemed lady?”

Mungli snorted; Phrenk frowned at her, then answered, “Alas, merely a friend.”

“A pity for you both, then. How can I serve you?”

“Ale,” Phrenk said.

Mungli glared at him and kicked him under the table.

“Ale to start with,” Phrenk said, glaring back. “We've a favor to ask, once our thirst is quenched.”

“Oh?” Armetta smiled and winked broadly. “I'll fetch the ale, then.” She turned back toward the kitchen.

A moment later, when Phrenk and Mungli had each had time to down an ale, Armetta stood by the table, arms crossed on her breast, and asked, “Now, what was this favor?”

“We're looking for someone,” Phrenk explained. “A half-witted shepherd boy, good-sized, with black hair.”

Armetta frowned. “There's plenty around here that fit that description,” she said. “Addle-Pated Kristo, for one, or Black Hender, or Bikkel of the Runny Nose.”

“No, it wasn't any of those. He told me his name…”

Just then he was interrupted by the sound of the inn door opening. Phrenk glanced over, and didn't bother to finish his sentence.

“Never mind,” he said, “That's him now.”

Armetta shrugged and wandered away.

Mungli turned and stared, her mouth open. The boy in the doorway certainly
did
look like Prince Arbol
—
in fact, if she hadn't known better, she would have sworn (had she been able to speak) that it
was
the Prince.

The Prince, however, had no business in Stinkberry, and should be back at the Palace of the Ox. Furthermore, wild as the prince was said to be, surely he would never wear anything as cheap and filthy as the stained and worn dark gray apprentice's robe that covered this lad.

And Prince Arbol wouldn't look around at a dirty little village inn with that wide-eyed gawp.

“Dunwin!” Phrenk called, “Fancy seeing you again!”

The boy in the doorway stepped in, but didn't answer. In fact, he headed for the other table, nodding politely in the direction of Phrenk and Mungli.

“Dunwin!” Phrenk called again, “Remember me? We met here last month.”

The lad turned and looked around the room, puzzled.

“I mean you, Dunwin!”

The boy frowned. “Are you talking to me, sir?” he asked.

“Of course I am,” Phrenk said. “You're Dunwin, aren't you?”

The boy considered this carefully, chewing his lower lip, and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don't know what a Dunwin
is
, but I'm pretty sure I'm not one.”

“Your name isn't Dunwin?”

“No,” the lad said, “My name is Wulfrith.”

“Last time I was here you told me it was Dunwin.”

Wulfrith blinked and looked about, wishing Clootie was there to advise him.

“I don't remember ever meeting you before,” he said, “let alone telling you that my name was Dunwin.”

Mungli threw a worried glance at Phrenk; he patted her hand reassuringly, then leaned across the table and whispered, “Remember, this is the fellow who thought his mother was a sheep; he probably doesn't remember much of
anything
, and for all I know he changes his name every fortnight.”

Mungli didn't look entirely convinced.

“Besides,” Phrenk added, “
look
at him! Doesn't he look just like the prince?”

The Gorgorian could scarcely argue with that.

“Well, then,” Phrenk said aloud, “if you don't remember meeting me, join us, and we'll introduce ourselves.”

“I don't want to intrude…”

“Not at all! Come, sit down, we'll buy you a pint of the best.”

Wulfrith, acutely aware of just how limited his funds were, couldn't resist. He took a seat at the table, where Phrenk and Mungli stared at him. Phrenk waved a signal to Armetta, and a moment later a full mug appeared before the wizard's apprentice.

“So,” Phrenk said, by way of casual conversation, “how's the sheep-herding business?”

Wulfrith blinked over his mug, puzzled. He lowered the tankard and said, “
I
don't know. How is it?”

“I don't know, if you don't,” Phrenk said, caught off-guard. “I'm not a shepherd.”

“Who are you, then?” Wulfrith asked suspiciously.

“My name is Phrenk; I'm just a traveler, passing through.” He gestured. “This is my companion, Mungli.”

“I'm…” Wulfrith paused. He suddenly recalled that true names have power. He had already given his, but this peculiar traveling shepherd might not remember that. “I'm pleased to meet you,” he said. He nodded politely at Mungli.

It was only when Phrenk spoke again that Wulfrith realized he was staring at the young woman. He wasn't entirely sure why.

He was beginning to think, though, that maybe wine, women and song would be worthy entertainment on two out of three.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “what did you say?”

“I said, what brings you here?”

“Oh, well, we were celebrating…”

“We?”

“Um.” Suddenly cautious, Wulfrith looked the two strangers over a bit more carefully. The man looked harmless enough, really
—
but the woman's dress was in the Gorgorian style, with a square-cut neckline and heavy, coarse fabric, rather than the scalloping and lace of traditional Hydrangean fashion.

And Clootie was, technically, a fugitive, or so he had always claimed. The Gorgorians had outlawed the practice of men's magic and high wizardry, allowing only the nasty hedge-magicks and sorceries of their own womenfolk.

It hardly seemed likely that these two would be hunting down escaped wizards after all these years, but that was no reason to go blabbing everything.

“Me, I mean,” he said. “I was celebrating, all alone, by myself.”

“Oh? Celebrating what?”

“Oh, nothing. My birthday,” Wulfrith improvised.

“Congratulations, then,” Phrenk said. “How old are you, then?”

Wulfrith decided he didn't want to answer this, and tried to change the subject. “I'm pleased to meet you, Mungli,” he said. “Are you from around here?”

“She can't speak,” Phrenk said hastily. “A little accident.”

Mungli shot Phrenk an unhappy glance. Accident, indeed!

Eager to get back on track, Phrenk asked, “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn't,” Wulfrith lied.

“Oh. I thought you said you were Dunwin, Odo's son?”

Vague memories stirred at the mention of that name, but Wulfrith shook his head. “Nope,” he said.

Phrenk frowned. “You're not a shepherd?”

“Nope.”

“What
do
you do, then?”

Wulfrith hesitated. Wizardry was illegal.

“Nothing,” he said.

“You know,” Phrenk said, in his best attempt at casualness, “I could swear I met you here once before, and you told me that your father was a shepherd named Odo.”

Wulfrith considered this, then said, “Nope. I don't think so.”

“And you said your mother was a ewe,” Phrenk continued desperately.

“Never met my mother,” Wulfrith admitted.

“Oh. Well, where…” Phrenk stopped.

What did it matter who the boy thought he was, and what he had or hadn't said? Whoever and whatever he was, he looked just like Prince Arbol, and he was unquestionably the one the queen had sent them after.

He was obviously even stupider and more confused than Phrenk had originally assumed, but that wasn't necessarily a problem, and it almost certainly, Phrenk thought, wasn't
his
problem.

“Listen,” Phrenk said, “how would you like to come with us to meet a friend of ours? She lives in the Palace of Divinely Tranquil Thoughts, down in the city.”

Wulfrith drank the rest of his ale before answering.

This was a seriously weird request. Here were these two people he had never met before, one of whom had apparently made up a name and history for him, and ten minutes after they first laid eyes on him they were inviting him to a
palace
?

That was just crazy. That made less sense than the silliest incantation he had ever heard.

It had to be a trick.

If these two really
were
agents of the Gorgorian overlords, perhaps they knew who he was and were trying to lure him into a trap. Perhaps he would then be bait to lure in Clootie.

But they didn't know how much magic he knew; if they didn't use wizardry themselves, they
couldn't
know. He could escape at any time, he was sure
—
he knew a few good spells, even if he wasn't yet half the wizard Master Clootie was.

And it would be very interesting to see the capital, and to meet some real Gorgorians, and everything.

He couldn't quite see where all this stuff about sheep fit into the Gorgorian agent theory, though. Maybe it was meant to lull his suspicions.

Or maybe this man with the curly hair was just a lunatic. Maybe he was keeping the girl captive, and Wulfrith would be able to rescue her, and she would be so grateful she would…she would…well, she'd be grateful.

“Sure,” he said. “Sounds like fun.”

Chapter Twelve

On what was surely at least the third attempt, Clootie finally managed to count the empty bottles without losing his place. He wound up with a total of twelve, and sighed.

The succubus had been right; all the good wine was gone. And for that matter, so was the succubus; she had given up on him several hours ago and vanished in a cloud of foul- smelling smoke. A trace of the scent still lingered. Clootie grimaced; wasn't the traditional odor supposed to be brimstone? The cloying reek of this particular succubus, at any rate, didn't resemble brimstone in the slightest.

He leaned back against the armchair and stretched out his legs, contemplating his subterranean residence. His joints ached
—
one joint in particular felt as if he had scraped it raw, which he probably had. His knees and elbows showed some wear, as well, and he had several minor scratches on his back. There were a few on his chest, as well, and half a dozen hairs had been plucked out by the roots. The toothmarks were fading, but still discernable.

Well, no one had ever said that succubi were gentle.

At least he didn't have a headache. The one basic, useful spell that the most effete and erudite Hydrangean wizards had never been foolish enough to forsake, not even at the very height of their refinement of the arcane arts, was the Fine and Ancient Ceremony for the Peaceful and Unresentful Contemplation of the Lark Which Rises Joyfully Singing With the Dawn Regardless of the Weather, more commonly known as “the hangover cure.”

The celebration, he decided, was over
—
just now he had no interest at all in wine, women, or song.

That meant that it was time to clean up, get everything squared away, and then set about transforming Gorgorians into miscellaneous wildlife. The question of whether to tackle the job on his own, or to contact the Black Weasel and his Bold Bush-dwellers and use them as his staff, was not yet settled. As his head cleared, though, the possibility that the Black Weasel might not immediately agree to yield command had occurred to him. There might be more to this liberating-the-kingdom stuff than he had initially thought.

First things first, though. The cave had to be straightened up, the empty bottles disposed of, the bedding replaced. Clootie gathered his strength and called, “Wulfrith!”

The cry echoed in the stony depths, but no other answer came. The wizard frowned. With a supreme effort he got to his feet and called again.

Still, no one answered.

Clootie's frown deepened. He tried to think over the entire celebration.

He had given the lad the day off, of course
—
partly so Wulfrith could celebrate on his own, but mostly to get him out of the cave so that he wouldn't be corrupted by the succubus, or drink an unreasonable share of the wine. That had been on the afternoon of the feast day of Himpi-Himpi, god of small furry animals with excessive numbers of sharp teeth. Clootie had worked the summoning that evening, and the succubus had arrived around midnight, and then…

Well, there was no need to go into detail, but Clootie was fairly certain that at least three days had passed since he had last seen Wulfrith.

That was worrisome. Wulfrith was a good lad, and entirely trustworthy, in Clootie's experience. He should have returned long ago.

Something must have happened to him. Hildie, perhaps, or that ale Armetta sold.

Or, of course, it might have been something bad. The boy didn't know all that much about the outside world; Clootie had told him a few things, but that wasn't the same as living them. Wulfrith might have run into serious trouble of some sort. If he had let slip that he was a wizard's apprentice…

Well, of course, everyone in Stinkberry who had ever met Wulfrith knew that he was a wizard's apprentice, but if word had somehow reached King Gudge and his simian subordinates that there was a Hydrangean wizard who was not only still alive, but who had the audacity to be training an apprentice…

Clootie did not care for that line of thought.

Maybe, he told himself, the boy
had
come back, but he was sleeping, or out at the privy. He set about searching the cave, just to be sure.

Half an hour later he no longer doubted; Wulfrith was missing.

And he would have to be found. Clootie began gathering clothing, including his cloak and boots.

He was rather surprised to discover that it was market day in the village. He tried to tell himself that this was good, that maybe Wulfrith had just stayed to see the market, but he didn't convince anyone. More people just meant more to look at, and more trouble the boy could be in.

It was with a sudden burst of relief that Clootie spotted a familiar face, standing by the inn door and listening to the old codgers arguing on the bench out front.

“Wulfrith!” he called.

The boy didn't turn.

The relief was suddenly laced with anger. The lad
must
have heard.

“
Wulfrith!
” he bellowed.

Several people turned to look, but the boy at the inn was not one of them. Furious, Clootie marched down the street and thrust himself in front of the lad.

“Wulfrith,” he said, “what the hell are you doing here?”

The boy blinked. “I'm not doing anything. What does ‘wulfrith' mean?”

“It's your
name
, you little idiot!”

Since the lad was two or three inches taller than Clootie and at least as broad, “little” was not, perhaps, the best possible choice of words. The boy just looked more confused than ever.

“No, it isn't,” he said. “At least, I never heard it before.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Did.”

“Didn't.”

Clootie frowned. Something was not right here. “All right, then,” he asked, “what
is
your name?”

The boy hesitated. “I'm not sure I should tell you,” he said.

“But it's not Wulfrith? And I suppose you aren't my apprentice?” Clootie glared menacingly at the youth.

“Um,” the boy said.

“What's
that
mean?”

“I dunno.”

“You don't
know
that you're my apprentice?”

“I don't know what I meant. But I don't
think
I'm your apprentice.” He blinked, and added belatedly, “Sir.”

Clootie glared more balefully.

“I don't remember being
anyone's
apprentice,” the lad said.

An angry mutter distracted Clootie from whatever he had intended to say next; startled, he looked around, and discovered that his argument with this person who denied being Wulfrith had attracted a small crowd.

“Let him alone, why don't you?” someone called. “If he's your apprentice, can't you see he's half-witted? What's the use of shouting at him?”

Several people murmured agreement. Clootie blinked.

Wulfrith, half-witted?

Wulfrith could be reckless, thoughtless, and clumsy, but he was certainly not half-witted, nor had he ever before denied his name or his apprenticeship.

“Um,” Clootie said, his anger vanishing.

Something was wrong here. Wulfrith was a straightforward, honest boy. If he had wanted to quit his apprenticeship, he would have just said so, he wouldn't have claimed to be someone else or denied remembering Clootie.

So in that case, Clootie decided, it seemed that Wulfrith genuinely
didn't
remember his name, or who he was.

“Boy,” Clootie asked, “have you been hit on the head recently?”

The lad shrugged. “No more than usual,” he replied.

That was not quite the clear and definite answer Clootie might have hoped for. He tried to think what else could make a man forget everything.

“Have you been keeping company with a woman, then?”

A puzzled look settled on the lad's face. “Which one?”

That response seemed to rule out a normal infatuation, Clootie thought; the identity of his love was the one thing an ardent young swain did
not
forget.

But there was another possibility. For years, Clootie had heard the stories about the Gorgorians
—
why they thought wizards were unmanly, why they kept their women locked away. Gorgorian warriors used no sorcery of any kind, but their women had a sort of hedge magic, female magic, crude and simple ensorcelments that they used to assist their natural feminine wiles.

Poor Wulfrith must have run afoul of woman's magic, weak and treacherous and incomprehensible. Proper wizardry might be able to cure the effects, but alas, Clootie had no idea how to go about it.

The witch who had cast the spell, though, would surely know how to reverse it, or at the very least could give Clootie some pointers.

“Have you been bothering any Gorgorian women?” Clootie asked.

The lad frowned. “Not that I know of,” he said.

Clootie turned to the villagers gathered around. “Have any of you seen my apprentice with a Gorgorian woman lately?”

“Why?” one belligerent fellow demanded.

“I think he's been enchanted, that's why.”

“I haven't been enchanted!” the youth protested.

“You wouldn't know it if you had,” Clootie told him in his most reassuring tone.

“But I haven't!”

Clootie ignored the protest. “Anyone seen any Gorgorian women around here?”

The observers looked at one another.

“I might've maybe seen one,” a man admitted. “Young and pretty, too. In the inn, there.”

“And that young man was with her,” a woman agreed.

“So was another fellow.”

The pieces were falling into place. Clootie could imagine what must have happened; some Gorgorian wench had flirted with poor, innocent Wulfrith, her boyfriend had taken umbrage, and to prove her loyalty she had thrown a spell on Wulfrith. Clear as anything, it was.

“Anyone know who she was?” Clootie asked.

“Wasn't any such person!” the lad protested, but he was ignored as the little crowd babbled about the Gorgorian woman
—
what she wore, what she looked like, her anatomy and probable sexual habits, the beady-eyed, untrustworthy, curly-haired city man who had been with her.

Eventually, Clootie came to the conclusion that nobody actually knew anything about her beyond what they had glimpsed as she walked past on the street.

She had been served at the inn, however.

“I'll ask Armetta,” Clootie said. “Wulfrith, you wait here.”

He didn't wait for an answer, but ducked quickly through the door of the inn.

Dunwin looked after him, then muttered, “My name's not Wulfrith, and I'll be damned if I'll wait here.” No lunatic was going to make him be an apprentice. No Gorgorian woman had done anything to him.

Head held high, he marched off home, to see Bernice.
She
was sensible and reliable, not like these crazy villagers.

Ten minutes later, Clootie emerged from the inn; Armetta had admitted that a Gorgorian girl had been there, three days before, but would say no more than that. Clootie was unsure whether she
knew
any more than that.

He stepped out the door into an empty street; the crowd had dispersed.

And Wulfrith had vanished.

The only person anywhere near was an old man seated on the bench, doing nothing, his head leaned back comfortably.

“Where did he go?” Clootie demanded.

The old man lifted his head. “You mean the boy?”

Clootie nodded.

“That way,” the old man said, pointing. “Up the mountain.”

Clootie followed the pointing finger.

The boy had, indeed, headed up the mountain, probably trying, in his dazed and confused way, to get home to the cave. He had, however, picked the wrong mountain.

Cursing, Clootie trotted after him.