Split Heirs (20 page)

“Very hard to be naked with them on,” Wulfrith replied cheerfully.

The Keeper let out a long breath. “I am pleased to hear Your Pending Majesty say so. There have been times in our history
—
notably during the so-called Short Dynasty
—
when the king-to-be balked at this ritual.”

Wulfrith clapped the Keeper on the back. “A king's gotta do what a king's gotta do,” he said.

“
Whack!
” Oswego yelled, only this time Bulmuk had loaned the boy his sword. Something bounced across the chamber floor.

There was a field promotion for Clerestory on the spot, and drinks ordered in afterwards. All in all, by the time the delegation left him in peace, Wulfrith was feeling rather optimistic about what awaited him.

His wizardry didn't include how to read the future, either.

Chapter Twenty
-
Two

“So tell us again about your green sheep,” Ochovar called through the twilight gloom.

Dunwin let out a sigh; he was sitting with his back to a tree and his feet to a campfire, letting his supper settle. He didn't really want to answer any more silly questions.

But if he didn't, the others would hound him all night.

“Her name's Bernice,” he said wearily. “She's about fifteen feet tall and thirty feet long, I guess, with great big claws, and shiny green scales, and a long pointy tail.”

“How do you get wool off her, if she's scaly?” someone asked; Dunwin didn't see who spoke.

“If she gives green wool, it'd save some dying, anyway,” the Purple Possum remarked from across the fire, where he was repairing a lute.

“She doesn't have wool any more,” Dunwin explained. “She
used
to, when she was really a sheep.”

The Possum looked up from the tuning peg he was whittling. “How's that?” he asked. “Isn't she a sheep any more?”

Dunwin stared at him in angry astonishment. “Of
course
not,” he said. “Whoever heard of a green sheep?”

The Possum smiled wryly. “Up until we met you,” he said, “not a one of us here ever had.”

“Well, of course not,” Dunwin said. “There's no such thing as a green sheep, not that
I
ever heard of. Bernice was white, when she was a sheep.”

The Possum put down the peg and whittling knife. “Then what is she now?” he asked.

“Well, what
else
is scaly and green and thirty feet long?” Dunwin asked, amazed. “She's a dragon, of course. That wizard turned her into a dragon.”

“Wizard?” several voices said.

“Dragon?” several others said simultaneously.

The Purple Possum leaned forward and said, “Dunwin, I don't think you've ever told us the whole story. Would you care to explain what you're talking about?”

“It's simple enough,” Dunwin said, puzzled by this sudden interest. He had been trying to tell the Bold Bush-dwellers all about it ever since he had arrived at the camp, but up until now all they had wanted to hear were descriptions of the dragon Bernice had become
—
descriptions that usually produced great merriment and much giggling.

The merriment had never, after the first day, taken the form of attacks on his person, however; a few broken bones had settled that, and once he started his sword lessons…

But he had never managed to tell the entire story before.

“I got into an argument with a wizard,” he said. “I don't remember all of it, but it had something to do with his apprentice. And he got mad at me, and turned my favorite sheep, Bernice, into a dragon. And she flew away, and I followed after, looking for her. And that's what I was doing when you people found me.”

“You were chasing a
dragon
?” Ochovar asked.

Dunwin nodded.

“What would you have done if you
found
her?” Wennedel asked.

“Talked to her,” Dunwin said. “She's still
Bernice
, after all
—
she's still my best friend, that I brought up from a lamb. I'd ask her to come home with me.”

“You think she'd have come?” the Purple Possum asked, intensely interested, and unaware of the figure standing in the shadows behind him.

“Of course!” Dunwin said, startled that anyone would even think to ask. “She's
Bernice
!”

“What would you do with a dragon, once you got her home?” Ochovar asked.

Dunwin shrugged.

“The question is, my Bold Bush-dwellers,” the Black Weasel said suddenly, stepping from the shadows, “what could
we
do with a tame dragon? Dunwin, my lad, do you love your country?”

Dunwin blinked. “It's okay,” he said.

“Would you put yourself and your beloved pet at the service of your people, the true lords of Old Hydrangea?”

“I dunno.”

“This dragon, this Bernice
—
does she breathe fire?”

“I dunno.”

“She can fly?”

“Yeah, I saw her do that.”

“She has claws?”

“Great big ones.”

“And teeth?”

“Big as my fingers.”

The Possum cast an involuntary glance at Dunwin's huge hands and shuddered.

“Dunwin,” the Black Weasel said, “this beast of yours might be just what we need to strike utter terror into the craven hearts of the barbaric Gorgorians! In their simple, primitive minds, a dragon must surely look like a demon incarnate, wouldn't you say?”

Dunwin scratched under one ear, considering the question.

“And what about the wizard, sir?” the Possum asked. “If there's a wizard out there who can turn a sheep into a dragon, maybe he can do other useful things as well.”

“A good thought, Tadwyl,” the Weasel agreed. “Hard to believe a wizard could ever be of any use, though.”

“So if we had this dragon and that wizard,” someone said, “could we
please
attack the capital and get it over with?”

“Maybe,” the Weasel replied, “maybe. All in good time. Wouldn't do to rush anything.”

“My lord,” the same voice said, “I've been out here in the merry and festering, musty, damp greenwood with you for fourteen years now. I don't think we're rushing.”

“Is that you, Spurge?” the Possum called. “Can't see a thing in the dark.”

“Yes, it's me,” Spurge replied.

“Well, then, Spurge,” the Black Weasel said, “if you're so eager as all that, then on the morrow, you and a few men of your choice will see if you can't find this poor boy's little lost sheep. You can start looking in those old dragon-caves in the South Cliffs. Would that suit you?”

“Not really,” Spurge said, “but I'll do it.” He sneezed. “Anything to get out of this damp.” He hesitated, then added, “At least, anything that hasn't got wolverines in it.”

“About the wizard…” the Purple Possum began.

“Ah, yes, the wizard,” the Black Weasel said. “We'll send someone after this wizard, too
—
Dunwin can give directions, I'm sure.
You
, Pelwyn
—
I mean, Green Mole
—
you take care of it. Take along a couple of the others if you like.”

“Yes, sir,” said a voice from a nearby tree. “In the morning?”

“Right.”

“Shall we get some sleep, then?”

Despite a consensus in favor of retirement, the conversation dragged on for some time before finally fading out. Dunwin lay on his blanket, staring up at the stars that peeked through the leaves above, and smiling.

They were finally seriously going to try to find Bernice!

It was very late when he finally dozed off; consequently, he slept much later than he had intended, and was awakened by a great commotion. Voices were shouting, equipment banging about; Dunwin sat up and looked wildly about, trying to figure out what was happening.

Everyone seemed to be gathering at the King Tree, the big beech; Dunwin picked up his blanket, drapped it across his shoulders to keep out the morning chill, and headed in that direction.

He stepped into the little clearing from one side just as the Black Weasel himself, looking rather the worse for wear and none too pleased to be awake, entered from the other. In between, most of the Bold Bush-dwellers were milling about.

And in their midst stood a rather exhausted-looking fellow in very fancy, if somewhat tattered, clothing.

“All right, all right,” the Black Weasel bellowed. “What's going on here?”

“It's a messenger!”

“From the capital!”

“It's the king!”

“It's our chance! Now's the time to strike!”

“Shut up, all of you!” the Black Weasel shouted. He shoved his way through the crowd and took his place in the battered throne.

“Now,” he said, “I see we have a messenger, despite the earliness of the hour.”

“Yes, oh, brave and dashing Black Weasel, leader of the Bold Bush-dwellers in the fight for freedom from the foul invader!” the messenger proclaimed.

“That's not quite right, is it?” The Black Weasel frowned, then waved it away. “Never mind. What's the message?”

“I have come here from the Palace of Divinely Tranquil Thoughts at the express urgings of Her Majesty Artemisia, Queen of Hydrangea!”

“Yes, of course. Get on with it.”

“Without stopping, I have made my way across the mountains to come here, traveling day and night…”

“Get
on
with it!”

“I bring momentous news! Such is the news I bring that your hearts will sing with…”

The Black Weasel stood up and drew his rapier; moving slowly and gracefully, he placed the tip of the sword on the messenger's Adam's apple and growled, “Shut up and tell me what you're doing here.”

The messenger blinked.

“That's rather a contradiction, sir,” he said. “If I were, as you put it, to ‘shut up,' then how…”

The tip of the sword drew blood. The Black Weasel adjusted his stance to prepare for a thrust. “You're new at this,” he said. “If you ever want to be
old
…”

He let the threat hang unfinished.

“All right all right all right! King Gudge is dead!”

The Black Weasel froze. Utter silence descended; for a moment nothing moved, no one spoke.

“There, are you happy now?” the messenger said. “You've ruined the whole thing, and I had this great speech all set to go, but now you've spoiled the ending for everyone.”

The Black Weasel withdrew his sword and wiped the tip carefully with his pocket handkerchief.

“The usurper is dead?” he asked.

“That's right,” the messenger said. “Fell off his horse while he was drunk and broke his neck. Or maybe he was pushed; Prince Arbol was with him at the time, and there's been some talk.”

“Is the prince safe?”

“Safe?” The messenger stared. “Of course he's safe! He's the new king, isn't he?”

“Is he?”

“Of course he is! The Gorgorians don't care whether Gudge was pushed or not.”

“What about the queen?”

“Her Majesty Queen Artemisia is in mourning, of course,” the messenger said, his expression appropriately somber. “But she seems to be bearing up well. The funeral was held according to the rites of the king's own ancestors, but even so, Her Majesty only threw up twice at the ceremony. The bruises are reportedly only superficial. Her laughter is being attributed to mere womanish hysteria, and her dancing down the street singing is being called an attempt to deal with overwhelming grief.”

“A Gorgorian funeral, hey?” The Black Weasel considered. “I wonder what their funerals are like, then?”

The messenger shuddered delicately. “You don't want to know,” he said. “The Grand Hall for State Occasions Involving Death or Other Unpleasantness has been closed, and the architects aren't sure if they can repair it or whether it will have to be torn down.”

“So I suppose they'll be putting Prince Arbol on the throne, then? With some barbaric ceremony of their own?”

“No, O brave defender of the people,” the messenger said, “a compromise was arranged
—
a Gorgorian funeral, but the coronation will follow all the traditional rites and procedures of Old Hydrangea, to ensure that no one will ever accuse Prince Arbol of being a mere usurper, as his father was.”

“That takes three weeks, though.”

The messenger nodded.

“Besides, he's still a usurper,” the Black Weasel said. “The throne rightfully belongs to
me—
I mean, to Prince Mimulus, the queen's brother.”

“Not according to the Gorgorians,” the messenger pointed out.

“Well,
damn
the Gorgorians!”

This elicited a loud cheer from the gathered Bush-dwellers.

“Let's go throw them out!” Spurge shouted from the crowd.

“No need to be hasty…” the Purple Possum began.

“Hasty, nothing!” Spurge replied. “Listen, with Gudge dead, the Gorgorians don't have a real leader
—
their new king is just a boy, and besides, isn't he going to be all locked away until the whole coronation ceremony is over? And with that wizard Dunwin told us about, and maybe Dunwin's dragon, or even a
couple
of dragons
—
this is the best chance we're ever going to have! If we don't go now, we might as well admit we're
never
going to drive out the Gorgorians!”

Several people applauded. Dunwin was one of them, though he wasn't entirely sure why.

The Black Weasel looked out over the cheering throng; he stroked his beard thoughtfully. The Purple Possum, who had intended to make further protests, also looked over the crowd and decided to keep his mouth shut.

“Yes!” the Black Weasel said at last. He stood up on his throne, narrowly avoiding an overhanging branch, and called, “Yes! At long last, my faithful friends and followers, the time has come! I know the coronation rituals, and when the grand climax comes, when the new king emerges from his holy bath in the Hallowed Hall of Sacred and Ever-Flowing Royal Enthronement, and makes the mark from the Palace of Divinely Tranquil Thoughts out to greet his people in the Square Of Munificent Blessings From Those Gods Worthy of Our Attention, every eye will be upon him. And when all the attention of the capital is on the ceremony, we will strike! With our patriotic Hydrangean dragons and our heroic wizards, and with the strength and courage of our own hearts, we will drive the dreaded Gorgorian from this land forever! Are you with me, lads?”

Dunwin and the rest cheered more loudly than ever.