Split Heirs (28 page)

“Oh, Bernice,” he said into her ear, “it's so good to see you!”

“By all the gods!” someone called. “He's trying to strangle it with his bare hands!”

“Who
is
that?” asked another voice.

“What a hero!”

“What an
idiot!
”

“What's the difference?”

And as all the city watched, Bernice the dragon raised her head upward, Dunwin still clinging to her neck, his feet waving about in empty air.

Chapter Thirty
-
Two

Wulfrith didn't like to be disrespectful or anything, and he knew that he should treat his master with all possible courtesy and deference, but really, he thought it was a little inconsiderate of Clootie to have passed out before he was even out the door of his cell.

The old wizard had let out a tremendous gasp of relief when his gag was removed, had moaned as his bonds were cut away and discarded, and had then fainted dead away, and Wulfrith had been utterly unable to rouse him.

At last, the lad had hoisted Clootie up onto his shoulders, and had carried him out of the cell and through the dungeon corridors, heading for the exit.

At least, he thought he was heading for the exit. After awhile, he began to realize that he didn't really know where he was going. He had not bothered to ask the screamer for directions for leaving the dungeons, nor had he noticed just where he entered in the first place.

What's more, after he had wandered through the tunnels for awhile, Wulfrith began to tire. Disgraceful as it was to concern himself with anything so mundane, he wished Clootie had lost those few pounds he always said he wanted to lose.

Still, he staggered on. What choice did he have? There was no one around he could ask for directions; he hadn't even seen a guard since he freed Clootie, but only endless gloomy gray corridors, lit here by a flickering torch, there by a trace of sunlight filtering in from somewhere overhead, and over there by nothing at all. Cobwebs adorned the walls and ceilings, and in time, they adorned Wulfrith's hair and hands as well, and covered Clootie in a thin grey lacework. Dust lay thick on the floor. Water and other liquids dripped and oozed here and there, keeping the flooring treacherously slippery.

It seemed as if he wandered for hours; after a time, he no longer seemed to see any cells, but just endless blank-walled corridors. If the passages had not remained so uniformly dank and unpleasant, Wulfrith might have thought he had left the dungeons behind.

And in truth, he thought maybe he
had
left the dungeons behind, but he still had no idea where he was. He forged on.

Eventually, he came up against a large, locked door that barred the corridor he was in. He stared at it for a moment. A few times, he had found himself in dead ends where he had had to turn around and retrace his steps. He really hoped that this was not another
—
but those had ended in walls, not doors.

And although he couldn't be sure, since a reasonable amount of daylight seeped into this particular corridor through a small overhead grille, but he thought he could see light coming under the door.

That
was not something he had seen before. He thought that just perhaps he had, at last, found a way out.

The door was locked, of course, but that wouldn't stop him. As he had demonstrated to Arbol once or twice, he had a spell that could handle most locks, a very simple little one that he'd learned years ago. Clootie called it the Efficacious Ceremony of Multipartite Unbinding and Revelation; Wulfrith thought of it as the opening spell.

It was so simple he didn't even need to put Clootie down to work it. He made the requisite gesture one-handed, and managed to speak the incantation without grunting.

The door creaked open, and blindingly bright sunlight poured in; adjusting his master's weight, Wulfrith stepped forward, blinking.

He had assumed that he would emerge from the passages into the palace cellars, or perhaps a corridor or guardroom somewhere; it appeared that that wasn't the case at all. He was in a narrow little courtyard somewhere, walled on all sides but open to the sky, and with a narrow door at the far end. He could hear voices and noises, not so very far away
—
the sounds of the city, he thought.

He looked around, and realized that he couldn't see the palace over any of the walls; he guessed that just like in the old stories, he had found a secret escape tunnel from the palace, one that came up somewhere else in the city.

For a moment he wondered why none of the Old Hydrangean nobility had used the tunnel on that day fifteen years before when the Gorgorians came into the city, raping and pillaging and slaying. Why hadn't old King Fumitory fled into exile through it?

Then he realized that in all probability, the old king hadn't been able to
find
the escape tunnel. It wasn't exactly well-marked or easy to travel. Just like the Hydrangeans to make things hard on themselves, he thought.

He stepped out into the courtyard and started for the small door.

As he walked, he realized that the sounds he was hearing were probably not the sounds of the city going about its everyday business; at least, he had never before noticed that the city's everyday business involved
that
much screaming and shouting. Something was clearly going on. He quickened his pace.

The narrow door was locked; annoyed, he worked the opening spell again, and stepped quickly through, without looking to see what lay beyond.

He found himself in a great square, where people were seething in various directions, yelling at each other. In the center of the square was a platform, and on the platform stood a post, and chained to the post…

“Arbol!” the lad shouted. “Is that you?”

Arbol paid no attention, probably didn't even hear him over all the other noise and confusion, and Wulfrith suddenly realized what Arbol was staring at. At first he had taken it for some sort of green backdrop; now he looked up, and saw that it was a dragon, a dragon with someone clinging to its throat, clearly in a hopeless life-or-death struggle with the monster.

And Arbol was quite obviously there to serve as dragonbait.

She was not, however, taking naturally to the role. “Cut me free, somebody, and
I'll
kill it!” she shrieked; Wulfrith noticed for the first time, despite the incredibly inappropriate timing, that Arbol's voice had never really changed. Maybe she really
had
been a girl all along.

He lurched forward, Clootie's limp hands thumping against his ribs, taking in more details.

The dragon was making noises, almost as if it were talking
—
did dragons talk? And the lad clutching its neck was saying something, as well; Wulfrith couldn't make out a word of it.

There were Gorgorian soldiers over there, arguing about something.

There was another group of people behind the dragon, dressed in silly costumes with green tights and brown tunics and funny hats
—
or sometimes brown tights and green tunics, and one of them was all in black, but they all had funny hats. They were arguing too.

There was a group of Gorgorian women, with Lady Ubri at their head, marching up one of the streets into the square.

Queen Artemisia was off to one side, being restrained by Phrenk and Mungli and some other people Wulfrith didn't recognize.

Just about the entire population of the city, in fact, seemed to be gathered in the square, watching this young stranger battle the dragon.

There was a sword lying on the platform; the warrior who was trying to strangle the dragon must have dropped it, Wulfrith decided. He looked up, decided there was no way to get the weapon back up to the young man.

Whoever he was, Wulfrith thought, he was very brave.

“Get me
out
of these stupid things!” Arbol shouted.

Wulfrith frowned, and worked the opening spell. The iron shackles sprang open.

In an instant, Arbol had dived to the platform and come up with the sword. She stood, feet braced apart, and swung the blade over her head.

“Yo, dragon!” she shouted, puffing out her chest. “Put that idiot down and deal with
me!
”

Chapter Thirty
-
Three

“Arbol, you put that sword down
this instant
!” Queen Artemisia yelled. She broke free of Phrenk and Mungli, but was intercepted by Lord Bulmuk, who had been instructed to keep an eye (and both hands) on the queen until the sacrifice could be accomplished. Angry and frustrated, Artemisia thrashed and kicked, but it was no use. She had to be satisfied with calling out imperiously to her daughter, “That's no way for a lady to behave!”

“In a minute, Mother,” the princess hollered back, never taking her eyes off the dragon. “Just as soon as I kill this ugly beast.”

Still clinging to Bernice's neck, Dunwin couldn't help but overhear. “Does she mean me?” he asked his long-lost companion.

“Don't be an idiot,” Bernice replied, taking a few steps backward. “She means me, and the little bitch is right: I
am
ugly.”

“You'll always be beautiful to me, Bernice,” Dunwin said fondly, stroking her scales. “It is kind of weird without all that wool, though.”

“Tell me about it.” Bernice sidestepped as Arbol took a swing at her. “But life's full of little changes. You get used to 'em.”

“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.