Split Heirs (10 page)

Phrenk nodded. “And you're sure this Odo is your real father?”

“Well, yes
—
why
else
would he keep me around?”

Phrenk had no answer to that. “It must just be coincidence, then,” he said. “It's amazing, though
—
you look just like him. I could have sworn that you must have the same father…and I'm sure that there were plenty of women…or maybe the Black Weasel…”

“Huh?” Dunwin blinked. “Weasels are too small to futter sheep. And Odo wouldn't…well, I mean, why a weasel when he's got sheep?”

“No, no, not a real weasel.”

“Well, who, then? Who is it you think I look like?”

“I don't just
think
so, boy
—
the two of you are as like as two books on the same shelf.”

“The two of who?”

“You and Prince Arbol, lad.”

For a moment Dunwin stared. His brows drew closer together, first in puzzlement, and then in anger. He frowned deeply.

“Are you making fun of me?” he demanded.

“No, not at all!” Phrenk protested.

“D'you expect me to believe that a runty little wether like you knows Prince Arbol, or that I look like someone who lives in a piece of lacework?”

Phrenk's mouth opened, but no words came out. Dunwin's fists clenched.

Just then Armetta emerged, holding a dozen tapers tied to a stick by their uncut wicks. “Here we go, Dunwin,” she said.

Dunwin turned, snatched the stick, and stormed out without another word.

Prince Arbol, indeed! When everyone said that the prince was a fine, handsome youth who took after his Old Hydrangean mother. As if Dunwin, the son of Odo and Audrea, could ever look like
that
!

The stranger had been teasing him, just because he was an ignorant shepherd boy and not some dressed-up city-dweller.

Phrenk, utterly baffled, watched the youth stamp angrily out. He was not at all sure why the boy had taken offense.

And the resemblance was utterly uncanny. Either Gudge or Prince Mimulus surely
must
have sired the lad, somehow!

Not that that mattered; both men undoubtedly had children scattered far and wide.

Still, it would make an interesting anecdote to tell the queen.

Chapter Nine

“All done, Mungli?” Queen Artemisia asked as she rapped on her lady-in-waiting's bedroom door. The door was almost immediately flung open and the rather tousled Gorgorian stuck out her head. Nodding briskly, a wistful smile playing about the edges of her ever-silenced lips, Mungli let her royal mistress know that she had seen her duty and she had done it. And it had been rather fun, too.

Behind her, Phrenk the messenger stood making the final, fussy adjustments to his palace livery. The plainer garb he had worn while in the queen's service off in the wilds of the Fraxinella Mountains lay in a heap at the side of Mungli's bed. When he was at last restored to the full glory of a proper junior-sub-head-under-footman, he stepped fastidiously around Mungli and, using the Swan Settling Upon a Lily Pond at Midnight with Variable Winds from the Northwest and the Flower Star Ascendant style of bowing, made his obeisance to the queen.

It was very prettily done, and spoke well for the young man's future in service at the palace.

“Radiant Lady,” Phrenk said, keeping his eyes lowered. “Your Exalted Glory and Inestimable Beauty have done me a great honor.”

Artemisia basked in the warm glow of full Old Hydrangean courtly speech. It had been so long, so very long! Since Gudge's rule, a general slackness appeared to be taking over. Even the most refined and inbred of the aristocratic stock seemed to have let themselves go shamelessly when it came to the niceties. They called it being realistic and practical. Artemisia called it one too many sessions at Gudge's nightly beer bashes.

“It is you who have done me this honor, Golden Underling,” she replied. “I wish that I could send you on all of my errands to the Black Weasel. Alas, your frequent absences would be noted and your life forfeit.”

“Well forfeited mote it be, O Splendor of the Sunrise,” said Phrenk. “Nay, gladly wold I lay mine unworthy head a-doon upon the cruel block and kiss the hem of Death's own kirtle if such sacrifice might purchase me but a single hyaline drop of compassion's own sweet dew from the matchless lights of your regal eyn.” He paused for breath. Speaking fluent Old Hydrangean courtly speech was a draining experience, and Phrenk had just gone through one of those with Mungli.

“Yes, well, that's fine,” said the queen. She had not been expecting her favorite messenger to go on in the same overwrought vein, and to tell the truth, large doses of Old Hydrangean courtly speech lacked the fillip of isolated compliments. It was like the difference between munching a tasty sweetmeat and drowning in a vat of marzipan. “I wouldn't want you to get killed, that's all. You have the very best memory of any messenger I have ever sent to my brother. When you're on the job, I feel secure. Nothing important will be overlooked.”

“Your Unrelenting Splendiferousness shows me too much favor,” said Phrenk, still addressing the silk carpet. “Were it in my power, I should slice the top of my skull away with a golden sword and lay the full scroll of my humble brains at your dainty feet, the better to ensure that no detail, however small, might be lost to your ken, lest it prove vital to Your Entrancing Grace's…”

“Would you like to get off your knees, have a cool drink, and talk normally?” Artemisia offered.

Phrenk looked up and smiled. “I'd love it, Your Majesty.”

Shortly thereafter, Mungli served them thin goblets of Dovetongue, an unpretentious little white wine with flinty underpinnings, a pert, freckled nose, and real staying power.

“Ahhh!” Phrenk set down his empty goblet and smiled when Mungli refilled it. “What a relief this is from that awful upcountry ale I've had to drink this past week.”

“Bad, was it, dear?” Artemisia inquired by way of making conversation.

“Your Majesty's pardon, but it was like drinking ox piss. No offense, darling,” he added for Mungli's benefit. “I know your folk are more than a little fond of oxen.”

Mungli gave a soundless laugh and made an eloquent gesture that simultaneously indicated just how fond her folk were of oxen and what they could all go and do about it.

“My, how you have suffered.” The queen shook her head. “Well, when next you go, I'll see to it that you have something decent to drink on your travels.”

“Your Majesty is too kind. If it's all the same to you, I'll stick with our present working arrangement: A week or so of agony on the road and an hour or so of ecstasy on my return.” He leered at Mungli, who true to her upbringing did the courteous thing and unlaced the front of her gown to give the gentleman a nice, long view of matters. Phrenk sighed with longing. “It's knowing that I've got such payment awaiting me that gives me speed. I cheat many a tedious hour in those squalid mountain taverns by thinking of how, when I get back, I'm going to…”

“Dear Phrenk, we are
so
glad you have a good imagination,” Artemisia said hastily. It wasn't that she was a prude
—
the Old Hydrangean erotic classic,
The Mink and the Otter
, was an astonishingly complete exploration of love's more practical side, as well as being required reading for every well-bred young lady
—
but marriage to Gudge had brought her to the point where even hearing about someone else's amorous exploits gave her a three-day migraine.

Phrenk chuckled. “Forgive me, Majesty, I forget myself. At times my imagination is almost
too
good. For example, I doubt you would believe the fantastic notion that came to me on this trip. I was in one of those village taverns I spoke of
—
one so verminous, vulgar, and beggarly as to make
squalid
sound like a step up
—
when I met the most extraordinary boy.”

“I really don't think I want to hear about what you and he…” Artemisia began

“Really a strange lad, no more than fourteen summers old, a little dense
—
he claimed his mother was a sheep!
—
but quite handsome.
Really
handsome, I mean. In those mountains they rate a man good-looking when he's got two-thirds of his teeth and no visible growths. So handsome, in fact, that I was willing to wager all my life and a damp cracker that he was the spirit and image of our own beloved Prince Arbol! At first I thought he must be a by-blow of either Prince Mimulus or King Gudge, though to speak truly, he had almost matching measures of both Gorgorian and Hydrangean looks about him, just like our dear prince, so there went
that
theory. It was likely just a coincidence; more likely too much of that slug-piddle the mountain folk call ale. Still, it was amusing, doesn't Your Majesty agree
—eeeegh!
”

Mungli gave a guttural cry of distress that fairly mimicked Phrenk's suddenly strangled speech. Who could blame either one of them? The Gorgorian waiting-woman was not used to seeing her gentle mistress, Queen Artemisia, grab a full-grown man by the neck, using both hands, and squeeze. For his part, Phrenk was no more used to having his windpipe be the unheralded recipient of such peculiar royal attention.

“Where was this?” the queen demanded, tightening her hold. “What was the name of the village? Tell me! Tell me at once!”

“Gggllr,” Phrenk said, doing his best to please. The queen took the hint and let her grip unclench a notch. “Stinkberry,” he managed to say.

The queen's hold loosened entirely. Pale hands folded demurely in her lap, as if nothing had ever happened, she said, “My dear, dear Phrenk, you are my most valued and trusted servant. As such I am now going to charge you with a mission of even greater delicacy than any you have thus far undertaken in my service. Please wait here a moment. Amuse yourself.” She nodded towards Mungli, and swept from the room.

In the inmost chamber of her apartments, Artemisia stood over an open chest and selected one item of clothing after another. All were Prince Arbol's castoffs, kept both out of a mother's doting attachment and because Old Hydrangean lore forbade that raiment that had once graced royal backs ever cover less-exalted nakedness.

Queen Artemisia had only the greatest respect for Old Hydrangean lore, following it to the letter in all cases and at all times, unless it was inconvenient. This time, she was sure she was not going to be violating a single penstroke of it. Not after what Phrenk had said. Not with his unimpeachable memory. Not when she knew that Stinkberry village was so close to her brother's forest lair. Not when she recalled that night of conspiracy just over fourteen years ago when old Ludmilla had mentioned Stinkberry as a good stopping place for her when she would have to convey the extra baby to the Black Weasel's keeping.

Something had happened to old Ludmilla en route to the Black Weasel, that much was sure, but as for the twins,…A tear welled up in Artemisia's eye. Phrenk spoke of only one lad bearing that uncanny resemblance to Prince Arbol. Well, perhaps it was too much to expect that both of her baby boys had survived. News of this one was miracle enough, especially when you realized that life among the peasantry was nasty, brutish, short, and filthier than Gudge's armpit. She would have to be grateful for what the gods had sent her. This boy could be the saving of her, and of Prince Arbol too! Dashing the tear away, Artemisia made her selections. When she had packed a suitable bundle of the prince's latest hand-me-downs, she fetched her sewing box, then took her silver scissors to one of Arbol's old play tunics and set to work.

Phrenk and Mungli had amused themselves in a variety of ways by the time the queen returned. In fact, messenger and lady both had so exhausted themselves that Artemisia found Phrenk telling the Gorgorian maidservant a tedious series of the-dragon-the-knight-and-the-virgin jokes while Mungli cleaned away the broken glassware and readjusted the chandelier.

“Mungli, Phrenk, come here,” she said, setting her bundle on top of the only table left standing. “This concerns you both. You are to take this package and go to Stinkberry village. There you are to find the boy of whom Phrenk spoke and bring him back here. Before you do so, you are to make him try on the clothing you will find in this bundle and alter it to fit if need be, but see to it that he does
not
travel in it. However, in this same package you will also find a mask, a hooded mask that covers the whole head. Make sure he puts it on and under no circumstances removes it until you have brought him before me. If you succeed, I shall reward you both beyond your wildest dreams.” She glanced around the devastated room and with a wry smile added, “I would guess they can be pretty wild. But fail me, and I will prove to you that when it comes to punishment, the Gorgorians are strictly wolverines out of water when compared to what a real Old Hydrangean can devise.”

Phrenk digested this information.

It gave him heartburn.

Swallowing hard, he said, “I'm sure Your Majesty has your reasons for these…these exceptional arrangements. But perhaps I am not the best choice for this mission. As you yourself said, if I am too often absent from the palace, people will talk; my life would be forfeit.”

“Well forfeited mote it be, O Golden Underling,” said the queen smoothly. “And don't think you can agree to this assignment and then run away. My brother will be notified if you try that. His memory for faces is as good as yours, and he's finally got the Bold Bush-dwellers brought up to the point where they're
some
earthly use to him. They are all expert trackers, and even more creative than I am when it comes to paying back traitors. Well forfeited, indeed.”

Phrenk blanched to hear his own flowery offer of suicide tossed back so easily in his face, but he was no quitter
—
not when it came to getting out of a bad deal. Bravely he set to trying to dissuade the queen. “The gods forbid that we should never betray Your Majesty! Mungli and I will do our best to leave the palace discreetly, in disguise, but how shall we explain ourselves if we are caught? What shall we do if the boy refuses to accompany us? What if he resists and his fellow villagers come to his aid? What shall we say if one of King Gudge's patrols intercepts us before we can slip into the palace with the masked youth? What if he screams? What if he struggles? Wherever shall we turn for aid? Whatever shall we do?”

Queen Artemisia gave the trembling messenger a hard, cold, tight, beautiful smile. “Phrenk, my dear, I don't give a damn.”