Split Heirs (6 page)

“Coming, coming!” The glade resounded with the sound of a perfectly pitched, well-modulated voice which heralded the appearance of the first full-grown adult, besides the Black Weasel, that Spurge had yet seen in the forest. He was of middling height and slim, with a merry face, trailing brown locks, and the high brow of a poet (Old Hydrangean sages agree that it took more brainpower to come up with a rhyme for “orange” than to perfect the potion for curing the common cold). “You bellowed, Black Weasel?” he inquired, holding his guitar to one side as he made a graceful bow.

“Listen, Tadwyl
—
”

“Ah, ah, ah!” The gentleman waggled a violet-gloved finger at his leader. “That's not the name I'm known by here and now.”

“Your pardon, Purple Possum,” the Black Weasel replied. “Behold the prisoner that my able scouts, the Green Mole and the Scarlet Shrew have captured.” He gestured at Spurge. “He says he has a message for me, but I can not seem to make my men understand that I wish to be alone to hear it. Do you think you might possibly…?”

“He always keeps all the best secrets to hisself,” the first stripling complained.

“'Snot fair!”

“I wanna hear the message!”

“Me, too.”

“Aw, who cares? It's probably
boring
.”

“
Everything's
boring here,” the expert on boring things chimed in. He was the skinniest and gangliest of the crew, with a complexion that must have glowed in the dark. “I hate this stupid forest. I hate this stupid bow. I hate my stupid name! Everyone else got a
good
name like the Blue Badger or the Fuschia Ferret. How come
I
got stuck being the M'genta Marmot, huh? I don't even know what's a marmot. Nor what's m'genta, neither! I bet it's somethin'
dirty
, an' that's why everyone else is always laughing at me. I hate this whole stupid game!” He wiped his nose on the back of one hand and commenced sniveling. “I wanna go
home!
”

The Purple Possum clapped the weepy boy on the back. “There, there, lad, don't fret,” he said cheerfully. “Why, I've just now finished composing the latest song in the epic cycle of the Adventures of the Black Weasel, brave and dashing heroic leader of the Bold Bush-dwellers.”

“So what?” the boy asked bluntly.

“So…it's called ‘How the Magenta Marmot Rescued the Black Weasel from a Fate Worse than Death' is what.”

“
What?
” The Black Weasel was livid, but his shout of outrage was swallowed whole by a chorus of eager cries from the Bold Bush-dwellers.

“Wow! A new one orready? Keen!”

“You gonna sing it for us, P.P.?”

“An' it's the
Marmot
who saves the Black Weasel this time? Neat!”

“Gee, I wish
I
was the Magenta Marmot.”

“Aw, c'mon, Green Mole, you already got to save the Black Weasel's life in ‘The Battle of the Milfeen Bridge'.”

“One limerick, big deal.”

“How come
I
don't ever get to rescue the Black Weasel, huh? All I ever get to do is shoot stupid love-poems through the fair Lady Indecora's window. I don't even
like
the fair Lady Indecora. She's only twelve and she's got pimples.”

“So do you.”

“Do not!”

“Do too!”

“Do not!”

“Do too!”

“Do not!”

The debate ended in a pummeling match which the Purple Possum broke up in short order. Then, strumming the first bars of the ever-popular “Ballad of the Black Weasel and the Crone with the Really Big Daughter,” he led the boys away into the trees.

“Good old Possum,” said the Black Weasel. “I don't know what I'd do without him. We were at school together, you know. He's a miracle for keeping those little hellspits in line. Now
—
” he rested his hands on his knees and regarded Spurge with a wolfish grin “
—
the message?”

“Gork,” said Spurge. He was still staring after the wake of the Purple Possum. “Is that
—
is they
—
are them
—
I mean, in the songs and all, I always got the idea that the Bold Bush-dwellers was…was…sort of
older
than that.”

“Surely you don't believe that those juvenile hobbledehoys are the
whole
of my fearless forces for the Hydrangean Resistance, do you?” the Black Weasel asked, a superior half-smile curling his lip.

“Well, nnnnno, I guess not.”

“Because they are.”

The Black Weasel smiled no more. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a really good Resistance Movement going in this land? Especially at harvest time. Most adult males are family men. They can't spare the time to go hanging out in a forest, ever ready to strike dread and trembling into the hearts of our brutal oppressors, when they've got a wife and kiddies to feed at home. And any man who does volunteer to join us is usually a ne'er-do-well, a lout so lazy that no decent woman would have him, a shiftless beggar who'll turn tail in a fair fight but show up early on payday.”

“Oh,” said Spurge.

“So I make do with the young'uns,” the Black Weasel continued. “Get 'em young, train 'em up the way you'd like to have 'em, and there you are with a band of picked fighters fit to strike terror into the miserable hearts of the Gorgorians. Someday. The good thing about recruiting boys of this age is that they've got a whole lot of pent-up natural viciousness and an absolute passion for fooling around with weapons. I know I wouldn't want to run into a bunch of 'em on a dark night.”

“Don't their folks object?” Spurge asked.

“Not likely. Glad to get 'em out of the house, most are. And as long as good old Tadw…I mean, the Purple Possum comes strolling through their home villages every few weeks to sing about all the happy adventures the sprats are having in a wholesome atmosphere of simple food, fresh air, and hearty camaraderie, their mothers are content.” He stretched his long limbs luxuriously and added, “Now give me that message before I let the little slime-hounds have a bit of open-hearth cookery practice on you.”

Spurge took a deep breath and launched himself upon the multicolored sea of the queen's message. The Black Weasel listened carefully to his sister's sending, even when Spurge hit the occasional clunker and had to double back several lines to correct himself. When at length the page had finished, the Black Weasel stroked his moustache and said, “I see.”

“Do you?” Spurge was impressed.

“I was wondering what had happened to the babies. Old Ludmilla's a dear, but she always was a little thick.”

“Oh, so it's old Ludmilla who's the White Doe? Or the Silver Hart's behind?”

The Black Weasel ignored the question. Instead he reached into a beautifully carved wooden box that stood beside his throne and removed writing materials. Having dashed off a note, he took the brass-bound hunting horn from his belt and blew a long blast.

His summons went unanswered. A second blast had as little effect, and a third. In the end he gave up and just hollered off into the woods,
“POSSUM!”
The Purple Possum reappeared, the rest of the Bold Bush-dwellers in tow.

“You shrieked, O Black Weasel?” he inquired brightly.

“Who is our best archer?”

The Purple Possum considered. “That would be the Puce Mongoose.”

“Well, here.” The Black Weasel flicked the note at his comrade-in-arms. “Have him send this to my sister.”

Spurge watched with growing dismay as the message was plucked from the forest floor and passed to a bandy-legged redhead with a bad case of adenoids. “Just a minute!” he objected. “If that's a message for the queen, well, I'm a messenger, after all.”

“Correction,” said the Black Weasel. “You
were
a messenger. You
are
a Bold Bush-dweller.”

“Am I?” Spurge was at an utter loss.

“Sorry about that,” said the Purple Possum, patting him on the back. “It can't be helped. You weren't blindfolded when they brought you here, so you know the way to our woodland hideout. If you went back, you might reveal it.”

“Toldja to blindfold him, Mole!” The blond half of Spurge's enforced escort gave the dark-haired half a nasty shove in the ribs.

“Ahhh, shuddup, Shrew!” The dark-haired lad responded with a shove of his own. “I'm not the one went an' blew his nose in our 'fficial Bold Bush-dwellers' regulation blindfold.”

“I wouldn't say a word, honest!” Spurge protested. “Look, ask anyone who knows me, they'll tell you I'm lucky if I can
remember
a word!”

The Black Weasel shook his head. “It's remarkable how much more
dependable
one's memory becomes with the application of a little basic Gorgorian torture. I think it involves wolverines.” He shrugged. “Welcome to the Resistance, noble patriot.”

* * * *

Queen Artemisia had just gotten the baby down for another nap when the arrow came zipping in through the window and lodged itself with a resounding
thwang!
in the headboard of the royal cradle. Cursing fluently, the queen yanked the missile free with one hand, using the other to jiggle the cradle in a fruitless attempt to lull the baby back to sleep.

It was not until two earsplitting hours later that Artemisia was at last free to read the missive which had been lashed to the arrow's shaft:

“Unto the White Doe does the Black Weasel, brave and dashing heroic leader of the Bold Bush-dwellers, send greetings and regrets. The Dun Buzzard never got here. As to the fate of the Golden Eaglets, your guess is as good as mine. And
what
in the name of Prunella's Humiliation was all that side-blather you were dishing out about Silver Harts and Rosy Hinds? Look, I've got my own problems, running this open-air madhouse. Next time you have to get in touch, keep it simple and use a messenger capable of out-thinking cheese, all right? Now I'm stuck with him. Give my nephew a kiss, burn this message, and try to slip a knife between Gudge's ribs if you've got a minute. The Purple Possum says hello and remember all the fun we had that last summer in the haymow. I don't remember any haymow, but never mind. Keep smiling, and death to your husband.” It was signed with a badly drawn impression of a weasel's paw that looked more like a splatted spider.

Artemisia re-read the letter, hoping against hope to find it telling her a different tale. It was no use: the fatal words remained. Ludmilla had never reached the Black Weasel's camp. The princes were gone, none knew where.

The baby snuffled and began to cry again. This time Artemisia did not curse the racket. She gathered up the wailing infant in her arms and held her close. “Oh, my poor daughter,” she murmured as her tears ran down to mingle with the infant's own. “Oh, my poor, darling little girl.”

Chapter Five

The hayrack tottered, swayed, and then slowly, with the magnificent grace of a plump dowager crossing a ballroom, it fell forward, leaving a trail of chaff floating on the gentle spring air and making a stately descent toward a black and loathsome mud puddle. Atop the wooden frame Wulfrith howled in terror and delight, flailing his arms as if he thought he could somehow propel the structure upright again, thereby sending showers of hay in all directions.

Leaping at the last minute, the boy landed atop a ewe that, until that moment, had been concerned with nothing more pressing than deciding whether or not to swallow the well-chewed grass she was currently masticating. The stuff had very little flavor left, and she had just about settled on swallowing at least part of it when Wulfrith, with an ear-splitting shriek, fell across her back and clutched great double handfuls of wool.

Her eyes flew open, and she found herself suddenly surrounded by a billowing cloud of hay and grit.

An instant later the rack splashed into the puddle, showering thin muck over sheep and passenger both, and the beast's astonishment turned to fright. With the screaming child clinging to her back, the ewe charged across the meadow, bleating hysterically.

Odo's cat, Fang, watched nonchalantly from a nearby gatepost as the terrified ovine ran headfirst into the fence, bringing herself to an abrupt stop and catapulting Wulfrith over the rail and into the open cesspool beyond.

The boy's wail of dismay ended in an abrupt splash, shortly followed by a call of, “ooh,
stinky!
”

Fang decided that the spectacle was over, and settled down atop the post, planning to take a nap. His attempt to find the optimum comfortable position involved swinging his tail around, however, and the motion caught the eye of Wulfrith's brother, who had paid no attention whatsoever to the recent disasters.

The tail was irresistible, and Dunwin had not yet acquired the concept of resisting temptation in any case; he grabbed for the waving line of gray fur, little fingers clamping on with roughly the same force as a pit bull's jaws.

Fang abruptly found his nap interrupted by a strong pressure and downward pull on his tail. Visions of crocodilians and canines shattered his feline composure, and eighteen razor-sharp claws dug into the weathered wood of his perch. He yowled.

Dunwin tugged innocently at Fang's tail, enjoying the feel of the fur; the cat let out a wail several degrees more impressive than the one Daddy Odo had produced the night before upon finding that the boys had made up his bed for him, using the only cloth that they could handle easily, which was their own soiled diapers.

Dunwin and the trapped Wulfrith both admired this amazing new sound, and in hopes of hearing it again, Dunwin gave Fang's tail a jerk powerful enough that the cat came sailing off the fencepost, splinters spraying in every direction as claws pulled loose from weathered locustwood.

Three sheep, struck by flying debris, panicked and ran, one of them colliding with the remains of the hayrack, snapping its remaining joints.

Fang gave a shriek that was heard not just in Stinkberry, but in three other villages as well.

And Odo finally woke up.

He staggered to the door of his hut and looked out at the world, expecting to find all the demons of the forty-six hells of Old Hydrangean mythology rampaging through his fields.

Instead, he found Dunwin swinging Fang by the tail in a desperate and successful effort to keep the animal's claws away from his face, while the cat continued to produce new and inventive noises; he found the recently filled hayrack and its erstwhile contents scattered across half an acre; and he found his sheep running back and forth, bleating in panic.

Latoya, his finest ewe, had two patches of bare skin showing where handfuls of wool had been ripped out.

The bellow that emerged was so impressive that Fang forgot his own problems and stared in admiration. The sound managed to penetrate Dunwin's sublime self-centeredness sufficiently to worry him. And it gave all the sheep a single direction in which to run
—
away from their master.

Odo marched out of the hut, breathing heavily; Dunwin thoughtfully lowered Fang to the ground and released the death grip on his tail, whereupon Fang decided it would be a good idea to be somewhere else for the next day or two, and, with the aid of his mystical feline abilities, vanished.

Odo stamped across the field and stood over Dunwin, glowering at the child.

“Hello, Daddy Odo,” Dunwin said. He smiled endearingly.

“What in the name of all the bleeding gods is going on here?” Odo demanded.

Dunwin looked around, blinking innocently.

“Where?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

For a moment, the boy's adoptive father stared at him, unable to speak; then, perhaps a trifle belatedly, it registered on the shepherd's consciousness that he was only addressing
one
child. “Where's your brother?” Odo asked, suddenly worried.

“Down well,” Dunwin said, pointing in the wrong direction.

Odo, ignoring the pointing finger, turned in the direction of the well. “Again?” he asked wearily.

“
Stinky
well,” Dunwin amended.

Odo blinked.

“Hello, Daddy Odo,” Wulfrith called from the cesspool.

Slowly, Odo turned back around to face the pit. A whiff of ordure reached him
—
Wulfrith was stirring up the normally quiescent contents of the cesspool. Odo winced.

Lowering a rope for the boy wouldn't work; he had tried that several times when one or the other of the boys tumbled down the well. A two-year-old boy did not hold on to a rope well enough to be hauled up, and certainly couldn't climb by himself.

Odo would have to climb down himself and carry Wulfrith out.

It wasn't the smell, so much, he told himself, then stopped.

Well, yes, it
was
the smell. He wasn't a sissy like those Old Hydrangean noblemen, he didn't have any objection to honest lice or a little healthy dirt, but he took a bath every year whether he needed it or not, and he just wasn't used to dealing with what you might call a really
serious
stench. If the milk went a little sour, or the eggs were bad, that wasn't much of anything; if a sheep puked on his boot he didn't hurry to wipe it off, and he had changed the boys' nappies without complaint
—
but those were just
little
stinks.

The reek in the cesspool was an entirely different matter.

It was, after all, where he dumped the sour milk and the rotten eggs and the sheep puke and the contents of all those diapers
—all
of it.

The smell down there was a whole new class of stink. He
really
didn't want to climb down there.

He could hear Wulfrith splashing about happily.

He whacked Dunwin, on general principles, and went to fetch a rope
—
but after a moment's thought and another glance at Dunwin, he decided to make it
two
ropes.

The amazing thing, Odo thought sourly an hour later, was that Wulfrith had only managed to fall back twice on the way up. That, and that Dunwin hadn't untied himself yet by the time Odo and Wulfrith were safely back on solid and relatively clean ground.

He scrubbed vigorously at Wulfrith's ears.

“Hurts, Daddy Odo!” Wulfrith complained.

“Well, it's your own bloody doin',” Odo growled. “I'll be moving my own bath up more'n a month, too, thanks to you.”

“I didn't do nuthin'!” Wulfrith protested.

Dunwin giggled, and Odo kicked at him
—
sideways, so it wouldn't have hurt much even if it had connected.

When all three of them had been thoroughly bathed
—
Dunwin was included in the interests of fairness
—
Odo discovered that the hut had acquired a sort of echo of the mind-boggling, hair-curling, nose-ravaging stink that had accompanied Wulfrith and himself up from the cesspool. The clothes the two had worn, which had already showed evidence of having survived several generations of constant use, were clearly beyond any hope of redemption.

Odo had never learned to sew. Since he had had two sets of perfectly good clothes handed down from his father, he had never seen any reason to. Now he was down to one set of clothes, the ones he had put on after his bath.

It was time, Odo decided, to make a trip into town and buy new clothes
—
and incidentally spend a night somewhere else while the hut aired out. It was a market day, and he could order a shirt or two.

And, just maybe…

Well, he was really not as young as he once was, and maybe he was a little old to be looking after
two
active young boys, all by himself.

He looked around his little home, at the pile of smashed crockery by the door of the hut, the lines of drying diapers, the shattered hayrack, the broken fences, the scattered hay and wool that was strewn everywhere. There was no sign of the cat or the sheep.

Maybe, Odo thought, keeping
both
of the boys was just the slightest little bit overambitious.

Wulfrith let out a shriek, and something fell with a crash. Dunwin giggled.

Odo nodded. Overambitious, definitely.

Wulfrith and Dunwin thought that the trek down the mountain to Stinkberry was a great adventure
—
until they had gone about two hundred yards, whereupon they took turns announcing, “I'm tired,” and “When will we be there?” and “My feet hurt,” and “I'm hungry!” and “I'm thirsty!” and “Are we there yet?”

Odo ignored them and trudged on.

Complaining and giggling, they followed until they didn't. When Odo no longer heard squeals and grumbling, he turned and found them both curled up asleep by the trail.

He paused, looking down at them. They looked so sweet lying there; Wulfrith's shirt had gotten bunched up, exposing his belly, and his diaper was loose, but he was blissfully unaware of it.

Odo almost felt guilty about what he planned.

Then Wulfrith pissed on Odo's foot, without waking, and Odo's guilt was washed away. Grumbling, he stooped and hoisted the boys up, one on each shoulder, making sure their little nappies were back in place. Then he stumbled on down the mountain.

It was midafternoon, and the bustle of business was beginning to slow, when Odo staggered into Stinkberry Market. It was really amazing just how heavy two two-year-old boys could be, when carried a couple of miles down a mountainside. The weary shepherd made his way to the front of the village inn, and sank slowly to the bench out front, moving very carefully so as not to wake the two, now that his weight was off his tired feet.

Naturally, the minute Odo's backside touched wood, Wulfrith woke up and looked around.

“Ooooh!” he squealed. “I wanna pastie, Daddy Odo!”

Odo sighed, whereupon Dunwin awoke and added his voice to the demands for pastry, honeyclots, and other sweets. The old man released both boys, who went scampering out into the market square, tripping several villagers.

Exhausted by his journey, Odo leaned back and closed his eyes.

Maybe, he thought, if he stayed very quiet, and if he were
very
lucky, if the gods did not merely smile upon him but grinned broadly, the twins wouldn't come back.

It was a lovely thought, and he fell asleep there on the bench, dreaming of his farm, of sheep and furniture that stayed where they were put, of entire nights of uninterrupted sleep, of meals that did not wind up spread all over the table and the surrounding floor
—
all things that he had had, just three years before, and had given up for Ludmilla's sake.

He was awakened by a very deep voice that rumbled, “Are these yours?”

Startled, Odo opened rheumy eyes and looked up.

No one was there. He lowered his gaze, and found the source of the voice.

The speaker was scarcely five feet in height, but clearly had all the weight of a much taller man. He had a curiously uneven beard, long black hair, and a squirming bundle of arms, legs, fingers, and ears in each hand.

When the right-hand burden paused for a moment to shriek, “Daddy Odo!” Odo recognized it as Dunwin. And when the left-hand burden began crying, Odo recognized Wulfrith's distinctive wail.

“Are they yours?” the stranger repeated. His voice was really quite amazing, Odo thought.

“Well,” he replied cautiously, “what if they are? I do suppose I might could have seen one of them before.”

The stranger was clearly not satisfied with this, but before he could object Odo added, “Have they broken anything?”

“Not of mine,” the stranger said.

“Daddy Odo!” Dunwin screamed.

Odo sighed. “Hand him here, then,” he said.

The stranger passed the squirming child over, and Odo dropped him on the bench; the abrupt impact knocked the breath out of him, and Dunwin sat still for a moment, perhaps the first time in six months he had managed that without being asleep.

“You should warn them,” the stranger rumbled, “not to interfere in the affairs of wizards.”

Odo blinked, then leaned forward and looked around.

There was Goody Blackerd with her pies, and old Punkler with his silly carvings that all looked like half-melted candles regardless of what they were intended to be, and all the usual Stinkberry folks
—
Odo knew only the very oldest by name, but most over the age of forty were at least vaguely familiar. He didn't see any wizards.

“Why, yes,” he said, puzzled, “I do suppose that'll be good advice, someday.”

“It's good advice
now
,” the stranger roared.

Odo blinked again, idly picked a scavenging insect from his ear and flung it aside, and mulled this statement over for several seconds.

“Well,” he agreed, “I'd suppose they might be encountering a wizard at any time, mightn't they, same as if one should always be on the lookout for lightning bolts when it's cloudy.”