Split Heirs (9 page)

“Growths,” Artemisia pronounced. “They got growths.”

“Huh?”

“Right there.” She pointed at the place where Arbol wore a specially molded piece of armor whose usefulness the young prince had often questioned to himself. The queen went on to describe the hideous growths which were the shame of so many of her male subjects.

Arbol shuddered. “That sounds…ugh. But Mom, is
—
is
Dad
afflicted, too?”

The queen nodded. “Why do you think I spend so much time avoiding him? Oh, it's not a pretty sight, and I want to do my best to spare him the shame of having his deformity exposed to ridicule. My boy, you are truly blessed to be one of the few men left in all Hydrangea whose generative organs are…normal. Think, now! If you go on campaign and heedlessly answer the call of nature in company with some soldier who was not so lucky, how do you think he will feel, beholding your good fortune and comparing it to…to…?” She conjured up a convincing sob and threw her arms around Prince Arbol's neck.

“Swear to me, my boy!” she cried. “Promise me on the honor of Hydrangea that if you go on campaign with your father, you will do everything in your power and more to keep your body from the sight of other men. Swear this, lest you cause pain to the innocent and shame to the blameless!”

Half-smothered against her mother's shoulder, Prince Arbol said, “I mfwear.”

“I accept your word, my dearest.” The queen released her with a motherly kiss on the cheek. “Now go have a nice time at the war.” Prince Arbol started from the room, had a second thought, dashed back to give her mother a hearty hug, and bounded off.

The queen sank back against the windowseat, exhausted. “Mungli! Mungli, come here!” The mute Gorgorian was there before her mistress had pronounced her name twice. “Mungli, writing paper!”

Mungli watched with interest as her mistress scribbled a message. From time to time the queen muttered as she wrote, or read it over aloud. Those were the moments Mungli lived for. The mute had a theory which related the queen's words to the queen's marks on paper. She was not yet certain about the details of the connection, but she was positive that here was something very, very important and deserving of further study.

When Artemisia was through with her letter, she sent Mungli to fetch a messenger. Fourteen years' practice had taught her how to build up a small, efficient, elite group of couriers whom she could trust to carry correspondence to and from her brother's forest lair. It was quite simple, really: She invited them to her apartments for tea, slipped a Gorgorian aphrodisiac into their cups, made Mungli…
available
to them, then told them they could have some more every time they completed a successful mission to the Black Weasel's headquarters.

The missions were growing more and more frequent, of late. The nearer Prince Arbol crept up on womanhood, the better a life in the merry greenwood was beginning to sound to Artemisia.

“If only there were another way,” the queen mused as she gazed down from her window and watched her latest courier spur his steed from the palace courtyard. “It's not so much that I mind the thought of living in a forest, but it's just so
—
so
—arboreal!
”

With a fastidious little shiver, she rose and called for her cloak. There were one hundred seventy-two shrines and temples of gods and goddesses, Hydrangean and Gorgorian, within walking distance of the palace. Lately it had become Queen Artemisia's daily obsession to patronize every single one.

Better to hedge your bets, she reasoned, than to spend the rest of your days bedding in hedges.

Chapter Eight

The skies were gray, the grasses brown, the trail rocky beneath his feet, and Dunwin whistled merrily as he walked down the mountain. It was such a beautiful day
—
but then,
every
day was beautiful here.

Beside him, Bernice frolicked along
—
or at any rate, she accompanied him as far as the pasture gate, and if she was not precisely frolicking, she at least came along willingly. Dunwin told himself that his dearly beloved pet and constant companion would have come with him even if he had not been holding out a handful of sugar, and, he assured himself, he was so confident of this that he did not bother to test his assumption.

And maybe
frolicking
wasn't the right word
—
after all, Bernice was no spring lamb any more
—
but there seemed to be a little bounce to her stride, as if she, too, were feeling good about life.

Old Odo would probably have said she was just hurrying to catch up and get the sugar, and might have made some remarks about how Bernice walked strangely because she was limping after Dunwin had played a little too roughly with her, but Dunwin was not troubled by any such cynicism.

At the fence he stepped up on the rail, and his beloved ewe bleated in dismay.

“I'm sorry, Bernice,” he said, “but you can't come with me. Stinkberry village isn't
safe
for a girl like you!”

She bleated again, more loudly.

“No, really,” he said. “But here, maybe this will cheer you up until I get back.” He held out the sugar.

She quickly licked it from his palm, her tongue moving so rapidly that some of the brown powder spilled onto the grass.

Dunwin's heart swelled with joy at the sight of his beloved Bernice licking his hand so enthusiastically. “Some might say it's the sugar,” he said, “but I know it's because you love me, Bernice!”

Bernice bleated and began nosing in the grass for the spilled sweetening.

“Well, I'll be back for supper,” Dunwin said, as he clambered over the fence. “You just wait for me, okay?”

Bernice didn't bother to look up, but Dunwin didn't let that trouble him. He waved a cheerful farewell and continued down the slope. A dozen paces from the fence he was whistling again.

Life was good.

The day was cool, but it wasn't raining at the moment. The path was smooth enough that he could hardly feel any rocks through his worn boots. He was on his way to Stinkberry to buy another dozen candles, and three whole coppers were clinking in his pocket.

And at home he had the sheep to keep his company, and Daddy Odo was getting too old to beat him more than once or twice a day
—
what more could a lad ask?

There was no doubt at all in Dunwin's mind
—
he had the best life in the world. Prince Arbol himself couldn't have a better time, living in the Palace of the Ox
—
as the Gorgorians called it; the old fogies of Stinkberry village still called it the Palace of Divinely Tranquil Thoughts, but Dunwin preferred the Gorgorian version because it was shorter.

Odo didn't have much use for Gorgorians
—
but then, Odo didn't have much use for anybody except the sheep. Dunwin tried to keep an open mind on political subjects, and so far, he had generally succeeded in keeping it so open that no political opinion lingered more than a few seconds before falling out. He thought it might be nice to see a real palace sometime, even though he wasn't terribly clear on just what one was, and that was about as far as his opinions went.

He had a vague idea that a palace had something to do with fancy embroidery, but he didn't quite see how anyone could live in a piece of embroidery unless it was a sort of tent.

Whatever a palace might be, Dunwin was sure it couldn't be as pleasant to live in as Odo's hut, where the roof hardly ever leaked, and the floor didn't have any rocks in it, and the cesspool was downwind.

He was pretty sure there weren't any sheep in the palace, and as far as he was concerned that made it an inferior sort of dwelling. No one like his Bernice?

He was still trying to imagine why anyone would choose to live somewhere with no sheep when he reached the village.

“Hello, mister, would you…oh, it's you,” someone said. Dunwin blinked, and for the first time noticed Hildie leaning against the wall of the baker's shop.

“Hello, Hildie,” he said. Her blouse had an awfully low neckline, he noticed; he supposed it saved fabric, but he wondered whether she got cold.

“Hello, Dunwin,” she replied, tilting her head and fluttering her eyelashes at him. Her skirt had got hitched up on one leg somehow.

“What're you doing?” Dunwin asked.

“Oh, nothing much, just waiting for some nice young fella to happen along who'd be interested in a good time.”

Dunwin looked around. There were four old men sitting on the bench in front of the inn, arguing about something, and Greta the butcher's wife was hanging out laundry, but no one else was in sight.

“I'll let you know if I see one,” Dunwin said. “Right now I gotta buy some candles.”

Hildie sighed. “Aren't you
ever
going to grow up, Dunwin?” she asked.

“I'm pretty grown up,” he said, a bit hurt. “Odo trusts me to come down here by myself, doesn't he? And I'm bigger than half the men in the village!”

“Well, you're taller and broader, anyway,” Hildie admitted, “but I don't know about
bigger
.”

Dunwin squinted, trying to puzzle out what she was talking about, but she waved him away. “Forget it,” she said. “Go buy your candles.”

“All right.” He walked on down the village's only street, wondering what Hildie had been talking about. If he was taller than the other men, and broader in the shoulders, then in what way wasn't he bigger?

Sometimes he wondered about Hildie. She didn't seem to work in any of the shops, she didn't keep any livestock, whenever he saw her she was just hanging around the village, but she always had a little money. Not enough for warm clothes, to all appearances, but she never seemed to go hungry.

She was a pretty girl, he thought; sometimes, especially in the past month or so, he'd thought she was even as pretty as a sheep. He had even had a few odd dreams about her.

He wondered what she had meant about growing up.

He could hear the men in front of the inn arguing.

“…Wasn't like that,” old Fernand was saying. “Not like that 'tall!”

“Was, too,” Taddeus snapped. “They tortured old King Fumitory for six full months before he died, and he laughed in their faces the whole time!”

“Couldn't have laughed for six months,” Arminter objected. “His voice'd have give out.”

“Well, it did,” Taddeus said, “so he just laughed in whispers, like!”

Dunwin stopped to listen. He had learned most of what he knew of history, geography, and politics by listening to these four, who were regulars here.

“King Gudge just whacked off his head,” Fernand insisted. “He didn't torture him for any six months!”

“Yes, he did,” Taddeus asserted. “An' old Fumitory laughed.”

“Six months? Laughing?” Berisarius inquired doubtfully.

“Well, maybe not laughing
all
the time,” Taddeus admitted. “A man's got to sleep, after all, and I don't suppose even old Fumitory would laugh
all
the time.”

“'Specially not with the wolverines,” Arminter said.

“Right, not at the wolverines,” Taddeus admitted. “You don't laugh at wolverines because it just makes 'em mad. Wouldn't be no
point
to it, like.”

“Took 'is head off with a sword, is all,” Fernand declared. “There weren't any bloody wolverines involved.”

“Tortured for six months and laughed at 'em,” Taddeus retorted. “'Cept during the part with the wolverines.”

“Whacked his head off and made himself king, then bedded the old king's daughter, is what Gudge did. He didn't torture them.”

“Well,” Berisarius suggested, “you might could say that we don't rightly know what he's done to poor Queen Artemisia. Could be he did torture her a little.”

“That'd be natural enough,” Arminter agreed, “a man torturing his own wife.”

“I 'spect it happens all the time,” Taddeus agreed, “among them what can afford that sort of thing and not have to worry about whether the house is goin' to be cleaned and the supper cooked.”

“Ha,” Fernand said. “And I suppose you lot would all torture your wives if you had the chance?”

“'Course not,” Berisarius said, offended. “We're not a bunch of Gorgorian barbarians!” He looked to the others for support.

There was a moment of sheepish silence.

“Well, I wouldn't go whacking off her father's head,” Taddeus said.

“But Gudge didn't,” Arminter protested. “You said he tortured the old king for six months!”

“Right, he did,” Taddeus said. “You've got me all mixed up. He tortured Fumitory for six months, and
then
he whacked off his head!”

“What, someone whacked off Gudge's head?”

“No, no, Gudge whacked off Fumitory's head!”

“That isn't what you said before.”

“Yes, it is.”

Dunwin was beginning to lose the thread of the conversation.

“He whacked off Gudge's head and then married Artemisia, then?”

“So he could torture his wife.”

“Who'd Fumitory marry, a lady torturer?”

“Well, he didn't marry Artemisia
—
she's his daughter!”

“She is?”

“Right, that's why Gudge whacked Fumitory's head off, so he could marry Artemisia.”

“Is that what you said before?”

“When?”

“About your wife?”

“But what about the torture?”

“What torture? I'm not even married!”

Dunwin, now totally lost, decided he had heard enough for today, and went past the four and into the inn's diminutive taproom. Stinkberry village was too small for a separate candlemaker's shop; Armetta, the innkeeper's wife, made candles in her husband's stewpot when no stew was cooking and sold them out of the kitchen.

A man, a stranger, was seated at one of the three big tables; Dunwin nodded a polite, wordless greeting and looked for Armetta.

At that moment she emerged from the kitchen carrying a pitcher of ale in one hand, a mug in the other. She set both down in front of the stranger and wiped her hands on her apron. “It's our best,” she said. “My husband's the finest brewer in the mountains!” She smiled broadly.

Of course, Armetta did
everything
broadly.

Dunwin waved to her. “Hi,” he said. “Odo sent me down for candles.”

Armetta looked up, startled; the stranger paused in the midst of pouring ale from pitcher to mug, and he, too, turned to look at Dunwin.

He blinked, and stared, almost spilling the pitcher.

“Candles?” Armetta frowned.

“Right, a dozen candles,” Dunwin said.

“That'll be two coppers.”

“I'll pay three,” Dunwin replied, dimly aware that dickering was expected.

Armetta snorted. “Done,” she said. She held out a hand, and Dunwin dropped the coins into her palm.

“I'll get them,” she said, and turned away.

As Armetta waddled toward the kitchens the stranger stared up at Dunwin, who nervously pretended not to notice this unexpected and unwanted attention. When the woman vanished through the door, the man said, “Sit down, lad.”

Startled, Dunwin hesitated.

“Sit,” the man repeated, pointing to the chair opposite him.

Slowly, Dunwin sat.

“What's your name, boy?”

“Dunwin.”

The stranger frowned. “Is that a Hydrangean name, or a Gorgorian one?”

“I don't know,” Dunwin admitted. “It's mine, that's all I know.” As the stranger continued to stare, Dunwin asked, “What's
your
name?”

“Oh, they call me Phrenk,” the man said.

“Is that a Hydrangean name?”

“Yes,” the stranger replied sharply.

Dunwin realized from the other's manner that he had said something wrong, had somehow given offense, and needed to recover somehow. An apology would be excessive, he knew, but he had to say something.

“Oh,” he said.

The stranger was staring at him again, and it was beginning to make Dunwin uncomfortable.

“So,” he said desperately, “are you from around here?”

“No,” the man called Phrenk said. “Are you?”

“From around here?” Dunwin said. “Well, yeah, I am.”

“I wondered,” the stranger said. “You look just like someone I know.”

“I do?”

Phrenk nodded, slowly, once.

“Is that good or bad?” Dunwin asked.

“That depends,” Phrenk said. “I was just wondering if you might be related.”

“I doubt it,” Dunwin said with a shrug.

“Oh? Who's your family, then?”

“Well, I don't have much of one.”

“Oh? Who are your parents?”

“Well, my father's Odo, he's a shepherd. And my mother's name was Audrea. She was a ewe.”

“A me?”

“No, a ewe. A sheep.”

Startled, Phrenk asked, “Your mother's a sheep?”

“Well, she was. She's dead now.”

“You don't look like a sheep.”

Dunwin shrugged. “I guess I take after my father.”

“Um.” Phrenk hesitated. “I don't think men and sheep can, um…procreate.”

“Can what?”

“I mean, I don't think a sheep could have a human baby.”

“Oh. Well, Dad Odo never really said that Audrea was actually my
mother
mother, I guess. But she's the only one I ever knew.”