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 yo
ung 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.”
“They have met a wizard, shepherd!” the fat little man bellowed. He sounded rather like thunder himself, Odo noticed. Baffled, the shepherd looked around the square again, peering down the village’s only street in case a wizard might be in sight somewhere.
“Where?” he asked.
The stranger huffed mightily, then proclaimed, in a voice that shook the shutters on the wall of the inn, “I am a wizard, you simpleton!”
Odo took immediate offense. “I’m not from Simpleton,” he said, raising his nose. “I was born and raised right here in Stinkberry, or ’tleast only a mile or three yonder on the mountains.” That defense of his origins made, he let the rest of the stranger’s words sink in, and his jaw dropped.
Then it snapped shut, crushing an unusually ambitious flea.
“You’re not a wizard,” Odo said.
Wulfrith stopped squirming and stared at his adoptive father; Dunwin looked up in surprise.
“Yes, I am,” the stranger said, taken aback.
“No, you aren’t,” Odo insisted.
“What do you know about it?” the stranger demanded.
“I know a bit ’bout them wizards,” Odo said craftily. “And you ain’t one.”
“Oh, no?”
“No.”
“Well, it just so happens that I am a wizard!”
Odo shook his head. “Nope. Can’t be. If you’re a wizard, what’s your name, then?”
The stranger drew himself up to his full height. “Clootie,” he said proudly.
“Now, you see, that proves it,” Odo said, waving a finger about. “Wizards don’t have good, sensible names like Clootie, they have silly show-offish names like Mandragoras the Haughty, or it might be Pendorigan the Fraudulent, or Tinwhistle the Morally Challenged.”
“Not all of us,” Clootie retorted. “Some of us don’t care to advertise like that, especially not since the Gorgorians moved in and declared wizardry illegal.”
Odo frowned. “What’s that got to do with your name?” he asked. “I mean, you can’t just go about changing your name same as it was an old shirt, or something; your name’s your name, that you’re born with.”
“No, it isn’t,” Clootie said. “Clootie isn’t my real name. Wizards never use their real names.”
“They don’t?”
“No! A real name has power!”
“But that’d mean you’d have two names.”
Clootie smiled. “That’s right,” he said.
Odo’s mouth opened slightly, allowing an odor akin to rancid cheese to escape; Clootie’s smile dimmed as the scent reached him.
“But that would mean,” the shepherd said, picking a louse from his beard, “that you’d be havin’ two names.”
“That’s right,” Clootie agreed, nodding.
“But how would you keep them straight?” Odo asked.
Clootie blinked, and lowered Wulfrith to the ground, whereupon the boy dashed over and threw both arms around Clootie’s leg. Whether this was intended as an expression of affection or an assault was not clear, and Clootie did not worry about it; he was too busy fathoming the depths of Odo’s ignorance and stupidity.
When he struck bottom, he leaned over and said quietly, “Magic.”
Odo’s eyes widened.
“Well, we’re wizards, you see,” Clootie said.
Odo’s eyes narrowed again. “You’re just trying to trick me somehow,” he said. “You’re not any wizard.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’ren’t. You’re too short. And you don’t have fancy robes or a pointy hat or a wand—no, that’s fairies, innit? You don’t have a stuff!”
“Staff,” Clootie corrected.
“Right, you don’t. No staff.”
“I left it at home,” Clootie said. “I’m in disguise.”
Odo squinted at him. “What about the rest of it, then? The hat and the robes?”
“I’m wearing them,” Clootie said.
Odo looked at the man’s bare head and green woolen tunic.
“They’re disguised, too,” Clootie explained. “By magic.”
“What about you’re so short?” Odo demanded. “You can’t disguise that by magic!”
Clootie was about to ask, “Why not?” when he caught himself. He doubted that any attempt at logic or reason would do any good; he needed something else. If this ancient shepherd didn’t think magic could disguise a man’s height…
“You’re right,” Clootie said, leaning over to whisper in Odo’s ear. “You’re very clever, noticing that. It’s not magic at all. I’m wearing special shoes.”
“Oh,” Odo said. He nodded. “You’re a wizard, all right, then.”
“Right. And now that we’ve got that settled, will you tell your boys to stay out of my cart? They could have caused some serious trouble.”
Split Heirs Page 6