Split Heirs

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “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 wolve
rines 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.”

  Chapter Ten

  Clootie was really quite thoroughly pleased with himself as he looked over the assortment of wildlife that roared, scampered, and shrieked on the hillside. For once, it had been his very own magic, rather than Wulfrith’s, that was responsible for the chaos he now watched.

  That eagle, just moments before, had been a mouse; it was now screaming in confusion as it tried to run on talons and wings, rather than its four familiar feet. The rather puzzled lion had begun life as a spider; the rabbit in its jaws had been an earthworm, while the frantic cow, trying unsuccessfully to burrow under a rock, had been a rabbit. A pigeon had become a chipmunk, an ant had become a garter snake.

  And Clootie had done it all, all by himself, in a matter of minutes!

  His old master would have been utterly appalled. Clootie could almost hear the old fart now, muttering, “No grace, no style at all! So hasty! So messy!”

  And that was all quite true; in the good old days, under King Fumitory, no self-respecting wizard would ever have done such a thing.

  But under King Gudge, style and grace were not exactly at a premium. Whatever worked, worked, and no one gave points for finesse or flair.

  Well, this spell worked.

  Which was, Clootie thought, rather amazing. Even with Wulfrith’s help, it had been quite a job coming up with this little stunt. If it hadn’t been for Corinalla’s birthday party, all those years ago…

  His thoughts flew back to that long-ago morning, when his master had received the letter at breakfast and slit it open with the handle of his grapefruit spoon—Clootie still remembered the muttered prayer to Spug Pagganethaneth that had accompanied that inappropriate use of the implement. The old man had read through the brief note, and had let out a groan.

  “Revered and honored master, font of wisdom and glory of the ages, beneficent lord and source of all blessings,” Clootie had remarked, “what failing of your miserable apprentice evokes this sound, for surely nothing else but my misbegotten self is so worthless as to trouble you?”

  At the memory he glanced at Wulfrith, who was on the verge of hysterical laughter watching the spider-lion try to figure out what to do with the earthworm-rabbit. That boy had never learned a tenth of the Old Hydrangean forms and procedures; in the old days he’d have been sent packing long ago, talented or not.

  Nowadays a wizard couldn’t afford to be so particular.

  But back then, Clootie had observed the rules—he’d asked his question in the formal style, then bowed his head to await a reply.

  “Useless toad of an apprentice,” his master had answered, “it’s that damn fool Horin. His spoiled brat daughter Corinalla is having a birthday celebration, and he wants me to show up and bless it, maybe do a few tricks.”

  “A few tricks?” Clootie had been aghast at this disrespect.

  “Oh, he puts it in flowery words, but that’s what it comes down to,” old Master Quankle had said—Quannikilius, really, but Clootie had always thought of him as Quankle.

  And old Master Quankle didn’t want to go, but he owed Horin a debt—some six thousand florins—so he couldn’t very well refuse outright.

  Instead, he had sent his apprentice. And when Clootie had protested that he didn’t know any good tricks suitable for use at a ten-year-old’s birthday party, Quankle had quickly taught him one, a very old-fashioned and out-of-date spell that had been abandoned decades before as insufficiently elegant for modern sorcery.

  It was really quite a clever spell, much simpler and more effective than any of the others Clootie was ever taught. With a mere ten minutes of ritual, and only half a dozen arcane tools, the spell transformed white mice into doves—any number of white mice would, neat as you please, grow wings and feathers and, transformed to doves, flutter about in dazed confusion, trying to figure out what had befallen them.

  Corinalla had almost been impressed, and Clootie had managed to survive the party without any major disasters.

  Of course, the spell wasn’t much use anywhere else—certainly not against Gorgorians, who bore very little resemblance to white mice (beyond a certain cheesy odor in some cases). It didn’t even serve to rid the kitchen of vermin, since the mice helping themselves to the odd crumb were usually not white.

  It was when he found mouse footprints in the butter, even before the Gorgorians came, that the idea of somehow generalizing the spell had first occurred to Clootie, but it was not until he had set up cavekeeping in the hills outside Stinkberry that he actually worked on the problem.

  And it wasn’t until he watched Wulfrith at work, and began noticing the patterns in the various transformation spells the boy came up with, that he got the first clues as to just how the spell’s effects might be broadened. That very first day, when little Wulfie had turned an endtable into a fish, had been the beginning.

  And now, more than a decade later, Clootie finally had the spell perfected, generalized and streamlined into a magical weapon the likes of which Hydrangea had never seen. He stood, hands on his hips, and admired its effects.

  The spider-lion finally stopped trying to either tie the earthworm-rabbit up or suck out its innards, and more or less by accident bit down. Wulfrith let out a loud, “Awww!” as the rabbit thrashed once and died.

  The mouse-eagle, still not having caught on that it could fly, had managed an odd stumbling run down the hillside and into the forest; Clootie did not expect it to last long in there. The other creatures had all scattered.

  The spell had worked on every bird, beast, or bug he had tried it on; he was confident that he could now, in less than a minute, transform any living creature he could see into something else. That would presumably include Gorgorians, though he had not had any handy as test subjects.

  It was rather a shame, he thought, that he had no way of knowing what any given creature would turn into. In some cases, such as the spider that had become a lion, the new creatures were more dangerous than the old.

  It was rather difficult to imagine a Gorgorian turning into anything more dangerous, but Clootie supposed it might be possible. Even so, he thought the spell had obvious military applications; no matter how dangerous they were individually, turning all the Gorgorians into random wildlife would seriously disrupt their command structure. Even Gorgorian officers relied on speech sometimes, and unless they all became par
rots or dragons…

  No, he was making assumptions there. He couldn’t be sure that a transformed Gorgorian wouldn’t be able to talk.

  But still, the spell was a success, and disposing of the Gorgorians was now just a matter of logistics. Clootie smiled broadly.

  The spider-lion chewed noisily, and Wulfrith backed away.

  “What do we do now, Master?” he asked.

  “We celebrate, my boy,” Clootie said, “we celebrate!”

  Together they retreated into the cave, Clootie slapping Wulfrith on the back. Giddy with success, the wizard grinned and held a finger to his lips as he hauled a case of dusty bottles from a concealed niche that Wulfrith had somehow, in all his years of exploring their shared abode, never discovered. “A little secret of mine,” Clootie explained. “When I first fled my home in the city, the vintner down the street begged me to hide these treasures from the Gorgorians—or at least, I’m sure he would have begged me, but he wasn’t around at the time, so I decided to take the risk on his behalf without being asked. Just trying to be a good neighbor, of course.”

  “What are they?” Wulfrith asked.

  “Ah!” Clootie grinned again as he twisted at a complicated wire device that adorned the neck of the first bottle. “A real treasure, all right, my lad! These are Elsinium Palace’s Finest Western Slope Special Reserve Sparkling Divine Nectar, Demi-Sec. The ’23 vintage, a very good year!”

  “Huh?”

  “Wine, you booby, sparkling wine! The very best!” The wire cage came free.

  “Oh.”

  The cork popped, and wine frothed up; Wulfrith snatched up glasses and caught the spilling foam.

  “Oh, good lad!” Clootie said, filling the two receptacles. “Do join me!”

  Wulfrith eyed the stuff in his goblet warily. It was bubbling and foaming in a way that reminded him of the water elemental he kept in the sink, or perhaps of the thing that had oozed out of the kettle and eaten the footstool when one of Master Clootie’s transformation spells had gone wrong the year before.