Split Heirs

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Prior to this, Wulfrith’s only experience with wine had been drinking dark red stuff that just sat there in the glass and that tasted like charred cabbage. That sort might develop an oily film on top sometimes, but it didn’t shoot out tiny explosive bubbles or make crackling noises.

  “Drink up, boy!” Clootie said, tossing down the contents of his own glass.

  Wulfrith attempted a cautious sip.

  Clootie smiled, poured another glass, and drank it.

  Wulfrith took another sip, as Clootie refilled his own glass again.

  “You know, lad,” Clootie said, staring off into space and smiling crookedly, “it’s been a long time, a very long time. I might even miss this place, once I’m back in my old house on the Street of Roses the Color of the Edges of Clouds At Sunset.”

  Wulfrith made a polite little noise. He was still trying to decide whether he liked the taste of the stuff they were drinking. It certainly didn’t burn his throat the way the red wine did, but the flavor was very peculiar.

  Clootie poured himself another glass, then settled onto a divan.

  “Or maybe I won’t go back to the Street of Roses at all,” the wizard mused. “Maybe I’ll have a place at the Palace of Divinely Tranquil Thoughts—after all, if my spell, our spell, saves all of Hydrangea from the yoke of the hated Gorgorians, I’ll be a hero, won’t I? And all the court mages who served under King Fumitory are dead, dispersed, and decapitated.”

  Wulfrith nodded warily. The wine was interesting, he thought, but he didn’t think he would care to drink very much of it. He was about halfway through his first glass and his head already felt a trifle unsteady.

  Clootie filled his glass again.

  “Who knows what a grateful populace might not do?” Clootie asked a white-streaked stalactite. “Wine, women, and song, Wulfrith—I expect we’ll be given anything we ask for.” He drained the glass.

  Wulfrith felt as if he ought to say something, to hold up his end of the conversation. As Clootie poured more wine, Wulfrith said, “I wouldn’t know what to ask for, Master Clootie.”

  Clootie grinned. This was not a phenomenon Wulfrith was familiar with, and he found it more than a little disconcerting.

  “Wine, women, and song,” Clootie repeated. “Those are the traditch…trazish…tra…traditional pleasures.”

  Wulfrith looked dubiously at his glass. He saw no particular reason to ask for wine as any part of his reward. As for women, he had seen a few on his rare trips accompanying Master Clootie to Stinkberry Village, and while he had some theoretical knowledge of what women were for, he wasn’t clear on why he, personally, might want one or more of the creatures—though in recent weeks he was beginning to think he’d like to experiment a little.

  Still, he admitted to himself, if someone were to give him a woman, at present he wouldn’t know what to do with her.

  Song might be nice, if the master was right and they were to be rewarded, which he was by no means convinced of. He was not at all clear on just who was going to do what to whom that would make Clootie and himself heroes. After all, Clootie had always assured him that the magic they used around the cave was nothing very extraordinary; why was this transformation spell, which didn’t seem all that special to him, so important? If these Gorgorians were the monstrous brutes that his master had always said they were, why hadn’t someone turned the lot of them into newts years ago?

  There was so very much he didn’t understand about the outside world.

  “I wouldn’t know, Master,” he said.

  “’Course not, you’re just a boy!” Clootie gulped wine. “Don’t know much of anything yet, you don’t, stuck up here in this cave instead of carousing in the fleshpots of Bentmuro. When I was your age…when I was…how old are you, boy?”

  “Fourteen, sir.”

  “Fourteen years old,” Clootie marveled. “and stuck here in a cave in the middle of nowhere, with nobody but me, all because those damned Gorgorians don’t have a proper respess…repesk…respect for magic!”

  “Um,” Wulfrith said.

  “Tell you what, lad,” Clootie said. “The Gorgorians are not long for thish…this world, or at least, not for human form, if you can call a Gorgorian human to begin with, which I suppose you have to because you can’t very well put them anywhere else taxonomically and they do interbreed naturally with humans, which means they must be humans, unless there’s some question about whether it’s natural, which I suppose there might be except that if you start saying that rape isn’t natural you’re going to get into all kinds of trouble, and then…what was I saying?” His free hand, which had begun to wave about wildly, fell into the wizard’s lap; he looked down at it as if startled to find it there, and put it to use draining the last of the wine bottle into his glass.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Wulfrith replied.

  “Don’t know,” Clootie said. “Of course you don’t, because you’ve been stuck in this cave! Well, enough of that, Wulfrith, my boy! We’re celebrating, and a lad your age should get out more, so you just take the day off and go down to the village and have fun—take your time, and a dozen coppers from the box by the stove, and you go have a good time!”

  Wulfrith blinked in surprise. “Are you sure, Master Clootie?” he asked.

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  “I’ve never had a day off before.”

  “Then it’s overdue, isn’t it?”

  Wulfrith couldn’t argue with that, and knew he probably shouldn’t argue at all, but the whole idea of time off was so new he needed time to absorb it. “But who’ll look after the cave?” he asked.

  “I will, of course! You go have your fun.”

  “But what’ll you do? Don’t you want to celebrate, too?”

  “I’ll celebrate right here, lad; I’ve got eleven more bottles and a spell for succubi that I want to try.”

  “What’s succubi?”

  “Never you mind, you just get on down to the village!”

  “Yessir.” Wulfrith turned and scampered off, as Clootie struggled with the wire cage on the second bottle.

  Chapter Eleven

  Phrenk settled disconsolately at the table nearest the door—or rather, nearer the door, there being only two tables. He was fairly sure there had been three, or maybe even four, at the time of his previous visit, but only two remained at present. A pile of kindling by the hearth gave a clue as to the fate of the other.

  Mungli settled beside him, looking around with interest. It was the first time she had ever been inside a Hydrangean building that was almost as dirty as a Gorgorian tent, and it made her oddly homesick—not that she had any desire at all to ever see the inside of a tent again; what it made her homesick for was the tidy interior of the Palace of the Ox, and specifically the queen’s quarters. She felt that she would be quite happy to never see another smelly oxhide tent for as long as she lived. After all, a woman who couldn’t speak would be unable to join the women’s councils and learn traditional Gorgorian sorcery. Without that, the only thing of any possible interest in the Gorgorian tents would be the Gorgorian men. She could do without those; the queen’s messengers might be less enthusiastic, but they were also cleaner and less hazardous to one’s health.

  A large woman emerged from the kitchen, spotted the two of them, and smiled immensely.

  “Good to see you again, sir!” Armetta called. “And is this your esteemed lady?”

  Mungli snorted; Phrenk frowned at her, then answered, “Alas, merely a friend.”

  “A pity for you both, then. How can I serve you?”

  “Ale,” Phrenk said.

  Mungli glared at him and kicked him under the table.

  “Ale to start with,” Phrenk said, glaring back. “We’ve a favor to ask, once our thirst is quenched.”

  “Oh?” Armetta smiled and winked broadly. “I’ll fetch the ale, then.” She turned back toward the kitchen.

  A moment later, when Phrenk and Mungli had each had time to down an ale, Armetta stood by
the table, arms crossed on her breast, and asked, “Now, what was this favor?”

  “We’re looking for someone,” Phrenk explained. “A half-witted shepherd boy, good-sized, with black hair.”

  Armetta frowned. “There’s plenty around here that fit that description,” she said. “Addle-Pated Kristo, for one, or Black Hender, or Bikkel of the Runny Nose.”

  “No, it wasn’t any of those. He told me his name…”

  Just then he was interrupted by the sound of the inn door opening. Phrenk glanced over, and didn’t bother to finish his sentence.

  “Never mind,” he said, “That’s him now.”

  Armetta shrugged and wandered away.

  Mungli turned and stared, her mouth open. The boy in the doorway certainly did look like Prince Arbol—in fact, if she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn (had she been able to speak) that it was the Prince.

  The Prince, however, had no business in Stinkberry, and should be back at the Palace of the Ox. Furthermore, wild as the prince was said to be, surely he would never wear anything as cheap and filthy as the stained and worn dark gray apprentice’s robe that covered this lad.

  And Prince Arbol wouldn’t look around at a dirty little village inn with that wide-eyed gawp.

  “Dunwin!” Phrenk called, “Fancy seeing you again!”

  The boy in the doorway stepped in, but didn’t answer. In fact, he headed for the other table, nodding politely in the direction of Phrenk and Mungli.

  “Dunwin!” Phrenk called again, “Remember me? We met here last month.”

  The lad turned and looked around the room, puzzled.

  “I mean you, Dunwin!”

  The boy frowned. “Are you talking to me, sir?” he asked.

  “Of course I am,” Phrenk said. “You’re Dunwin, aren’t you?”

  The boy considered this carefully, chewing his lower lip, and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t know what a Dunwin is, but I’m pretty sure I’m not one.”

  “Your name isn’t Dunwin?”

  “No,” the lad said, “My name is Wulfrith.”

  “Last time I was here you told me it was Dunwin.”

  Wulfrith blinked and looked about, wishing Clootie was there to advise him.

  “I don’t remember ever meeting you before,” he said, “let alone telling you that my name was Dunwin.”

  Mungli threw a worried glance at Phrenk; he patted her hand reassuringly, then leaned across the table and whispered, “Remember, this is the fellow who thought his mother was a sheep; he probably doesn’t remember much of anything, and for all I know he changes his name every fortnight.”

  Mungli didn’t look entirely convinced.

  “Besides,” Phrenk added, “look at him! Doesn’t he look just like the prince?”

  The Gorgorian could scarcely argue with that.

  “Well, then,” Phrenk said aloud, “if you don’t remember meeting me, join us, and we’ll introduce ourselves.”

  “I don’t want to intrude…”

  “Not at all! Come, sit down, we’ll buy you a pint of the best.”

  Wulfrith, acutely aware of just how limited his funds were, couldn’t resist. He took a seat at the table, where Phrenk and Mungli stared at him. Phrenk waved a signal to Armetta, and a moment later a full mug appeared before the wizard’s apprentice.

  “So,” Phrenk said, by way of casual conversation, “how’s the sheep-herding business?”

  Wulfrith blinked over his mug, puzzled. He lowered the tankard and said, “I don’t know. How is it?”

  “I don’t know, if you don’t,” Phrenk said, caught off-guard. “I’m not a shepherd.”

  “Who are you, then?” Wulfrith asked suspiciously.

  “My name is Phrenk; I’m just a traveler, passing through.” He gestured. “This is my companion, Mungli.”

  “I’m…” Wulfrith paused. He suddenly recalled that true names have power. He had already given his, but this peculiar traveling shepherd might not remember that. “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said. He nodded politely at Mungli.

  It was only when Phrenk spoke again that Wulfrith realized he was staring at the young woman. He wasn’t entirely sure why.

  He was beginning to think, though, that maybe wine, women and song would be worthy entertainment on two out of three.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “what did you say?”

  “I said, what brings you here?”

  “Oh, well, we were celebrating…”

  “We?”

  “Um.” Suddenly cautious, Wulfrith looked the two strangers over a bit more carefully. The man looked harmless enough, really—but the woman’s dress was in the Gorgorian style, with a square-cut neckline and heavy, coarse fabric, rather than the scalloping and lace of traditional Hydrangean fashion.

  And Clootie was, technically, a fugitive, or so he had always claimed. The Gorgorians had outlawed the practice of men’s magic and high wizardry, allowing only the nasty hedge-magicks and sorceries of their own womenfolk.

  It hardly seemed likely that these two would be hunting down escaped wizards after all these years, but that was no reason to go blabbing everything.

  “Me, I mean,” he said. “I was celebrating, all alone, by myself.”

  “Oh? Celebrating what?”

  “Oh, nothing. My birthday,” Wulfrith improvised.

  “Congratulations, then,” Phrenk said. “How old are you, then?”

  Wulfrith decided he didn’t want to answer this, and tried to change the subject. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mungli,” he said. “Are you from around here?”

  “She can’t speak,” Phrenk said hastily. “A little accident.”

  Mungli shot Phrenk an unhappy glance. Accident, indeed!

  Eager to get back on track, Phrenk asked, “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t,” Wulfrith lied.

  “Oh. I thought you said you were Dunwin, Odo’s son?”

  Vague memories stirred at the mention of that name, but Wulfrith shook his head. “Nope,” he said.

  Phrenk frowned. “You’re not a shepherd?”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you do, then?”

  Wulfrith hesitated. Wizardry was illegal.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “You know,” Phrenk said, in his best attempt at casualness, “I could swear I met you here once before, and you told me that your father was a shepherd named Odo.”

  Wulfrith considered this, then said, “Nope. I don’t think so.”

  “And you said your mother was a ewe,” Phrenk continued desperately.

  “Never met my mother,” Wulfrith admitted.

  “Oh. Well, where…” Phrenk stopped.

  What did it matter who the boy thought he was, and what he had or hadn’t said? Whoever and whatever he was, he looked just like Prince Arbol, and he was unquestionably the one the queen had sent them after.

  He was obviously even stupider and more confused than Phrenk had originally assumed, but that wasn’t necessarily a problem, and it almost certainly, Phrenk thought, wasn’t his problem.

  “Listen,” Phrenk said, “how would you like to come with us to meet a friend of ours? She lives in the Palace of Divinely Tranquil Thoughts, down in the city.”

  Wulfrith drank the rest of his ale before answering.

  This was a seriously weird request. Here were these two people he had never met before, one of whom had apparently made up a name and history for him, and ten minutes after they first laid eyes on him they were inviting him to a palace?

  That was just crazy. That made less sense than the silliest incantation he had ever heard.

  It had to be a trick.

  If these two really were agents of the Gorgorian overlords, perhaps they knew who he was and were trying to lure him into a trap. Perhaps he would then be bait to lure in Clootie.

  But they didn’t know how much magic he knew; if they didn’t use wizardry themselves, they couldn’t know. He could escape
at any time, he was sure—he knew a few good spells, even if he wasn’t yet half the wizard Master Clootie was.

  And it would be very interesting to see the capital, and to meet some real Gorgorians, and everything.

  He couldn’t quite see where all this stuff about sheep fit into the Gorgorian agent theory, though. Maybe it was meant to lull his suspicions.

  Or maybe this man with the curly hair was just a lunatic. Maybe he was keeping the girl captive, and Wulfrith would be able to rescue her, and she would be so grateful she would…she would…well, she’d be grateful.

  “Sure,” he said. “Sounds like fun.”

  Chapter Twelve

  On what was surely at least the third attempt, Clootie finally managed to count the empty bottles without losing his place. He wound up with a total of twelve, and sighed.

  The succubus had been right; all the good wine was gone. And for that matter, so was the succubus; she had given up on him several hours ago and vanished in a cloud of foul- smelling smoke. A trace of the scent still lingered. Clootie grimaced; wasn’t the traditional odor supposed to be brimstone? The cloying reek of this particular succubus, at any rate, didn’t resemble brimstone in the slightest.

  He leaned back against the armchair and stretched out his legs, contemplating his subterranean residence. His joints ached—one joint in particular felt as if he had scraped it raw, which he probably had. His knees and elbows showed some wear, as well, and he had several minor scratches on his back. There were a few on his chest, as well, and half a dozen hairs had been plucked out by the roots. The toothmarks were fading, but still discernable.

  Well, no one had ever said that succubi were gentle.

  At least he didn’t have a headache. The one basic, useful spell that the most effete and erudite Hydrangean wizards had never been foolish enough to forsake, not even at the very height of their refinement of the arcane arts, was the Fine and Ancient Ceremony for the Peaceful and Unresentful Contemplation of the Lark Which Rises Joyfully Singing With the Dawn Regardless of the Weather, more commonly known as “the hangover cure.”

  The celebration, he decided, was over—just now he had no interest at all in wine, women, or song.