Clootie hurried to his side and threw a comforting arm around the child. "There, there, Wulfie," he said, "it’s all right. That’s a very hard spell, almost a grown-up spell, and you’re still young. You’ll learn it eventually, I’m sure.”
Wulfrith sniffled loudly. “You fix it,” he said, handing Clootie the fish.
"Later,” Clootie said, putting the dead carp aside. "Right now it’s time for your nap.”
"Okay,” Wulfrith said, still miserable, but no longer actually weeping.
"You know, even if you couldn’t turn it back, you did a good job turning it into a fish at all,” Clootie said comfortingly. "Why, that’s at least a spell for five-year-olds, and you’re not even four yet! Not even three and a half!”
"It is?” The tears stopped, and the uneasy frown turned into a gape of surprise.
"Yes,” Clootie said, nodding, "really!”
"Wow,” Wulfrith said quietly, impressed with himself.
The boy went happily off to bed, under Clootie’s watchful eye; the minute he was certain that the child was really asleep, the wizard turned and dashed back to the shelf where he had placed the fish. He pulled it out and looked at it.
"He turned it into a fish,’’ he said wonderingly.
A three-year-old who could turn furniture into an aquatic life-form was a rare and precious resource. True, there wasn’t all that much demand for seafood here in the mountains, and a good piece of carpentry generally cost more than a carp, but if the boy could do that, what else might he be able to do?
No one had ever before tried teaching sorcery to so young a child, and it suddenly occurred to Clootie that perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps the talent for magic was stronger in the very young, like the talent for learning languages. It might just be because of his age that Wulfrith was able to learn how to work such a miracle.
Butthen, how many children that age would be able to concentrate on one thing that long at all?
Wulfrith was clearly exceptional. If he had grown up and been apprenticed in the normal way, he might not have been anything out of the ordinary, and he would hardly have discovered magic on his own; still, here he was.
That was absolutely wonderful.
It was also rather terrifying. Three-and four-year-old children can throw tantrums, and the idea of a magical tantrum was not one Clootie cared to consider. And that was not even mentioning what might happen around age twelve or thirteen.
And if the boy realized he was gifted and became a spoiled brat, the inevitable tantrums would be far worse.
Clootie decided that he would have to be very careful never to let the boy know just how special he was.
And that meant he would have to hide this dead fish and get a replacement endtable, so that Wulfrith would never know that Clootie couldn't turn it back, either.
The boy's ability would be kept secret, but at the same time, such a talent wasn't to be wasted. Clootie would start teaching Wulfrith some spells, and . . .
A grin spread across the wizard's face.
. . . And he would suggest that the boy invent a few of his own. After all, wasn't that the best way to learn?
And Wulfrith would probably never realize that Clootie would be learning those spells from him. He would never know how good he was.
That was perfect.
When Wulfrith woke up the fish was gone; three days later the endtable was back.
And three days after that, Clootie began to teach Wulfrith magic.
"Nothing very serious," he said. "We'll start with the easy stuff."
Clootie had intended, when he bought Wulfrith, to have the boy do various chores around the cave when he was old enough. He never did get much manual labor out of the child, however. By the time Wulfrith could hold the broom upright and sweep, he could also animate the broom to do its own sweeping—though it had a distressing tendency to sweep things under the rug, rather than out the mouth of the cave where they belonged. At age seven, when Clootie had intended to have the boy take over washing the dishes, Wulfrith chained ^ water elemental to the sink and taught that to wash dishes.
It took him four days and cost half a dozen pieces of Clootie's best china, however, in addition to the six hours he had needed to conjure the thing up in the first place.
“That's all right," Clootie said, when he saw Wulfrith's distress. “Water elementals are tricky things." He did not mention that no one else had ever kept one confined for more than three or four hours, or taught it to do anything more complex than drowning a wizard's mother-in-law.
Clootie watched the elemental as it scrubbed vigorously at a platter, spattering fat drops in all directions. The boy intended to keep it in the cistern above the sink, and the idea of having an angry water elemental so close at hand made Clootie slightly uneasy—but he could hardly admit that to the child, not if he wanted to keep the boy's respect.
A water elemental could probably be very useful against the Gorgorians—if anybody ever got around to fighting them again. Stories of the Black Weasel and his Bold Bush- dwellers still circulated in the valleys and villages as much as they ever had, but nobody ever seemed to mention any plans for doing more than waylaying and murdering any Gorgorians stupid enough to venture into the eastern mountains.
In fact, it rather seemed to Clootie that people were becoming accustomed to the Gorgorians.
Besides, he couldn't very well ask a seven-year-old boy to go out there and fight for the rightful ruler of Hydrangea; the boy hadn't even been born when the Gorgorians came, and nobody seemed entirely sure anymore just who the rightful ruler was. Prince Mimulus seemed to have vanished and might be dead, Princess Artemisia was the Gorgorians' queen . . .
It would clearly be'simpler to stick to washing the dishes, and let Hydrangea take care of itself.
Chapter Eight
Queen Artemisia sat before her mirror and considered the tale it told. In the fourteen years since Prince Arbol's birth she had not acquired so much as a wrinkle or a gray hair.
As a happenstance, that would be wonderful enough in and of itself for any mother, but taking into account the constant, unremitting, merciless stress under which she lived each day, it was a miracle.
“I just don’t know how I do it, Mungli," she told her lady-in-waiting. “It’s not the easiest task in the world raising a child, let alone a royal one and the heir to the Gorgorian Empire to boot, but if you only knew the real story about Prince Arbol, it would take your breath away.’’
“Gkkh,’’ said Mungli, running an ivory-backed brush through the queen’s blond hair.
That was about as much of an answer as Artemisia was going to get from Mungli, now or ever, on this subject or any other. The queen's chosen lady-in-waiting was a Gorgorian wench who had gotten into a slight disagreement with her lover's senior wife; Mungli had always been one to speak her mind, and it was a very creative mind, particularly when it came to dreaming up synonyms for old, ugly, and possessing the sexual attraction of silt. The wife was one of those Gorgorian women who cultivated the magical arts, one, in fact, who had developed them to an exceptional level, and who thought it appropriate to teach the upstart trollop a lesson about keeping a civil tongue in one's head. She did this by magically removing Mungli's tongue almost entirely.
This was rather more magic than Gorgorian women were supposed to have, certainly more than they commonly used, but these were not common circumstances; most comely young Gorgorians knew better than to argue with their magically-gifted elders.
Still, while it wasn’t a very nice spell, it was reversible— sort of a sorcerous warning shot across the bows, intended more to instruct than to punish.
Or rather, it would have been reversible if the Gorgorian lord over whom the ladies tussled had not come in just then, noted his senior wife’s use of excessive and potentially dangerous magic, decided that if he did not do something to indicate his displeasure she might next use her powers on him, and very prudently lopped her head off.
There was
general rejoicing in the harem tent and a flurry of in-house promotions all around, but poor Mungli was left out of the fun, high and dry, permanently silenced—if any of the other Gorgorian women had the ability to restore her tongue, they weren't admitting it. And although most men joked about the advantages of having a silent wife, no one seemed eager to acquire one who lacked a tongue.
It was a fortunate day for Mungli when news of her predicament reached the queen's ears and she was summoned into the royal service. With Ludmilla gone, Artemisia longed desperately for someone in whom to confide. Not confide everything, you understand, just bits and pieces that might casually drop into the conversation. It was such a relief finally to have someone about the queen’s apartments before whom she could speak freely, without weighing every word! And, like most Gorgorians, Mungli was illiterate, so the danger of the girl writing down anything she might learn was nil.
"All those years, all those years ...,’’ Artemisia mused, tilting her head to one side in a fetching manner. "I don't know how I could have managed if not for you."
"Hnng," Mungli agreed.
"Speaking of which, do be a dear and bring me my tea, won't you?" the queen requested.
Dutifully Mungli trotted off to the sideboard where a silver teapot was bubbling over a spirit-flame. To the boiling water she added three pinches of a dried herb mixture which she carried in a tiny, carefully sealed casket around her neck. When the brew had steeped to her satisfaction, she poured off two cups and brought them to the queen. Together the ladies sipped their tea.
Artemisia smacked her lips. "Hmmm, tastes delightful," she remarked. "But I'd drink it even if it tasted like stewed mule's hocks, just to be sure I never again have to bear Gudge another child! Three—I mean he is quite enough. He being Prince Arbol. Of course. Ah, ha, ha, ha."
"Anh, anh, anh," Mungli laughed. She patted her own flat belly smugly, a testimony to the powers of the contraceptive tea.
The queen set aside her empty cup. "Are you sure, dear Mungli, that there is no similar tisane known to the women of your tribe that is capable of, uhhh, preventing a young girl from, mmmm, ever embarking upon that stage of life where this tea is necessary?"
Mungli stared at the queen, then made the Gorgorian sign meaning someone did not have all his oxen in the corral.
"No, of course not." Artemisia was downcast. "It's quite natural for a woman to want to save herself from too many childbirths, but why would any sane person want to keep a girl from becoming a woman? Well, never mind."
Mungli cocked her head at the queen and made soft, inquiring noises in her throat. She was more than fond of her royal mistress, for if not for Artemisia she would have either starved in the streets or been shipped to one of the most distant Gorgorian outposts, where the men were men and the mares were skittish. She would do anything she could to relieve the queen's distress, but Artemisia waved her off.
"There's nothing for it but to trust to luck. And we have been pretty lucky so far. Blood will tell. I recall one of my governesses telling another that I was an especially late bloomer, and the other replying that it was because I was such a hoyden, running apd riding and sneaking off to take exercise with my brother Mimulus and his companion, dear Lord Tadwyl. 'If she keeps up such antics,’ Lady Dromedri said, 'she’ll never get Vimple's Blessing.' ” The queen made a wry face. "Well, I finally did get blessed by good old Vimple, Goddess of Alarums, Diversions, and Minor Shocks to the System, so all those athletics couldn't keep it away forever. Oh, how I wish they could!"
Mungli was about to utter a fresh string of questioning noises when there came a tremendous clash and clatter from the stairway without the queen's apartments. Artemisia heard one of her Gorgorian guards bawl, "Halt! Who goes . . . ? Aiiieee!" and a punctuating crash at the end followed by the second guard's sheepish, "Oh, it's you, Prince Arbol. Go right on in, Your Highness."
"You bet I will!" came the gaily shouted response. The door to the queen's apartments boomed as a booted foot assaulted the delicate woodwork. Three hearty stomps and the portal flew wide. Hands on hips, resplendent in the full barbaric glory of Royal Gorgorian battle dress, Prince Arbol did not so much enter the queen's chamber as conquer it.
"Hello, Mom!" the prince said, grinning broadly. "Sorry I had to throw another of your guards down the stairs, but he was stupid."
"Dear heart, they're Gorgorians; stupid is what they do best," the queen chided gently. "It's not the guards I mind so much as the doors. Doors cost money. Hasn't your Deportment tutor been able to teach you anything about knocking?"
"He tried, but it sounded stupid, so I threw him down the stairs, too. It's all right, Mom; he landed on a guard."
"Oh, you naughty boy." Artemisia could not quite hide a proud smile. She stretched out her hands to the prince. "Now come here and let me look at you."
Prince Arbol did as bidden. From head to foot, the young royal was all any Gorgorian monarch could desire in an heir. Well grown in height, broad in the chest, legs powerfully muscled and slightly bowed by long hours in the saddle, arms able to wield a handy assortment of small- to medium-sized weapons with grace, skill, and bloodlust, the prince was one of a kind.
Indeed.
Queen Artemisia attempted to remove Arbol's helmet and ruffle her child's curly black hair, but the prince was having none of it. "Aw, Mommmm! Come on, don't do that. If any of my Companions found out, they'd tease the breeches off me and then I'd have to kill them and half of the bastards owe me money!"
"Arbol, reallyl” The queen was shocked. "Such language. Have I taught you nothing? When you leave my chambers do you revert to being a . . . a . . . Gorgorian?"
The prince was nonplussed. "But I am a Gorgorian."
"And an Old Hydrangean, too! Never forget that."
Arbol looked down and scuffed a battered riding boot over the queen's best carpet. " 'Kay," came the sullen mutter.
"I suppose you came here to do more than sulk," the queen said drily.
The prince's head came up, all mopes burned away in the glory of a brilliant smile. "Oh, yes! I almost forgot, and it’s the best news I ever heard in my entire life!"
"Your father's dead?" the queen asked eagerly.
Arbol made the your-oxen-have-escaped sign at her, then said, "No, I finally managed to wound my Dirty Combat tutor. Not mortally or anything, just your basic hamstringing and some superficial abdominal slashes, but I did him good enough for Dad to say it was about time I moved out of the schoolroom and into the world."
The queen felt her fingers knotting in on themselves. "What?" she rasped.
"He's taking me with him on campaign, Mom!" the prince exclaimed, nearly bouncing out of her riding boots.
"We leave tomorrow to ravage the western flank of the Hypoglycemian Republic. Isn't that swell?"
"Mungli," saidthe queen, "leave us."
No sooner had Artemisia’s mute lady-in-waiting departed than the queen seized Prince Arbol by the wrist and dragged her disguised daughter over to the windowseat. There was a special significance attached to all conversations that took place in this stony niche whose lack of cushions guaranteed the undivided attention of the participants. It was in this niche that Queen Artemisia had told Prince Arbol about the debt of honor and blood they both owed to dear, departed, decapitated da/grandda, King Fumitory the Twenty-Second. It was here that she had instructed the prince in the holy obligation of all high-born Old Hydran- gean children to never, ever, under any circumstances allow themselves to be seen naked by anyone save their mothers, lest a plague of newts occur.
It was here, now, that she said, "Darling, you can't go.”
"Aw, Mommmmm!" The prince drummed her heels petulantly against the stonework. "Why not? Everybody else is going! All my Companions are going! If I don't go they're gonna tease me and then I'll have to . . ."
"Young man, if you kill anyone without my express permission, you’re going to be spanked."
The prince said nothing to this, but Artemisia noticed a cold
, hard gleam in her eye that as much as said You and whose army? The queen cleared her throat and decided to use reason.
"My love, a military campaign is not... is not the most refined of milieus. The soldiers must perforce share all things among them. There is little or no privacy, even for men of the highest rank. And of course, the higher the rank, the greater the obligation upon us to keep ourselves splendidly isolated, lest the full glory of our inborn nobility dazzle and blind less exalted folk."
"Dad says that's a load of horseflop," said the prince.
The queen kept her thoughts on the Gudge/horseflop equations to herself. "It is royal Hydrangean tradition,” she gritted. "Don't you recall the happy days of your infancy when you and I remained gorgeously secluded from a vulgar and obstreperous world?"
"Yeah," said the prince. "It was boring."
Queen Artemisia counted to ten and tried another tack. "Precious, unless you are eager to find newts in your pudding, you can not place your modesty at risk. Surely you must recall the sacred obligation you have to keep your nakedness from all eyes save my own?"
"I guess so," the prince replied. "But—but that's just for children! You said so yourself. You told me that someday I wouldn’t have to bother with that any more. Well, I’m not a child now. When a Gorgorian boy goes out to his first battle, they count him as a man."
The queen laced her slim fingers together and took a deep breath. "Arbol, my son, you speak the truth. By the degenerate laws and customs of your spittle-flecked father’s people, you are truly a man. Yet by the infinitely superior traditions and immemorial usages of the Old Hydrangeans, know that with this manhood come further sacred obligations."
Arbol groaned. "I don't have to take a bath again, do I?" Arbol was not at all fond of baths, a sentiment perhaps the result of repeated childhood memories of the queen whisking her out of the tub and into a smothering towel with startling violence every time there was the slightest sound outside the royal door.
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