(King Gudge didn't meddle much with the prince's upbringing. He had been heard to say during many a royal "council meeting" that he didn’t much care what his queen did about bringing up Arbol so long as the prince picked up a proper measure of the traditional Gorgorian Three Bs:
Beer-guzzling, Bashing-in-of-selected-skulls, and Bastard-begetting. "Otherwise I'll have to kill him.")
Later on, after Arbol had dished out enough "friendly" wallopings for all of his Companions to have decided en masse that they had to leave him and go do their math homework (math homework was always done in the palace kitchens, where there were plenty of school supplies), Pentstemon held forth on the subject of the prince's new friskiness.
"I don’t know what it is," he told the other Companions, "but there's something odd about him lately."
His friends were too busy studying the mysteries of Addition by seeing who could convince the harried kitchen wenches to bring them another keg of beer. ("We’ve only had two, darling, and if we have just one more that'll just make four. No one'll notice.")
Only young Salix felt like discussing the matter. (He’d had a bit too much to drink and had just demonstrated a Subtraction exercise all over the kitchen floor by taking away one lunch from one stomach.) Looking very pale and fragile he asked, "How d'you mean, odd? 'Shalf Gorgorian. Can' get mushodder’n that.”
"No, no, that's not it." By this time Pentstemon's head felt secure enough for him to risk a dubious shake. "I can't put my finger on it."
"Be'er no’ try." Salix giggled. "Cut'm ri' off, Arbol would." He made a vicious slicing motion with his hand. "Kaplowie!" He stared at his hand then, surprised that it had made such an inappropriate sound effect. "No. No' kaplowie. I mean skoosh! Uh. Maybe I don'. Anyway.” He shrugged and toppled over backward.
"What's the matter with him?" asked Prince Arbol, joining the keg crowd.
"The usual," Pentstemon replied, a little puzzled by the question. Everyone knew about Salix. His drinking was as regular as clockwork—more regular, since the night King Gudge got it into his head to dissect every clock in the palace. Busy councilors had been known to tell the time by whether or not the lad was still standing, and if he was down by measuring the length of the shadow cast by his nose.
"Is he drunk?"'askqd the prince, kneeling beside the fallen Companion.
Pentstemon frowned. He wondered whether he'd gotten more than his teeth knocked loose in that last bout with Arbol. "You don't know, my lord?"
The prince seemed to rouse from some sort of waking dream, and blustered,' ‘Well, of course I know he's drunk!'' Arbol leaped up and strode back and forth beside the gently snoring body. "I just meant shouldn't we do something for him is all!"
Pentstemon smiled. This was more like it! Last time the prince had found Salix in this state, a truly inspirational tableau had been arranged. On waking from his stupor, the victim found himself wearing a chamberpot on his head, hollowed-out pumpkins on his feet, and a frilly lady's undergarment just barely covering his body. There was also a prize Hydrangean hog sharing his bed. Only Prince Arbol’s inability to find a voice-throwing mountebank in time for Salix's awakening prevented the beast from asking, "Was it good for you, too?"
"By all means, Highness," Pentstemon said, offering Arbol free access to poor, unwitting Salix. "You get started, I'll bring the hog."
"Hog?" the prince repeated, somewhat distracted. "Hogs are for swamp cough. This won't take but a moment." Arbol knelt beside Salix and passed one hand over the lad's body, as fingers twitched and wiggled strangely.
Salix's eyelids fluttered, then lifted sharply. With a loud war whoop, he sprang to his feet, thumped his chest, took several deep breaths and leapfrogged his way over every kitchen servant until he vanished up the stairs.
Two of the remaining Companions ran after him. They returned shortly to report: "He's galloped out the postern gate and out of the city into the fields. Last we saw of him, he was catching rabbits."
"Well, a little hunting’s good for clearing the head," Pentstemon said.
"He wasn’t on a horse," said one.
"He was catching them in his teeth," said the second.
Pentstemon and all the other Companions stared hard at their prince. "What did I do?" Arbol demanded.
"That’s what we'd like to know," Pentstemon replied.
Before Arbol could reply, a soft, sweet voice came purring out of the shadows. "Now, now, boys, we can’t have you fighting down here. It upsets the cooks. When they’re upset, they make mistakes—untasty mistakes. You do know how our beloved king hates untasty mistakes. And you know what he does to the cooks who make them. Good help is so hard to keep, these days, especially when it’s been minced into very small pieces."
A dark, voluptuous woman in Gorgorian ceremonial dress emerged from the archway leading to the banquet-hall stairs. Around her neck she wore the heavy gold seal of the King’s Foreteller, the only office of high responsibility that the Gorgorians allowed a woman to hold. (Gorgorian men might disdain magic as a weak and silly woman’s plaything, but it was handy to have one of the ladies around who could accurately tell the king what he’d be getting for his dinner a few days in advance, so he knew what to kill—the wild game or the cook.)
Pentstemon felt his mouth go dry. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that this woman had affected all of the other Companions in the same way. Even Prince Arbol was licking slightly parted lips in a nervous manner. Those Companions who were older than the prince knew just why the lady’s presence was making them sweat. Those of an age with the prince, or younger, didn't know why, but they surely did think it would be fun to find out.
The Gorgorian woman drifted across the kitchen floor like a cloud of musky smoke. Her eye lit upon the prince and she smiled. "Ah, there you are, Your Highness," she breathed. "I’ve been hoping to find you alone."
"But I'm not ..." The prince swallowed words of protest as she leaned forward just enough to tilt her low-cut neckline to an attractive angle. “Oo," said the prince.
The lady's smile widened for a moment, then snapped into a bud of annoyance.' “I said I was hoping to find him alone." Her cool gaze swept the circle of lip-licking Companions. It was a very meaningful gaze. All of a sudden, Pentstemon seemed to recall wild rumors about how some Gorgorian women were supposed to be able to perform magic—not just fortune-telling. He was too young to remember the Old Hydrangean wizards and their showy, useless spells; all he knew about magic was what he'd read in talebooks, and in these the magic was always used to turn people into things. Green things. Slimy things. Things that went "Kneedeep! Kneedeep!" in bogs.
“We were just going, Lady Ubri,'' he said hastily.
Apparently his fellow Companions had read the same books as Pentstemon, because they all fled the kitchen at once.
Lady Ubri's smile returned as she watched them scamper. It was amusing to toy with these pathetic Hydrangean puppies. Unfortunately it was almost too easy to do. Ubri always enjoyed a challenge—but she was a very poor loser. When she looked back down to where Prince Arbol still sat on the kitchen floor, where in fact the prince had remained ever since Salix's remarkable recovery, she was painfully reminded of her biggest—and only—loss. She had been little more than a girl, just fifteen, but it still rankled—as well such a loss might.
Damn! How could Gudge have been such a fool as to marry that prissy, petal-soft Hydrangean princess when he could have had her? Ubri did not understand much about politics and dynastic marriages, but she knew what she didn't like.
She didn't like Artemisia.
She did like power.
It was a bitter memory indeed, learning that Gudge preferred the pale, golden doll-queen. More bitter, because he'd told her all about it by yanking the sheet out from under her and saying, "You'd better get out of here, uh, what’syourname, Uki? I'm getting married in the morning. Come back day after tomorrow."
Well, she hadn’t come back, not in that capacity. She remained in the palace, hop
ing Gudge would come to his senses. After awhile she understood that Gudge had no senses to come to. By this time, Artemisia had given birth to the royal heir, Prince Arbol. As day followed day and Ubri jealously watched her rival's child grow up, Ubri's rage grew too.
Then one day, it stopped. For the first time in years, the Gorgorian noblewoman smiled.
The prince was growing up! And a grown-up prince will some day be a king. And a king needs . . .
"A queen," she whispered to herself. "Arbol's queen, if not Gudge’s." She glanced at her reflection in one of the palace mirrors. She might be old enough to be Arbol’s mother, but you couldn't guess it by looking at her. The years had been very good to Ubri. Stay-at-home Hydrangean customs were so much kinder to the skin than the old Gorgorian way of tramping across mountains, rivers, steppes and such, all with the merciless sun beating down and ruining a girl’s complexion. Ubri’s face was dark, but not leathery, her black hair still silky, her generous curves enhanced by the healthier diet available to her since the conquest and settlement of Hydrangea.
"I really owe a lot to these people," she mused. "When I am their queen, I shall try not to slaughter too many of them right away."
Now that she was a woman with a plan, Ubri was happy. "The way to a prince's heart .is through his stomach . . . and points south," she said. She set out to put that plan into action right away, by cozying up to the prince every chance she got.
It wasn't easy. He wasn’t often alone, and when he was, he just didn't seem interested. Arbol was always charging around the palace, scattering guardsmen left and right, or else romping through his military lessons. Ubri knew you can't seduce what you can't catch.
There was the time he'd gone off to war with his royal father and no one had seen him for months. Ubri figured on taking advantage of that trip. She'd disguised herself as a man, hoping to snag the prince on the march. He'd be alone, homesick, maybe a little frightened. She’d be the only woman for miles around—the minor army of camp- followers didn't count, as far as she was concerned. She would reveal herself to him and let Nature take care of the rest. If Arbol had a single drop of Gudge's blood in him, he’d do her job for her.
It was a lovely plan and Ubri was sure it would've worked, except for some reason the prince had his very own tent and allowed no one else to enter, not even his page. Something to do with royal Hydrangean modesty, rumor claimed. When Arbol did emerge, Ubri managed to sidle up and whisper, "Your Highness, I am in truth a woman in man's disguise. I have done this dangerous thing—following you into the teeth of battle—for love of you."
"You're a girl?” the prince responded, eyeing her from top to toes. He laughed. "A girl disguised as a man! That's funny. What a great game, dressing up like the opposite sex. I'm going to have to tell the Companions all about it. We've got to try it ourselves, some day, and see if we can get away with it. Will you lend me a dress when we get home?" He tipped her three silver Gorgorian gexos and went off to kill some more enemies.
Ubri was fit to be tied.
Which was why she was so pleasantly surprised now. Arbol was staring at her. She knew that breed of stare; she'd gotten it many times over the years, from many men. It was better than central heating. (The Gorgorians might be barbarians, but they understood central heating. You conquered a city and set fire J;o the biggest building in the center of it.)
Ubri sank down to the floor beside Arbol. "It's such a nice change to find you by yourself, Your Highness," she murmured in his ear. The kitchen servants milling about were just as invisible to her as the camp-followers had been. "If you're not loitering with those silly Companions, you're dawdling around that fusty old bookroom with your new food taster. Why do you waste so much time with him? He's only a servant."
"Oh, he's all right," the prince said rather uneasily.
"You know, if he becomes too great a pest, I could always prepare him a little . . . snack, Gorgorian style." Her smile was as bright as a beartrap.
"I wish you wouldn't," the prince replied. "We're . . . we're rather attached to him. ’'
"Well, if that's what you want, my liege. I'll be only too happy to do anything you want. Anything.” She edged closer, her gown hissing over the kitchen slabs. "Now, where were we?"
"The library!" cried the prince, for no earthly reason Ubri could see. He sprang to his feet. "I forgot about the library! I was supposed to be there to meet... I have to go. Good-bye. See you later." He sprinted off, leaving Ubri on the floor, growling native Gorgorian curses.
He didn't stop running until he reached the library. Once inside, he shot the bolt and leaned back, panting.
"Well, did it work?" came the question. Queen Artemisia looked up from her place at one of the tables.
He just nodded. "No one saw anything different."
"Good." She reached into her sleeve and drew out the food taster's mask. "Then put this back on. We’ll play again tomorrow, and this time we'll let Arbol wear the mask and see if people think he’s you at the same time you're pretending to be him."
As Wulfrith tugged the mask back on, he wondered whether he ought to tell the queen about the very friendly Gorgorian lady he'd met down in the kitchens.
He decided he wouldn't. This game Queen Artemisia had devised was lots more fun than anything he'd ever done with old Clootie. He didn't want to spoil it for anyone.
Especially not if that nice Gorgorian lady wanted to play.
Chapter Nineteen
"What ho, lad!”
Dun win looked up, mildly startled, as a large young man in leafy-green forester's garb (with clashing sky-blue lapels) plunged out of a tree onto the roadway in front of him.
"Hello,” Dunwin said, as the other landed on the path and fell to his knees, only keeping himself from flattening out completely by throwing out a hand at the last moment.
The fellow in green got quickly to his feet, brushing dirt from his hose with one hand, and shaking the other to restore circulation; Dunwin could see that the palm was bright red from the force of the impact.
"Ho, lad! Stand where you are!” the man called, squinting down at his knees and deciding that they would do.
"I am standing where I am,” Dunwin pointed out. "How could I stand anywhere else?”
The young man looked up. "Here, now, none of that! We don't take kindly to those tricksy wordgames around herel We’re simple, straightforward men of the greenwood, we are!”
"Jumping out of trqes doesn't seem like a very simple, straightforward thing to do,” Dunwin pointed out.
"Ah, but that was to get the drop on you, so that you'd have no time to call your men or draw your sword!”
Dunwin blinked. He turned and looked back down the highway, then peered down at his empty belt.
“I don't have a sword," he said. "Nor any men."
"I can see that," the other said, a bit rattled. "But if you had, I mean. We couldn’t tell from up there whether you had any men with you. Or swords."
"Oh." Dunwin looked up, and saw two other men in brown and green tunics sitting in the same giant oak that the one had jumped from. He waved a polite greeting; the two waved back.
"Terrible view from up there," the leaper explained, "with the leaves in the way and everything, but it’s got such nice branches for dropping out of, and it's sort of traditional."
"I see," Dunwin said politely.
For a moment the two of them stood there, facing each other; then Dunwin said, "Well, if that's all, I'll be going on, then. I've got a lost ewe to find. A sheep." He took a step forward.
"Not so fast!" The man in green held up a hand. "Don't you know where you are, and who we are?"
Dunwin scratched an ear, dislodging three or four fleas. "I'm in the eastern hills," he said, "and you’re some stranger dressed in a silly costume who's just fallen out of a tree for no very good reason that I can see. I don’t see how either of these has anything to do with me or Bernice."
"Ha ha!" The man did not laugh, he simply said, very loudly, "Ha
ha!" Dunwin thought this a very odd thing to do. "You are in the domain of the dashing and heroic Black Weasel, and we before you are his Bold Bush-dwellers, come to exact his toll!"
"I don't have any money," Dunwin said. "Can I go on now?" He took another step.
"Not so fast!" the other said. "You’re a likely-looking young fellow; if you've no coin, then you’ll pay with a year’s service!"
Dunwin shook his head. "Look, I’m very sorry, but I don’t have time for that. I’ve got to find Bernice.” He took another step.
The Bold Bush-dweller braced his feet apart and thrust out a hand, catching Duriwin’s chest. "You shall not pass!” he proclaimed.
Dunwin reached up and removed the hand from his chest. The Bold Bush-dweller tried to prevent this, and Dun- win was forced to use pressure.
The man in green managed not to scream as his wrist was squeezed and pushed aside. It felt as if the bones were scraping against each other, squashing the flesh out from between them like soft cheese.
When Dunwin let go, the Bold Bush-dweller stared at his hand for a moment, watching the color gradually return to normal, and glorying in the pain he felt; he had been very much afraid that that hand might never feel anything again. The shepherd was stronger than he looked, and he didn't exactly look like any nine-stone weakling to begin with.
The sensible thing to do would obviously be to let him go on looking for his sheep. Unfortunately, the Black Weasel's orders were very definite and very emphatic, and as every Bush-dweller knew, the Black Weasel was not a sensible man. Every traveler had to be stopped.
By the time he could work all his fingers again, the shepherd had walked on past; the Bush-dweller turned and ran after him, grabbing the back of his tunic with both hands.
"Not so fast there . . . ,” he began.
He did not finish the sentence, as he was distracted by the novel sensation of traveling through the air horizontally. It felt surprisingly different from the familiar vertical drop out of the tree.
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Novel 06 Page 16