"Of course!" Dunwin said, startled that anyone would even think to ask. "She’s Bernicel”
"What would you do with a dragon, once you got her home?" Ochovar asked.
Dunwin shrugged.
"The question is, my Bold Bush-dwellers," the Black Weasel said suddenly, stepping from the shadows, "what could we do with a tame dragon? Dunwin, my lad, do you love your country?"
Dunwin blinked. "It’s okay," he said.
"Would you put yourself and your beloved pet at the service of your people, the true lords of Old Hydrangea?"
Dunwin thought for a moment, then answered, "I dunno."
"This dragon, this Bernice—does she breathe fire?"
Dunwin considered, and said, "I dunno."
"She can fly?"
"Yeah, I saw her do that." He was relieved to have an answer other than "I dunno" for once.
"She has claws?" the Black Weasel asked.
"Great big ones," Dunwin affirmed.
"And teeth?"
"Big as my fingers." He held up a hand in illustration.
The Possum cast an involuntary glance at Dunwin's huge fingers and shuddered.
"Dunwin," the Black Weasel said, "this beast of yours might be just what we need to strike utter terror into the craven hearts of the barbaric Gorgorians! In their simple, primitive minds, a dragon must surely look like a demon incarnate, wouldn’t you say?"
Dunwin scratched under one ear, considering the question. He was fairly certain the answer would be "I dunno," but he wanted to explore all the other possibilities first.
"And what about the wizard?" the Possum asked. "If there’s a wizard out there who can turn a sheep into a dragon, maybe he can do other useful things as well."
"A good thought, Tadvvyl, an excellent thought," the Weasel agreed. "Hard to believe a wizard could ever be of any use, though."
"So if we had this dragon and that wizard," someone said, "could we please attack the capital and get it over with?"
"Maybe," the Weasel replied, "maybe. All in good time. Wouldn't do to rush anything."
"My lord," the same voice said, "I’ve been out here in the merry and festering, musty, damp greenwood with you for fourteen years now. I don’t think we're rushing."
"Is that you, Spurge?" the Possum called. "Can't see a thing in the dark."
"Yes, it’s me," Spurge replied.
"Well, then, Spurge," the Black Weasel said, "if you're so eager as all that, then on the morrow, you and a few men of your choice will see if you can’t find this poor boy's little lost sheep. You can start looking in those old dragon-caves in the South Cliffs. Would that suit you?"
"Not really," Spurge said, "but I'll do it." He sneezed. "Anything to get out of this damp." He hesitated, then added, "At least, anything that hasn't got wolverines in it."
"About the wizard . . . ,” the Purple Possum began.
"Ah, yes, the wizard," the Black Weasel said. "We’ll send someone after this wizard, too—Dunwin can give directions, I'm sure. You, Pelwyn— I mean, Green Mole—you take care of it. Take along a couple of the others if you like. ’'
"Yes, sir," said a voice from a nearby tree. "In the morning?"
"Right."
"Shall we get some sleep, then?" the Possum suggested.
Despite a consensus in favor of retirement, the conversation dragged on for some time before finally fading out. Dunwin lay on his blanket, smiling and staring up at the stars that peeked through the leaves above.
They were finally seriously going to try to find Bernice!
It was very late when he finally dozed off; consequently, he slept much later than he had intended, and was awakened by a great commotion. Voices were shouting, equipment banging about; Dunwin sat up and looked wildly about, trying to figure out what was happening.
Everyone seemed to be gathering at the King-Tree, the big beech; Dunwin picked up his blanket, drapped it across his shoulders to keep out the morning chill, and headed in that direction.
He stepped into the little clearing from one side just as the Black Weasel himself, looking rather the worse for wear and none too pleased to be awake, entered from the other. In between, most of the Bold Bush-dwellers were milling about.
And in their midst stood a rather exhausted-looking fellow in very fancy, if somewhat tattered, clothing.
"All right, all right," the Black Weasel bellowed, "what’s going on here?"
"It’s a messenger!"
"From the capital!"
"It's the king!"
"It's our chance! Now's the time to strike!"
"Shut up, all of you!" the Black Weasel shouted. He shoved his way through the crowd and took his place in the battered throne.
"Now," he said, "I see we have a messenger, despite the earliness of the hour. ’ ’
"Yes, oh, brave and dashing Black Weasel, leader of the Bold Bush-dwellers in the fight for freedom from the foul invader!" the messenger proclaimed.
"That's not quite right, is it?" The Black Weasel frowned, then waved it away. "Never mind. I can see you're new at this; I suppose Phrenk and the others weren't available. It doesn't matter. What’s the message?"
"I have come here from the Palace of Divinely Tranquil Thoughts at the express urgings of Her Majesty Artemisia, Queen of Hydrangea!" the messenger announced.
"Yes, of course," the Black Weasel agreed. "Get on with it."
“Without stopping, I have made my way across the mountains to come here, traveling day and night ...” “Get on with it!"
“I bring momentous news! Such is the news I bring that your hearts will sing with ..."
The Black Weasel stood up and drew his rapier; moving slowly and gracefully, he placed the tip of the sword on the messenger's Adam’s apple and growled, “Shut up and tell me what you’re doing here.’’
The messenger blinked.
“That’s rather a contradiction, sir,’’ he said. “If I were, as you put it, to ‘shut up,' then how ...”
The tip of the sword drew blood. The Black Weasel adjusted his stance to prepare for a thrust. “You’re new at this,’’ he said. “If you ever want to be old . . . ’’
He let the threat hang unfinished.
“All right all right all right!'' the messenger shrieked. “King Gudge is dead!’’
The Black Weasel froze. Utter silence descended; for a moment nothing moved, no one spoke.
“There, are you happy now?" the messenger said. “You’ve ruined the whole thing, and I had this great speech all set to go, but now you’ve spoiled the ending for everyone.’’
The Black Weasel withdrew his sword and wiped the tip carefully with his pocket handkerchief.
“The usurper is dead?’’ he asked.
“That's right,’’ the messenger said. “Fell off his horse while he was drunk and broke his neck. Or maybe he was pushed; Prince Arbol was with him at the time, and there's been some talk.’’
“Is the prince safe?’’
“Safe?” The messenger stared.'“Of course he’s safe! He's the new king, isn't he?”
“Is he?”
“Of course he is! The Gorgorians don't care whether Gudge was pushed or not.”
“What about the queen?''
“Her Majesty Queen Artemisia is in mourning, of course," the messenger said, his expression appropriately somber. “She sent me because she could not bear to be parted from her trusted companions in her hour of grief.'' He hesitated, then added, “But she seems to be bearing up well. The funeral was held according to the rites of the king's own ancestors, but even so, Her Majesty only threw up twice at the ceremony. The bruises are reportedly only superficial. Her laughter is being attributed to mere womanish hysteria, and her dancing down the street singing is being called an attempt to deal with overwhelming grief.''
“A Gorgorian funeral, hey?" The Black Weasel considered. “I wonder what their funerals are like, then?"
The messenger shuddered delicately. “You don’t want to know," he said. “Th
e Grand Hall for State Occasions Involving Death or Other Unpleasantness has been closed, and the architects aren't sure if they can repair it or whether it will have to be torn down."
“So I suppose they'll be putting Prince Arbol on the throne, then? With some barbaric ceremony of their own?"
“No, O brave defender of the people," the messenger said, “a compromise was arranged—a Gorgorian funeral, but the coronation will follow all the traditional rites and procedures of Old Hydrangea, to ensure that no one will ever accuse Prince Arbol of being a mere usurper, as his father was."
“That takes three weeks, though."
The messenger nodded. “They started about four days ago. It took me a while to come here and find you."
“So he hasn't been crowned yet," the Black Weasel muttered thoughtfully.
“No, of course not."
“Besides, he’s still a usurper," the Black Weasel said. “The throne rightfully belongs to me—I mean, to Prince Mimulus, the queen's brother."
“Not according to The Gorgorians," the messenger pointed out.
“Well, damn the Gorgorians!"
This elicited a loud cheer from the gathered Bush- dwellers.
“Let's go throw them out!" Spurge shouted from the crowd.
“No need to be hasty . . . ," the Purple Possum began.
“Hasty, nothing!" Spurge replied. “Listen, with Gudge dead, the Gorgorians don't have a real leader—their new king is just a boy, and besides, isn’t he going to be all locked away until the whole coronation ceremony is over? And with that wizard Dunwin told us about, and maybe Dun- win's dragon, or even a couple of dragons—this is the best chance we’re ever going to have! If we don’t go now, we might as well admit we're never going to drive out the Gorgorians!"
Several people applauded. Dunwin was one of them, though he wasn't entirely sure why.
The Black Weasel looked out over the cheering throng; he stroked his beard thoughtfully. The Purple Possum, who had intended to make further protests, also looked over the crowd and decided to keep his mouth shut.
“Yes!" the Black Weasel said at last. He stood up on his throne, narrowly avoiding an overhanging branch, and called, “Yes! At long last, my faithful friends and followers, the time has come! I know the coronation rituals, and when the grand climax comes, when the new king emerges from his holy bath in the Hallowed Hall of Sacred and Ever- Flowing Royal Enthronement, and makes the march from the Palace of Divinely Tranquil Thoughts out to greet his people in the Square of Munificent Blessings from Those Gods Worthy of Our Attention, every eye will be upon him. And when all the attention of the capital is on the ceremony, we will strike! With our patriotic Hydrangean dragons and our heroic wizards, and with the strength and courage of our own hearts, we will drive the dreaded Gorgorian from this land forever! Are you with me, lads?"
Dunwin and the rest cheered more loudly than ever.
“Good, then! We’ll find that dragon—Spurge, I want you to organize ..." The Black Weasel saw the expression on Spurge's face just then, and thought it was perhaps a shade too eager. "No, on second thought," he said, "you come with me. Badger, you organize search parties to explore the South Cliffs. And Pelwyn—I mean, Green Mole— you go find that wizard. The rest of us will see about finding disguises, so we can enter the city unobserved. And we'll rendezvous in the Square of Munificent Blessings seventeen days from now!"
There were more cheers.
"And when we do, Hydrangea will be free!"
There were more, louder, cheers. People were waving swords and spoons and other such things in the air.
Dun win cheered as loudly as anybody; it wasn't until much later that he realized he really didn't care whether Hydrangea was ruled by Old Hydrangean aristocrats, or by Gorgorians.
All he wanted was Bernice.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"Stop sulking, dear," Queen Artemisia told Prince Arbol. "You’ll get wrinkles."
In a corner of the inmost chamber of the queen’s apartments, Prince Arbol slouched back against the wall and drummed her bootheels against the stones. "Who cares if I do?" she snarled. "Wrinkles make kings look fierce and solemn and wise."
"Yes, but—” The queen stopped herself. She had been about to say, But wrinkles make royal princesses damned hard to unload on the interkingdom marriage market, until she thought better of it. Arbol still did not know the truth of her own sex. It was hardly the sort of thing a mother could break to her child all of a sudden.
The queen smiled a secret smile. There would be plenty of time for bringing Arbol around to see that the life of a princess was not so bad. Things were going beautifully. Gudge was dead, which was perhaps the most beautiful thing of all, and if rumor had it right, Artemisia’s own darling son had had a hand in his father's death.
I always knew my children were special, the queen thought fondly. Aloud, however, she said, "I don’t see why you’re making such a silly fuss, Arbol, dear."
“Silly?” The outraged prince leaped to her feet and started kicking the wall for a change. "My rightful place as king of this realm has been usurped by a perfect stranger and you say it’s silly to be upset about it?"
"Precious, Wulfrith's not a stranger; he’s been working here for, oh, ever so long. Why, he’s practically family." Artemisia patted her child’s cheek. "I'm sure everything will work out for the best,” she said. "You'll see. The coronation rites have been going on for weeks now, and we certainly can't interrupt them at this point."
"Why not?" Arbol demanded. She fidgeted with the hilt of her dagger. "It wouldn’t take me long to kill the traitor."
The queen put on her sternest face. ‘ There will be none of that talk, young la—man! Really, sometimes I think you're pure Gorgorian—as if there could be anything pure about those hairy beasts. I work and I slave over the hot funeral pyre, trying to get your father properly out of our hair for good, and this is the thanks I get! I don't know why I ever had any children."
"Dad forced you to," Arbol said, very matter-of-factly. One look at the queen's cold eye snapped the prince back into a more docile frame of mind. "All right, Mother, I promise I won't do anything to mess up the stupid old coronation," Arbol said glumly.
"There's a dear," Artemisia said, mollified. "I know what's bothering you: You’re bored, being cooped up like this with just your mother for company. I've got an idea! Why don't we try to think of something that's lots and lots of fun to do, just to keep you busy and happy?"
"Like what?" the prince grumped.
"Like kill Lady Ubri," the queen suggested.
"Huh?" This suggestion was sufficiently unheralded to startle Arbol out of her foul mood and into simple befuddle- ment.
"Darling, surely you've heard?" Artemisia asked, a hand to her breast. "Lady Ubri's been going around telling anyone fool enough to listen that she is the betrothed of the new king. The nerve!"
"I remember Lady Ubri," Arbol said, still puzzled. "She’s that Gorgorian woman who kept following me around making all these stupid remarks about bulls and towers and lances and swordfish when there wasn’t a bull, tower, lance or swordfish in sight. And then she was always trying to tell me these dumb jokes about the traveling barbarian horde and the sheepfarmer’s daughter—” The prince stopped. “Why should I kill her?”
“Because it will be neat,” Artemisia said simply. “You see, my love, once the coronation rites are finished and my so—Wulfrith is king, Ubri will almost certainly be his queen. If we show up and announce that they've crowned the wrong person, Wulfrith can be set aside with no problem.” Except we will not do that, Artemisia thought. “However, if he has a queen—even though he rule but for a minute— and the queen be found to be with child, by Old Hydrangean law that child has as good a claim to the throne as you. You wouldn't want to have to kill the poor little thing then, would you? Historians tend to make such a to-do about kings who murder their child-rivals.”
“Nnnnno,” Arbol said slowly. “I guess not. But it's all right i
f I kill Lady Ubri now? If she's pregnant, I'll still be killing my child-rival. ’'
“But we don't know she’s pregnant, love,” Artemisia wheedled.
“If she's not pregnant, I shouldn't have to kill her to prevent her child from ever trying to take my crown because there is no child,” the prince argued.
“But we don't know there is no child, ’' the queen countered.
Prince Arbol sat back down in the corner, holding her head. “I hurt,” she announced.
“That's because you need some exercise.” The queen seized hold of Arbol’s arm and hauled her to her feet. “Swinging a sword is very good exercise, especially when there's such a big target. Run along/ now, dear. Oh, and don’t forget to put on your mask! It wouldn't do to have anyone recognize you in the halls and upset—”
“—the coronation ritual; yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Prince Arbol did as instructed. Her head was still spinning as she left the queen’s apartments by one of the many secret passageways with which the Palace of the Ox's Tranquil Thoughts was honeycombed. Ever since the arrival of Wulfrith, life had gotten much too complicated for the prince's taste. Then Dad had to go and get himself killed and complicate things even more.
Arbol did not miss her father, exactly. All she remembered of old Gudge was something large and furry that always smelled of stale beer. Or maybe that was her pet dog, Vexmor. No; Vexmor never threw up on people's shoes. Also, Vexmor couldn't swing a sword the way Gudge did during that military campaign on the border. Arbol remembered that all right. Gudge kept barging into Arbol's private tent making loud, nasty remarks about stupid Old Hydrie customs that kept a lad all closeted up like a linen towel when he should be out at the ditch pissing side by side with his men. Then he kept pushing all these women in front of the prince.
Some of the women were ugly, some of them were old, some young, some pretty, some pretty old and pretty ugly, but all of them were smiling all the time. As soon as each one smiled, Gudge would always bawl, "Look! She likes you! Go for it, boy!"
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