"Go for what?" Arbol always asked. For some reason this made the women smile more, then laugh, then make a grab for Arbol's trousers which the prince easily sidestepped. Arbol couldn't understand why they'd want to do something so silly. It was all very confusing and Prince Arbol became convinced that she would never understand women.
Understanding men was a different matter altogether. Arbol understood men just fine. From her father she learned that there was just a single one-word thought behind anything a man ever did: MINE! This applied equally to land, gold, livestock, women, beer, and kingdoms. It was all quite simple. Gudge liked things simple.
Arbol liked things simple, too. This business about killing Lady Ubri was not simple. Arbol decided not to do it.
On the other hand, her decision to kill Wulfrith was simple. If the traitor died before the coronation ritual was done, he would never be king. Therefore, Lady Ubri would never be queen. Therefore, it wouldn't matter whether she was pregnant or not. All very nice and simple.
Prince Arbol had been raised in the Palace of the Ox, once called the Palace of Divinely Tranquil Thoughts, now widely referred to as the Palace of the Ox's Tranquil Thoughts for some reason beyond the prince’s understanding. She just called it “home.” If there was one thing the prince knew, it was how to get from here to there inside her own home, even if there was the super-secret apartments of isolation where they were keeping Wulfrith.
The Palace of the Ox's Tranquil Thoughts was a maze of corridors, but it was also a web of secret passageways that had the official corridors outnumbered three to one. If Prince Arbol had ever bothered to stay awake during her history lessons, she might have learned that the secret passageways owed their existence to generations of her Old Hvdrangean royal ancestors playing an unending game of “Tag, You're a Corpse” with their blood relatives.
Arbol didn't give a fig for history (in fact, Arbol hated figs). It was enough that the passageways existed and that she knew them like the back of her swordhand.
So it happened that Wulfrith was seated alone in his tower apartments, catching his breath between waves of coronation rituals, when a very fine tapestry illustrating the Old Hydrangean Wolverine Dance was flung aside and a masked figure leaped into the room, dagger drawn.
“Prepare to die, vile traitor!” Arbol shouted, tearing off her mask.
“Oh, it's you” Wulfrith exclaimed, face and voice a study in pure joy. “You've got no idea,how happy I am to see you!”
Arbol could not have been more dumbstruck if Wulfrith had used his magic to drop a catapult on the prince’s head. Her dagger fell to her side. She gave Wulfrith the sort of stare usually reserved for three-eyed, eight-legged calves. “You're happy to see me?”
"Ecstatic!" Wulfie rolled his eyes heavenward.
"But—but you stole my crown!" Arbol stammered. "You usurped my throne!"
"They're saying I killed your father, too," Wulfrith added, looking very embarrassed. "It’s not true."
"What isn't? The part about my father?"
"Right. Oh, and the rest, too. I mean, it all happened so suddenly. One minute there I was, riding along with the king, trying not to throw up, and the next there he was, dead on the cobbles. Then there were these guards and—"
Briefly, Wulfrith told Arbol the whole story. By the time he was done, the two young people were seated side by side in a padded window niche, enjoying a good chuckle over the whole affair.
"And to think I nearly stuck a foot of steel into your throat!" Arbol roared with laughter.
"And to think I would've killed you if you'd tried!" Wulfrith got the giggles.
"What! You kill me? Haw! Like to see you try." Arbol swung her legs up and rested her boots on Wulfrith's lap. "You're not half the man I am!"
"There's other things than men to be," Wulfrith retorted, putting on that smug, knowing expression Clootie used to wear whenever he spoke of the advantages of the life sorcerous. " Better things."
Arbol spat casually out the window. "In a pig's eye. There’s only one thing better to be than a man."
"What's that?"
"King."
Wulfrith suddenly looked very weary. "You wouldn't say that if you'd’ve had to go through what I've been going through. Powers preserve us, how did your Old Hydrie ancestors manage to get any use out of their kings? By the time all those coronation rites are done, the poor bastard's a hundred seventy-three years old."
"They’re not all done yet, are they?" Arbol asked, tensing. "You haven’t been crowned yet, have you?"
"No, but almost. There's just one more bit of flashy foolishness left for them to do before the actual crowning, and I'm happy to say I won't be there for that."
Arbol grinned. “And I’m happy to know I won't have to go through all the stupid rituals that go before because you've taken care of them for me.''
“Right. You owe me.''
“I paid you. Let you live, didn't I?''
Wulfrith shoved Arbol's legs out of his lap and retrieved the hooded mask. “I only hope the last ritual's nastier than all the rest put together, just to teach you.'' He yanked the mask on.
“You don’t know what it is?’’ the prince asked. She looked a little worried.
“I'm sure someone must've told me all about it before,'' Wulfrith replied. “That’s part of the torture: They tell you all about the great big fat historical significance of every single lousy detail of each miserably boring coronation ritual they're going to inflict on you, then they go on and do 'em to you! If I were king, my first act would be to declare that the Official Royal Hydrangean Keepers of the Coronation Ritual can either tell the new king about the rites or do ’em to him, but not both. That's cruel.''
“My first act as king will be even better,'' Arbol declared. “I'm going to gather all the Official Royal Hydrangean Keepers of the Coronation Ritual into one room, I'm going to tell 'em how they're going to die, and then I’ll do it to 'em. Personally.’’
“It's all the same to me,'' said Wulfrith with a shrug. “I'm out of all this, and I’m happy to be out.'' He started for the door.
“Whoa! You can't go out that way!'' Arbol shouted. “The guards will stop you.''
Under the mask, Wulfrith's face'twisted into a wicked smile. “I'll take care of the guards,'' he said, flexing his fingers. Now that he knew the crown would be going to the right person, he felt no qualms about merely walking out of the tower room. There was a spell he'd come across in one of the old library books—a spell written on a parchment being used to mark some long-dead reader's place in the Garden of Exhausting Pleasures—and he wanted to try it out. He was fairly certain it would add an interesting variation to his own shape-changing spell which had so impressed Clootie: The change in the victim's shape would reverse itself at intervals, without warning, leading the hapless subject to believe that he was off the hook only to discover he was on again, off again, on again, until he went quite satisfactorily mad.
"Suit yourself." It was Arbol's turn to shrug. "But listen: I want you to go back to my mother's apartments and tell her that everything’s all right now. Don't go running away or anything.''
"Run away?" Wulfrith's grin got wickeder. "And miss being a witness when they make you suffer through that last rite? Not for the world!"
Arbol grew thoughtful. "You know, maybe you shouldn't say anything to Mom. She just makes things more complicated than they are. She might even insist that I have to repeat all the rites they did to you or they don't count."
Wulfrith clucked his tongue and said, "Awwww- wwww," like he really didn't mean it at all.
"Oh, come on!" the prince wheedled. "Make believe you're me, all right? You'll get good seats for the last rite, and when it's over and I’m crowned you can rip off that mask and we can both jump up and yell Surprise! Then we'll turn the coronation into a big wedding and—"
“Whose wedding?" Wulfrith asked, startled.
"Yours, of course," Arbol answered. "You’re marrying Lady Ubri, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not." Wulfrith had never sounded surer of anything in his life. "That's just what she's been telling everyone, and I've been stuck up here or too busy with the rituals to say anything about it. She thinks I'm you. You marry her."
"Me? I don't even like her. She can't tell any good jokes."
"Well, I don't like her either, any more. She's a lot of fun, but—'' Wulfrith couldn't quite put his second thoughts about the lady into words. He was certainly grateful to her for everything she'd taught him, but he felt the same stu- dent/teacher gratitude toward Clootie and he had absolutely no desire to marry the old wizard either.
“Never mind, we'll find someone who'll take her,'' Arbol said. “Someone who likes swordfish. Now go back to Mom.''
“See you on the throne,'' Wulfrith called over his shoulder as he slipped out the door.
Arbol heard the guards raising the challenge, then heard Wulfrith utter a number of strange words that made no sense. The prince next caught a sharp whiff of something acrid wafting under the door. The guards' voices ended in terrified squeaks that trailed off as the pit-a-pat of little rodent paws scampered down the stairs, followed at leisure by Wulfrith's own footfalls, skipping away.
“How did he do that?'' the prince wondered aloud.
Then, true to her Gorgorian heritage, she yawned once and forgot all about it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Black Weasel was not in a good mood. Having spent the better part of a day divvying up his men into four parties— two to search for Dunwin’s gods-blasted sheep-turned- dragon, one to hunt up Dunwin’s friend the wizard, and one to accompany the Weasel himself back to the palace—he was, in fact, at his tether’s end. Most of the Bold Bush- dwellers might have grown from boys to men during their years with him, but he couldn’t truthfully say that any of them had grown up.
“All that miserable bickering," he complained to the Purple Possum as they lightly slipped from tree to tree along the road, in accordance with the best tradition of Applied Woodsy Lore for Righteous Rebels. “Sniveling and fighting over who got to go look for dragons and wizards and who got the honor of coming along with me.’’
“Don’t take it so bad, Black Weasel,’’ the Possum said. “We finally convinced some of them to come with you.’’ The Black Weasel snorted. “ 'Some'? Since when is two 'some'?’’
“Three if you count me,’’ the Possum prompted.
“A fine thing!’’ the Black Weasel exclaimed bitterly. “A leader of my stature, and the best I’ve got for an escort is the dregs of the forest from a forest famous for its dregs.’’
A loud crash echoed through the roadside woodland as if to affirm the Weasel's words. Spurge picked himself up off the dirt track and looked sheepish. “Sorry.’’
"Idiot." The Black Weasel's hand darted out of the trees, seized Spurge by the collar, and hauled him back through the branches. Up close to the hapless former messenger's face he snarled, "How many times must I tell you? Bold Bush-dwellers do not just saunter down the road while en route to reconquering the enemy stronghold. It could cause us all manner of inconvenience, particularly if we should happen to run into a Gorgorian patrol."
"Well, I told you years ago that I wasn't any good at this," Spurge said by way of excuse.
The Black Weasel shook him so hard that it took the Purple Possum a minute or two before he could make his leader let go. By that time poor Spurge's tongue was hanging all the way down to his chin, and his eyes were rotating in opposite directions.
"Wonderful!'' the Weasel declaimed. "This was all that saw fit to attach its worthless self to my train!"
"It's not like he had a choice," the Possum murmured. "The other parties wouldn’t take him." He jerked his head backward. "Or him."
"What about me?" Dunwin demanded.
"Oh, nothing."
"It was so too something. " If the Black Weasel was in a foul mood, Dunwin was in a fouler one. When the Bold Bush-dwellers split up into their various search parties, naturally he had wanted to join one of the two sheep-seeking groups on the sensible premise that he would know Bernice when he saw her.
Unfortunately, his wishes had been ruthlessly and unanimously squashed. In the short span of time Dunwin had spent among the Black Weasel’s men he had managed to acquit himself so skillfully in all forms of armed and unarmed combat that there wasn't a Bold Bush-dweller alive who didn't hate his guts. It was pure envy, seasoned with a healthy dollop of fear, that ostracized Dunwin. He had tried to bull his way into the search party of his choice, only to have the Purple Possum in person intervene.
"Now, now, Dunwin," the Possum said. "Think this through. What if the dragon-searching party you’re with isn't the one that finds Bernice? You could still be wandering aimlessly around the hills looking for her while the successful search party rejoins us in the capital. But! If you come with us, you'll be right there to greet your sheep the instant they bring her in. Besides, unless I can convince one more warrior to accompany the Black Weasel, he'll have a fit of the sulks, call off the whole search party idea, and who knows when you'll see Bernice again! So come with us. It makes more sense, doesn’t it?"
Dunwin allowed that it did, but it still didn't sit right in his craw. He expressed his frustrations by refusing to flit lightly from tree to tree, the way he'd been taught. Instead he just clomped along slashing the roadside underbrush and branches into splinters with his sword and making enough racket to attract every Gorgorian patrol in the hills.
For some reason, though, there did not seem to be any Gorgorian patrols in the hills. The four travelers commented on this phenomenon freely that night as they made camp.
"Maybe they're all still in mourning for the king," the Possum suggested.
"The vile, lawless, accursed usurper, you mean." The Black Weasel was swift to correct him. "Well, if they are, it's all to our advantage. From what I hear, these Gorgorian swine use any excuse to get rip-roaring drunk." An ironic smile curled his upper lip. "What better way to send off their louse-ridden leader than in floods of strong drink? And what better time for us to strike than while the invaders are helplessly stewed to the eyeballs?"
"Daddy Odo used to serve me stewed sheep's eyeballs on my birthday," Dunwin remarked dully. He poked the fire with a dry branch.
"Euw," said Spurge, turning pale green.
"Didn't use any of your Bernice's relatives for the purpose, I hope?" the PossCim inquired politely.
"Speaking of stew, is dinner ready yet?" the Weasel asked, peering into the depths of the little cookpot merrily bubbling over the flames. "Which of you men's in charge of it tonight, eh?"
"Me." Spurge raised his hand. "I did my best. Don't blame me if it's no good. We passed a perfectly decent- looking farmhouse a ways back today. Would've been the simplest thing in the world for me to slip 'round to the front door and offer to chop up some firewood in trade for a chicken and some veggers, but oh no! Live off the woodland, you said. So I tried. I'm not much good at that, either, so don't blame me for how it tastes. It's not much of a stew, 'thout any meat except some of that dried stuff the Possum carries in his pouch, but I managed to scare up enough trimmings besides to—"
"Are you done?” the Weasel snarled.
Spurge nodded.
"Then so is the stew," the Weasel decreed. "Dish it out now. I want us to eat, sleep, and get an early start in the morning."
There wasn't much stew, but that didn't matter since there weren't very many takers. Spurge refused to sample his own concoction because the Black Weasel had hurt his feelings. Dun win was too upset about Bernice to do more than stare at his portion, announce that there were mushrooms in it (he hated mushrooms), and dump it back into the pot untasted. The Black Weasel and the Purple Possum shrugged and fell to.
Shortly after dinner, they fell over.
It was several days later when the Black Weasel opened one eye and saw that there was a plain whitewashed ceiling over him instead of the leafy forest canopy he'd expected. He turned his
head and pain shot from the base of his spine all the way up his backbone to the top of his skull. Clean sheets wrapped him, but they were soaked with sweat, and the smell of a sickroom overwhelmed the feeble scent of the wildflower bouquet on the table beside him. He groaned.
"Oh, good. You're alive." A plump, pretty woman leaned over the Black Weasel's bed to wipe his clammy brow. "That means the worst is over. You’ll be on your feet by tomorrow, and on your way the day after."
"Who—who are you?" the Black Weasel asked. "Where am I? Where are my men?"
The lady chuckled, a sound warm and comforting as fresh-baked bread. "I’m the Widow Giligip and you’re in my farmhouse. Your sick friend’s dossed out in the main room, in front of the fireplace—he’s fine too, never fear—and as for the other two ..." She hesitated, a look of concern darkening her rosy face.
"Yes? Yes? Tell me!"
"Well, the big one’s been a tremendous help to me these past two days, looking after my livestock so kind the way he does, especially the sheep, but the other one—he's run off. Just bolted for the hills hollering that no one was to blame him for anything. Did that soon after they brought you here and I recognized what was wrong with you."
A nasty suspicion accompanied by nastier stomach cramps clutched -at the Black Weasel’s soul. "Which was—?"
"Mushroom poisoning."
Chapter Twenty-Six
Still holding tight to the short straw, Wennedel edged his way down the hillside toward the gigantic green beast. The nearer he got, the bigger it seemed, the stronger it stank, and the more he wanted his mother. His comrades’ assurances that they would keep their loaded bows trained on the beast’s heart the whole time were cold comfort. They were all holed up safely behind a fall of boulders, and how could he be sure any of them knew where a dragon kept its heart?
They did know where a man's heart lay, though, and had offered to show Wennedel his own, all nice and red and out in the open, if he refused to accept the mission which Fate and the short straw had awarded him.
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Novel 06 Page 21