Antirrhinum watched their departure from the comfortable depths of his cave, then settled back down, curling himself once more into the shape of a boulder, and tried to sleep.
Sleep did not come. Instead he found himself thinking about everything Ochovar had told him.
Gorgorians in Hydrangea? Antirrhinum had eaten a Gorgorian once, decades ago—tasty, once you got the dirt off. And wizards turning sheep into dragons? That was entirely unheard of, in all his long experience—ordinarily, the only process that turned mutton into dragonflesh was draconic digestion. There was something rather perverse, Antirrhinum thought, in making a dragon from a live sheep. That wizard might want some talking to. While the world could perhaps use a few more dragons—things had gotten rather lonely of late, especially after that last fad for heroism and knighthood a century back—it wouldn’t do to have a lot of Draco-come-latelies cluttering up the landscape and eating the livestock, stealing the food from the mouths of deserving members of the old established families.
And this impending civil war might be amusing to watch. Humans always took these things so seriously.
He would have to look into this. Really, life had gotten a little stale of late, and an excursion to the Hydrangean capital might be just the thing to liven up the situation.
He would go take a look—as soon as he was done with his nap.
With that resolved, he yawned a great gout of crimson flame and fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I don't see a cave," Pelwvn—also known as the Green Mole, when he wasn't traveling incognito—said distrustfully, as he stared at the rocky hillside.
"Well, of course you don't," his native guide, Armetta by name, replied. "It's a wizard's cave, innit? So it's whatchacallit, invincible."
Pelwyn turned to stare at her, rather than the hill. "It's what?"
"Indivisible?" Armetta frowned. "Oh, you know the word I mean—you can't bloody see it."
"Invisible?" the Mole suggested.
“That’s the one." Armetta's customary' smile reappeared.
"Then how do you know it's there, if you can't see it?" Pelwyn demanded.
"Oh, that's simple enough—because it's where the wizard lives."
"How do you know?"
"Because it's where he goes when he goes home, o'- course."
"You've seen him go into this invisible cave?"
Armetta considered that. "No," she admitted, “I can’t say as I have."
"Well, then," Pelwyn said, "how do you know he does?"
"Well, he has to go somewhere, doesn’t he?"
"Yes, but how do you know it's here?”
"Because 'tis."
"But . . . oh, never mind." He kicked at a rock, only discovering upon impact, that it was not, in fact, a loose rock, but rather, one that was still solidly attached to the outcropping on which it sat.
"Can I go, then?" Armetta asked. "I've an inn to see to."
"Go on," Pelwyn said, resisting the temptation to hold his injured foot in his hand while hopping up and down and howling. It had never before occurred to him that it was possible to be seriously tempted to do something like that, but the urge was really very strong indeed, and distracted him from any reason he might have had to keep Armetta around. The pain in his foot, as much as anything else, convinced him that he was never going to get any sense out of her.
That there was no logical connection between his stubbed toe and the innkeeper's mental processes didn't trouble him; he was too busy keeping both feet on the ground.
Armetta stumped off down the hillside, leaving Pelwyn and the other two Bold Bush-dwellers in his party to their own devices.
"I don't see a cave," the Vermilion Sparrow said.
"I don't see a wizard," the Fuchsia Ferret added.
Pelwyn glared at them.
"The wizard's probably bloody invisible, too, just like his cave," he announced.
"Then how do we know there is a wizard?" the Ferret asked.
"We don't," Pelwyn said, "and for all I care, the damned wizard can rot in his invisible cave."
"The Black Weasel won't like that," the Sparrow pointed out.
"I know, Dunci—I mean, Sparrow," Pelwyn sighed. He looked the hillside over once again, but saw nothing resembling the mouth of a cave. They had searched the area for days before hiring Armetta, and found nothing; it was rather disappointing that after hiring her, they still found nothing.
Armetta was so certain, though; the cave had to be here somewhere.
"All right, listen," he said, "if we can't go to the wizard, we’ll just have to make the wizard come to us, won't we, lads? Like that old proverb, you can lead a horse to the mountain, but you can't make him out of a molehill."
The Ferret and the Sparrow looked at one another, confused.
"What?" the Sparrow said.
" 'Snot how I heard that one," the Ferret said.
"Oh?" Pelwyn sneered at his longtime companion. "And how did you, O great scholar, hear it?"
" 'Twas something like, you can't break a horse without him stepping in molehills, or thereabouts."
"But wasn’t there one with mountains in it somewhere?" the Sparrow asked.
"Oh, that one," the Ferret said. "That was, if you can’t climb a nice mountain, don't climb any mountain at all."
"No, that's, if you can't climb a mountain, sit right here by me, isn't it?"
“Shut up!’’ Pelwyn shouted. "Forget the proverbs! What we have to do is get the wizard to come out where we can see him!"
"Oh, like the wolverine on Wolverine's Day?" the Sparrow asked. "And if he sees his shadow, he’ll eat your foot off?"
"No, if he sees your shadow, he'll eat your foot off," the Ferret corrected.
"Isn't it his own foot?"
"No, that one’s got traps in it Somewhere ..."
“Shut up!’’ Pelwyn's scream carried a warning hint of hysteria. The pair shut up, and watched their leader in wary silence.
After a moment of quiet, in which the loudest sounds were rustling leaves and the call of a distant bird, the Green Mole had sufficiently collected himself to say, "Now, we need to get this wizard out of his cave. Has either of you got any idea how we can do that?"
The Ferret and the Sparrow looked at one another, then shrugged in unison.
"Nope," the Ferret said.
"Urn," the Sparrow said.
Pelwyn eyed the Vermilion Sparrow. "Um?" he said.
"Well, I was sort of thinking . . . ," the Sparrow said.
" 'Sort of' is probably as close as you'll ever get," Pelwyn muttered to himself.
". . .1 was thinking, wizards do stuff with magic, sort of, don't they? I mean, sometimes?"
"I would have to agree with that," the Green Mole said. "Invisible caves might be considered a form of magic, I'd say. What of it?"
"Well, then, shouldn't we do some magic to make this wizard appear? I mean, demons do magic, and to get a demon to appear, our granddad always said, you had to do just all kinds of magic, and even then he said there was a good chance the demon would eat your head, which is why he always advised us against raising demons."
"I don't think it's quite the same," Pelwyn said, "but you might have a point." He stroked his beard, considering, then asked, "Does either of you know any magic? Anything you picked up from your grandfather, maybe?"
Both his companions shook their heads vigorously.
"We could fake it, I suppose," Pelwyn said, more to himself than anyone else.
"Once when I was a boy," the Ferret said, "I had a ferret—that was how I got my name, see, when I joined up—anyway, my ferret had gone down a rathole and wouldn’t come out, and we got 'er out by putting a dead mouse nearby and waiting until she got hungry."
"Bait, to lure it out," Pelwyn said, nodding. "That's a good idea, too."
The Ferret smiled proudly.
“But what sort of bait do you use for a wizard?" Pel- wyn asked.
The Ferret's smile vanished.
“Magic?"
the Sparrow suggested timidly.
“We don't have any," Pelwyn pointed out. He frowned. “But when my Uncle Binch used to go fishing, he used bugs made out of feathers and sticks and wire for bait, and they worked just as well as real bugs. So maybe we could fake it."
The other two nodded enthusiastically.
“So how do we fake magic?" the Sparrow asked.
“Talk funny, and wave your hands around," the Ferret said. “I saw an actor do that once in a show, pretending to be a magician."
“And they use wands, and stuff, don't they?" the Sparrow asked.
The Ferret nodded. “And they brew stuff in kettles."
“We can make wands out of some of those sticks," the Mole said, pointing.
“Come on!" the Ferret shrieked, suddenly overcome with enthusiasm.
Five minutes later the three of them were dancing about the hillside, waving sticks around and chanting nonsense at the tops of their lungs, all of them smiling and laughing, Pelwyn's damaged toes forgotten.
Forty-five minutes after that, they had switched to taking turns resting, and the chants had gotten less enthusiastic and more repetitive—Pelwyn's had settled down to, “Ka mon ya sa na va bich, ka mon ya sa na va bich/"
An hour later, the Sparrow stood alone on the slope, drearily waving a stick and reciting, “Wizard appear, wizard come forth, wizard show yourself^ wizard get your arse out here, wizard appear, wizard come forth, wizard show yourself, wizard get your arse out here ..."
And shortly thereafter, he flung down the stick and said, “To hell with it! Mole, there isn't any wizard here!"
Pelwyn awoke, startled. “Whu . . . ?" he said.
“There isn't any wizard here," the Sparrow repeated.
"Or if there is, he's not coming out," the Ferret said.
"If we stay here much longer, we'll miss the coronation!" the Sparrow pointed out. "What good will that do anyone? If the Black Weasel wants to overthrow the Gor- gorians at the coronation, he’s going to need every man he's got—even us!"
"That's why he wants the wizard," the Mole said.
"But we can't find the wizard," the Sparrow insisted. "And even if we could, he probably wouldn't do any good. Maybe all he knows how to do is turn sheep into dragons— what good would that be against the Gorgorians? They don't keep sheep in the capital, from what I've heard—just oxen and horses. So even if we could find this wizard, it wouldn't help!"
"Besides," said the Ferret, "if the others found Bernice, she might not like having the wizard around. She'd probably just eat him."
Pelwyn didn't think that was very likely, but on the other hand, he was just as bored as his companions.
"All right," he said, "forget about the wizard. On to the capital!"
The Ferret and the Sparrow cheered loudly.
"And we'll start with a good meal at the inn in Stink- berry village, to prepare for the journey!"
The cheers grew even louder. Together, the three trooped off down the slope.
Behind them, the rock outcropping shifted slightly, and Clootie peered out at the departing men.
A coronation?
The Black Weasel?
Bernice?
This all sounded very interesting. When that fool had first kicked at Clootie's doorhandle, the wizard had thought it was just another young idiot eager to buy aphrodisiacs or other love potions, and he had ignored the trio. The dancing and chanting had been funny enough to deserve a look, but that had grown boring after awhile.
It certainly wasn't any temptation to come out and talk; Clootie liked his privacy.
It was just luck that he had happened to take another look, to see if they were still there, just as the youngest one got fed up; he might easily have missed that final conversation.
But he hadn't, and a very interesting conversation it was.
Coronation?
The Black Weasel?
Bernice? Dunwin’s Bernice, the sheep-turned-dragon?
This was too good to miss, the sorcerer decided. He turned and scurried deeper into the cave, to pack a bag.
He had a coronation to attend—and who knew, perhaps a Gorgorian dynasty to overthrow. The Black Weasel would surely have uses for the transformation spell!
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“There you are, dear," the queen whispered as a hooded figure sidled up to take the seat beside her in the Hallowed Hall of Sacred and Ever-Flowing Royal Enthronement. “I’ve been so worried. Where have you been?"
Wulfrith's head was still terribly muzzy. He recalled leaving the rightful heir to Gudge's crown in possession of the tower suite. He recalled turning the two guards into hamsters. He recalled feeling very pleased with himself as he skipped down the winding tower steps two at a time.
Most especially, he recalled how all that skipping made his hooded mask get turned around with no warning whatsoever. He was in midskip when half his vision had abruptly become obscured, ruining his depth perception and causing him to land not on the next step down but facefirst up against the tower wall.
This, in turn, had made his rate of descent go from brisk to faster-than-a-rolling-beer-keg as he barreled all the way to the bottom of the tower. He had only just awoken a few hours ago and had spent the intervening time trying to find out which hall the coronation rite was being held in—he had never bothered to learn the ornate Hydrangean names for the various chambers and halls—and whether he had missed the whole things
He hurt.
"Precious child, what is the matter with you?" the queen pressed, laying a hand on Wulfrith's sleeve. "And what in the name of the thirty-four hundred styles of sonnet are you wearing?"
Wulfrith looked down. He was still clad in the richly embroidered tunic proper to a king-in-the-making, neither he nor Arbol having thought to switch clothes as well as identities. "Uh . . .1 thought 1 should change into something appropriate for the coronation," he explained. The excuse sounded feeble, but so did he.
The queen's brow furrowed. "You’re not planning on making a scene, are you?"
"Who, me?"
"You must swear to me that you will do nothing to disturb the rituals until the coronation itself is finished."
"Oh, I swear." Wulfrith made the arcane sign of the Wizard's Seal of Truth by using the first two fingers of his right hand to trace a large X over his heart.
' ‘After all,'' Artemisia went on, "I know how much you want to be king, and ..."
"No, I don't," Wulfie replied. "Not really. You see, I've thought it over, and I don’t think I'm really cut out for the job."
The queen's frown deepened. A look of downright skepticism etched its bitter way across her face. "Are you all right, dear?" she asked suspiciously. "You didn't fall on your head or anything, did you?"
Before Wulfrith could lie, there was a flourish of trumpets, a roll of drums, and a rumble of many bronze wheels coming down the central aisle of the Hallowed Hall as five snow-white milk goats accompanied by seven fair-haired virgins clad all in blue entered, hauling the biggest, shiniest, most ornate marble bathtub in the kingdom. Virgins and goats alike wore garlands of pink and white flowers, but only the virgins were singing the Olcf Hydrangean hymn to the new king.
The goats would have done it better.
The bathtub reached its destination, the foot of a canopied, damask-draped platform at the head of the Hallowed Hall. Here the virgins and goats were relieved of duty by eleven strapping guardsmen, Gorgorians all, who saw to hoisting the tub onto the platform. There was much sloshing, but only a little of the foaming water slopped over the lip. The scent of orange blossoms and rose water filled the hall, overpowering the aroma of goats, virgins, and Gorgorians.
Seated beside the queen in a place of honor reserved for the Old Hydrangean nobility, Wulfrith had an excellent view of the proceedings. As soon as the tub was in place, the curtains behind it parted and three men emerged. Wulfrith immediately recognized young Lord Alsike carrying a scepter, the overenthusiastic former apprentice Clerestory carrying
a sword, and a glum-looking Bulmuk the Gorgorian bearing the great royal crown of Old Hydrangea, more properly known as the Holy Royal and Ancient Crown of Volnirius the Oblique, on a cushion.
“Would you look at that!" the queen said, with a sniff of disgust. “Those beastly Gorgorians have attached a band of oxskin to the crown, and—oh, my gods, tell me that's not an oxtail hanging off the scepter!"
Wulfrith couldn't tell her anything of the sort. It was most definitely an oxtail. “It's only a little one," he temporized.
Artemisia's teeth made a harsh sound as they ground together. “If they have taken any more liberties with the regalia, I shall ..."
She didn't complete the threat, for just then the curtains parted once more and the prince emerged, looking as splendid and purely Old Hydrangean as the queen might desire. Arbol wore a long, unbelted robe of cloth-of-gold, exquisitely brocaded in a pattern of pomegranates and peacocks. Silver slippers were on the prince’s feet, and a slender diamond diadem bound the royal brow, small potatoes indeed when seen beside the ornate tangle of gems, wire, and velvet that was the Volnirian crown—and that was equally true with or without oxskin hatband attached.
The curtains parted one last time as an old man hobbled forward to the edge of the platform and almost toppled off.
Only the prince's quick reflexes saved him. “Yes, yes, that's all right, I’m fine,'' he said, nodding vaguely to all quarters of the assembly. “Just the thing for this time of year, a nice hot . . . oh!” He blinked as if just waking up, then looked over at Lord Alsike. “This is it, is it?” he asked him.
“Yes, it is, so get on with it,” the young Hydrangean lord replied.
“Just so, just so.” The graybeard bobbed his head, then found he couldn't stop until Arbol gave him a sharp whap on the back.
“Beloved people!” the sage cried out, and for a wonder his quavery voice carried the length and breadth of the Hallowed Hall. “Behold your king-that-shall-be! Behold that he comes to you having acquitted himself nobly of all the tasks, labors, challenges, and proofs of royalty laid before him! Behold that he is a worthy ruler! Behold that he shall here enter into the ritual bath, in sight of you all, and wash himself clean of any lingering taint or folly of his younger days! Behold that his trust in you, his people, is without flaw or imperfection, even as his royal body is without flaw or imperfection ...”
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