"I know, but ..." He sniffled.
"Try to be brave, Dunwin. Aren't there any human women who catch your fancy? I know they have those odd bumps, and aren't as pretty as sheep, but couldn't you perhaps find some distraction?"
"I don't know," Dunwin said—but he stopped snuffling. The thought of meeting women did have a certain appeal to it. He had noticed his long-lost brother with that Ubri person.
"Well, think about it, Dunwin. Because I am going away with Antirrhinum, and you don't want me to ruin my honeymoon by spending it worrying about you, do you?"
"No, of course not ..."
"Then find some other friends. Meet some girls, and just try not to look at those silly bumps."
Dunwin looked down from his perch on the battlement at the crowd below—and more particularly, at some of the younger females in the crowd. The view from above had certain interesting features—appropriate wear for coronations ran to low-cut necklines.
"I hadn’t really thought about it," he said slowly, considering that view. "You know, I think I kind of like those bumps, actually."
"Well, there you go," Bernice said, relieved. "Take a good look at a few after the ceremony, why don't you?"
Dunwin nodded thoughtfully, still looking over the crowd, and not only were his eyes drying quickly, but for a moment he even forgot to scratch Bernice's head.
The cheering was dying down now, and the participants were taking their places for the ceremony. Arbol was at the center, of course, with a half-ring of Hydrangean functionaries around and behind her. Artemisia, the Queen Mother, had a place of honor on the new queen’s right; Prince Wulfrith, newly appointed court wizard, stood to the left.
Beside and a step behind Wulfrith, Lady Ubri whispered, “I still think you shouldn't have given up the crown so easily, Wulfie. I mean, love, a man like you deserves to be king ..."
"Ubbie," Wulfrith whispered back, "I’d sooner cut my throat than try to be king, and if you ever mention it again I'll turn you into a warthog."
Ubri sniffed and flung back her head. "Warthog, indeed! If that's all you think of me ..."
"Oh, it’s not all," Wulfrith said, smiling. "Have you ever seen a book called One Hundred and One Intriguing Amatory Alternatives that's in the library here? It was banned by three kings in succession, and condemned by the Midwives’ Guild. I think vou'll like Number Seventy-One . . ."
Across the dais, Artemisia spotted Clootie in the front row of the audience.
"You're sure you won't stay?" she called. She did not entirely trust Wulfrith’s magic—her son was still just a boy, after all—and she certainly didn't trust anyone's loyalty to her daughter; a backup wizard would be handy to have around.
"I'm sure," Clootie called back. "I've gotten used to the old cave, you know. It's so much simpler than city life ever was." He smiled. "But now that I’m not hiding, you'd be welcome to visit, Your Highness/’
Beside him, Odo called, “I’ll be stayin’, Yer Gracious Goodness." He grinned toothlessly.
Artemisia shut her eyes for a moment, then opened them and concentrated her entire attention on her daughter.
Lord Bulmuk, whom Arbol had named Commander of the Palace Guard, and Prince Mimulus, perhaps better known as the Black Weasel, were bringing out the double crown—the simple Gorgorian band of kingship had been welded onto the Holy Royal and Ancient Crown of Volnirius the Oblique, just above the band of oxhide. The spindly frame of the Volnirian crown had begun to sag rather badly out of shape a century or two back, and had finally given way completely after being kicked around at the Disaster of the Bath; this new addition served to restore its shape rather nicely, while adding considerable decorative panache to the rather plain and unconvincing Gorgorian crown.
Arbol had dispensed with the Keepers and appointed her own officials for the coronation, and two of them were now looking at each other over the conjoined crowns.
Lord Bulmuk, while holding his side of the supporting cushion, was watching Prince Mimulus closely. “You’re sure you're not planning anything?” he muttered. “Haven't got a knife tucked away under all that fancy embroidery you're wearing?”
Prince Mimulus sighed. “No, my good Bulmuk,” he said, “I am not planning anything. I am quite content to see my niece crowned.”
“That’s good. I've taken a fancy to the girl, you know; wouldn't want anything to happen to her. You're sure?”
“Absolutely sure,” Mimulus replied. “After fifteen years in the forest, I don't think I'm up to ruling this place— particularly since it would take a miracle for me to survive assassinating Queen Avena.”
“Arbol,” Bulmuk corrected him.
Mimulus sighed. “Arbol,” he agreed. “No, Bulmuk, when this ceremony is over, I'll be glad to settle into my natural role as my niece’s advisor.”
Bulmuk continued to eye him suspiciously, and the quondam Black Weasel did his best to look bored and innocent as the pair placed the pillow and crown upon the table behind Arbol. Mimulus understood the suspicion, though he doubted that the Gorgorian realized that the “natural role” for a Hydrangean prince was to skulk about the palace looking for an opportunity to shorten the line of inheritance.
Of course, Arbol was deadly with a sword. She had dangerous allies, including his own sister. She had those two brothers. She had united the Gorgorians and the Hvdran- geans in supporting her; she was, in fact, already beloved by most of the people, even before she was formally crowned, for her restoration of Old Hydrangean rights and of the surviving Old Hydrangean nobility while keeping the Gorgorians placated by retaining them among the nobility as well. Her brother Wulfrith had been given a free hand to do whatever he could to restore scholarship—and wizardry'— to their former levels of achievement. She had even found posts for all the Bold Bush-dwellers.
It was really rather amazing; with her mother's advice and the help of her allies, Arbol seemed to have pleased just about everybody. Removing such a monarch, and replacing her, without winding up beheaded for treason or killed by an angry mob or turned into something furry and quadrupedal, appeared quite impossible. It looked like a happy ending all around, for Arbol and her friends.
Mimulus smiled as he lifted the crown and placed it on his niece’s head.
He always had loved a challenge.
About the Authors
Lawrence Watt-Evans's maternal grandfather, Jock Watt, went to sea at the age of fifteen and became, yes, a Scottish ship's engineer. Watt-Evans's maternal grandmother, Florrie Watt, once woke up in her berth in the middle of the night so certain that her train was going to crash that she got dressed, so as not to have to evacuate the wreckage in her nightgown; it did crash, though no one was hurt. His paternal grandfather, “Poker" Evans, scandalized Princeton’s Class of 1897 by telling an evangelical group that they were welcome to hold their prayer meeting in his apartment so long as they didn't disturb the card game in the back room. His paternal grandmother, Beatrice Anne Briley, insisted that her middle name had two syllables. His great-uncle Sam was apparently murdered by claim-jumpers during the Yukon gold rush. His parents worked together on the Manhattan Project, and received a top secret ashtray as a wedding gift.
With all this, Watt-Evans had to write fantasy; nothing else could be as bizarre and cliche-ridden as his real-life background.
Unfortunately for an otherwise more picturesque biographical sketch, Esther M. Friesner's ancestors did not do much of anything colorful except raise horses in Poland, make cigars in New York City, teach in the Brooklyn public school system, and try not to get killed during the various “religious discussions" of European history. No one came over on the Mayflower because, in her father's words, "We were slow dressers." For about the same reason, none of her immediate ancestors fought in any United States wars. ("We didn't fight; we got along with everybody." —Author's father) If it's any help, one of her husband's ancestors was a spy for the American side during the Revolutionary War and several more fought in the Civil War on whichever side th
ey fancied.
All of this was great preparation for settling down in suburban Connecticut and not fighting with her husband, two children, one well-aged cat, and a fluctuating population of household hamsters. The hamsters fight everyone.
A TOR® HARDCOVER
Protocols for Military Personnel
in the Service of the Ancient
& Honorable Kingdom of
the Hydrangeans
A soldier is a gentleman, and will comport himself, or in those special cases where female personnel may be employed in the armed forces, herself, as a gentleman-or, as the case may be, a lady. While a certain degree of aggressive physical activity may be required in the performance of a Hydrangean soldier s duties, this in no way implies that he or she shall at any time behave in a rude, thoughtless, or impious manner.
(See Volume 1, Articles 15 through 224, for further commentary on appropriate behavior.)
2, The Hydrangean soldier will at all times, while on duty, be properly attired. While a certain degree of personal modification of the standard uniform is permissible, this must not be taken to excess. The tunic shall be of fine wool, and shall extend below the waist sufficiently to ensure proper modesty, but shall not under any circumstances cover the knee.
The tunic shall be dyed to a hue matching, as closely as possible, the official color of the lower dexter quadrant of the company's banner.
Gold embroidery may cover no more than a hand’s breadth of material at the hem and shoulder, and shall not incorporate any slogans, mottos, or political commentary, nor shall any names of officers or personal acquaintances be dis-
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