Blood of Ambrose (15 page)

“Will you?”

“No,” Wyrth admitted. “Someday I'll leave him. But not just yet. He needs me.”

Lathmar summoned up a vision of Morlock's dark, pitiless, impassive face and shook his head.

Wyrth was not looking at him (the narrow stairway was slippery and difficult just there) but said, “I know what you think of him. And Ambrosia thinks the same—that he is unbreakable. But no one knows him as well as I do. And I know not only that he's breakable, but that he's
broken.
Morlock is just a ruin of the man he might have been, the man he probably was when he defeated the Sunkillers.”

“What are the Sunkillers?”

“Ach. It was before I was born; I shouldn't have mentioned it. You'll have to ask one of the grown-ups.” He glanced over his shoulder again, and this time his expression was embarrassed—almost ashamed. “Don't say that I mentioned it.”

Stealing food was fun, and the King was pretty good at it. He had, of course, often done it before, when he was hungry and he didn't want to face the kitchen servants' insults. The trick was to not take too much of any one thing—to make your pillage blend in with the casual looting that went on in any pantry. And always, of course, to enter and leave unobserved. The castle's pantries were large, and most of them had some sort of discreet access to the hidden passages, which it was the King's business to know (and the servants' business to not know, or pretend they didn't know). Wyrth and he, when they went together, took turns foraging in the pantry; the other was to guard their pile of loot, on the off chance that someone would happen by in the passage they were using.

At least it had always seemed like an off chance. But that afternoon, as the King sat on a step, kicking his heels and eating a piece of cheese, a hand gripped his collar and yanked him into the air.

“What's this?” a strange voice snarled in his ear. “City brats sneaking around in the castle walls? If—”

The King gritted his teeth and kicked the man holding him from behind as hard as he could, trying to aim the blow between the other's legs. He apparently succeeded well enough: with a roar of anger the man threw him against a wall. The world went dim for a moment or two. When he returned to himself the man (a Protector's Man: the red lion rampant on the man's black tunic) was bent over, gasping, staring at him with recognition dawning on his face.

“You're—” he began.

But then Wyrth was there, his arms full of plunder. He dropped the stuff and stepped between the King and the Protector's Man. He kicked one of the soldier's knees, which gave with an audible crunch, and grabbed him by the throat as he sprawled. The dwarf efficiently broke the man's neck, and then turned to Lathmar. “Are you all right?” he asked calmly.

Lathmar stared at the dead man. “Better than him,” he said finally.

“Traitorous bastard,” Wyrth remarked, as if discussing the weather.

“Because he wanted an afternoon snack!” the King exclaimed.

“No.” Wyrth, puzzled but patient, pointed at the emblem on the man's tunic. “Because of that. Because he took up arms against his sovereign.”

“Well, I'm not much of a sovereign.”

“I didn't mean you. Lathmar, I'm not much on practical politics—you'll have to go to the Lady Ambrosia for that—but there is no real chance that Urdhven would have made a move against his brother-in-law—your father—if he hadn't had a private army sworn to his service. This thing and others like him are responsible for your parents' deaths. He'd gladly have been responsible for yours. Don't waste too much pity on him.”

“How much is too much?”

“Anything at all. We'll have to haul him out of here—do you want to carry the corpse or the food?”

Lathmar thought of Lorn. “The food,” he said swiftly.

Wyrth nodded and casually swung the body of the man he had killed over his shoulder. “I can keep him up here with one hand,” he said, “so if you need me to carry anything.…”

“I'll manage,” the King said faintly.

They brought the corpse and the food to Merlin's children, who were sitting with their heads together, making plans. Plans had been proposed and dismissed at the rate of several a day, and those were only the ones the King happened to hear his elders talking about. He paid them no attention. They would no doubt tell him what they wanted him to do when they wanted him to do it, just as his elders always had. Till then, the future was their problem.

“Hm,” said Morlock, glancing at the body. “Save the clothes. Toss the body down a privy shaft.”

“I thought you were going to suggest giving it to your crows,” Ambrosia said tauntingly.

Morlock shrugged. “Draw too much attention,” he muttered, as if he had already considered the idea. “Lathmar: wait.”

Lathmar turned, defiantly. He was prepared to strip the body of the Protector's Man and dispose of it in the sewer—that was a matter of survival. If Morlock expected him to butcher a human body for the benefit of their feathered friends, he intended to rebel.

So he was taken off guard when Morlock asked him, “Can you sew?”

“What?”

“Do you know how to sew?” Morlock asked again.

“With a thread and needle, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“No,” said Lathmar slowly.

“'Not yet,' you mean,” Wyrth corrected. “What's up, Ambrosii? A plan?”

“The beginnings,” Ambrosia said. “You had better teach Lathmar how to sew. Morlock's teaching me. We'll need a large amount of red silk, also—there should be acres of the stuff in the storerooms, as it's the imperial color. But offhand I can't remember if there are any passages leading directly to those rooms, so stealing it might be a little more difficult than our grocery trips have been.”

“There goes your copious free time, Your Majesty,” Wyrth remarked. “We'll start right after we dispose of the body.”

His Majesty stoically deposited the food on the floor and helped Wyrth drag off the corpse.

Thereafter sewing and silk stealing were part of the curriculum. Silk stealing was exciting at first, as it involved a trip through the open corridors. But soon they found that practically no one visited that portion of the castle, so that, if anything, those raids were more humdrum than a trip to the pantries.

Sewing wasn't as much fun as hearing and translating the old songs and stories Morlock and Wyrth and even sometimes Ambrosia told him when he was working on the secret speech. It wasn't as annoying, though, as Morlock's repeated attempts to shock his mind into Sight, nor nearly as hard work as the sword practice. And it was rather companionable to sit with his elders, as he and Ambrosia struggled with some new stitch and Morlock and Wyrth folded paper models of four-dimensional objects, or discussed the casting of gemstones, or simply reminisced of centuries long past. (Wyrth might be less than one hundred fifty years old, and so a mere youngster to the Ambrosii, but he could speak for and about his forbears with dwarvish ease.)

It was at times like these that Lathmar (as long as he kept up with his sewing—and, in fact, he was better at it than Ambrosia was, with her wounded hands) could sometimes get a question answered. For instance, he might ask, “Why do the descendants of exiles dream about the Wardlands?” or “Why did Lathmar the Old leave the Vraidish homelands?” and one or the other of the oldsters would tell the tale—usually Ambrosia or Wyrth, with laconic additions and observations by Morlock.

The danger that lived in the blood of Ambrose was never far away, though. Once, when they had been working on the sewing project for some time (perhaps a month), Lathmar asked, “Who are the Sunkillers?”

Morlock did not answer, but turned to glare at Wyrth, a snarl on his dark face.

Wyrth was undaunted. “Master Morlock, I've obeyed your orders and told no tale.”

“How does he know that name?”

“I mentioned it once. I told him to ask you or Ambrosia about it.”

Morlock clenched his teeth, too angry to speak.

“The world calls you traitor and monster,” Wyrth remarked quietly in the charged silence. His voice was as level as ever, but it occurred to Lathmar that he was annoyed, even angry. “And I say nothing to this: canyon keep the world, anyway. But why may Lathmar not know the truth?”

“There is no
truth!
” shouted Morlock.

Wyrth rolled his eyes and spoke a guttural syllable that Lathmar suspected was a Dwarvish obscenity. “You can believe that if you like. I don't,” he added.

“The Sunkillers,” Ambrosia remarked, as if the exchanges between Morlock and his apprentice had not taken place, “were a group of beings from beyond the northern edge of the world.”

Lathmar's jaw dropped. “The world really has a northern edge?”

“Yes. Most people would have to answer by hearsay, but I was actually there once. The Sunkillers had taken an interest in our world and intended to conquer it. Or rather, before Morlock steps in to correct me, to cleanse it. Evidently they considered life of our fecund mortal kind a sort of disease infecting an otherwise appealing world. They affected the rays of the sun so that the temperature of the world dropped considerably. Life would have ceased, and I don't mind telling you, Lathmar, I would have found that inconvenient. So I recruited a young fellow at the court of your namesake, Lathmar the Old, and my brother (who had been useful to me in the past). Wyrth's father, Deor, insisted on accompanying Morlock. The four of us passed through the northern wilderness where men may not dwell (and even Deor and I found it uncomfortable) to the edge of the world. There Morlock crossed the Soul Bridge and fought with the champion of the Sunkillers. He killed him and destroyed the Soul Bridge from the far side. Then we brought him back to the world by methods you may someday learn, if your education in the craft of Seeing progresses considerably farther than it has.”

Lathmar could not goggle any further, but neither could he speak. No one spoke. Morlock stood and limped away, and there was silence for some time.

Eventually Lathmar stuttered, “Why…? Why…?”

“He hates the story,” Ambrosia explained, “because it was the beginning of the end of the only life he cared about. He was a vocate in the Graith of Guardians, a hero of sorts in the Wardlands. Wyrth could tell you stories, no doubt, and even I know a few. He was married to a woman he loved—the only one he has ever loved (may she be damned for a poisonous bitch). He lost all that and had to go into exile.”

“Because…”

“There was something involving one of the other Guardians—Morlock either killed him or prevented him from being killed; I never got the story straight. But the real reason was that the Graith, or at least some of its senior members, had an arrangement with the Sunkillers. The rest of the world would be frozen, but the Wardlands would not be harmed. I don't know if they had reason to suppose they would be spared, or if they were just dupes. Morlock wouldn't have stood for it either way. So when Morlock defeated their plans they had him exiled: he'd put something else before the safety of the realm. They call that treason over there.”

“Is that why your father Merlin was exiled?” Lathmar asked.

“No. He was
actually
a traitor. Had I been a member of the Graith I would simply have killed him—but that was all before I was born, or even conceived, so I'm rather glad none of them had my forceful independent character.”

“You were born in exile?”

“Yes—like you, young Lathmar. But my mother was already pregnant with Morlock when Merlin was exiled, so the Graith graciously allowed her to give birth and dump the child on an unfortunate stepfamily before departing the country.”

“I thought you were older than Morlock.”

Ambrosia turned her iron-gray glance at him, and he stuttered helplessly until she smiled and said, “I
look
older, I know. But Morlock was born in the Wardlands and grew to manhood there. That changes you, somehow: either the land itself or the magical wards they use to guard the place. My father was a thousand years old when I was born, but I'll never live that long. None of my descendants has lived nearly as long as me—although, of course, I didn't marry an exile. Have you any other imprudent questions, Lathmar? Would you be interested in knowing whether I was the mistress of Lathmar the Old before I married his son, Uthar the Great?”

“No, madam,” said Lathmar VII, with perfect honesty.

“Any prudent questions, then? This seems to be the moment when they will be answered with more than two or three gnomic syllables.”

“Well…,” Lathmar began, cleared his throat, and began again. “What is it we are making with all this sewing?”

With gnomic brevity Wyrth replied, “A dragon.”

The next day there were no lessons of any kind. “Morlock's drunk,” the dwarf said harshly, and Lathmar laughed, thinking Wyrth was joking. (They never bothered to steal wine; that would mean a trip to the palace cellars, far from any secret passage and extremely well guarded.) Lathmar looked at the dwarf and waited for him to continue the joke, but he didn't. He turned away without saying anything and left Lathmar to his own devices.

enjandro shouldered his way into the wineshop. A serving maid turned to greet him, then started back when she saw his face.

You'll look like a big ugly bruiser in this one.
So had said the note from Wyrth, attached to the threadlike coil of the simulacrum Genjandro wore.
But don't get in any fights. The simulacrum changes the way you look completely, but it's only a Seeming. You'll be no stronger than you really are.

And it was true. Genjandro had wrapped the Seeming around himself and was transformed into the ugliest hulking dockyard thug he had ever seen…but when he tried to lift something that was normally too heavy for him, it was
still
too heavy.

No matter. No one wanted to make trouble for Genjandro-thug. In fact, everyone was impressed with the soft-spoken menace in his tone…although the exact same tone impressed no one when he was wearing his own face.

He trundled over to the bar and slapped down a silver coin. “Gimme the hot stuff,” he rasped. Not being a customer of slimy vomit-pits like this one, he hadn't thought up this line: a note from Morlock had suggested it. (Genjandro suspected Morlock had more experience in such places than he himself did. In the seven or so months that Morlock had stayed at Genjandro's not once had he seen the man drink anything stronger than water. So Morlock either avoided strong drink on some religious or ethical principle—to Genjandro, he didn't seem the type—or he refrained because he knew that he would drink to excess if he drank at all. He
did
seem like that type; he had the clenched weariness of what Genjandro's blessed mother used to call “a dry drunk.” But Genjandro had never mentioned the matter, nor had anyone else in his hearing.) The same demand got him a different brew of sewage in every hellhole he went in. But apparently it was something someone with his present appearance would be expected to say: he got a lot of nasty drinks, but never a raised eyebrow.

He gulped a mouthful of the “hot stuff,” belched an appreciative spray of the same, and said to the barkeep, “I'm drinking up and getting out.”

“Oh?” said the barkeep, in a carefully neutral tone. Genjandro read him exactly. He was not much interested in anything Genjandro had to say, but he was reluctant to indicate this to anyone so obviously dangerous as Genjandro appeared to be.

“Chaos, yes,” Genjandro said. “One drink in every shop around the Great Market, and then I'm getting out. Probably never see the place again.”

“Settling down somewhere?” inquired the barkeep quietly. Genjandro saw suspicion settling on his features. He was wondering if Genjandro was an informer of the Protector's, trying to stir up a little talk of treason. It wasn't an unreasonable fear. Genjandro had met a number of Protector's Men—or aspirants to that noble title—on such missions, sneaking around the market or sniffing along the docks.

“Hell, no,” Genjandro protested. “I'm not the settling kind. And if I was, I'd settle right here—in the greatest city in the world, with the greatest ruler, Morlock rip my nose off if it ain't so.”

“Hear, hear,” said the barkeep tepidly. He seemed to understand Genjandro's comment in exactly the sense it was intended—as a disclaimer of any political intent.

“No—I'll be around,” Genjandro said, trying to sound wistful. “But the city—
she won't.
Not after the dragons get through with her.”

That got the attention of everyone in the place.

“Whatcha mean dragons, chief?” someone asked him, in a conversational tone.

“I mean big damn dragons from the Blackthorn Range,” Genjandro said flatly. He took another slurp of “hot stuff,” snorted back the snot which the poisonous brew had set to flowing from his nose, and said, “They took Sarkunden the other day.”

“
What?
” shouted the barkeep, and everyone in the place leapt to their feet. Sarkunden was the biggest city between Ontil and the eastern border. Farther east lay the Blackthorns, with their mysterious deadly dragons.

“You're a frigging liar, ugluk,” said someone behind his back.

He turned with exaggerated slowness and looked curiously about. No one stood forth to identify himself as the speaker. Genjandro shrugged generously. “So you're thinking:
they'd'a told us if the dragons took Sarkunden; we'd'a heard
.” He spat on the floor and winked. “But we don't hear much they don't want us to hear—do we?”

It was true, in a way. The empire was separating into armed duchies, each one led by the local military commander. The Protector was their titular head, but he was having trouble getting the other commanders to follow his lead. They said that if the Protector had killed the last heir of Uthar the Great (as rumor claimed) then they were absolved of their allegiance. Possibly some of them had imperial ambitions of their own. Travel between the various great centers was discouraged; passports were required; news had slowed to a trickle or (from some regions) had stopped entirely.

“Then how'd you hear?” the barkeep inquired.

It was the question he'd been waiting for. He turned back to the barkeep and said, “Well, I got a friend.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Anyway, I
had
one. He was a Protector's Man, pretty high up, rode the post between here and Sarkunden. Our Protector's been writing a lot to Sarkunden; I don't know if you know.”

The barkeep made a face. It was hard to keep away from politics these days. But it was widely believed that the commander of the Sarkunden garrison—a cousin of the Protector's on his mother's side—would eventually acknowledge the leadership of the Protector, once they came to terms.

“Anyway,” Genjandro continued, “this guy gets to Sarkunden pretty often—two or three times a month. They first heard the dragons were out of the Blackthorns a couple months ago—one of them Anhikh cities got hit.”

“Oh?”

“That was exactly what I said—exactly like that: ‘Oh?' Screw them Anhikh guys. Who do they think they are, anyway? Then the dragons turned west, though. They took one of our towns on the border, Invarna.”

“You're
sure
about this?” the barkeep asked doubtfully.

“Hey,” Genjandro shouted to the room at large, “when was the last time any of you guys heard any news from Invarna?”

It turned out none of them had heard anything recently from Invarna. The same would likely have been true of any random group of people in Ontil on any given day in any given year, and they all knew it. But somehow the fact became freighted with ill omen:
no news from Invarna…

“It's not so far from there to Sarkunden, and the dragons got closer every day: killing and stealing and…well, dragons eat a lot, you know.”

Everyone knew that. And everyone knew what they ate by preference: other dragons, or dwarves, or men and women.

“The last time my friend comes back from Sarkunden the dragons are actually in the city, and the garrison commander, he's writing the Protector, begging him for help. And the Protector he writes back.” Genjandro winked. “I read the letter.”

There was a general snort of derision. “Read this letter,” the barkeep said dismissively, pointing at something under the bar.

“It's pretty easy to lift the seal off a letter,” Genjandro pointed out patiently. “My friend, he used to do it all the time with a hot wire. He wanted to know what was going on. Wouldn't you?”

There was some grudging agreement to this, and Genjandro continued. “Anyway, the Protector writes back how he can't see coming to the aid of a rebel military commander—but if the general and his troops were to take an oath to him, become Protector's Men, then maybe they could work something out. Smart move.” Genjandro smacked his lips, glanced at his nearly empty cup, and repeated distantly, “Smart move.”

The barkeep quietly filled Genjandro's cup with “hot stuff.” Genjandro took a mouthful, wiped his mouth, and said fiercely, “Or it
woulda been
a smart move. If the guy he'd been writing to was still alive. Which I don't think he was. My friend, he never came back from that last trip to Sarkunden. Now the Protector can't get anyone else to go, and no one's sure how soon they'll get here. But they'll get here. If they liked Sarkunden, they'll like Ontil that much more.”

“Scut,” said the barkeep—not as if he really disbelieved what Genjandro was saying, but as if he wished he could.

“I think it's true,” said a little fellow with the stained hands of a dyer. “I was talking to a Kaenish merchant, and he told me about the Anhikh city—he said he'd talked to someone who'd seen it after the dragons left.”

Genjandro nodded with a certain satisfaction. After all, he himself (in another simulacrum, in another wineshop) had been the fat Kaenish merchant who had told the dyer about the fictitious Anhikh city; he was glad the little fellow had learned his lesson so well. But he was even more gratified when someone he had never seen before claimed to have heard about the dragon attack on Sarkunden from someone else. If true, it meant that the rumors he was so diligently spreading were taking on their own life in the city.

“It's those damn Ambrosii!” someone shouted, and there was a rumble of agreement. Nothing was beyond the Ambrosii, Morlock in particular: a thousand folktales assured them of that.

The words spoken represented Genjandro's greatest fear about the plan Morlock and Ambrosia were undertaking. He had written desperately to them, begging them not to threaten the city with the fear of dragons and fire.
It will give the Protector a chance to portray himself as the hero of Ontil, and you as its ultimate villains
, he had written, in part of a long letter which was carried to the Ambrosii (as usual) by a crow. Their response, in full, had been
Yes.
He did not understand it. But in the end, because the King wrote to him directing him to obey them, he did their bidding.

“Or maybe,” he said, into a silence in the uncertain crowd, “the dragons aren't scared of Ontil, now that the Ambrosii are gone? The dwarves call both of them
rokhleni
, dragonkillers.…”

He convinced no one. In fact, he felt that he had broken his character a little. But at least he had stopped that sudden movement of anger toward the King's true protectors. “Anyway,” he said, and paused to down the rest of his cup. (He managed to spill most of it down the sides of his face—it stung a little, but better that than drinking the stuff.) “Anyway, here's to Venhudnal, best damn Protector's Man since the Protector himself. Now I'm off to hit a few more places, then head across the big water. They say the dragons are afraid of the big water.” He headed for the door, a little more unsteadily than he had come in. No one seemed sorry to see him go, but he heard a gratifying hum of conversation in his wake.

Outside he headed for the nearest alley and shoved his finger up his throat until he vomited. He had more wineshops to visit and more tales to tell before the night was out; he didn't want to be incoherent. Then he carefully unwound the Seeming of Genjandro the thug and stowed it in his wallet. There was no risk of him being seen, in the utterly lightless alley, but that meant that he had to work very carefully, since he couldn't see what he was doing.

He drew another threadlike spool of Seeming out of his wallet. As usual there was a note attached, but of course he couldn't read it in the dark; he kept it by in case it had useful information. He wound the new Seeming about himself and stepped out into the dim light of the Great Market at night.

The note, which he read by the light streaming from the nearby wineshop, was in Wyrth's handwriting:
You'll be a little cuter in this one. But don't let anyone pick you up until you've spread a few rumors, eh?

Genjandro glanced down at the improbable expanse of barely contained cleavage which was one noticeable feature of his new Seeming. “Most amusing,” he said sourly, and wondered what sort of voice he should attempt to use with this appearance. Thinking dark thoughts he trudged off to serve his sovereign, Lathmar VII, in the peculiar way that Fate and the Ambrosii, between them, had devised.