Blood of Ambrose Read online

  At first, the Protector's forces had attempted to keep Ambrose entirely under siege. But this soon proved impossible. Ambrose was designed to be siege-proof: even if all three outer gates were taken (as they were, in the first success of the Protector's counterattack), the bridges could be broken (as they were—the King shuddered when he remembered the breaking of the City Gate bridge) and traffic could pass into and out of Ambrose by the river Tilion. It would take a large force indeed to cover that great river on both banks for its entire navigable length.

  Naval assault was the only solution, and Urdhven soon tried it, sending tall ships (mounted with siege towers and crammed with men) up the river Tilion from the harbor. These went down in flames before Morlock's Siege-breaker, a catapult that hurled burning phlogiston-imbued stones for an almost incredible distance. The same device could have reduced half the imperial city to smoking rubble, but did not—a fact which was widely commented on in Ontil, according to messages they received from Genjandro.

  The Protector soon had a manpower problem. His recruitment could not keep up with his desertions (Protector's Men had always been opportunists, and following the Protector was no longer so obviously a path to opportunity), and he needed more men than ever. Eventually, he pulled his men out of the Thorngate and the Lonegate, maintaining a garrison only at the City Gate.

  The bridges from Ambrose to the Lonegate and the Thorngate were rebuilt by the King's forces, and each were garrisoned by hundreds of the new Royal Legionaries. The Ambrosian forces, at any rate, had no manpower problem—or rather, theirs was the reverse of the Protector's. They could not welcome into Ambrose everyone who wished to defect from the Protector—there simply was not enough food, water, or space. Members of the old City Legion were generally welcomed (if someone already in the Royal Legion would vouch for them); Protector's Men were pardoned of treason, but rejected from the King's service. Ordinary people of the city or country were told to return to their homes, obey the laws, and await the King's justice.

  Among each group of citizens turned away were a few well-trusted former Legionaries or castle servants who went into the city as spies. Genjandro was their chief, and he now led a network of spies that encompassed the city.

  “Urdhven can't win, now,” Ambrosia said flatly in the Regency Council, the day after the last naval attack was repulsed. “It's just a question of letting him and everyone else know that.”

  From that moment on her priority had been the rebuilding of the East Bridge and the recovery of the City Gate of Ambrose. Tactically, this was a triviality, as she explained to Lathmar—even a waste of resources. Strategically and politically, though, it was vital. As long as the Protector's Men held the City Gate, Urdhven could pretend to the city that he held the Ambrosians in check. If the Royal Legion held the City Gate and could sally out of it when they chose, the Protector's position would appear as precarious as it was in fact.

  But the work had been slow. The bridge had to be built of dephlogistonated wood, which was iron-hard and almost unworkable, if light and strong. The workmen went out in full armor, to protect them from the arrows of the Protector's Men holding the City Gate, and still there were casualties. There was a company of royal bowmen stationed at the guardhouse of the inner gate, and they returned fire against the Protector's Men whenever they appeared, so that the workmen labored among frequent showers of missile weapons, friendly and hostile. Unfortunately the iron of a friendly arrowhead, if misaimed, penetrated quite as deeply as a hostile one (if not deeper, as these had been forged under the supervision of Morlock and Wyrth).

  Now the bridge was done at last, though. It had been finished only yesterday afternoon, and already the Protector had sent two attacks along it. On the first attack, Ambrosia waited until the bridge was crowded with Protector's Men and then worked the release that split the bridge in two up the middle, dumping the fully armed soldiers into the river, where most of them drowned. The second attack came a few hours later, after dark—more lightly armed troops, creeping along the surface of the bridge like mountaineers. They had crept up to the center of the bridge, turned left, and crept off the side, drawn by illusions projected into their minds by Morlock and Lathmar.

  Ambrosia was eyeing the bridge with great satisfaction from the guardhouse of the inner gate when she heard Lathmar's voice behind her.

  “Good morning, Your Majesty,” she said without turning. “You really shouldn't be here without armor, you know.”

  “I promise to run like a rabbit at the first bowshot,” the King said, and the Royal Legionaries on the post laughed deferentially. Ambrosia smiled, too, Lathmar could see—presumably because she knew he had spoken with complete honesty.

  “It's an hour or so until the Regency Council. Did you have something to discuss with me, Majesty?”

  “Yes: two things.” The King caught himself before he said “madam.” She had become more unapproachable and grandmotherly than ever upon taking over the command of Ambrose, but she had taught him, on pain of her severe displeasure, that he must not address her as his superior. As regent, she wielded his legal power, but she was still his servant, as much as the kitchen staff. That was the theory by which she held her power, and she insisted that he abide by it (at least in his manner of speech).

  “Let's walk the walls then,” she suggested. They climbed the many stairs leading to the top of Ambrose's high walls; when they finally reached the open air Ambrosia gave her guard and Karn a single gray glare; they retreated out of earshot as she and Lathmar walked the heights.

  It was a cold, pale blue day in early spring. The King, who wasn't dressed for the outdoors, soon felt his teeth begin to chatter; Ambrosia took no notice of the cold, but listened intently to him while she eyed the city below.

  “The first thing, Grandmother, is Kedlidor.”

  “No.”

  “You haven't heard me.”

  “I've heard him. He wants to be let off from the command of the Royal Legion. He asked me and I told him no. Now he's asked you to ask me, and I still say no.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, he's too good at the job. I know how he hates it, Lathmar. But he has done it superbly, from that first day when he took and held the inner Lonegate and Thorngate. He's completely ignorant of military matters, I grant you, but he has an eye for picking the right subordinate. Plus, he's excellent at training the men—a real fiend for drill. You were inspired when you put him in command of that Kitchen Crusade.”

  “Your decision is final, then?”

  “It usually is. You should resist being used in this way, Lathmar—as if you were my chamberlain who could wheedle me into changing my mind. You're the sovereign—act like it.”

  “Support you without question, is that it?”

  “Yes, effectively. But make it seem as if it was your idea all along—as if he should go through me to try to change your decision.”

  The King said nothing about this. Ambrosia glanced at him, smiled, and said, “What else was there?”

  “Morlock says you have asked him to stop training me as a seer.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to tell him you've changed your mind.”

  “I haven't.”

  “I want you to.”

  “The Sight is a dangerous skill for a ruler, Lathmar. To see beneath the surface of things can sometimes be a great advantage, yes, but so much of what we do as rulers involves the surface of things. We shouldn't grow too detached from it. Philosophers rarely make good kings, no matter what the philosophers claim. Besides, it is physically dangerous. Have you kept an eye on Morlock recently?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know how ill he is. He has been sending his mind out of his body so frequently these past few months that their connection has grown tenuous.”

  “He says there is a danger we aren't facing—”

  “Yes, I know: the Protector's Shadow, Urdhven's magical patron. But you have to take problems one at a time, and if Morlock
can't even locate this adept in his visions, he must be a very remote danger indeed.”

  “Or very well protected.”

  Ambrosia made a noise in her throat.

  “Grandmother, you saw yesterday how useful the Sight can be to us in our struggle. The more I know, the more I can assist Morlock.”

  “That's the short term. We won't be cooped up in Ambrose forever.”

  “What is useful here and now will be useful in other places and times.”

  Ambrosia smiled and said, “Have you talked to Morlock about this?”

  “Yes. He told me he would think about it.”

  “Then that is your answer. If Morlock decides to teach you in spite of my request, there is nothing I can do about it. If he decides not to teach you, the same applies. My powers as regent don't cover control of Morlock's mind. Don't mention this to him, however—I'm hoping against hope that he isn't aware of it.”

  The King was relieved to hear that there was at least one thing in Ambrose over which she didn't claim direct control. But he didn't say as much.

  The Regency Council convened a short while later. Ambrosia was there as regent, of course, and the King (who didn't need to be there, but insisted on knowing what was being done in his name). Morlock and Wyrth were each councillors in their own right, as was Kedlidor—not as Rite-Master, but as head of the Royal Legion.

  “As to the City Gate,” Ambrosia was saying, “I think it is high time that we took it. But the time has come, indeed, to do more than that—perhaps make a sortie in force against Urdhven's men in the city.”

  Kedlidor was listening solemnly, his face growing longer by the minute. He clearly dreaded the thought of leading his soldiers in house-to-house combat. The King was staring idly out a window, wondering when spring would appear outside the calendar. Wyrth was absentmindedly folding three-dimensional representations of four-dimensional figures as he listened intently to Ambrosia. Morlock sat like a living shadow opposite her, speaking one word to her forty, as now.

  “Why?”

  “Urdhven has been sounding out the field marshals of the various domains, hoping to strike up an alliance that will break the stalemate against us. He can't have had much luck, or his ally would be here.”

  “He should have called for help before he needed it,” Morlock remarked dryly. “No one wants to help someone who needs help.”

  “Cynicism makes you talkative, brother. I knew something must. But you see, don't you, that now is the time to move on Urdhven. If he has begun to understand that he can't break the stalemate, now is the time to instill in him the fear that we can.”

  “That there is a stalemate at all is our victory,” Wyrth remarked. “But in the long run it may be in the Protector's favor. I agree that an offensive, even a small one, should be our next concern. Urdhven knows now he cannot take Ambrose back by force or by treachery.”

  There were thirty bloody months of experience behind those words; they were all silent for a few moments, remembering.

  “Still,” Morlock said, breaking the silence, “we cannot take the city. And Urdhven must know this.”

  “‘No,’ to both of your ideas, Morlock,” Ambrosia said eagerly. “I begin to see a way we could take the city by a well-timed assault on a gate held by our agents-in-place, along with a civil rebellion led by Genjandro's people inside the city. It would take time to prepare, but we're able to do it if we can afford the time. We may not be able to afford the time; the empire is dividing up into armed duchies, and if it is ever to be united again it must be soon. But Urdhven may not be aware of this. Further—let me finish, please—Urdhven can no longer be sure what we can or cannot do. We have successfully trespassed on his expectations too many times. That uncertainty will eat at him, and it is up to us to ensure that it takes big bites.”

  “To what end?” Morlock asked.

  “A treaty, of course. We must kill him or treat with him, and just now he is out of our reach, even if we could figure out how to negate his magical protections. And he has the same dilemma regarding us. Sooner or later we must sit down at a table and cut a deal.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Don't grunt at me. Of course we hate him—”

  “I don't hate him. But I could never trust him.”

  “Well, let me tell you, brother, I hate him. I hate him. I hate that maggotty little poisoner of his. I hate his private army that's poisoning the loyalty of the empire's troops. I hate his stupid face. I hate everything about him. One of my fondest memories is smashing his nose with my forehead when he came to gloat over me, after his thugs had broken my wrists. Ha! That startled him. I expect he had his eyes painted like a trollop's on the day of my trial, for I know I heard the bridge of his nose crack.”

  “And therefore,” Wyrth prodded gently, “you will treat with the man?”

  “Therefore. You don't sign peace treaties with your friends, Wyrth; you sign them with your enemies. And you don't do it because you trust each other, Morlock, but because an arrangement is the best way out of an intolerable situation. The art of fashioning a treaty is finding grounds for mutual advantage to the two parties. That's trust, if you want it: both sides will keep the agreement because it is in their interest to do so.”

  “Hmph.”

  “You may grunt like a skeptical pig, Morlock, but stranger things have happened. It's not as if I were telling you a horse had dropped from the sky.”

  Morlock's face lit up with renewed interest. “Are you telling me?”

  Ambrosia was taken aback by his reaction. “Uh—that is, er, why do you ask?”

  “We'll put them in a carnival act—the Grunting Ambrosii,” Wyrth whispered, quite audibly, to the King.

  “I had a dream you told me that a horse had dropped out of the sky,” Morlock explained to his sister.

  She looked at him narrowly. “I can't say one did. But there is a report that one did, landing in a tree, no less.”

  “Is it still there?”

  “Morlock, haven't you been listening? I don't know that it was ever there. But if it ever was, no doubt it still is. How would a horse get down from a tree?”

  “With help. And where was this?”

  “The report came from Nalac, a village not far from the Gap of Lone.”

  “I know it. The tavern there was where your soldiers arrested me, long ago.”

  Ambrosia laughed. “Was that the place? End of the Kaenish War, wasn't it? If—Where the hell do you think you are going?” she demanded, for Morlock had stood and was walking to the door of the council chamber.

  “Nalac,” Morlock replied, pausing.

  “You are not,” Ambrosia stormed at him. “And what for?”

  “He's thinking it's Velox, of course,” Wyrth suggested. “And so it might be, though I can't see how.”

  The King found himself meeting his Grandmother's astonished gray eyes. Then he said, “Of course! The flying horse! Was his name Velox?”

  Ambrosia's face took on a distant remembering expression. “But that was nearly three years ago.…”

  Morlock shrugged his wry shoulders. “Flying horses are not everyday occurrences. I'll go to see.”

  “Morlock, this is no joke. I need you here. We'll take the City Gate within a day or two, and then make our sortie into the city. Shortly thereafter we'll begin negotiations with Urdhven, if it looks like we can't kill him.”

  “I'm not a soldier nor an ambassador. Wyrth can build you infernal devices as you need them. I'll be back in two calls* or less.”

  “I won't have you bouncing around the countryside for Urdhven to pluck like a ripe peach!” Ambrosia shouted. “If the Protector's Men take you, we'll have to bargain our left elbows away to get you back! And I won't do it! I'll let you rot this time, you worthless, bad-tempered bastard!”

  “Ripe peaches don't bounce,” Morlock observed from the doorway. “I'll see you soon, my friends.”

  “Good fortune, Morlocktheorn,” Wyrth called after him. “You mustn't worry about
him, Lady Ambrosia—he'd have taken me if he'd thought it was at all dangerous.”

  “So what if it is?” snapped Ambrosia, wiping her eyes. “I won't miss him any more than I miss my period. Tomorrow we move to retake the City Gate. Wyrth—what have you got that will help?”

  * * *

  *Fifteen days, or one revolution of the minor moon, Trumpeter. See appendix C: Calendar and Astronomy

  he leaves of the tree clenched like fists, growing inward. The branches hunched like shoulders, shrinking into the trunk, growing more slender with each moment. The bark, too, grew less dark, less dense; the moss on its side melted away like green snow in the spring sunlight. The sphere of crystal in Morlock's hands sang with a tone only he could hear, grew warm with a heat only he could feel, glowed with a light only he could see.

  “A moment,” he called to the black horse lodged in the branches. “A moment more.”

  The ungrowing tree had descended to saplinghood, bent almost double with the weight of the horse upon it. When the horse's hooves reached the ground, Morlock said (in the Westhold dialect all horses seemed to understand), “Now: stand.” The horse's hooves firm on the ground, he stood still. His blood stained the pale green-gold leaves of the tree beneath him.

  Morlock ceased the ungrowing of the tree until he was sure that the horse's entrails, lacking the support of the tree, would not gush onto the earth. When he saw that they would not, he wondered why not. In fact—

  “Why aren't you dead?” he demanded of the horse, who merely looked at him with silvery patient eyes and said nothing.

  It would be worth knowing the answer to his question, Morlock reflected, but unless the horse actually did speak he doubted he would ever learn it. Passing by the fact that Morlock had last seen this horse (if it was this horse) hurtling into the sky years ago, he had (according to the evidence) fallen out of the sky among the branches of this tree, and he had been there (according to the reports) something like a month. The horse was not unscathed by these unusual adventures, but neither was he dead from impalement, hunger, or thirst.