Blood of Ambrose Read online

  “No. But you said, ‘There are many of us.' That was what the shathe told you his name was.”

  “Oh.” Lathmar's anger deflated. “That's true.”

  “And it appalled Steng, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hm.”

  Lathmar waited a few moments, then observed, “Whether you are my magical tutor or merely my councillor here, ‘Hm' seems insufficient.”

  Morlock smiled a crooked smile. “I was wondering if the shathe knew that it would affect Steng the way it did.”

  “I can't say.”

  “Perhaps we'll look into that.”

  “How…how did you bind it?”

  “You're not ready for that knowledge yet, Lathmar.”

  “I'm not asking for a page from your spellbook. I just wonder how it was done—how grass can bind the thing.”

  “Plants have a kind of tal,” Morlock replied. “But it is impenetrable by shathes, because plants have no volition. It is by seducing the will that shathes obtain control over the tal of living beings.”

  “Then how could it reach me?”

  “I think you reached it,” Morlock admitted grudgingly. “Your Sight reached out intuitively, as you were grasping for solutions to your dilemma.”

  “Oh.” Lathmar paused, then remarked, “Grandmother wants you to stop teaching me about the Sight.”

  “That's not possible. You must obtain control over your gift.”

  Earlier today the King would have been delighted to hear this. Now, thinking about the thing that had nearly devoured him, that had reached him through his own power of Sight, he wasn't so sure. Then, abruptly, he was sure. True, he would have preferred to live in a world where such dangers didn't exist. But since they did exist, he decided he wanted to know about them, and what he could do about them. Maybe someday he could save someone as Morlock had saved him.

  He looked up to find Morlock's gray eyes on him.

  “Do you know what I am thinking?” he asked, feeling himself blush.

  Morlock shrugged. “Some I know. More I guess. Most is closed to me. Here's Ambrosia.”

  The regent had returned with a troop of soldiers; the King turned to her almost in relief. She disposed some of the Royal Legionaries at the gate, charged others with escorting the imprisoned guards down to the dungeon level, and assigned one to feed and water and otherwise tend to “that damn horse—I hope Morlock doesn't start filling up the entire castle with his pets.”

  The King looked around to see how Morlock would react to this, but saw that Morlock and the shathe he had bound were gone.

  he trial of the eleven Royal Legionaries (before the regent in the presence of her council, only Morlock being absent) didn't take a great deal of time. The evidence showed that they had all obeyed their superior, Secutor Karn, in taking to the guard station and concealing themselves. But they had also failed to obey a royal councillor and the King himself when they had been given contrary orders.

  “Respect for a superior officer is a fine thing,” the regent remarked, in delivering her summary judgement. “But secutors don't rank members of the Regency Council, much less the King. These soldiers chose to obey the dictates of their cowardice. Given that they were following an illegal order of a superior officer, I'll incline to the lesser penalty. Commander Erl,” she said, addressing the Legionary officer in charge of the dungeons, “have your men strip these prisoners of their uniforms, beat them each with twenty strokes, and expel them into the city. They are never to hold any position of trust or profit under his Majesty Lathmar the Seventh. So say I, Ambrosia Viviana, regent for the aforesaid Lathmar VII, King of the Two Cities. Let it be done.”

  The dungeon keepers, grim in their black surcoats with no device, marched the dumbfounded ex-soldiers out of the council chamber. Karn was left alone in the plain brown robe of the accused, facing the Regent's Council who would judge his fate.

  “Your Majesty,” Karn said hoarsely to the King, who sat with the council as usual. “Don't let her kill me. I admit it: I was afraid. I've been in battle before, but this was different. Your enemies have powers I don't understand, and I let that get the better of me. But I won't fail you again; I swear it.”

  “Shut up,” Ambrosia said coldly. “Secutor Karn, this court finds you guilty of treason. The penalty, as you know, is death. Reflect on this overnight; we will summon you for sentencing in the morning.”

  Karn was visibly aghast. Officers were normally given a night's grace before a death sentence; they were supposed to use the time to commit honorable suicide, rather than face public execution. Commander Erl detailed several dungeon keepers to march Karn from the room; Lathmar gloomily watched him go. Would he have intervened with Ambrosia, if she had given him the opportunity? Possibly. He was glad she hadn't, though.

  Ambrosia was speaking again; he had missed a few words. “…as we have more important matters at hand, specifically the question of reprisals against the Protector for today's raid. I'll confer with you and your aides separately, Kedlidor. Wyrth, see what you can come up with—I understand that Morlock is at this moment laboring on something particularly nasty in his workshop; perhaps you can assist him. We will meet tomorrow, an hour after dawn. I adjourn the council until then. But Wyrth and Commander Erl, wait here a moment; you, too, Your Majesty, if you please.”

  The scribes and attendants departed; Kedlidor also left, his face marked with dread at the thought of leading soldiers in combat again.

  “The King needs a personal guard,” Ambrosia said flatly. “We thought it was a formality in the castle, but today has proven how wrong we were. Erl, take this, you son of a bitch.” Her sword was in her hand; in the next moment it was at Erl's throat. Somehow—the King wasn't sure how—Erl unsheathed his own sword and brought it up to parry Ambrosia's. His face didn't change expression, but as he watched her withdraw and sheathe her sword, he did the same.

  “Erl,” said Ambrosia, “you're the best swordsman this century (barring Morlock) and the bravest man.”

  Erl nodded coolly in acknowledgement of these facts.

  “You're the King's new personal guard. I'm not demoting you: your lieutenant can run the dungeons without you for a while. If you do this job right, there's a promotion in it for you; if you don't, we're all screwed.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Wyrth, you'll have to help him. He's a tough pitiless bastard, but he doesn't know a damn thing about magic. That's the only thing that can touch the King inside Ambrose, but obviously we can't rule it out—not after today.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Lathmar,” Ambrosia said grudgingly, “it looks as if you're going to have to continue those lessons in the Sight.”

  “I've already seen to that,” Lathmar said with a touch of sharpness. If she wanted him to act like a monarch in front of his subjects, she would have to start acting like a subject toward him. He prepared himself for a counterblast.

  Ambrosia merely smiled. “That's all, then. I'll see you in the morning, if not sooner.”

  The King found it impossible to sleep that night. It was not because of his encounter with the shathe “Many.” It was not even because he kept envisioning Karn, sweating through his last night of life (or, perhaps, already dangling from a beam in his prison chamber). These might have kept him from sleep, or given him nightmares once he reached it. But the fact was he never got near enough to rest for these to distress him. His blood was on fire; he paced endlessly about his rooms. The King was in love with one of his kitchen maids.

  Her name was Guntlorta, which seemed to Lathmar a very beautiful name. Her hair was the color of dark honey (brown). Her cheerful laugh could be heard from one end of the Great Courtyard to the other. (Less biased observers remarked that it “sounded like a brass kettle falling down a flight of stone stairs.”) Her complexion was like an unequal mixture of roses and cream, and as she had brought in one of the courses of his evening meal, he found himself longing to shower kisses all over the taut
ripe curves of her body.

  He would not have been the first to do so, but this was the first time the impulse had come to him, and he was struck with surprise. He tried several times to speak to her, but found he could not. Nor could he get her image (nor her scent, which was not at all of roses or cream) out of his mind.

  Now he threw himself out of bed and paced frantically around the room. How could he see her again (without a bodyguard in tow, that is)? What should he do if he could manage it? Did he even want to manage it? He groaned, splashed cold water from the basin on his face, and paced about his room some more.

  The truth was, he reflected ruefully, he needed advice—advice from a grown-up man he could trust. If Lorn had been alive, Lathmar would have asked him. If Karn were not in prison he would have been Lathmar's second choice—a poor second, though. True, he would have listened to Lathmar's problem patiently, and maybe advised him helpfully. But Lathmar had sometimes wondered uneasily if Karn mocked him before others as he mocked others before him. He didn't like to think of the other soldiers chuckling over their king's romantic dilemma. In any case, Karn was facing a dilemma far more dreadful than his. It would be cruel beyond words to pester him at this hour.

  Who did that leave? Wyrth had been present at dinner. No doubt he saw what had come over Lathmar; he saw everything, it seemed. But somehow the King didn't want to talk to Wyrth about this. He didn't know how dwarves arranged these matters, and he didn't want advice that wouldn't apply to his case.

  He wondered idly if Hope could help him, somehow—it would be pleasant to talk to her, at any rate. But he remembered suddenly that he couldn't simply knock on her door: she was hidden inside his Grandmother. He did not want to talk to Grandmother about this, he thought, shuddering.

  It was Morlock or nothing, he decided, finally. He threw on some clothes and crept out into the hallway. The guards at his door were sleeping, and he crept past them up the hallway, and soon was climbing the stairs to Morlock's tower.

  The lock on the doorpost of Morlock's workroom recognized Lathmar, winking a glass eye at him. It released the door from its long iron fingers and allowed the King to enter.

  As soon as he stepped across the threshold he heard Morlock and Ambrosia talking on the far side of the workroom. He especially did not want to talk to Ambrosia just now, so he crept behind a table and waited for her to leave.

  It took a while. Ambrosia, as usual, was angry.

  “I don't understand you, Morlock,” she was saying. “First you say this is the most serious attack we've had from the Protector's forces, and then you say we should not retaliate. I don't give a rat's ass what you say; that's bad strategy.”

  “What would I do with a rat's ass?” Morlock replied, sounding amused. After Ambrosia made a suggestion, he continued, sounding less amused, “Nonetheless, you misheard me. We don't know that this attack was from the Protector. I don't think it was.”

  “Then I think you're mistaken. His poisoner Steng led the attack, and you yourself said it must have been his magical patron who supplied the shathe.”

  “‘Magical patron,’” Morlock repeated. “We call him that because Urdhven did. It was a mistake. Suppose he is not?”

  “Suppose who is not what?”

  “Suppose that the magical adept is not, in fact, Urdhven's patron. Suppose that Urdhven is merely the dupe or pawn of this adept, who uses him to distract us from some undertaking of the adept's own.”

  “Ur. I don't like that much, Morlock.”

  “It makes perfect sense, though. The adept never granted Urdhven a weapon like the shathe before. Why did he do so now? What imminent development did the adept, not Urdhven but the adept, find threatening?”

  “You're talking about the treaty negotiations I'd begun with Urdhven.”

  “Yes. If we make peace with Urdhven, his usefulness as a distraction becomes slight. The best result, from the adept's point of view, is for negotiations to fail and the civil war between the Protector and the royal forces to resume. So the adept arranges for this feint upon the castle.”

  “Suppose you're wrong, and Urdhven is really behind this? He'll take it as a sign of weakness.”

  Silence.

  “Don't shrug at me!” Ambrosia snapped.

  “The attack failed,” Morlock said. “Urdhven knows we are not weak. I leave it at that.”

  “You leave it to me, as usual, you mean,” Ambrosia complained. “Suppose you're right, then: I continue negotiations as if nothing happened. Not quite nothing maybe—I'll start the next session by presenting Urdhven with the bodies of the Protector's Men we killed today—”

  “A nice touch.”

  “Quiet, you. Meanwhile, you'll be off looking into this adept, this Protector's Shadow.”

  “Yes. I think I know where to begin—I had a dream the other night.”

  “You and your damn dreams. I had a dream the other night. I dreamed that for once you had decided to be something other than a pain in the ass.”

  “I think my dream is likelier to be true.”

  “Very amusing. Is this where you want this thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “Not unless you want to.”

  “I don't. It was bad enough being there when you bound Andhrakar. You're sure you'll be all right? Shall I call Wyrth?”

  “No. I'll be fine. Good night, Ambrosia.”

  “Good night, sweetheart.”

  The words went through Lathmar like a spear—and more than the words, the tone of voice. He had never, ever heard Grandmother speak to anyone like that. He thought of his mother, then Guntlorta, and writhed uncomfortably in his hiding place.

  He heard their footsteps walking toward the door, the door open, shut, and lock, and Morlock's halting footsteps return alone from the door.

  They walked directly from there to the King's hiding place.

  “Come out from there,” Morlock's voice said.

  The King crawled shamefacedly out from under the table.

  “You should not skulk,” Morlock said. “It isn't kingly.”

  “How would you know?” the King shouted, furious from embarrassment and something else.

  “I've known many kings,” Morlock replied calmly. “What did you want of me, Lathmar?”

  Lathmar growled, unable to speak. He didn't want to talk to Morlock about it. She had called him…sweetheart. It boggled the mind. He was furious. He was jealous, he realized suddenly. And why not? Ambrosia was his Grandmother—she had been long before she was Morlock's sister. Wait—that didn't make sense….

  Morlock watched his face with frank but unobtrusive interest as this internal struggle went on, and finally remarked, “Lathmar, you should be careful. There is a shathe in the room; not all those thoughts may be your own.”

  Lathmar's inner turmoil cooled instantly, as if he had been submerged in icy water. “That thing is here? ‘Many’?”

  “Yes. I was just going to kill it. I want you to help.”

  No! a voice that was not quite his own said within him. So he said “Yes” firmly, out loud.

  Morlock led him over to the far side of his workshop. There the two shields, still bound by the grass twine, were suspended by a black chain over a transparent vat that was filled with a blinding blue-white fluid. It bubbled like porridge over an open flame, though there was no visible fire beneath the vat.

  “What is that?” the King asked.

  “Aether,” Morlock replied, “the substance out of which lightning is made. Unlike the four terrestrial elements (earth, air, fire, and water) it has a presence on the talic plane.”

  “And it is harmful to shathes?”

  “Fatal. I plan to immerse the shathe in that crucible of aether. But that will set the grass afire and free the shathe. So beforehand I must fix it in place with spikes of aethrium—an alloy of aether.”

  “Oh. What do you want me to do?”

  “Hold the shields while I place the spikes.”
>
  The King stepped forward doubtfully. To be near the bubbling crucible of aether was unpleasant in a way he could not quite define. His hair rose on end, as if he were afraid (he supposed he was). He wanted to turn away, to seek shelter. The light seemed to pass straight through him. His teeth were set on edge.

  He reached out to hold the shields, and he was aware of the shathe. Suddenly the harsh unyielding light was comforting: he knew it was far more inimical to the shathe than to him.

  Morlock was opposite him with two stakes of bright blue metal in his hands.

  “You've done this before?” the King said anxiously.

  “No.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “I've killed shathes before, but not with this method.”

  “But you're sure this will work?”

  “Sure? No.”

  “What if it doesn't?” the King demanded, his voice becoming shrill in his own ears.

  “The aether will destroy the shields and grass, and there will be an angry shathe loose in the room.”

  The King thought about begging off, then shrugged. If the shathe got loose, then he'd run: it would be Morlock's business to do something about it. But if it didn't get loose, he'd never have to worry about its voice chewing its way through his head again.

  Morlock watched the King's face until Lathmar made his decision, seemed satisfied with what he saw, and said, “Hold on firmly. I'm putting in the first spike.”

  The King obeyed, and watched as Morlock thrust one of the blue spikes straight through the pair of bound shields.

  From the broken surfaces of the shields came jets of…something: like glowing steam with faces floating in it.

  “What are they?” he asked, his voice quavering.

  “The talic remnants of those it has consumed,” Morlock said.

  “Their souls?”

  “I used that word this afternoon: I should not have. The talic self is not the soul, merely the shell through which the soul acts upon and is linked with the material universe.”

  “Then the shathe does not eat souls?”

  “I don't know. No one knows. Some believe it; some don't.”