Blood of Ambrose Read online

  Wyrth thought he knew but said nothing. Time enough to ruin Erl's day later on—to tell him that there was indeed a fate worse than the death Steng had chosen.

  There was a note.

  He says he's done with me—that I'm no use to him now. He'll eat me or cut me up and make me a golem. I won't let him. There was no address or signature.

  “What does it mean?” Erl asked.

  “Nothing good,” said Wyrth. “We'd better get this back to Ambrose.” They ran back down the stairs, pausing only to drop some gold in the outstretched palms of Steng's screaming landlady.

  “Did you say something?” Erl called to Wyrth as they were riding through the Great Market.

  Wyrth, too occupied in staying atop his horse to attempt a witticism, replied briefly, “No.”

  “I thought I heard somebody saying something.”

  Wyrth thought the same, but he didn't say so.

  Later they learned it had started even then.

  e quiet, can't you?” Morlock muttered. “Trying to sleep.”

  “You've been sleeping for three days. Aren't you hungry? Aren't you thirsty?”

  “Not for that.”

  “What are you referring to?”

  “If—” Morlock sat up in bed and looked around. Wyrth was sitting at the right side of his bed in a circle of lamplight, a book open in his lap.

  “I dreamed the adept was talking to me,” muttered Morlock.

  “It wasn't just a dream,” Wyrth replied. “Anyway, we've all been hearing voices, awake or asleep.”

  “Thousands of them. But somehow all the same voice.”

  “Yes. Inglonor and the ones he has eaten.”

  “Inglonor. How did you learn his name?”

  “It's a guess. He told Lathmar that he was Ambrosia's grandson, and of course that narrowed it down a bit.”

  “Hm. It wasn't like a dream, though—it was as if he was actually here, speaking to me.”

  “Well—where?”

  Morlock gestured to the other side of the bed. Wyrth held up the lamp.

  And there was somebody there, crouched down in the shadows. Wyrth put down the lamp and jumped across the bed, catching the other as it tried to flee.

  The other laughed as Wyrth caught it by the shoulders. “I'll come for you all, soon,” it said, and reaching up to grab its own throat, neatly broke its own neck. Wyrth let it go and it fell to the floor.

  “Another for the corpse-fire in the gardens,” he remarked.

  Morlock was getting out of bed.

  “Hey,” said Wyrth.

  “As it happens, I am hungry, and thirsty too. And it looks as if you have much to tell me.”

  “That's true enough,” Wyrth conceded. He rang for the hall attendant while Morlock dressed.

  “Treb,” he said, when the attendant appeared, “it's another one of those.” He gestured at the dead body.

  “Sure it's dead?” said Treb.

  “It broke its own neck.”

  “I've seen that trick before. Pretends to kill itself, and when you're not looking its sneaking off.” Treb drew a long knife and passed it through the corpse's heart and neck. “Now it's dead.” He deftly wrapped a cloth around the wounded neck to absorb the trickle of blood.

  Wyrth nodded solemnly. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Nice. Witty. One of your own?”

  “Take the meat and go,” said Wyrth, slapping him on the shoulders. (Treb was not too tall, so he could just manage it.) Treb, grinning, hauled the body away.

  “That man,” Morlock said, when Treb had gone, “has never before spoken in my presence.”

  “And tonight you were half-naked, and so especially terrifying.”

  “Wrong half for that,” Morlock observed mildly, pulling on a tunic.

  Wyrth waved his hands. “Fine. Tonight everyone makes game of Wyrth. Just so I'm forewarned. And forewarned is foreskinned—no, enough of that.”

  “Yes.”

  “It could be he's not scared of you because you are now a national hero, having rescued the young King.”

  “Hm. I think he might have made it back by himself. He's a resourceful young man.”

  Wyrth rolled his eyes. “Ambrosia considers him a bad-tempered and useless overgrown boy.”

  “That almost clinches it, I'd say.”

  “The other reason Treb isn't frightened of you…Well, it's been a long three days, Morlock.…”

  It had begun for Genjandro three nights before. He had been settling his secret accounts with Vora, who kept his house and both sets of books—the ones for the merchant “Alkhendron” (his public face) and those for the spymaster Genjandro. She had been one of his agents, and a good one, too, but she had started to get nervous in the field and was making mistakes. So he had brought her in to work under his wing, and both of his businesses had prospered because of it.

  “And something extra for Taan and Olis,” he said. “They did far more than asked on this last job.”

  “Ugh,” said Vora sadly. “You'll never put the spying business on a paying basis, Master Alkhendron.”

  “That's the treasury's problem,” he observed, smiling. “If they want something, they have to pay for it. And you can call me Genjandro, now,” he reminded her.

  “Eh? Oh, that's right—it's your real name, isn't it? I can't get used to it. Are you going to go on being a spy, now that the war against the Protector is over?”

  “Maybe,” Genjandro said meditatively. “But not in the city. If Ambrosia and the King want to spy on their citizens, that's their business, but I won't be a part of it. On the other hand, I don't see why I can't import information as well as rugs and whatnot from Anhi.”

  Vora nodded, and they returned to their sums, working in silence.

  “What?” Vora asked presently.

  “I beg your pardon, my dear?”

  “Did you say something? I thought you said something.”

  “No.”

  Vora nodded slowly. “Then you didn't hear anything?”

  “No,” Genjandro said firmly. This wasn't quite true. It was almost as if someone were whispering at his ear, but whenever he turned to look there was no one there. It had started earlier that evening, and Genjandro was very much worried it had something to do with the adept Morlock had told him of. But it seemed safer to deny the whispering, to keep it out of his acknowledged reality.

  Safer for him—but for Vora? She was nervous—not a coward (she'd proved that!) but a worrier. It was why he'd taken her out of the field. Would she be safer knowing about the adept, or less safe? Would it make her worry more, or less?

  “I hear him all the time, now,” Vora said quietly.

  “Who, my dear?”

  “The adept. The evil presence in the Old City. The King told us about him.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes.” Vora was weeping quietly, her sums put aside. “I didn't know he was evil when I first heard him. I didn't know. How could I know? He didn't tell me.”

  “Don't worry about it, my dear.”

  “Oh, it's past worrying. He's eaten me nearly entirely now; there's so little left.”

  “Oh. Is there?” Genjandro said, somewhat stupidly.

  “I heard him first more than a year ago, Vora continued. “I was still working in the field then, cleaning in Markethall Barracks—you remember?”

  “I do indeed.”

  “I was frightened nearly all the time. I never let you know that, but it's true.”

  “I never guessed it, dear girl,” Genjandro assured her.

  “Well, I was. And I heard his voice in a dream. He said so many things that sounded so wise. He said he could cure me of fear. He said I would never be afraid again. And so when I awoke I—I—I—I did something that let him in. He's been there ever since, eating away at me in the dark.”

  “My poor girl,” he whispered. “We'll take you to Ambrose. You've seen Morlock—you know all those old stories are lies. There may be something that he, or tho
se wise people from the Wardlands, can do.”

  Her weeping grew louder and more hysterical. “No. There's no time. There's so little of me left. But…he says…he says he'll spare me if you let him in.”

  Genjandro said nothing to this.

  “It's easy,” she said quietly, “it doesn't hurt. And he gives you things—pays for what he takes. Only, I've nothing left to take—nothing left. Please. Help me.”

  Genjandro didn't speak for a long time, and then he said, “She's completely gone, isn't she?”

  A sigh escaped Vora's pale lips. “Yes,” her voice conceded. “I finished her earlier tonight, while she was listening to little Lathmar tell the crowd about me. It was most amusing when she realized who I was and what I'd done to her.”

  “You shouldn't have begged. She'd never have done that.”

  “You'd be surprised what people will do, right at the end, when they're breaking up. In any case, I know that it's by compassion that you will come to me. You give of yourself rather easily, and someday I'll be there to take that first bite.”

  Genjandro laughed—not in defiance, but in simple amusement. “You don't know me, thing. I've spent my life buying low and selling high. You can't offer me anything worth what you'd take from me.”

  Vora's shoulders shrugged, an odd humping gesture. “Then I've misread you, and you're in no danger from me.”

  Genjandro stood and turned away.

  “You can't get to Ambrose now, or leave the city,” Vora's voice told him as he walked away. “Apart from that, go where you will and see what you like. You'll find it interesting. It's my city now.”

  Genjandro did find it interesting, and it was true that he could not reach Ambrose. He spent the night and much of the next day circumnavigating the walls of the city. But all of the gates were held by guards who would not acknowledge him or let him out—soldiers eaten by the adept.

  The next night he slept—he could not do without it anymore—in an empty shed not far from the city's Water Wheel.

  He woke the next morning to the sound of the wheel turning. He had, for a moment, the pleasant sense that everything had been a dream—that life in the city was going on as it always had.

  But then, he realized, he would not have fallen asleep in this shed. He stepped out into the light, bracing himself for what he would see.

  The Water Wheel was turning, the great man-powered wheel that drew water from underground rivers and aqueducts to supply the fountains of the city. It was being turned by men, not, as Genjandro had feared, by corpse-golems.

  Genjandro went down to the gate where the workers entered. A great many men were waiting there—the Water Wheel was one place in the city where a strong man could always find work for wages. But with many of the men there were weeping children of various ages. And blocking the way to the wheel were several Companions of Mercy who either let a man pass or refused him at the behest of a smaller figure. As Genjandro approached he realized that the smaller figure was the dead baby Morlock had seen, still astride its monstrous dog-steed with mismatched human feet.

  “No, no, no,” the baby was saying impatiently to one importunate would-be worker, who held a small severed hand in his larger ones. “No exceptions. I'm not looking for souvenirs. You must bring the child here: that's all.”

  The man dropped the grisly object in the street and went away weeping. The dead baby turned toward Genjandro. Its eyes were wholly ruined—he could see maggots nestling there in the sockets—but it still seemed to see with them somehow, for it nodded and welcomed him by name.

  “I'm surprised you remember me,” Genjandro said. “You must have a great deal to think about.”

  The baby laughed. (Genjandro flinched, but didn't turn away: he was becoming hardened.) “But then, I have a great many minds to think with,” it pointed out. “Would you be surprised to find I've thought a good deal about you in the past day or so?”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore.”

  “A healthy attitude. A new world is being born, and I want to give you a chance to be a part of it.”

  “Drop dead.”

  “Too late!” the baby caroled cheerfully. “No, seriously, Genjandro: I hadn't realized how badly you want to get to Ambrose. I can let you pass, if you let me—”

  “Drop dead,” Genjandro repeated.

  “You could tell them what you've seen—give them the intelligence you've gathered. And perhaps you were correct in what you told Vora. Perhaps the Ambrosii could cure you of me.”

  “You wouldn't suggest it if it were so.”

  “Not at all. I don't know, candidly—my sources inside the castle are rather limited at the moment, though I hope to have better ones soon.”

  Genjandro considered the offer carefully. “It's your best attempt yet,” he admitted.

  “And your answer?”

  “Drop dead.”

  “You're a hard bargainer, Genjandro—I'll give you that.”

  “I mean to sell my life dear, if that's what you mean.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense,” the dead baby said peevishly. “When the time comes you'll give it away. I just hope to be the beneficiary of your self-destruction, that's all.”

  “It's nice to have a dream.”

  “Oh, drop dead,” the dead baby said, and laughed. “I suppose you're hungry.”

  Genjandro was unwilling to admit this, but found he could not deny it. Even in the nauseating presence of his moldering interlocutor his stomach was growling.

  “Have one of these,” the dead baby said, and one of the Companions silently handed him a wooden ticket. Engraved on it was a complicated seal with many figures around a single capital I.

  “What is it?”

  “It's a day's work-credit,” the dead baby said. “The new currency of the city. Nothing else will be accepted for any commercial exchange, under pain of my extreme displeasure (which can be pretty extreme). It's what these men are working for, here.” Its tiny gray hand (several fingers were bare bone) gestured vaguely at the Water Wheel.

  Genjandro opened his fingers and let the thing fall to the ground. “I'd rather steal,” he said.

  “Oh, don't do that! All property rights will be respected, because ultimately, you know, it all belongs to me. You really won't take it?” Insofar as the sagging little face could express emotion, it seemed to be surprised. “Why, these are valuable indeed.”

  “I can see that. That's why I refused it. I take nothing from you: that's how it starts.”

  “You're taking life from me,” the dead baby argued. “I could have these Companions kill you right now, but I refrain.”

  “Then do it,” Genjandro said with genuine indifference. “I owe you nothing.”

  “You could owe me gratitude for eternal life!” the dead baby said earnestly. “Consider, Genjandro! You're an old man; you haven't many years of life before you. But there's no reason for me, or anyone who becomes part of me, to ever die. You could live forever! And there's nothing that people won't do for more life, even if it's only a single day. Consider this line of men!”

  “And children,” Genjandro observed.

  “The children are tangential. It's the men I ask you to consider. I have sent out word that only those who bring one of their children to me and kill it in front of me will be allowed to work today at the wheel. Men say they love their children; they say that their children are their future, their hope of life after death in this world, but look how many have obeyed—for a single day's wages, for a day's worth of food and lodging, of life in the present, they sell their future!”

  “How do you know they're bringing their own children?”

  “Well, I don't, really, but do you doubt it?”

  Genjandro looked gloomily up the line of hard-faced men and weeping, pleading children. “No,” he said finally.

  “They've picked the younger ones, the feeble or sickly ones, the crippled ones, the ones they never really cared for,” the dead baby continued. “Tomorrow or the next day they
will work their way up to the ones they really care about. That's when it will become really amusing; you should stop back.”

  “Why do you hate children so much?” Genjandro wondered.

  “I don't. I don't hate anyone. I can hardly afford to, since someday I will become everyone. But the souls of children, I've found, are a little like unripe fruit: they take a great deal of effort to eat, and the result isn't worth it. Meanwhile they eat, and that's a problem, as the city's food supply is not what it was. The fewer children there are, the less strain on the food supply. Also, the dead bodies can be taken to the butcher's shops and used for food by those whom I allow to survive. It's a temporary solution until I begin to expand in the countryside, but I think it will work quite well.”

  “Not in the long run. If you keep on killing children—” Genjandro paused.

  “I'll have to keep on expanding,” the dead baby said eagerly. “Yes, of course, you're right about that. But why not? Genjandro, did you know that at one time I longed to be the Emperor?”

  “No,” Genjandro admitted.

  “Silly, isn't it? But it's true. My father was Lathmar the Second—the son of Uthar the Great and the Lady Ambrosia. It seemed to me that I deserved the imperial throne after my father died—instead they let some little girl have it.”

  “Were you—was your mother—”

  “Oh, she was no one important. Just an Ontilian girl my father met while traveling. That little accident cut me off from imperial power, and I was very bitter about it, even after I poisoned her. I studied magic; I laid my plans for seizing power; I worked and waited. Then, one day, it happened.”

  Genjandro waited.

  “You don't mind getting information from me, I see,” the dead baby commented archly. “Well, why not? What happened was, one of my shathes got loose in my workroom. I had a number of them prisoner, trying to domesticate them. It seemed to me that they would be fearsome weapons if they could be controlled somehow.”

  Genjandro nodded unwillingly. He understood that he was accepting something from the enemy, but it was too important to refuse.

  “It was trying to seduce my will—to eat me. The vistas it opened up were so remarkable I almost fell. Then I realized something—something extraordinary. If it could eat me, if it could be nourished and sustained by my tal, then I could eat it. So I seduced it with the prospect of devouring me, and in the end I consumed it.”