Blood of Ambrose
By James Enge
Prometheus Books
Copyright © 2009
James Enge
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59102-736-2
Contents
Chapter One: Summons............................................13
Chapter Two: Gravesend Field....................................27
Chapter Three: Trial by Combat..................................41
Chapter Four: Into the Dead Hills...............................51
Chapter Five: Prisoners of Gravesend............................61
Chapter Six: Out of the Dead Hills..............................73
Chapter Seven: Genjandro's Ware.................................87
Chapter Eight: Ways to Ambrose..................................97
Chapter Nine: Ambrose and Elsewhere.............................109
Chapter Ten: Blood's Price......................................119
Chapter Eleven: Within the Walls................................139
Chapter Twelve: News from Invarna...............................153
Chapter Thirteen: Heroes and Villains...........................159
Chapter Fourteen: Mercy at the Gate.............................175
Chapter Fifteen: Dreams and Decisions...........................195
Chapter Sixteen: Reunions.......................................215
Chapter Seventeen: Hope and Despair.............................227
Chapter Eighteen: Enemies in Ambrose............................235
Chapter Nineteen: Death, Love, and a Spider.....................247
Chapter Twenty: Grave Matters...................................261
Chapter Twenty-one: The King's Judgement........................281
Chapter Twenty-two: Shadows Speak...............................301
Chapter Twenty-three: The Dead City.............................309
Chapter Twenty-four: The Dying City.............................333
Chapter Twenty-five: The Last Council...........................349
Chapter Twenty-six: The Crooked Men.............................359
Chapter Twenty-seven: Lèse Majesté..............................385
Appendix A: The Lands of Laent in A.U. 330......................391
Appendix B: The Gods of Laent...................................393
Appendix C: Calendar and Astronomy..............................395
Chapter One
Summons
The King was screaming in the throne room when the Protector's
Men arrived. He knew it was wrong; he knew he was
being stupid. But he was frightened. When the booted feet of
the soldiers sounded in the corridor outside, he belatedly came
to his senses. Dropping to the floor, he crawled under the broad-seated throne
where the Emperor sat in judgement, next to God Sustainer. (Only there was
no Emperor now, and Lord Urdhven, the Protector, made his judgements in
his own council chamber. Did the Sustainer dwell there now? Or still upon
the empty throne? Was there really a Sustainer? Would the Protector's soldiers
kill him, like all the others?)
He pulled in his legs just as the soldiers entered the room, their footfalls
like rolling thunder in the vast vaulted chamber. He'd hoped they couldn't
see him. (Would God Sustainer protect him? Was there really a Sustainer?)
But the soldiers made straight for the throne.
If the Sustainer was not with him (and who could say?), the accumulated
precautions of his assassination-minded ancestors were all around. As he
pressed instinctively against the wall behind the throne, it gave way and he
found himself tumbling down a slope in the darkness. Briefly he heard the
shouting voices of the soldiers turn to screams and then break off suddenly.
Because the passageway had closed, or for another reason? His Grandmother
would know; he wished she were here. But she was far away, in Sarkunden-that
was why the Protector had moved now, killing the family's old servants
like pigs in the courtyard....
He landed in a kind of closet. There were cloaked shapes and bits of
armor lying around in the dust that was thick on the floor. Perhaps they were,
or had been, things to help an endangered sovereign in flight or self-defense.
He thought of that later. But just then he only wanted to get out; by flailing
around in the dark he found the handle of a door and plunged out into the
bright dimness of a little-used hallway.
Hadn't he been here before? Hadn't Grandmother told him to come here,
or someplace like here, if something happened? He hadn't been listening.
Why listen? What could happen in the palace of Ambrose, with the Lord
Protector guarding the walls ...? And they had cut his tutor's throat, cut
Master Jaric's throat, and hung him upside down to drain, just like a pig. He
had seen it once at a fair, and Grandmother had said he must never, never do
that again.
The sudden memory renewed his terror; he found himself running down
the corridor in the dim light, the open doors on either side of him yawning
like disinterested courtiers. There was a statue of an armed man standing over
a broad curving stairway at the end of the hall. The King was almost sure
Grandmother had mentioned a place like this, but without the statue. If he
went down the stairs, perhaps that would be the place, and he would
remember what Grandmother had told him to do next-if she had told him.
But as he passed the statue it moved; he saw it was not a statue-no
statue in this ancient palace would be emblazoned with the red lion of the
Lord Protector. The Protector's Man reached for him.
The King fell down and began to scuttle away on all fours, back down
the corridor. The Protector's Man dropped his sword and followed, crouching
down as he came and reaching out with both hands.
"Now, Your Majesty," the soldier's ingratiating voice came, resonating
slightly, through the bars of his helmet. "Come along with me. No one means
to harm you. Just a purge of ugly traitors who've crept into your royal service.
You can't go against the Protector, can you? You found that out. And stop
that damned screaming."
The King was screaming again, weary hysterical screaming that made his
body clench and unclench like a fist. Looking back, he saw that the soldier
had caught hold of his cloak. There was nothing he could do about the
screaming, just as there was nothing he could do about the soldier.
Then Grandmother was there, standing behind the Protector's Man,
fixing her long, terribly strong hands about his mailed throat. The soldier
had time for one brief scream of his own before she lifted him from the floor
and shook him like a rag doll. After an endless series of moments she negligently
threw him down the hall and over the balustrade of the stairway. He
made no sound as he fell, and the crash of his armor on the stairs below was
like the applause that followed one of the Protector's speeches-necessary,
curt, and convincing.
Before the echoes of the armed man's fall had passed away, Grandmother
said, "Lathmar, come here."
Trembling, the King climbed to his feet and went to her. Grandmother
frightened him, but in a different way than most things frightened him. She
expected so much of him. He was frightened of failing her, as he routinely
did.
"Lathmar," she said, resting one deadly hand on his shoulder, "you've
done well. But now you must do more. Much more. Are you ready?"
"Yes." It was a lie. He always lied to her. He was afraid not to.
"I must remain here, to keep them from following you. You must go
alone, down the stairway. At the bottom there is a tunnel. Take it either way
to the end. It will lead to an opening somewhere in the city. Go out and find
my brother. Find him and bring him here. Can you do that?"
"How ...? How ...?" The King was tongue-tied by all the impossibilities
she expected him to overleap. He was barely twelve years old, and looked
younger than he was, and in some ways thought still younger than he looked.
He was aware, all-too-aware, of these deficiencies.
"You know his name? My brother's name?"
"
His name?" the King cried in horror.
"Then you do know it. Say it aloud. Say it to many people. Say, 'He must
come to help Ambrosia. His sister is in danger.' By then I will be, you know."
The King simply stared at her, aghast.
"He has a way of knowing when people say his name," the King's Grandmother,
the Lady Ambrosia, continued calmly. "That much of the legend is
true. But more is false. Do not be afraid. Say the name aloud. You are in no
danger from him; he is your kinsman. He will protect you from your enemies,
as I have done."
From the far end of the corridor echoed the sound of axes on wood.
"I had hoped to go with you," his Grandmother continued evenly, "but
that will not be possible now. You will have to find someone else to help you;
I wish you luck. But remember: if you do not find my brother, I will surely
die. Your Lord Protector, Urdhven, will see to it. You don't wish that, do
you?"
"No!" the King said. And that, too, was a lie. It would be a relief to know
he had failed Grandmother for the last time.
"Go, then. Save yourself, and me as well. Find-"
Knowing she was about to say the accursed name, her damned brother's
name, he covered his ears and ran past her, skittering down the broad stone
steps beyond. He passed the corpse of the fallen soldier. He kept on running.
By the time the light filtering from the top of the stairway failed, he
could see a faint yellowish light gleaming below him. When he reached the
foot of the stair, he found a lit lamp set on the lowest step.
His feelings on reaching the lamp were strong, almost stronger than he
was. He knew that his Grandmother had set it here to give him not only
light, but hope. It was a sign she had been here, that she had made the place
safe for him, that he need not be afraid. As he lifted the lamp, he felt an
uprush of strength. He almost felt he could do the task his Grandmother had
set him. He swore in his heart he would succeed, that he would not fail her
this time.
Choosing a direction at random, he walked along the tunnel to its end.
There he found a flight of shallow stairs leading upward. He climbed them
tentatively, holding the lamp high. At the top of the stairs was a small bare
room with one door. The King turned the handle and looked out.
Outside was a city street. It was long after dark, and wagon traffic was
thick in the streets, in preparation for the next day's market. (Cartage into
the city was forbidden during the day, to prevent traffic jams.)
The King closed the door and sat down on the floor next to his guttering
lamp. But presently it occurred to him that sooner or later the Protector's
Men would discover the tunnel and draw the obvious conclusion. No matter
how dangerous the city was at night (he had heard it was; he had never set
foot in the city unattended, day or night), he knew he should leave this place.
He stood impulsively and, leaving the lamp behind him, stepped out
into the street.
Night to the King meant a dark room and the slow steps of sentries in the
hallway outside. Night was an empty windowcase, a breath of cold air, the
three moons, wrapped in a smattering of dim stars, peering through his windows,
and the sullen smoky glow of Ontil-the Imperial city-to the east.
Night was quiet, and the kind of fear that comes with quiet, the fear of
stealth: the poisoned cup, the strangler's rope, the assassin's knife.
This night was different: a chorus of shouting voices, the roar of wooden
wheels on the cobbled street, the startled cries of cart-horses. It was like a
parody of a court procession, with the peasants in their high carts moving in
stately progress-when they moved at all. The King, who had never been in a
traffic jam (though he had caused many), wondered why they were moving so
slowly, when they were all so obviously impatient. Then he saw that they all
had to negotiate a sort of obstacle at the end of the street: a row of stone slabs
stretching across the way, so that each cart had to slow to fit its wheels through
the gaps in the stone causeway, and all the carts behind it perforce slowed as
well. When the stones were higher than a cart's axles, or when no gap in the
stones corresponded to the width of a cart's wheels, the delay was longer; the
cart had to be pulled over, or unloaded and lifted over, or shunted aside.
Above the chaos of lamps the stars were almost invisible, but the King
could see Trumpeter, the third moon, standing bright beneath the sky's dim
zenith. The major moons, Horseman and great Chariot, were down-this was
the month of Remembering, the King remembered. (He didn't have to
bother much with days or months; he just did as he was told when someone
told him to do it.)
Fascinated, the King crept along the narrow stone walkway toward this
center of activity. Before reaching it he saw that, beyond the relatively narrow
street, there was a great square or intersection into which several other streets
emptied out. All of the traffic converged on one very large way that seemed
to lead to the great marketplace or market district. (The King was hazy about
the geography of the Imperial city, one of the two that he, in law, ruled.)
It was horrible, with the noise and the dust and the reek of the horses-sweat
and manure-and the shouts of the peasants and the glare of the cart
lamps (dazzling in the darkness of the otherwise lampless street). Horrible
but fascinating. The King believed that the noise, the dirt, the confusion
would drive anyone mad. But the peasants did not seem mad, only annoyed.
The King had no idea where they were coming from, and only the vaguest as
to where they were going, but did not doubt there was backbreaking
drudgery at either end. The King was not exactly sure what "backbreaking
drudgery" entailed, but it was something (he had been told many times) that
was not expected of him. This relieved him greatly, as he considered his life
hard enough as it was. Surely none of these peasants had a Grandmother like
the Lady Ambrosia, or an uncle like Lord Urdhven.
On the far side of the street he saw three figures, cloaked, masked,
booted, gloved, all in red. They carried something between them ... he saw
an arm trailing on the ground and realized it was a dead body. So the red figures
must be members of the Company of Mercy, the secret order that tended
to the sick and buried the bodies of the city's poor-no one knew where.
There were strange stories about the red Companions; no one ever saw their
faces, or knew where they came from. There were bound to be stories.
One of the red-masked faces turned toward him as he stood on the sidewalk,
open-mouthed, watching the traffic pass, and it occurred to him again
that the Protector's Men would be coming for him soon. At the moment he
was just another mousey-haired, underdeveloped, twelve-year-old boy in dark
clothes wandering the city streets. But when the Protector's Men started
asking questions, some of the people passing by might remember that they
had seen him. He had to get on his way, and immediately.
But where should he go in the dark city before him? What was he to do?
To find Grandmother's brother, of course. But he would have to ask someone.
There were many people here, many of them from outside the city, some of
them, perhaps, from very far away. This was the place to begin.
The King shrank from the thought of what he was about to do. But the
memory of the lamp in the dark tunnel returned to him, renewing his hope
and his strength. And there was a trembling exultation in the thought that
if he succeeded, he would bring hope to his Grandmother as she had brought
hope to him. He had never done anything like that before.
Not allowing himself to think, he leapt away from the wall and hopped
from stone to stone across the intersection, as if they were the stepping-stones
in his garden stream in the palace. A cart was slowly being pulled through
the gap in the stones.
"The Strange Gods eat these roadblocks," the driver was cursing. "They
should make them all the same size. How's a man supposed to bring his
goods to market?"
"We could market at Twelve Stones," the driver's shadowy companion
observed.
"They won't pay city prices, my lad. When you-Hey! What do you
want?"
This last was addressed to the King, who had leapt over to cling to the
side of the cart.
"Help me!" the King said.
The driver turned to look at him. He was a heavy-shouldered peasant in
a dark smock. His face was sun-darkened; it had flat features and flat black
eyes like stones, and a flat gray beard. "Help you what?" he asked reasonably.
Beyond him the King could see his companion, a gaping young man with
straw-colored hair and the barest beginnings of a beard.
"Help me find ..." the King began, then stopped. Who?
Grandmother's
brother. But she wasn't really his grandmother-he just called her that
because it was shorter than "great-great-great-great-etc. grandmother." And
what did you call the brother of your great-great-who-knows-how-many-greats
grandmother? He didn't think there was a word for that.
"My ... she ... I'm ... my ... my ... my-"
"Get your story straight," advised the driver as the cart surged forward
into the open; with dispassionate skill, he lifted his whip and cut the King
across the face.
Too shocked even to scream, the King felt, as from a great distance, his
nerveless fingers let the cart go; he fell to the filthy cobbles of the open
square. Dazedly he watched the lamplit cart roll away in the dark toward the
other lights clustering at the thoroughfare entrance.
Slowly the King rose to his feet. The whipcut was a red lightning-stroke
of pain across his face, and other dark fires were burning on the side of his
head, his right side and limbs where he had fallen. He did not fully understand
why the driver had done what he did. But he guessed that the same
thing would happen unless he did as the driver had advised, and got his story
straight.
He would not tell them about his Grandmother. (That would only
frighten them away, because she was the Protector's enemy, and the Protector
ruled everything now.) He would not tell them anything-except what she
had told him to say.
Say the name aloud ...
He climbed back up on the stepping-stones and bided his time.
Presently a cart came through and, while it was fully engaged in passing
through the line of the stepping-stones, he jumped into the tarp-covered
back of the wagon, landing on his feet, and prepared to dodge whip-strokes.
"Hey, thief!" shouted the driver, a heavyset elderly man raising his whip
(as the King had feared).
"No, Rusk!" the passenger, a woman of the same age, cried. "It's a little
boy!"
The King did not think of himself as "a little boy." He had seen little
boys from far off, playing in the streets below the walls of the palace
Ambrose, and he was not much like them. He usually thought of himself as
"a child," since that was how others referred to him when they thought he
was not listening, often quoting the ancient Vraidish proverb "the land runs
red when a child is king."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Blood of Ambrose
by James Enge
Copyright © 2009 by James Enge.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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