Blood of Ambrose (4 page)

The poisoner finished his task in silence. When the new figures had dried, he rolled up the scroll and sealed it with wax (tinted with blood). He turned back to the prone form of Hlosian and placed the scroll in the gaping hole in its back. He drew to him several bowls of red mud and clay and began to trowel it into the breach between the Red Knight's shoulders. He worked steadily, pausing only to inscribe certain secret signs in the drying clay with a peculiar pointed stylus. Finally he was done. He spoke a secret word, and the stench of cold blood grew hot and dense in the workroom.

“Hlosian arise!” Steng cried.

The golem rose from the table and stood before them.

“Hlosian Bekh,” the poisoner said, “seize yonder stone—yes, the one I have marked—seize it from the wall and crush it.”

The golem roared and swept the table out of its way. In ten breaths the stone was smoking rubble at the Protector's feet.

“Hlosian,” the poisoner asked, “what is your purpose?”‘

“I will kill the witch's champion.”

“Why?”

“The witch Ambrosia must die.”

The poisoner glanced at the Protector, who had hardly moved as his monster performed for him.

“You've done well,” the Protector said.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Arm him and bring him to the enclosure.”

“His squire will arm him, my Lord Protector. There will be less talk that way.”

The Protector nodded in agreement.

They walked together into the corridor and, by some peculiar mischance, they encountered Ambrosia as she was being escorted up from the dungeon in the green robe of an appellant.

“What's this? What's this?” cried Ambrosia, as genially as if she were still preeminent in the empire, as if the death-house watch were an honor guard. She carried the chains on her broken wrists like royal jewelry. “Protector, poisoner, and champion—celebrating your victory in advance, I take it. That's always safest, isn't it?”

“Take the prisoner out to the field,” the Protector said, his voice as flat and expressionless as his face had become.

But Ambrosia braced her feet and lifted her limp, swollen hands. “Urdhven, you don't look as triumphant as you did a moment ago. Perhaps it's come into your mind that if you hadn't had my hands broken, I'd be riding as my own champion today—and yours would be nothing but a breathing dead man.

“Speaking of breathing,” she continued, “what's that reek I smell? Is it mud or blood—or is it both? It is both, isn't it, Steng, you dog? I see the clay under your fingernails.”

Ambrosia laughed engagingly, as if they were all parties to some slightly disreputable secret. She leaned confidingly toward the poisoner, who was blushing a deep unpleasant shade of maroon. “But surely,” she remarked, in a low but audible tone, “surely, Steng, you must know that when we were young, my brother's and my favorite hobby was killing golems. We killed them with fire, we killed them with water. We killed them with words—an easy thing to do, Steng, for a golem's life is simply words, magical words inscribed on a name-scroll, which other words can interrupt and make meaningless. Did you think you could defeat Morlock Dragonkiller with a golem?”

“
Take her away!
” the Protector said, white-lipped with anger or fear.

“Better yet,” Ambrosia continued, as if Urdhven had not spoken, “suppose I simply pointed at
this thing
out on the field and cried: ‘Golem! The Protector's champion is a golem!' For it strikes me that the Protector is guilty of trying to harm my champion by magic—the legal definition of witchcraft. A capital offense, I believe. You might be burned at the stake, my Lord Protector.”

“A witch's lies mean nothing,” the Protector said mechanically. “But she might utter spells to twist men's minds. Therefore—gag her, soldiers. Do it now. See that her mouth is bound throughout the ceremony.”

“The
trial
, my Lord Protector,” Ambrosia said, as the guards tore away the hem of her robe.

“The
execution
, my Lady Ambrosia,” the Protector retorted as they knotted the gag tight across her mouth. She made no attempt to reply, but her eyes were bright with vengeful triumph as she was led away.

“If she had not spoken now, who knows what might have happened?” the Protector muttered to Steng. “Ambrosia's temper was always quicker than her wit.”

Steng looked at him almost pityingly. “The chances that any would have heard her on the field were small, and who would have dared believe her?”

“But—”

“She spoke for the guards,” Steng said gently.

“Ah. I see.”

“They will remember. They will talk. They saw you were afraid to have the story spread—”

“I said, ‘I see.’ Have your people take care of them, Steng. Make it look natural.”

“Yes, my Lord Protector.”

There was a brief silence. Then out of his own thoughts, the Protector said accusingly, “And you blushed.”

“Ambrosia is my better, my lord.”

“She is not mine,” Urdhven snarled. “I have beaten her, point by point, and today she dies.”

“Let the fire of death cleanse the world of this witch's evil,” the King said, in a clear, firm voice.

“Excellent, Sire,” applauded Kedlidor, the Rite-Master of Ambrose. “That should be audible for quite a distance, even in the tournament enclosure. The Protector's Men will conduct any further ceremonies attendant on the execution of the sentence. You may properly depart at any point after the inarguable death of the witch—there is no formal close of the ceremony, any more than there is an end to death itself.

“Now,” Kedlidor continued, “should Ambrosia's champion vindicate her—”

“What chance is there of that?” cried the King despairingly.

The withered old man, the only one of the family servants spared in the recent purge, focused his dim gray eyes on his King. “That is of no concern to me, Sire. I am not a gambler, but the Rite-Master of Ambrose. I am charged with knowing and teaching the proper ceremonies for every possible occasion. The Lady Ambrosia's acquittal is a possible occasion; therefore I will teach you the proper ceremony.”

The King stared sullenly at the floor of the room. The Rite-Master dispassionately struck him across the face. “Attend, Sire. Say—”

“I know all that stuff,” muttered the King, and he did. He had spent the night reading the ritual book, wondering whether he would be more relieved by Grandmother's acquittal or her death.

“Show me that you know, Sire. Take a breath, speak loudly and clearly…”

There was the thunder of booted feet in the hallway outside and the door flew open. The King's uncle, Lord Urdhven, was there with a troop of men wearing his personal device, a red lion standing against a black field. Behind Urdhven was the poisoner Steng. He met the King's eye and smiled gently.

“It's nearly noon,” the Protector remarked. “Bring his Majesty, Kedlidor.” He turned to go.

“No, Lord Urdhven,” Kedlidor replied.

The Protector, resplendent in gold armor, enamelled with his own black-and-scarlet device on the breastplate, paused and smiled ominously down at the gray shadow of a man. “Why not?”

“It is not fit that I be seen with the King at this ceremony. My rank is too low. Further, your poisoner may not be there.”

“He won't be. Is there anything else?”

“Yes. The King ought to precede you. He is of higher rank, you know.”

The Protector turned his red smile on his nephew. “I do know it. Naturally,
Sire
, you must go first. All the forms will be met for this ceremony.”

The King walked past the Protector and the poisoner into the hall of armed men. They fell in behind him, the sound of their feet in the hallway like a stone giant gnashing its teeth. He passed out into the golden light of the enclosure, and there was a unanimous shout from the crowd as the royal procession was recognized. There were soldiers before him, clearing a path, so he didn't have to decide what was the right way to go. While seeming to protect him, they took him to the wooden stair that led to the royal box, above the Victor's Square, at the midpoint of the lists.

Already the stands of benches on either side were crowded with spectators. The King had never been to a formal combat before, and he was amazed at the mixture of somberness and hilarity among the onlookers. He seated himself amid dutiful cheers, which sounded louder and more impassioned—even hysterical—as Lord Urdhven the Protector appeared and took his place at the King's left hand.

Opposite the stands stood the prisoner, chained to a stake, her mouth bound with a green rag torn from her appellant's robe. Beyond her was nothing but the dead lands between the two cities that bore the name Ontil. Somewhere beyond the gray hills was the Old City, capital of the First Empire. No one lived there now—it was under the curse of the Old Gods; even the river Tilion had been diverted when the New City was founded by Uthar the Great and Ambrosia centuries ago. But, in name, Lathmar was King of that city too. He had often daydreamed of escaping from the New City to the Old City, where he would find his true subjects and make war on the people who had killed his mother and his father.…

At a curt gesture from the Protector, the heralds blew on their trumpets, shattering the King's reverie. Vost, the High Marshal (since the recent execution of the one appointed by the King's late father), stood forth in the Victor's Square and cried the challenge.

“Lady Ambrosia Viviana, accused of witchcraft, has claimed her right of trial by combat. If her champion is present, let him come forth and enter the lists, or her life is forfeit to the King (the Strange Gods protect His Majesty).”

The heralds blew another blast on their trumpets, and the excitement of the crowd died down. They could see, as well as the King himself, that one end of the lists was vacant, and that at the other end stood the Red Knight. Perhaps this would only be an execution and not a combat after all.

Then the muttering of the crowd changed slightly. The King, leaning forward, saw that someone else had entered the lists—someone shorter than the King was himself, who bowed low before the prisoner.

The crowd was half-amused, half-thoughtful as the unarmed dwarf marched past them up the lists to Victor's Square.

“Have you come,” the High Marshal said as the dwarf drew to a halt before him, “as champion for the Lady Ambrosia?”

“If need be,” said the dwarf, with unassumed confidence.

“If you are not a champion you must depart from the lists.”

“Heralds can be in the lists, before the combat and at intervals. So can squires.”

“Are you herald or squire?”

“Both! Herald, squire, apprentice, and factotum to my harven-kinsman, Morlock Ambrosius, also called syr Theorn. I am Wyrth syr Theorn.”

“Sir Thorn—”

“I'm not a knight. Wyrth. Syr. Theorn. Wyrtheorn to my friends.”

“Wyrththyseorn—”

“Not bad. Take a deep breath and try again.”

“—you must take up arms for the Lady Ambrosia or leave the field. The trial has begun.”

“You don't have the authority to make that judgement, Sir Marshal. I appeal to the Judge of the Combat. My principal has been delayed, but he is coming. On his behalf, I ask that the combat be delayed for a time.”

Vost, the High Marshal, looked uncertainly up toward the royal box. The King realized abruptly that the decision was his. He was the Judge of the Combat, as the highest-ranking male present. He looked at Urdhven, who made a slight gesture of indifference, his golden face impassive.

“How much time?” he called down.

“As much as I can get,” the dwarf replied cheerfully. “Morlock is horrible old, you know, and doesn't move as fast as he used to.”

The King put his hand to his head. There was nothing in the rites Kedlidor had taught him about this. But there should have been: it seemed a reasonable request. But he didn't know what a reasonable answer would be.

“Let me come up and explain,” the dwarf proposed. “For I have messages from your kinsman Morlock, not meant for the common ear.”

“Uh…” The King gestured indeterminately. The dwarf took this as permission and hopped into the Victor's Square. Shouldering the High Marshal aside, he swarmed up the wall beneath the royal box and threw himself over its rail to land on his feet before the King.

“Hail, King Lathmar the Seventh!” he cried. “(You are the seventh, aren't you? Good, good, good. I was afraid I'd missed one.) Hail, King of the Two Cities, the Old Ontil and the New! Hail and, well, well-met. Good to see you. Eh?”

“Are these the private messages Morlock sends to his kinsman?” the Protector inquired, his face split by a leonine smile.

“Not at all. The Lord Protector Urdhven, I believe? No, Morlock sent me chiefly to inquire after the King's
health.
But he said not to do it right out in front of the crowd. I suspect he thought you might be sensitive on the subject, what with your sister and brother-in-law and all their trusted servants dying so suddenly in recent days. Do you suppose they caught that fever that's been spreading through the poorer parts of the city—or was it a disease that only strikes in palaces?”

The Protector's smile was gone, but the predatory look remained. “The King's health you may assess yourself,” he said flatly. “If there is nothing else—”

“Nothing from Morlock, but I believe that, speaking as the agent of the champion of Lady Ambrosia, the forms have not been met. Isn't the champion entitled to a representative in the judge's box, to argue points of honor, foul blows, that sort of thing?”

“None came forward—” Urdhven began, but stopped as the dwarf tapped his chest modestly. “Very well,” he conceded. “Daen, bring another chair. But it is a mere point of honor, Wyrtheorn, since there will be no combat here today. Your champion has forfeited.”

“The Lady Ambrosia's champion,” the dwarf corrected him gently, as he sat down on the King's right hand. “But, with respect, that word is not yours to say. The King is the judge of this combat, and he may grant my request if he chooses.”

The Protector turned his masklike golden face on the King, who found he could not speak. He knew what his uncle wanted him to say. He knew what the dwarf wanted him to say. He knew what his Grandmother would want him to say. But he didn't know what to say. There was no rule to go by, no ceremony to tell him whose wishes he must obey.