Blood Of Ambrose Part 8

When the horse and its three singing riders fell out of the dark sky, the King instantly ceased to disbelieve in all the outlandish stories that he had heard about his ancient Ambrosian kin. They might not all be true. But for every false one there would be an even more unlikely tale that was true.

He had time to think this. He had time, open-mouthed, to watch the Lord Protector roll in the dust to keep from being brained by one of the descending horse's hooves. Then he squawked and rolled in the dust himself for the same reason.

The horse's right rear hoof struck the ground not an arm's length from the King's head. Something between the hoof and the ground glowed like molten gla.s.s. He glanced up as the hoof left the ground, and he met the eye of his Grandmother, seated between her brother and the dwarf Wyrtheorn. The King's Grandmother waved cheerily at him (her hand was all bound up with cloth) and shouted something he couldn't hear.

The King wondered if he was dreaming. The horse and its riders were gone, and he was left behind in a cloud of dust.

Then a soldier seized him by the ankles and hurled him like a sack over his shoulder. What breath the King had was knocked out of him. He lay unresisting with his head against the soldier's back, watching the man's boots flicker in and out of sight as he ran desperately into the night. Clearing the lists in a single amazing bound, he circled around the field to lose himself in the myriad graves of Ontil. He didn't pause from running for a long timemore than long enough for the King to regain his breath and his wits. When the soldier, gasping painfully, slowed to a halt in the shadow of a mausoleum, the King was not surprised by the voice that spoke to him.

"Think we'll be ... all right here ... Your Majesty," Lorn gasped. "For a bit ... begging your pardon ... Majesty ... set you on your feet-"

"Never mind, Lorn," the King said quickly. "Just let me go and I'll roll off."

But Lorn lifted the King carefully back over his shoulder and put him down on the ground. Then the Legionary leaned back against the tomb and gasped helplessly. In a few moments these exertions subsided and Lorn was able to speak again.

"Beg your pardon, Your Majesty," said Lorn. "It's been a night-and-aflipping-half for me."

"Please, Lorn," said the King. "I'm just glad we're both alive. When I saw you lying on the field I was sure Urdhven had killed you."

The shadow that was Lorn nodded sharply, and the King could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. "The Protector knocked me down in the fight; I thought it best to let him think he'd knocked me out. I'm not half the swordsman he is."

"But ten times the tactician, Lorn."

"Ssh, Your Majesty," Lorn replied, sounding pleased. "My old dad taught me that trick, and maybe half a dozen others. I'm not one for these great prancings and politickings. But I know where my duty lies, Your Majesty."

Silence fell. The word "duty" had an unpleasant effect on the King. He realized their escape was only temporary, that Lorn intended them to return to the city, with its prancings and politickings. He'd half hoped the loyal soldier would recommend a flight into the Empire, or even beyond it. But he hadn't the courage to suggest it himself. "What should we do now?" he asked.

"Well, Your Majesty," said Lorn, intent on the problem. "There's a band of soldiers at Upriver Gate I think we can trust to let us into the city. Once there . . . "

The King sighed.

"Scattered like rats," Ambrosia said reflectively, as they flew over the anchor building. "The army's not what it was."

"It's the weird," Morlock replied. "The weird is always terrifying."

"Particularly when it comes out of the Dead Hills after dark," Wyrth observed. "I think he's right, Lady Ambrosia. If we'd merely been a military force of superior strength, those soldiers would have fought like madmen."

"It's still a weakness," Ambrosia insisted. "In the old days it never would have happened. You remember, Morlock."

Her brother grunted concessively, and there was silence for a time as the horse made long ground-spurning bounds. The bright cloud of the city grew visibly nearer, over the chaos of tombs.

"You know," Wyrth said presently, "I hate to say this ... but I think we're going to have to abandon horse."

"Yes," Morlock agreed reluctantly. "He's not responding to the bridle. We can't ride him till he tires out."

Ambrosia, who had come to that conclusion some time ago, said, "Let's wait a bit, though. The tombs thin out in the hills, just under the city's walls-it's supposed to be bad luck to bury people there. There'll be less chance of bas.h.i.+ng out our brains on a grave marker."

"We should leap just after Velox lands and jumps off again," Morlock remarked thoughtfully. "Momentum. We'll hit the ground at a slower speed."

Wyrtheorn said something in Dwarvish, and Morlock replied, "No. I don't think so." Ambrosia began to ask a question, then realized she didn't want to know.

Velox landed atop a mausoleum and kicked off again. The city grew visibly nearer.

Wyrth began to unbuckle Morlock's pack, which was strapped behind the saddle, and called forward to Morlock, "I'll drop this off just before we jump, shall I?"

"Some time before," Morlock corrected. "You must not miss the moment."

"You don't want your tools damaged."

"You're more important, Wyrtheorn," Morlock said dispa.s.sionately.

"Soon, now," Ambrosia said, to break up this display of sentiment. "There are no graves beneath us anymore." Velox landed on soft gra.s.s and leapt up into the sky.

"Yes," Morlock said. "The next leap will take us too close to the city walls. Drop the pack now, Wyrth."

A thump from below announced the pack's arrival below and behind them.

"Just after the next landing," Morlock said. "And when you jump, clear well away from the horse."

"Why?" Ambrosia asked suspiciously.

There was a pause as Morlock obviously gauged whether there was time enough for an explanation. "You'll see," was all he said, in the end.

"Hmph!"

The city rose like the ragged edge of a dense field of stars over the last remaining hill. Then, as they descended, it was occulted by the hill again. The charger fell downward; his hooves struck the ground.

The three riders left the horse at practically the same moment, Morlock and Wyrtheorn leaping off the left side and Ambrosia off the right. She was chiefly intent on landing on her shoulder, to spare her hands and wrists, but she couldn't help but be aware that as they left the horse, he plunged straight up as if an invisible hand were drawing him into the sky. He screamed delightedly, and it occurred to Ambrosia that without his riders as counterweights, the phlogiston in his shoes would lift him even farther.

Then she struck the ground, on her shoulder indeed, but the jar sent bolts of pain shooting to the tip of each broken finger. She rolled downhill a ways before she managed to slide to a halt. Above her she heard the continuous scream of the warhorse fade away as he fell upward into the endless abyss of the star-thick sky.

How far would he go? she wondered. Would he reach the paths of the moons and the sun?

Silence settled over the hillside. Ambrosia, as her pain and wonder faded, became conscious of two breathing heaps slightly farther down the slope.

"Morlock!" she said.

The larger of the two heaps grunted.

"I'm never going to have you rescue me again."

After a pause Morlock said reflectively, "It was worth it, then." The silence persisted through another brief pause, until a faint snoring announced that Morlock had fallen asleep.

PART Two

PRI5ONER5.

OF.

AMBRO5E.

LO, HERE MAY A MAN PROVE, BE HE NEVER SO GOOD YET HE MAY HAVE A FALL, AND HE WAS NEVER SO WISE BUT HE MIGHT BE OVERSEEN, AND HE RIDETH WELL THAT NEVER FELL.

-MALORY, LE MORTE D'ARTHUR.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

GENJANDR015 WARE.

ne day Lorn returned to their room in the city with what the King had learned to think of as his "bad news" expression. The first time the King had seen it was almost half a year before, perhaps ten days after their escape from Gravesend Field. The city Water Wheel, where Lorn did the day-labor that paid for their food and lodgings, was closed for repairs. They lived from hand to mouth, with no savings, and that meant there was no supper that night, nor the next either. On the third day the wheel reopened, and they gorged that night on fresh wheat bread, slices of roast meat, and cheese. It had been wonderful, worth the fast. But that first day! Lorn had taken forever to break the news to his King, afraid the fragile boy would collapse in hysterics at the thought of hunger. But the King had often gone without meals for days at a time, for fear of poison, and as it happened he handled the fast better than Lorn (who was used to regular fare and plenty of it at his legion's refectory). And it would always be that way with Lorn's "bad news." The badness was mostly in Lorn's own mind.

So as soon as he saw the renegade Legionary, the King smiled and said, "Out with it Lorn. It can't be so bad."

Lorn smiled tentatively-as usual-and said, "Well, Your Majesty ... no supper tonight, I'm afraid."

"We've still got salt beef and flatbread from last night," the King replied. He always laid a little by, now.

"Pretty dry, they were," Lorn said wryly. "They'll be drier tonight. I forgot to bring up water, too."

"Lorn," the King said patiently, "what is it? Was the wheel closed again?"

"No, Your Majesty. I worked and was paid." He paused, then blurted out, "I spent the wages."

"Oh?" The King was surprised and a little embarra.s.sed. This seemed very unlike Lorn.

"Yes, Your Majesty. I ... I bought something."

"Well, it's not important."

"But it is, Your Majesty. I think it might be very important."

He had it in his hand, now-a linen bag about twice as long as one of his thumbs. There was something inside it. He reached it and took it out: a beautifully detailed model of a crow.

"Lorn-it's dwarvis.h.!.+" the King said, not meaning the adjective literally. (It was a general term of praise.) "It must be unique."

"Dwarvish it just might be," Lorn replied, "but-with respect, Your Majesty-unique it's not. Why, I've seen dozens of these things around the city in the last few calls.* Old Genjandro by the market has been selling them like loaves of bread. But I never heard one speak until today. When I did ... I had to buy one. Got it from some peddler in an alleyway."

"Heard one?"

Lorn, by way of answer, carefully put the crow figure down on the table in the center of the room. After a moment, it flapped its wings twice and croaked a few syllables. The King started in surprise and said, "How does it do it? Is it alive?"

"I don't know, Your Majesty. But-your courtesy-please listen."

The bird flapped its wings and croaked. There was a pause of perhaps two heartbeats, and it did so again, but the croaked syllables were different.

"Your Majesty," said Lorn, "my mother's parents were Coranians. I've never told anyone that, but it's true. They kept to the old ways, and every day they spoke at least three hundred words in ... in that language of theirs. The one from the Wardlands."

Lorn paused, and in the interval of silence the crow figure croaked again.

"Lorn!" the King cried. "You're right! It's the secret speech!"

The soldier winced at the King's bluntness, but nodded. "I only know a few words. But I know you've been taught more."

The King raised a hand for silence. In truth, the recent political upheavals had played havoc with his lessons. (His language tutor had been an early victim of the Protector's purge.) But the message was simple, clear, and apparently meaningless.

"It says, vengeret pel, and then, ostin sh.o.r.e," the King reported finally. "That should mean: there is light under the wings. Or maybe: there is hope among the feathers. I don't really-"

"But it's obvious, you'll forgive my saying so, Your Majesty," Lorn said. He picked up the crow and turned it upside down. Under the left wing there was a design etched into the metal of the figure. Instinctively he rubbed at it with his thumb. Now the etching blazed out gold against the ebony metal of the figure: a bright hawk in flight over a branch of s.h.i.+ning thorns.

"The crest of Ambrosius!" exclaimed the King.

Suddenly the crow took flight. It spun one swift circle around the King's head and plunged toward the window. It burst through the slats of the closed shutter and was gone in the night.

For the next few moments they were both speechless. But neither needed speech to understand the signs: the symbol only Merlin or his children would dare to use, magic, a crow ...

"Merlin's children," said the King finally. "My Grandmother. It's not just the Protector after me. They're trying to find me, too!"

"I'm afraid so, Your Majesty," said Lorn. He was wearing his "bad news" expression again.

That same evening a similar conversation took place in the palace called Ambrose.

"It's quite simple, Lord Urdhven," the Protector was told by his poisoner. "Turn the crow upside down. Spread its left wing. See the design? Rub off the enamel; yes. Now it comes clear."

"I recognize it," the Protector said with distaste. "It's the crest of those crook-backed b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"More precisely: the crest of the Ambrosii."

The black crow figure shot out of the Protector's hand, flew a tight circle around the poisoner's head, and departed out the nearest window into the dark of early evening.

"Where is it going?" the Protector demanded, his voice level.

"They all go to the same place, Lord Urdhven, which is the same place they all come from: Genjandro's shop, adjoining the Great Market."