James Enge: Blood of Ambrose

Genjandro, a native Ontilian and no friend to the Second Empire, allowed himself a thin smile but no more. A smile might mean anything.

"Now, let me see," Wyrtheorn continued, understanding fully Genjandro's reticence. "The last time I was in the city must have been a hundred round years ago. Uthar the Fifth was Emperor then. A strong ruler, so they said. I thought he had banned these trials by combat."

Genjandro grunted. "That is so, though I had forgotten it. I was not born then, of course"-a dig at the dwarf for having thoughtlessly referred to his racial longevity-"but my father mentioned the matter to me once. Uthar the Fifth was a great man, but he did not live forever unlike-well, you know who I mean. His grandson had a long minority, and the Regency Council of the time restored the combats. The nobility will always prefer combat; they have the longer swords, as the expression is."

"I suppose Ambrosia sat on the council."

"At its head. But when the nobles clamored, she let them have their combats. Some say her powers were slipping, even then, but I don't see it. She's a noble herself, of a sort."

"Ye-es-she would have had a kind of inheritance in the Wardlands, but that she was born after old Merlin's exile."

"I meant because of her association with the Imperial family."

"Eh? Oh, yes-them."

Genjandro, heir to a culture nearly as old as that of the Wardlands, favored this remark with another thin smile. "Now if she is to live, it's the combat that will save her," he added.

"Will she live, then?"

"No. The young King's Protector, Lord Urdhven, leaves nothing to chance. Sir Hlosian Bekh is the champion of the Crown."

"A good fighter?"

"No. Not particularly. But he always wins."

"I don't understand," the dwarf said patiently.

"I watched him win the Tournament of Zaakharien three years ago. He stood aside until all the members of his side had been struck down. Then he killed the members of the other side, one by one. The wounds he took that day! His surcoat was red all through, and his armor looked as if it were enameled; it was after that he came to be called the Red Knight. It was horrible and wonderful and a little boring, to tell the truth. You found yourself yawning as he struck off another knight's helmet. Then you saw the blood seeping into the dust and you remembered: that was a man, that was a man's head in there. But enough of that……

"Do you really think someone has arisen who will challenge the Red Knight?"

Genjandro ran his fingers through his beard and looked thoughtful. "Nobody believes it," he admitted. "Although a token of challenge was given: they found a lance with black pennons thrust into the Lonegate of Ambrose."

Wyrth expressed some surprise at this, though he felt none. (He had, in fact, placed the lance there himself.) "Then you think …"

"Witchcraft!" Genjandro said, nodding. "They say there's no limit to what Ambrosia can do. Somehow she worked it, to put a snake in the Protector's chamber pot."

"And did it?"

"They say he pulled the lance from the gate with his own hands and broke it. Then he took the pieces to her and threw them at her feet. And they say the old bitch just sat there with her hands folded. And smiled, you know. She's brave and bad, that one."

"An age will end if she dies, sure."

"It's because it is ending that she will die," Genjandro disputed.

"But if she's as powerful as you say …"

"Her charms aren't powerful enough to stop Hlosian. She can't whistle up a champion from nowhere. I'm not saying she has no supporters, but none will dare to challenge the Red Knight."

"Then why the trial at all?"

"She claimed the right; the token appeared. In law, he cannot deny her. And, frankly, I doubt he wishes to. It is a great show, as you say. And if no champion appears, it will hardly be less. They will burn her at the stake."

"Hmph," said the dwarf. "Yet they used to say, in my youth, that the Ambrosii could not be slain by fire. It was supposed to go with the unnaturally long life and the, er, uneven shoulders."

The rug merchant smiled and stroked his beard. "Of course! The clearest proof of witchcraft. Then Urdhven will boldly have someone lop her head off, and the audience will go home with a sound moral lesson."

"Ah. What is that, exactly?"

"No doubt we will be required to learn it by rote before we depart," said Genjandro, no longer troubling to conceal his distaste.

"Well, it sounds most interesting to me. Politics in action, as it were. And you say your attendance has been, er, requested."

"Required. I would gladly send you in my place."

Wyrtheorn laughed and said, "If only it were possible! But let's talk of other things."

Genjandro the rug merchant duly made his appearance the next day at the tournament enclosure of Gravesend Field, three miles east of the city walls. He was greeted by a captain of the soldiers whom he happened to know, one Lorn, who was glumly marking an attendance roll.

"Genjandro, good day! I am glad I can strike you off the list of our Protector's enemies."

"That list will be much shorter after today," Genjandro said, stroking his beard.

"It will be at least one name shorter, Genjandro-like the imperial family tree."

Genjandro scented a political conversation in the offing, something he particularly wanted to avoid at the moment. He nodded vacantly and would have led his horse through into the enclosure.

Lorn stopped him. "Genjandro! Have you heard the prophecy that Ambrosia and the last descendant of Uthar the Great will die in the same year?"

"I had not heard that prophecy."

"It is a very recent one."

"Lorn, I am here from necessity, no other reason."

"And I likewise. Nor do I really care what happens to an old witch who has already lived too long."

"Of course not."

"But Ambrosia was always the merchant's friend. We …One would have hoped they would show more loyalty."

"Ambrosia had her supporters among the army, did she not? She led them to victory many a time. Yet there is a prophecy, a very recent prophecy, that she is destined to die without a single armed champion." The rug merchant glanced pointedly at the sword swinging from the other's belt. "Had you heard that saying, Lorn?"

The soldier looked straight at him. "Yes. Now is not the time or the place. But the King, Genjandro. If the King were-

The rug merchant turned on him in fury. "Your `times' and your `places'! Go back to your lists, Lorn. The Protector's Man will be along for them, presently."

The soldier stood back, obscure emotions twisting his face. The rug merchant limped past, leading his horse off to the stables. He paid three silver coins for a separate stall without comment, though several occurred to him. He insisted on tending to his mount himself, saving himself a silver coin or two more, and the stable boy left him alone in the stall.

"Three fingers of silver to keep a horse for half a day!" he complained to the animal.

"Someone has to pay for this kind of circus, Genjandro," the horse replied. "Be glad it wasn't three fingers off your hand. Money can be lost and gotten again."

Genjandro grunted. He watched with horrified interest as the horse yawned wide, the jaws split, the whole front opened up, and the dwarf Wyrtheorn stepped out. Afterward the simulacrum of a horse re-formed itself and casually lumbered off to the far end of the stall, where there was a pile of hay.

"That's not a very dwarvish philosophy," Genjandro observed, to cover up his dread.

"How would you know?" the dwarf countered. He tossed Genjandro a leather bag that sang with coins. "For your trouble, my friend. We had better leave separately-and I advise you not to recognize me if we meet outside. However, I'll remember your help. Good fortune."