by James Enge
“I had a thain-attendant like that once,” Jordel remarked. “He—”
“So you mean that the adept has agents in the city, instructing the golems,” Aloê remarked, ruthlessly waving aside Jordel's reminiscence.
“Yes. The Companions at least; that thing that looked like a dead baby for another. But what these agents are I can't tell.”
“I thought you just said what they were,” Jordel complained.
“He means their nature, Jordel,” Aloê said.
“At first I thought they were harthrangs—demons inhabiting dead bodies,” he explained parenthetically to the King and Kedlidor. “But they appear to my talic perception the same as they do to my eyes. If they are harthrangs, I don't understand why this should be. If they are not, I don't know what they are.”
“I'll tell you one thing,” Aloê offered. “There's an exile from the Wardlands involved in this somehow. The colors that the Companions wear: gray, red, and white—the same as the colors of the three ranks of Guardian. That's an exile's joke.”
Morlock nodded slowly. “Or the joke of someone who wants us to think that. It could be another ruse.”
Jordel laughed derisively, and Baran said, “Maybe you're being over-subtle.”
Morlock shrugged. “I saw Merlin recently,” he observed.
“What?” shouted Jordel and Baran as one. Even Aloê leaned forward with renewed interest. So Morlock told the tale of Velox's apparent fall from the sky, and Morlock's rescue of him, and what had followed.
“But what was the horse doing in the sky?” asked Jordel.
“No,” Aloê said, rubbing her forehead. “Please don't answer that, Morlock, unless you think it's relevant. You can satisfy Jordel's natural curiosity some other time.”
“Morlock,” Baran observed, “all you've just said makes me even more sure that Merlin is involved here—is probably the adept himself.”
Morlock shrugged. “It should have done the opposite.”
“What? Why do you say that?”
Morlock rubbed his face and, turning to Aloê, opened his hand in silent appeal.
“I see what you're driving at,” she said slowly, “and I think you're right. Listen, you two,” she said to Jordel and Baran as they turned to her to protest, “what is this adept's defining characteristic? Apart from his power.”
“Necromancy,” Jordel said. “Using corpses for magical purposes.”
“Try again. It's a pretty common form of magic in the unguarded lands.”
“I'm not going to try again. Tell us your thought.”
“This adept can keep his identity a secret. Merlin can't. Even when he's trying to adopt a disguise, he can't refrain from exposing his identity. It's vital to him that everyone must recognize his presence and his genius. He could never stand in the background for a period of years while his plans developed.”
“Hm,” said Jordel meditatively.
“But if the Ambrosii weren't all accounted for,” Aloê continued, addressing Morlock, “I'd suspect one of you. This business has a family stench about it.”
Morlock looked as if he were about to speak, but didn't. Suddenly the King knew what he had been about to say, or thought he did: one of the Ambrosii was not “accounted for” as Aloê put it. There was Hope, hidden inside Ambrosia.
Lathmar began to feel panic, tried to suppress it. Hope couldn't possibly be the Protector's Shadow, could she? But the more he thought about it the less he was sure. After all, what he knew about Hope, her limitations and abilities, came from Hope herself. And if she were the Protector's Shadow, that meant it had been there with them every moment, had known every plan, every stratagem. And they could only avoid this by excluding Ambrosia from their councils. And that, itself, would be crippling—like chewing off a leg to escape a trap.…
At that moment the door at the end of the hall opened and Ambrosia and the Protector entered side by side. Behind them walked Vost and Steng, somewhat uneasily, wearing the surcoats of Protector's Men.
Those sitting at the table rose, except for the King. He felt, rather than saw, his bodyguards tense behind him.
“Your Majesty,” said Ambrosia, “I bring guests for your table.”
Lathmar inspected Grandmother carefully for signs of insanity. What he saw instead were poorly disguised traces of triumph. He guessed that she had concluded a treaty with the Protector on favorable terms. It was usual to fix a treaty with a display of hospitality, hence this somewhat surprising appearance at his table.
“Ambrosia,” he said slowly, “any guest you invite is welcome at my table. However, those two gentlemen”—he pointed at Vost and Steng—“wear a device I do not recognize. They must put it off before they sit.”
Ambrosia almost winked at him: he had said exactly what she wanted him to say. He tried to keep his face polite, but internally he fumed. One day he would miss one of these subtle cues, and then—
The Protector had turned his leonine head toward his men.
“Our agreement, Lord Urdhven,” Ambrosia said quietly.
“Take those things off, you two,” the Protector said gruffly. “That's all over.”
Vost looked like a dog who had been kicked by his master, but he obeyed. Steng was already working at the laces of his surcoat. He tossed it aside, and the King thought he could see the man's long, ropy fingers trembling. He sat at the table as far as he could from Morlock or Ambrosia.
Urdhven, in contrast, sat down next to Morlock, with Ambrosia on his other side. “Thoke, you old monster,” he cried at the servant behind Morlock's chair. “Are you still the master of the cups and plates?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You'd better call up some of your minions—we're hungry, had a long day negotiating.”
“Yes, indeed, my lord. I was about to bring in the final course of fruit, cheese, and dessert wine. Would you…?”
“That'll be fine, Thoke,” said Ambrosia.
Thoke disappeared into the preparation room, trailed by the lesser servants.
They returned in a moment, each carrying fruit and cheese arranged on a plate. Some servants had more than one tray, to accommodate the new guests. Nonetheless, the King didn't get served until Commander Erl gestured at one of the servants, indicating that the King's place was empty.
This annoyed Lathmar, but he could understand it: Thoke had gone to serve at the far end of the table, and he had forgotten to have someone stand in for him here.
Then, too, Thoke was, as Urdhven had called him, the master servant of the dining hall; he always acted as personal servant to the most important person at a banquet. Apparently he had forgotten that for purposes of ceremony, at least, Lathmar was that person. Thoke was standing behind Urdhven's chair, at his beck and call, indicating by his manner who, in his opinion, was the most important person present. The King glanced at Kedlidor to see if he had picked up on this—he imagined the Rite-Master giving Thoke a searing lecture on propriety after the supper was ended—but Kedlidor was engaged in some sort of conversation with Ambrosia and Urdhven.
There was something else, as well, though. The feeling in the room had changed when Ambrosia and the Protector's group had entered. Lathmar couldn't put his finger on it—he felt as if something horrible were about to happen. As if something horrible was happening, which was real although only he could see it.
Now the wine came in, brought by a fleet of butlers. The King was served (wine and water) without having to specially request it, and he was about to salute Aloê with his goblet when a dispute broke out in the lower half of the table.
Thoke had approached Morlock with a bottle of dessert wine, hesitated, and then served Urdhven instead. He went on to pour wine in Ambrosia's cup.
“Wait a moment,” Urdhven said, a hint of unpleasantness in his manner. “Aren't you drinking with me, Morlock?”
“I'm drinking water, if that's what you mean.”
“That's pretty small-minded, if you ask me.”
“I didn't.”
“I come here to settle a treaty with the regent, and you sit there drinking well water. Where's the bond if we're not all eating and drinking the same?”
Morlock silently offered Urdhven a piece of cheese from his plate. Urdhven didn't take the cheese, but he did seem to take offense.
“Come off it, Morlock,” Ambrosia said impatiently. “A mouthful of wine won't kill you.”
“Lord Urdhven is free to share my water, if he likes.”
“Most improper,” Kedlidor said, surprising the King. “Pledge a treaty in well water. Unheard-of.” He spoke in spurts, as if he were being jabbed between utterances.
“That's what I was telling him earlier,” Jordel complained. “Why not live a little?”
Morlock said nothing now. He looked at no one. Thoke, taking this as permission, raised his bottle to pour wine in Morlock's cup.
Lathmar's sense of dread darkened the world. It was as if every gesture, every word at the table masked some evil secret. And all his impulses told him that if the Protector (that thing—that shell—that mask of nothingness) wanted something very badly, he was not to get it. Could the wine be poisoned?
Or was it the wine itself? Wyrth had sometimes referred to Morlock as a drunk. But the King had never seen him drunk. But then he had never seen Morlock drink. Was it possible that the man's iron will, his intellect—everything he was, everything that Lathmar loved him for—could be drowned in a sip of wine? Lathmar couldn't believe it. He didn't believe it. It was too stupid. But he couldn't risk it.
“Thoke,” he said, his voice cracking with strain, “come here. I want you.”
“Pour, pour,” Urdhven said impatiently.
“I'll be with you in a moment, Your Majesty,” Thoke called.
The world went completely dark. Lathmar was angry at Thoke's insolence; he was frustrated by his role as a regal puppet; he was afraid for Morlock. He heard himself shouting, “In a moment you'll be dead!”
When he returned to himself he was standing. So was everyone else at the table, their faces mirroring various forms of shock. Thoke was sprawled facedown on the floor, his face in the rushes, sobbing. Karn and Erl stood over him with swords drawn. Their faces, expressionless, were turned toward the King: they were prepared to kill Thoke at his word.
The King drew a slow deep breath. His sense of imminent danger had diminished. There was light in the world, again—there was hope that he could do something, that he could speak and be heard, that he was something other than a mere puppet. But there was a darkness in himself, too; he understood that now for the first time. Perhaps that was the most dangerous darkness of all.
“I spoke in haste,” he said, his voice still unsteady. “He's a fool, but he doesn't deserve death. Take him to a cell, Karn—one with no escape hatch,” he added. “The regent can deal with him tomorrow.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Karn. He picked up the sobbing servant by main force and hauled him away. Erl returned to stand behind the King's chair.
There was an awkward silence as the King took another long breath. Then he spoke again. “I apologize to you all. Guests should not have to hear such a thing from their host.”
They murmured various inconsequentialities, but he spoke on through them. Damn it, Ambrosia would roast him alive for this later. Everything he could say would be swept away before the imperious storm of her displeasure. But if he spoke now she would have to listen—the farce that gave her the power of regent compelled her to listen. Her burning gray eyes told him as much.
“However,” he continued, “it pains me to say that I deserved more from some of you, as guests and as subjects, than I have received tonight. Lord Urdhven, you must not countermand orders I give to my servants. This is not your castle. It is my castle. You do not rule here. I rule here. You will acknowledge this or our treaty is broken and we will fight to the last soldier.”
After a short pause, Urdhven said easily, “Of course, Your Majesty. I beg your pardon, and that of all here. I let old habits lead me astray.” At that moment it occurred to Lathmar that Urdhven must be dead. This smiling urbane thing was not Urdhven.
“Your Majesty is not quite correct—I beg his pardon for saying so,” Kedlidor said, in his scratchy pedantic voice. “The terms ‘rule’ and ‘reign,’ though often confused—”
“You beg my pardon, do you?” Lathmar interrupted, some of his anger returning. “I withhold it. A moment ago you sat by and watched a servant disobey my express command and did nothing to intervene. Had you shown then the nice concern for propriety you show now, that poor man would be spending the night in his own bed instead of a prison cell. I am displeased with you, Kedlidor. Leave my presence.”
Wave after wave of emotion passed over Kedlidor's face. But he was too much the Rite-Master not to acknowledge the King's right to dismiss him. He bowed his head and withdrew without a word.
You can only be killed once, the King reflected, and continued, “Lady Ambrosia, I find you too have lacked respect. Your familiarity with your brother should not blind you to the fact that when he is a guest at my table, he will not be compelled, nor cajoled, nor pestered to do this or that.”
Ambrosia briefly rebelled. “Your Majesty, with respect, the last time someone made Morlock do something he didn't want to do—”
“Precisely,” the King cut in. “Morlock Ambrosius can look after himself, none better. I expect you to look after me, as your sovereign—the respect due to me and to guests at my table, whether they be your closest kin or utter strangers. If I am not sovereign, then what is your office? Whose power do you wield? In whose name do you rule if I do not reign?” He paused, breathless, somewhat intoxicated by his defiance, at a loss as how to continue.
Ambrosia smiled like someone who tastes blood in her mouth. “I was wrong, Your Majesty,” she said. “I apologize.” And she bowed her iron-gray head.
* * *
*1 “Stop being a boor, you damn boor.”
*2 Rokhlan (Dwarvish): “dragonkiller.”
he half cup of wine that Thoke had poured remained at Morlock's elbow for the awkward remainder of the supper. Morlock kept smelling it, and more than once he had caught himself reaching out to pick it up.
On one of these occasions he looked up to see the Protector's eyes looking at him.
“Old habits die hard,” he said wryly.
“I hoped they hadn't died at all,” Urdhven's mouth said frankly. “But who knew the little King had such fire in him! I suspect Ambrosia will give him a paddling behind closed doors.”
Morlock reflected on this for a moment, then said, “We've met before, haven't we? Earlier today?”
The smile on Urdhven's face became broader yet. “Superb. Really excellent. I had heard good things about you, you know, but I didn't see how they could all be true.”
“They probably aren't.”
“Oh, I'm sure of that. How did you know?”
“Just a guess. You're clearly not Urdhven.”
“That is, as the little King would say, a moot point.”
Urdhven's fingers reached out to take a grape. He tossed it in his mouth and crunched it open-mouthed so that the juice squirted. He swallowed. “Get it?”
“I got some of it,” Morlock remarked, brushing away a few droplets from his tunic.
“My dear sir, I'm so sorry. But do you see what I'm driving at? Is the grape me, or am I the grape? That's the way it is with Urdhven and me.”
Morlock looked past Urdhven's shoulder to see if Ambrosia was following this. But she was saying something rather stiffly to Vost across the table.
“Oh, she hasn't noticed,” Urdhven's mouth said. “In fact, she's going through one of her periodic fits of Hope. She's finding them harder and harder to suppress, I believe. That's probably what I will offer her, when the time comes—the hope of a future without Hope, as it were.”
“The time?”
“In time I expect to eat you all as I ate Urdhven. You won't know it until it's too late, but I can get eac
h of you to let me in, I think. And, once I'm let in, I never leave.”
“We're not all like Urdhven.”
“I should hope not: one likes a little variety in the souls one eats. But you all have fears; you all have weaknesses; you all have secret or suppressed longings. Each one of them is a door, and through many of them I can enter.”
Morlock shrugged.
“Don't make a pretense of your strength, Morlock! I see how you're pressing your hands against the table to disguise their trembling. You want that cup of wine so much! I can give you the pleasure of wine without the poison of drunkenness. Or I can give you something you want more: I can make it so that you never want to drink again.”
“So can a sharp edge, or a noose,” Morlock commented. He held up his hands in midair, turned them palm up and palm down. They didn't tremble.
“You can exert control over your impulses for a moment, for an hour, for part of a day—oh, day after day. But not forever. You can't guard your dreams; I've often entered into people while they were dreaming. I wouldn't tell you this if there were any chance of your doing something about it.”
This last certainly wasn't true: he might hope to provoke fear, despair, rash action. But Morlock wasn't about to say as much. He shrugged again.
“You're ungenerous, Morlock. And you haven't even asked me my name.”
Morlock said carefully, “I know the answer your kind always gives.”
Urdhven's mouth laughed politely, and his body turned away to address some remark to Ambrosia.
Morlock's left arm was gripped by Jordel, and Morlock turned to face him.
“What was Urdhven saying to you?” Jordel asked.
Morlock reflected. “Nothing,” he said, with perfect if misleading accuracy. He gestured slightly with his right hand, hoping Jordel would take the hint to talk about it later.
Apparently Jordel did. “All right,” the vocate muttered, releasing his arm. “It's not like you're my junior in the Graith anymore. Say, do you remember that time in the Grartans…”
The supper wound down to its conclusion. Ambrosia rose to escort the Protector and his followers out, throwing Lathmar a look that clearly menaced an unpleasant future conversation. Morlock thought he would have to intervene in that.