Ash and Ambition

by Ari Marmell

  Nycos sighed, deeply, irritated at the weaknesses inherent in both his human form and his current position. “I’m uncertain what I can do, Smim. We’ve no proof of any of this. Andarjin’s not that careless.”

  “We could track down your gardener, Master.”

  “I’ve been trying to decide if it’s worth our time. We could probably force him to talk, but it would be his word against Andarjin’s. And that’s if the margrave approached him personally, which I tend to doubt. At best, it would prove a small conspiracy. People might make their own assumptions, but it would point no solid fingers at any culprit. A lot of work for, at best, a small smirch on Andarjin’s reputation in the opinion of only a portion of the court.”

  “You’re assuming we’d have to rely on his word. He might have proof.”

  “I am assuming that, yes,” Nycos told him. “We both know how likely it is that Andarjin left a provable trail.”

  “You know, Master,” Smim suggested with an artificial nonchalance that instantly had Nycos worried, “we don’t actually need proof of anything. There are ways he could be handled that wouldn’t lead back to—”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “No, Smim.”

  The goblin sighed. “You’re taking this whole affair awfully casually, Master.”

  “Don’t mistake me. I’m furious. The very instant I have solid cause to move against Andarjin and tear his world down around him before picking his heart out through his ribs in tiny, quivering gobbets, I will. But I won’t undo everything I’m working for, or my chance at as comfortable and powerful a life as this feeble body offers, by throwing away all I’ve learned since we arrived.

  “Besides,” he added hesitantly, “just at this moment, my standing with Marshal Laszlan is on uneven ground at best. He was far angrier over my unfortunate outburst earlier than his Majesty was. I’m lucky he’s so loyal to the king. I imagine I’d be in for some punitive duties, otherwise.”

  “Yes.” Smim chuckled, his tone snide. “Loyal.”

  Nycos peered at him, confused. The goblin, despite obvious effort, could not help but laugh.

  “Master, I recognize that you’ve been away from the palace far more often than I—and, further, that the ways of humans are vastly different than those of dragons. But we simply must work on your powers of observation and comprehension where people are concerned.”

  “If you’re quite through amusing yourself,” Nycos said, clear in his tone that he did not feel similarly, “perhaps you would care to explain?”

  “His Majesty and the Crown Marshal are not just liege and vassal, Master, or even friends.”

  “Meaning?”

  Smim spoke as if to a child. “They’re a couple, Master. Lovers.”

  Nycos stared. Blinked. Continued to stare.

  “Oh,” he said, some few years later.

  It was, indeed, a notion with which dragons were unfamiliar. The wyrms were capable of affection for one another, on those rare instances when they met without instant territorial conflict, but nothing more. When the mating urge came upon them—at the pinnacle of a cycle lasting many decades—it was sheer biological impetus, one that overpowered all but the most intense loathing and drove them together with whatever fellow dragons were both compatible and available.

  The idea of linking sexual activity with emotional intimacy, or any purpose beyond breeding, was utterly alien—as was the concept of romantic love itself.

  “And… this is known?” he asked finally, because he had no idea what else to ask.

  “Not widely discussed, Master, but yes. It’s something of an open secret among the court. Since he’s already produced heirs from a legal marriage, there’s no cause for anyone to object. Some few feel he engaged in this relationship too soon after the queen died, but that was long enough ago, now, that it’s rarely brought up.”

  Again Nycos could do little more than blink, trying to wrap his mind around such foreign notions. “Humans are peculiar, Smim.”

  “No arguments from me, Mas—”

  They both turned toward the door, wondering—and then swiftly realizing—who could possibly be knocking at this hour.

  Smim politely showed her in, offered her a drink which she didn’t refuse so much as fail to notice. Then, without waiting to be told, he stepped out into the hall to join her lady-in-waiting (who had never really gotten over her habit of looking down upon him as though he were a particularly squishy bug she’d found in her breakfast). He pulled the door to but not quite shut, granting his master a modicum of privacy.

  The injured knight, who had risen to his feet, waited as Marsical slowly crossed the chamber between them, avoiding the intervening table almost by accident.

  “Welcome home, my Lady.”

  “Oh, Nycos…”

  “It, ah, looks far worse than it is.”

  “Sit down.”

  “I—”

  “Sit!” It wasn’t much of a shove—clearly she was concerned about other wounds she couldn’t see—but it got her point across. Nycos allowed himself to fall back into the sofa.

  “You have balms and salves?” she asked him, casting about the room.

  “I assure you, Smim’s already tended to—” Well, that expression might have changed his mind even had he still worn his original body. “Over there,” he pointed, giving in.

  She scooped up the various bowls and tins, planting herself beside him and carefully daubing at the most obvious of the lacerations on his face. Nycos gulped down a sigh that he felt would go unappreciated just at this moment. What is it with this woman?

  “I actually arrived last night,” she said softly, running a finger across his cheek. “I wanted to tell you that I’d heard of what happened on your patrol, and to congratulate you on discovering the spy’s arrangements with the Mahdreshans, even if you couldn’t catch him.”

  “You did?” He spoke carefully, unwilling to jar her hand against various sore spots. “I had no idea…”

  “Smim told me you were sleeping, that you were fatigued from your travels and making your report to his Majesty. He even permitted me a brief look, though he wouldn’t let me stay.”

  “He trusts you more than most,” Nycos said with a faint smile, “but to him, you’re still just another human.”

  “You’d drifted off atop your blankets. I knew you must truly have been exhausted, so I didn’t insist he let me wake you.”

  “I appreciate the consideration.”

  Mariscal dipped another finger in the salve, then gently leaned his head forward to rest on her shoulder so she might treat the angry contusions on the back of his scalp. He felt the warmth of her skin through her blouse, the flutter of her pulse along her neck. Further, he found himself gazing down inside her neckline and wondering with a flash of near panic why this particular view should strike him as particularly enticing. He almost welcomed the dull wave of pain as she prodded at the injuries, trying to locate them beneath his hair.

  “I also heard of the argument in court this morning, the lies they—” Her arms tensed, breath caught; the pounding of her heart grew fast and violent. “Was it them?” she demanded, lifting his head with both hands. “Did those Ythani bastards do this to you?”

  “Um, what? I…” Nycos’s world spun, a maelstrom of confusion, of pain, of sensations and urges for which he had no name and even less ability to cope. “That is, I was supposed to believe it was them, but…”

  It hit him, then, all at once. Mariscal’s overly emotional state, the abrupt switch from her deep concern and need to care for him to her rage at those who’d attacked him—but more even than that, their interactions over the prior months, the closeness punctuated by periods of offense and anger over what he had thought of as quite minor slights.

  Only because he had now been primed to consider human relationships in that context, because of the conversation he had just concluded with Smim regarding King Hasyan and Orban, did Nycos finally understand.

 
; She wants us to mate!

  It was too much. Countless clashing human emotions, none of which he knew how to handle; the vast array of conflicts and intrigues he struggled to navigate every day; the memories of Tzavalantzaval’s last few clutches, and the tragedies that had befallen them… It crashed over Nycos in a frothing wave, until he truly felt as though he were drowning.

  “Are we actually working to figure this out?” he blurted—panicked, angry, unthinking. “Or are we just wasting time with more of this foolish mating ritual?”

  He wondered for a brief and horrid instant if the woman had actually died. She stopped breathing. Her skin paled to a sickly grey, not unlike broken and sun-bleached wood. Two dawning suns of pure crimson rose to burn in her cheek, equal parts embarrassment and fury.

  “How dare you?! I have stood by you, I have excused every one of your mistakes, your insults, because of all you’ve been through. But I will not be treated this way!”

  “I’m sure there are many rooms in this palace where you wouldn’t need to worry about that, aren’t there?”

  She said nothing more, only rose and, her hands shaking but her steps steady and firm, walked slowly from the chamber. Her lady-in-waiting cast Nycos a single withering glare before falling in behind her mistress.

  Nycos looked at the goblin, who stared at him in despairing astonishment from the doorway.

  “What?” Nycos demanded.

  Smim went to bed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nycos deliberately arrived late to court the next morning, having permitted and even encouraged the servant who had delivered his summons to assume he still recovered from his injuries of the prior night.

  In fact, his wounds were already partly healed, thanks to the effort and shapeshifting magics he directed their way. None could doubt that he had taken a beating, but any observer would assume it could not have been terribly severe, or else must have occurred at least a week gone by. Even his arm, though far from perfect, was recovered enough that he could go several hours without any binding or sling.

  When he did finally head toward the room, again clad in his most formal attire and with sabre hanging at his side, the knight still chose to wait a time before approaching the great doors and the guards beside them. From down the hallway he could hear voices raised in what the diplomats would call “emphatic debate” and others would call “screaming argument,” and he could not help but grin. He had long pondered how to handle the coming events, and it was only to his benefit that emotions ran hot.

  Finally, head high and shoulders straight, he strode toward the men-at-arms, who swiftly hauled the doors aside.

  Voices faltered as both sides of the argument became aware of his arrival. Everyone, Kirresci and Ythani, turned his way, observing his approach, and curious whispers were his heralds. He nodded with rigid formality to Haralius Carviliun and his entourage, offered a more sincere greeting and even an open smile to his fellow knights, nobles, and servants along the wall. He forced himself not to linger on Margrave Andarjin, though he did note a brief flicker of curiosity from the man—presumably because Nycos appeared far healthier than he ought.

  He halted, dropping to one knee before the dais. “Your Majesty. Apologies for my tardiness.”

  “Understandable given the circumstances, Sir Nycolos. Are you well?”

  “Well enough, Your Majesty. Somewhat stiff and sore, but I’ve had worse. I should be fine.”

  “We are glad to hear it.” He motioned for the knight to stand. “If you would be so good as to take your place with the others?”

  “Actually, if it please Your Majesty, might I address the court and our honored guests? I have news of direct import regarding the current… discussion.”

  Hasyan, Orban, Denuel Jarta, and Amisco Valacos frowned almost in unison, doubtless leery of letting him speak to the Ythani delegation, given his outburst of yesterday. King and Marshal engaged in a hurried exchange of whispers, with occasional input from the others. They came to a decision swiftly, however, and it seemed that the attack on Nycos had bought him some leeway.

  “Very well, Sir Nycolos,” Hasyan said. “Speak. But take care.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” He half pivoted, so he might address either the royalty and advisors on the dais, the assembled gentry along the wall, or the Ythani, all by merely turning his neck this way or that. “I couldn’t help but pick up on the essence of your conversation,” he began, “as I approached the throne room. Although I imagine I might have guessed at its nature, even had I not overheard.”

  Not that anyone could have missed it, at that volume. Between the witness accounts and Nycos’s own broken, incomplete report, a flurry of accusations had awaited Haralius and the others when they’d approached the throne that morning. The envoy, of course, had angrily refuted every one of them, even going so far as to accuse witnesses of perjuring themselves in order to slander Ythane. The argument had, from that point, pursued the obvious course.

  “Having had the night to recover,” Nycos continued, “and to think back on the events of the evening, I have come to the conclusion that Oztyerva has been sullied.”

  Haralius looked fit to burst. “How dare—!”

  “Not by you, emissary.”

  The man slowly deflated, gawping.

  “No, by a criminal conspiracy directed, at least in part, against our Ythani guests.” He hoped nobody heard how near he came to choking on that final word. Before anyone could speak or begin to ask questions, he went on explain how the Ythani sandals and other details were meant to lay the blame at the delegation’s feet, but how the one face he’d seen clearly wore Kirresci features, and the voices he’d heard boasted the local accent.

  That he’d recognized the man specifically he did not reveal, instead playing up those other signs far more than he’d actually noticed.

  Dead silence reigned as he concluded his observations. Not a man or woman present could doubt him. He would never level such accusations—charges that could dishonor the entire Kirresci court, if only by association, and work to the benefit of those who had enslaved and insulted him—were he not certain.

  The Ythani envoy himself broke that silence, his voice shrill. “And what do you propose to do about this… this insult and threat to myself and my people?!”

  Nycos almost laughed aloud. Haralius couldn’t have played his part any better if the two of them had planned it together.

  “The envoy is quite right, Your Majesty. Clearly, until we can guarantee him the safety and hospitality we promise all our guests, until we can determine who his hidden enemy may be and why they’ve done this, he and his compatriots are in danger every moment they remain here. For the sake of the newly reforged bond of friendship between our nations, I suggest, in the very strongest of terms, that they be granted the protection of the best and most trustworthy soldiers we can muster and escorted to the border without delay. Let them return home, where they can rest in comfort and, above all, security, until we know it’s safe for them to return.”

  From atop the dais, Orban replied, and though he kept the smirk from his face, it managed to escape via the faint gleam in his eyes. “I believe Sir Nycolos is quite correct. Our first concern must be the safety of our honored guests. I know just the soldiers, trustworthy to the last. With Your Majesty’s permission?”

  Hasyan wore a matching glimmer of mischievous approval. “By all means, Marshal Laszlan. Haralius, my abject apologies for what has occurred, but we will keep you safe until you’ve reached our borders. No matter what.”

  “I…” The man was trapped, and he knew it. He’d demanded his hosts act on his behalf, and so they had. Unless he wanted to accuse the court, and King Hasyan himself, of collusion, he had to believe the danger was genuine. Nor could he legitimately demand the recompense they’d discussed earlier while Kirresc mobilized soldiers for his own protection, not without appearing wretchedly ungrateful and quite possibly exposing his motivations, and his entire mission, for the g
old-digging they were.

  He could only scowl, furious but helpless, as the king’s own personal guards quickly rushed him and his delegation from the hall, that they might swiftly and immediately pack for their well-protected journey home.

  “A splendid suggestion, Sir Nycolos,” Hasyan said when the Ythani were gone and the hubbub quieted once again. “Well done.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Of course, that is only half the problem solved.

  “What of the conspiracy itself?” Amisco, the Judge Royal, asked from beside her sovereign. “Have you any notion as to who might be behind it?”

  And there is the other half.

  “I have found no sign or proof of that, Judge Valacos,” he answered carefully. “But I do believe we must launch a thorough investigation.”

  “With you leading it, Sir Nycolos?”

  “I know that you’ve your own investigators,” he told her, “but this not merely an internal crime, but also an act against another nation. So I do feel that the Crown Marshal ought to have a representative assisting with the investigation, someone who holds both social and military rank. However… No, it should not be me. Must not, in fact. My own personal history with the Ythani would taint the results. Any findings or secrets uncovered must be beyond any doubt.

  “No.” Again he turned to face the gathering along the wall, in part to study the reactions he hoped his pronouncement might elicit. “I believe Dame Zirresca should conduct the investigation.”

  The other knight visibly started, then stepped to the fore of the assembly. “Why?” she asked—a perfectly understandable question, given their circumstances.

  “Because this is larger than our competition, Zirresca. Furthermore, when word reaches Ythane that it is one of Marshal Laszlan’s presumed successors looking into this—and we all know that word will reach them—it will go that much further toward convincing them we take this seriously. I might have preferred Lord Kortlaus,” he admitted, or rather pretended to admit. “But he’s yet to return from his own patrols, and this can’t wait. That leaves you.”