Blood of Ambrose Read Free

time. Presently a cart came through and, while it was fully engaged in passing through the line of the stepping-stones, he jumped into the tarp-covered back of the wagon, landing on his feet, and prepared to dodge whip-strokes.
    “Hey, thief!” shouted the driver, a heavyset elderly man raising his whip (as the King had feared).
    “No, Rusk!” the passenger, a woman of the same age, cried. “It's a little boy!”
    The King did not think of himself as “a little boy.” He had seen little boys from far off, playing in the streets below the walls of the palace Ambrose, and he was not much like them. He usually thought of himself as “a child,” since that was how others referred to him when they thought he was not listening, often quoting the ancient Vraidish proverb “the land runs red when a child is king.”
    “They're the worst thieves of all!” Rusk grumbled, but lowered the whip. “Hey, boy! You're spoiling our vegetables!”
    “I'm sorry,” the King said. “I need help.” He shifted to the side of the cart, to avoid treading on their goods. The cart jerked as it pulled free of the stepping-stones, and the King almost fell into the square again. “I need to find somebody!” he cried, clutching at the wagon's side.
    “Who?” the woman asked.
    The King paused. Now that he came to it, it was difficult to speak that awful name aloud. “The Crooked Man,” he said then; it was one of many euphemisms for Ambrosia's brother.
    Rusk, looking forward now to guide the cart horses, gnashed his teeth in irritation. “Boy, you should know that beggars don't come out at night. Besides, we're not city people; we don't know any beggars, crooked or straight.”
    “I don't understand what you mean,” the King said slowly. “I mean…I am looking for…Ambrosia's brother. The Dark Man.”
    The woman gave a sharp intake of breath, and Rusk shouted, “Lata, this is on your head. Throw that rat off our wagon before he says the name and brings a curse on us—”
    “Morlock!” shouted the King in despair, as the woman reached back in a vague swatting motion. “Morlock! Morlock! Morlock! Your sister is in danger! Morlock! ”
    He had expected (well, half expected) the Crooked Man to appear in a gush of flame, as legends said he did when his name was spoken, to work dreadful wonders, or haul traitors off to hell. So he was half disappointed when nothing of the sort occurred. A cart with a lamp (Rusk and Lata's had none) passed them; a wash of golden light passed over the old woman's seamed face, catching a speculative wondering look on her features as she met the King's eye.
    Rusk had reined in and was turning around, shouting, whip in hand. As he raised his arm to strike, Lata snatched the whip away from him and said in a breathless voice, “Shut up, Rusk, you fool—and you, too, sir, if you please,” she added, glancing back at the King. “Sit down there, out of the passing lights, sir, and you'll be quite comfortable.”
    “ Sir! ” exploded Rusk.
    “Don't you understand?” Lata said insistently. “It's the little King!”
    Rusk drew himself up, then glanced back at the King, who had settled himself down obediently into the shadows. “It's impossible,” Rusk said, but his voice was quiet and lacked all conviction.
    Lata, her voice equally quiet, drove the point home. “Who counts the coins on market day, Rusk? I do. If I've seen his face once I've seen it a hundred times. And you remember what the gate guard said, about the disturbance at Ambrose. If the Protector and old Ambrosia are finally having it out, she might call on her brother (the Strange Gods save us from him; I name him not). What'd be more natural?”
    “'Natural!’ Those ones…” Rusk's voice was sardonic, but held no disbelief. Hope beat suddenly in the King's heart.
    “Then you'll help me?” the King said. “You'll help me find Morlock?”
    “Shut that filthy-mouthed brat up.”
    “Shut up yourself, Rusk. It's different for him;