Free Blood of Ambrose by James Enge Page A

ready.”
    “What is your name?” the Protector said to the body (as if it were a captured prisoner, Steng thought).
    The body did not speak.
    “Steng!”
    “My Lord Protector,” Steng said, “it has no name. It is not a person and will not respond as one. If I may—”
    “No.” The Protector tugged at his chin, then addressed the corpse. “What was your name?”
    “This was Jence, of the City Legion,” the corpse replied. Its voice was unmodulated and carried no emphasis. A whiff of its breath apparently reached Vost, who turned away gasping.
    “Who was Jence's captain?” the Protector continued.
    “Lorn.”
    “Death and Justice! I should have known that. Vost, do you hear?”
    “Yes, Lord,” Vost replied, still gasping.
    “I was going to have the city commander break him tomorrow,” the Protector said reflectively. “He must have guessed that and decided he had nothing to lose.”
    “We'll prove him wrong there, my lord.”
    “Only if Steng finds him for you. Did Lorn,” the Protector continued, addressing the corpse, “order Jence to patrol outside the enclosure?”
    “No.”
    “Ha. What did Lorn order you—what did Lorn order Jence to do?”
    “‘Pretend to patrol, while waiting to make rendezvous with the King and me,’” said the corpse, in a passable imitation of Lorn.
    “How long was Jence to wait?”
    “Until they came.”
    “Where would they come from?”
    “The enclosure.”
    “Where were they hiding in the enclosure?”
    “Jence did not know.”
    “Did anyone in the squad know?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Lorn refused to discuss his plans. He said the soldiers might be questioned.”
    “A good precaution,” Steng observed. “We may have learned all that we can.”
    The Protector shook his head impatiently. “How long did Jence wait for Lorn? Was it a long time?”
    “It seemed a long time. Then the red fog came, and Jence died.”
    “Did the squad speculate on where the King and Lorn might be hiding?”
    “No.”
    “Did Jence speculate?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Lorn ordered us not to. He said—”
    “Never mind that. Speculate now.”
    “Now?” whispered the corpse.
    “Where did the King and Lorn hide?” the Protector demanded.
    There was a pause, then the corpse said, “In the drop chamber.”
    “There is no drop chamber,” the Protector said sharply.
    Steng nodded his head slowly, then did so more pointedly when he saw Vost's look of mystification. The drop chamber was a device of the assassin-minded Ambrosii—built into a royal enclosure to provide escape in times of need.
    “There is no drop chamber,” said the Protector more urgently, when the corpse did not reply. After another long pause in which the metal in the Flagrator's central bulb burned and spluttered thoughtfully, he continued, “I ordered the Guild of Carpenters not to build a drop chamber into the enclosure.”
    “They would have ignored such an order,” the corpse observed. “Guild law. Imperial charter. No public structure or conveyance for a royal person to be without a drop chamber or a slide chute. Jence's father-in-law was a carpenter. He knew the law.”
    “Enough!” the Protector said. “Vost, what of this? Have your men searched for a drop chamber?”
    “No, my lord,” Vost said, pulling at his chin. “There would hardly have been room among the supports for the royal dais.”
    “We'll look again. Those things would be no use if they were easily found. Call a squad of soldiers, my soldiers, and have them begin breaking up the dais.”
    “My lord.” Vost was instantly elsewhere.
    The Protector stood and brushed off the knees of his breeches. “Excellent work, Steng,” he said briefly. “Turn it off, now.” He turned away into the night.
    Steng felt a stab of jealous anger as the Protector walked away. He wanted to leap up, tug at the Protector's elbow, demanding recognition. He had worked so hard—done so much! He was furious for the space of a few