Songs of the Dying Earth. Gardner Dozois
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and hear recitations of the latest poetry. Vespanus did his best to oblige his host: he sang in his light tenor while accompanying himself on the osmiande; he discussed the illicit loves of the voivodes with a completely spurious authority; and he described the sumptuous wardrobe of the Despoina of Chose, who he had glimpsed in procession to Escani’s Guild of Diabolists, to which she was obliged by ancient custom to resort every nine hundred and ninety-nine days.
“Alas,” said Ambius, “I am a cultured man. Were I a mere robber and brute, I would rejoice on my perch above the Dimwer, and gloat as the contents of my strongrooms grew and glittered. But here in the Cleft, I find myself longing for the finer things of civilization—for silks, and songs, and cities. And never a city have I seen for the last thirteen years, since I assumed my present position—for if I traveled either to Pex or to Calabrande, I would instantly lose my head for violation of the state’s unjust and unreasonable monopoly on taxation. So I must content myself with such elements of culture as I am able to import.” He gestured modestly toward the paintings on the wall, to the curtains of mank fur, and to his own opulent, if rather eccentric, clothing. “Thus I am doomed to remain here, and to exact tolls from travelers in the manner as the Protostratoi before me, and dream of distant cities.”
Vespanus, who was not entirely in sympathy with the Protostrator’s dilemma, murmured a few words of consolation.
Ambius brightened.
“Still,” he said, “I am known for my hospitality. Any poet, or performer, or troupe of players will find me a kind host. For these are immune to my tolls, provided that they bring civilization with them, and are willing to provide entertainment. And gentlemen such as yourself,” with a nod toward Vespanus, “are of course always welcome.”
Vespanus thanked his host, but mentioned that he would be leaving for Calabrande in the morning. Ambius returned a sly look.
“I think not,” he said. “There will be a storm.”
The storm came as predicted, dropping snow in the courtyard and sending storms of hailstones that rattled on the roof-plates, and Vespanus spent another two nights, not unpleasantly, beneath the Protostrator’s roof. On the third day, thanking again his host, he mounted Twest and began once again his ascent of the Cleft.
He traveled but half a day when, examining the track ahead, he saw through a notch in a looming ridge the red glint of sunlight on metal. Indeed, he saw, there was a good deal of glinting ahead—on snaffle irons, on erb spears, on the crystalline tips of fire-darts, and on banners bearing the device of the Exarch of the Calabrande Marches.
Vespanus turned Twest about and raced as quickly as the irregular terrain permitted to the Protostrator’s castle. Once there, he informed the surprised Ambius that the Exarch was advancing down the Cleft with a large armed force.
Ambius bit his upper lip. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you would care to remain and ennoble my defense?”
“Greatly though it would enhance my name to die in defense of the Protostrator of Abrizonde,” Vespanus said, “I fear I would prove useless in a siege. Alas, just another mouth to feed.”
“In that case,” Ambius said, “would you bear a message to my agent in Pex instructing him to recruit a force of mercenaries? I confess that I have few warriors here at present.”
“So I had observed,” said Vespanus, “though it seemed graceless to remark on it.”
“It is my custom to recruit the garrison up to strength in the spring,” said Ambius, “and dismiss most of them in late autumn. Aside from the expense of maintaining troops over the winter, there is always the danger that the soldiers, confined to their barracks and subject to the tedium and monotony of the season, would seek to remedy their ennui by means of a mutiny, in which I would be killed and one of their captains made the new lord. Therefore I keep about me in the winter only those soldiers whose absence of ambition has been proven by years of prosaic and lackluster service.”
“I congratulate you on this sensible policy,” said Vespanus, “ill-timed though it is in the present circumstances.”
Again, Ambius chewed his upper lip. “It was hard experience that drove me to this custom,” he said, “for thirteen years ago it was I, an ambitious captain, who killed the previous Protostrator on the eve of the New Year, and hurled his body from the Onyx Tower into the Dimwer.”
“No doubt it was a change for the better,” Vespanus said tactfully. “But if you are to give me a letter, by all means do so at once—for I have no desire to be caught by the army of the Exarch.”
Ambius provided the letter, and, once again, Vespanus set out on Twest, nor did he employ his madling to build his shelter until full darkness had fallen and the dim stars of the Leucomorph had risen in the East. In the morning, fearful of aerial spies, he glanced about carefully from the structure’s windows before leaving the shelter and readying Twest for the day’s ride. He had traveled only a hundred yards before he saw, emerging from the Dimwer’s mists two or more leagues below, the coils of an army looping back and forth on the trail. Amid the glint of weapons, he saw the blue and callow-yellow banners of Pex.
Cursing his ill luck and worse timing, Vespanus goaded his mule uphill again, and managed to reach Abrizonde Castle just as the scouts of Calabrande advanced into sight from the other direction. He was granted admittance to the castle, and observed at once that the fortress had been put on a war footing. Boom-rocks were laid by to be hurled on the heads of attackers. Arrow guns and fire sticks were seen on the walls, manned by soldiers who seemed competent, if uninspired and inclining toward the middle-aged. Spikes on the roof—and tower-tops, newly anointed with poisons, were prepared to impale flying attackers. Servants, splendidly equipped from the castle’s spacious magazines, were receiving hasty instruction in the use of their weapons.
Vespanus joined Ambius at his observation point in the Onyx Tower, and found the Protostrator in elaborate full armor of a deep azure color, the helmet topped by the rearing, fanged likeness of a lank-lizard. Vespanus reported the advance of the second army, and watched Ambius stalk about the room in thought.
“I suppose that Pex and Calabrande may be at war,” he said, “and, each attempting to invade the other by means of the Cleft, they meet here by sheer chance.”
“Do you think that’s likely?” Vespanus asked hopefully.
“No,” said Ambius, “I don’t.” He gave Vespanus a searching look. “I believe you are acquainted with the thaumaturgical arts?” he asked.
“I know some of the lesser magics,” Vespanus said, “and indeed was en route to Occul in order to further my studies when the army of Calabrande barred my way.”
“Know you any spells or cantrips that might be of use in our present circumstance?”
“I equipped myself with spells suitable for besting the occasional highwayman or Deodand, but I had not anticipated fighting whole armies. And in any case, I have already told you, as I enjoyed your kind hospitality, that my chief specialty is architecture.”
Ambius frowned. “Architecture,” he repeated, his voice dour.
“I create buildings of a fantastic nature—following the wishes of my client, I first generate a phantasm, a perfect visualization of the completed building. After which I employ one of the minor sandestins, of the type called ‘madlings,’ who builds the structure in a matter of hours, flying in the materials from anywhere in the chronosphere wherein they may be found. It remains but for the client to furnish the place, and even this I can arrange for a suitable fee.”
Ambius narrowed his eyes. “Can your madling also demolish structures—siege works, for example?”
“Any sandestin could. But I fear that, if I used my Hegadil against anything as formidable as a well-equipped army, any competent wizard would banish or kill the creature before it could accomplish its task.”
Ambius nodded. “My study contains a small library of