Trumps of Doom

Chapter 6

He was a short, heavy-set man with a somewhat florid complexion, his dark hair streaked with white and perhaps a bit thin on top. I sat in the study of his semirural home in upstate New York, sipping a beer and telling him my troubles. It was a breezy, star-dotted night beyond the window and he was a good listener.

“You say that Luke didn’t show up the following day,” he said. “Did he send a message?”

“No.”

“What exactly did you do that day?”

“I checked his room in the morning. It was just as I’d left it. I went by the desk. Nothing, like I said. Then I had breakfast and I checked again. Nothing again. So I took a long walk around the town. Got back a little after noon, had lunch, and tried the room again. It was the same. I borrowed the car keys then and drove back up to the place we’d been the night before. No sign of anything unusual there, looking at it in the light of day. I even climbed down the slope and hunted around. No body, no clues. I drove back, replaced the keys, hung around the hotel till dinner time, ate, then called you. After you told me to come on up, I made a reservation and went to bed early. Caught the Shuttlejack this morning and flew here from Albuquerque.”

“And you checked again this morning?”

“Yeah. Nothing new.”

He shook his head and relit his pipe.

His name was Bill Roth, and he had been my father’s friend as well as his attorney, back when he’d lived in this area. He was possibly the only man on Earth Dad had trusted, and I trusted him, too. I’d visited him a number of times during my eight years — most recently, unhappily, a year and a half earlier, at the time of his wife, Alice’s, funeral. I had told him my father’s story, as I had heard it from his own lips, outside the Courts of Chaos, because I’d gotten the impression that he had wanted Bill to know what had been going on, felt he’d owed him some sort of explanation for all the help he’d given him. And Bill actually seemed to understand and believe it. But then, he’d known Dad a lot better than I did.

“I’ve remarked before on the resemblance you bear your father.”

I nodded.

“It goes beyond the physical,” he continued. “For a while there he had a habit of showing up like a downed fighter pilot behind enemy lines. I’ll never forget the night he arrived on horseback with a sword at his side and had me trace a missing compost heap for him.” He chuckled. “Now you come along with a story that makes me believe Pandora’s box has been opened again. Why couldn’t you just want a divorce like any sensible young man? Or a will written or a trust set up? A partnership agreement? Something like that? No, this sounds more like one of Carl’s problems. Even the other stuff I’ve done for Amber seems pretty sedate by comparison.”

“Other stuff? You mean the Concord — the time Random sent Fiona with a copy of the Patternfall Treaty with Swayvil, King of Chaos, for her to translate and you to look at for loopholes?”

“That, yes,” he said, “though I wound up studying your language myself before I was done. Then Flora wanted her library recovered — no easy job — and then an old flame traced — whether for reunion or revenge I never learned. Paid me in gold, though. Bought the place in Palm Beach with it. Then — Oh, hell. For a while there, I thought of adding ‘Counsel to the Court of Amber’ to my business card. But that sort of work was understandable. I do similar things on a mundane level all the time. Yours, though, has that black magic and sudden-death quality to it that seemed to follow your father about. It scares the hell out of me, and I wouldn’t even know how to go about advising you on it.”

“Well, the black magic and sudden-death parts are my area, I guess,” I observed. “In fact, they may color my thinking too much. You’re bound to look at things a lot differently than I do. A blind spot by definition is something you’re not aware of. What might I be missing?”

He took a sip of his beer, lit his pipe again.

“Okay,” he said. “Your friend Luke — where’s he from?”

“Somewhere in the Midwest, I believe he said: Nebraska, Iowa, Ohio — one of those places.”

“Mm-hm. What line of work is his old man in?”

“He never mentioned it.”

“Does he have any brothers or sisters?”

“I don’t know. He never said.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as somewhat odd — that he never mentioned his family or talked about his home town in the whole eight years you’ve known him?”

“No. After all, I never talked about mine either.”

“It’s not natural, Merle. You grew up in a strange place that you couldn’t talk about. You had every reason to change the subject, avoid the issues. He obviously did, too. And then, back when you came you weren’t even certain how most people here behaved. But didn’t you ever wonder about Luke?”

“Of course. But he respected my reticence. I could do no less for him. You might say that we had a sort of tacit agreement that such things were off limits.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“We were freshmen together, had a lot of the same classes.”

“And you were both strangers in town, no other friends. You hit it off from the beginning…”

“No. We barely talked to each other. I thought he was an arrogant bastard who felt he was ten times better than anybody he’d ever met. I didn’t like him, and he didn’t like me much either.”

“Why not?”

“He felt the same way about me.”

“So it was only gradually that you came to realize you were both wrong?”

“No. We were both right. We got to know each other by trying to show each other up. If I’d do something kind of outstanding — he’d try to top it. And vice versa. We got so we’d go out for the same sport, try to date the same girls, try to beat each other’s grades.”

“And?…”

“Somewhere along the line I guess we started to respect each other. When we both made the Olympic finals something broke. We started slapping each other on the back and laughing, and we went out and had dinner and sat up all night talking and he said he didn’t give a shit about the Olympics and I said I didn’t either. He said he’d just wanted to show me he was a better man and now he didn’t care anymore. He’d decided we were both good enough, and he’d just as soon let the matter stand at that — I felt exactly the same way and told him so. That was when we got to be friends.”

“I can understand that,” Bill said. “It’s a specialized sort of friendship. You’re friends in certain places.”

I laughed and took a drink.

“Isn’t everyone?”

“At first, yes. Sometimes always. Nothing wrong with that. It’s just that yours seems a much more highly specialized friendship than most.”

I nodded slowly. “Maybe so.”

“So it still doesn’t make sense. Two guys as close as you got to be — with no pasts to show to each other.”

“I guess you’re right. What does it mean?”

“You’re not a normal human being.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I’m not so sure Luke is either.”

“What, then?”

“That’s your department.”

I nodded.

“Apart from that issue,” Bill continued, “something else has been bothering me.”

“What?”

“This Martinez fellow. He followed you out to the boondocks, stopped when you did, stalked you, then opened fire. Who was he after? Both of you? Just Luke? Or just you?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure which of us that first shot was aimed for. After that, he was firing at Luke — because by then Luke was attacking and he was defending himself.”

“Exactly. If he were S — or S’s agent — why would he even have bothered with that conversation with you in the bar?”

“I now have the impression that the whole thing was an elaborate buildup to that final question of his, as to whether Luke knew anything about Amber.”

“And your reaction, rather than your answer, led him to believe that he did.”

“Well, apparently Luke does — from the way he addressed me right there at the end. You think he was really gunning for someone from Amber?”

“Maybe. Luke is no Amberite, though?”

“I never heard of anyone like him in the time I spent there after the war. And I got plenty of lectures on genealogy. My relatives are like a sewing circle when it comes to keeping track of such matters — a lot less orderly about it than they are in Chaos — can’t even decide exactly who’s oldest, because some of them were born in different time streams — but they’re pretty thorough.”

“Chaos! That’s right! You’re also lousy with relatives on that side! Could —?”

I shook my head. “No way. I have an even more extensive knowledge of the families there. I believe I’m acquainted with just about all of the ones who can manipulate Shadow, traverse it. Luke’s not one of them and — ”

“Wait a minute! There are people in the Courts who can walk in Shadow, also?”

“Yes. Or stay in one place and bring things from Shadow to them. It’s a kind of reverse — ”

“I thought you had to walk the Pattern to gain that power?”

“They have a sort of equivalent called the Logrus. It’s a kind of chaotic maze. Keeps shifting about. Very dangerous. Unbalances you mentally, too, for a time. No fun.”

“So you’ve done it?”

“Yes.”

“And you walked the Pattern as well?”

I licked my lips, remembering.

“Yes. Damn near killed me. Suhuy’d thought it would, but Fiona thought I could make it if she helped. I was — ”

“Who’s Suhuy?”

“He’s Master of the Logrus. He’s an uncle of mine, too. He felt that the Pattern of Amber and the Logrus of Chaos were incompatible, that I could not bear the images of both within me. Random, Fiona, and Gerard had taken me down to show me the Pattern. I got in touch with Suhuy then and gave him a look at it. He said that they seemed antithetical, and that I would either be destroyed by the attempt or the Pattern would drive the image of the Logrus from me, probably the former. But Fiona said that the Pattern should be able to encompass anything, even the Logrus, and from what she understood of the Logrus it should be able to work its way around anything, even the Pattern. So they left it up to me, and I knew that I had to walk it. So I did. I made it, and I still bear the Logrus as well as the Pattern. Suhuy acknowledged that Fi had been right, and he speculated that it had to do with my mixed parentage. She disagreed, though — ”

Bill raised his hand. “Wait a minute. I don’t understand how you got your uncle Suhuy down into the basement of Amber Castle on a moment’s notice.”

“Oh, I have a set of Chaos Trumps as well as a set of Amber Trumps, for my relatives back in the Courts.”

He shook his head. “All of this is fascinating, but we’re straying from the point. Is there anyone else who can walk in Shadow? Or are there other ways of doing it?”

“Yes, there are different ways it could be done. There are a number of magical beings, like the Unicorn, who can just wander wherever they want. And you can follow a Shadow walker or a magical being through Shadow for so long as you can keep track of it, no matter who you are. Kind of like Thomas Rhymer is the ballad. And one Shadow walker could lead an army through. And then there are the inhabitants of the various Shadow kingdoms nearest to Amber and to Chaos. Those at both ends breed mighty sorcerers, just because of their proximity to the two power centers. Some of the good ones can become fairly adept at it — but their images of the Pattern or the Logrus are imperfect, so they’re never quite as good as the real thing. But on either end they don’t even need an initiation to wander on in. The Shadow interfaces are thinnest there. We even have commerce with them, actually. And established routes become easier and easier to follow with time. Going outward is harder, though. But large attacking forces have been known to come through. That’s why we maintain patrols. Julian in Arden, Gerard at sea, and so forth.”

“Any other ways?”

“A Shadow-storm perhaps.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a natural but not too well-understood phenomenon. The best comparison I can think of is a tropical storm. One theory as to their origin has to do with the beat frequencies of waves that pulse outward from Amber and from the Courts, shaping the nature of shadows. Whatever, when such a storm rises it can flow through a large number of shadows before it plays itself out. Sometimes they do a lot of damage, sometimes very little. But they often transport things in their progress.”

“Does that include people?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

He finished his fixer. I did the same with mine.

“What about the Trumps?” he asked. “Could anybody learn to use them?”

“Yes.”

“How many sets are there kicking around?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who makes them?”

“There are a number of experts in the Courts. That’s where I learned. And there are Fiona and Bleys back in Amber — and I believe they were teaching Random —”

“Those sorcerers you spoke of — from the adjacent kingdoms… Could any of them do up a set of Trumps?”

“Yes, but theirs would be less than perfect. It is my understanding that you have to be an initiate of either the Pattern or the Logrus to do them properly. Some of them could do a sort of half assed set, though, one you’d be taking your chances on using — maybe winding up dead or in some limbo, sometimes getting where you were headed.”

“And the set you found at Julia’s place…?”

“They’re the real thing.”

“How do you account for them?”

“Someone who knew how to do it taught someone else who was able to learn it, and I never heard about it. That’s all.”

“I see.”

“I’m afraid none of this is too productive.”

“But I need it all to think with,” he replied. “How else can I come up with lines of inquiry? You ready for another beer?”

“Wait.” I closed my eyes and visualized an image of the Logrus shifting, ever shifting. I framed my desire and two of the swimming lines within the eidolon increased in brightness and thickness. I moved my arms, slowly, imitating their undulations, their jerkings. Finally, the lines and my arms seemed to be one, and I opened my hands and extended the lines outward, outward through Shadow.

Bill cleared his throat.

“Uh — what are you doing, Merle?”

“Looking for something,” I replied. “Just a minute.” The lines would keep extending through an infinitude of Shadow till they encountered the objects of my desire — or until I ran out of patience or concentration. Finally, I felt the jerks, like bites on a pair of fishing lines.

“There they are,” I said, and I reeled them in quickly. An icy bottle of beer appeared in each of my hands. I grasped them as they did and passed one to Bill.

“That’s what I meant by the reverse of a Shadow walk,” I said, breathing deeply a few times. “I sent out to Shadow for a couple of beers. Saved you a trip to the kitchen.”

He regarded the orange label with the peculiar green script on it.

“I don’t recognize the brand,” he said, “let alone the language. You sure it’s safe?”

“Yes, I ordered real beer.”

“Uh — you didn’t happen to pick up an opener, too; did you?”

“Oops!” I said. “Sorry. I’ll — ”

“That’s all right.”

He got up, walked out to the kitchen, and came back a little later with an opener. When he opened the first one it foamed a bit and he had to hold it over the wastebasket till it settled. The same with the other.

“Things can get a bit agitated when you pull them in fast the way I did,” I explained. “I don’t usually get my beer that way and I forgot — ”

“That’s okay,” Bill said, wiping his hands on his handkerchief…

He tasted his beer then.

“At least it’s good beer,” he observed. “I wonder… Naw.”

“What?”

“Could you send out for a pizza?”

“What do you want on it?” I asked.

The next morning we took a long walk beside a wandering creek, which we met at the back of some farmland owned by a neighbor and client of his. We strolled slowly, Bill with a stick in his hand and a pipe in his mouth, and he continued the previous evening’s questioning.

“Something you said didn’t really register properly at the time,” he stated, “because I was more interested in other aspects of the situation. You say that you and Luke actually made it up to the finals for the Olympics and then dropped out?”

“Yes.”

“What area?”

“Several different track and field events. We were both runners and — ”

“And his time was close to yours?”

“Damn close. And sometimes it was mine that was close to his.”

“Strange.”

“What?”

The bank grew steeper, and we crossed on some stepping stones to the other side where the way was several feet wider and relatively flat, with a well-trod path along it.

“It strikes me as more than a little coincidental,” he said, “that this guy should be about as good as you are in sports. From all I’ve heard, you Amberites are several times stronger than a normal human being, with a fancy metabolism giving you unusual stamina and recuperative and regenerative powers. How come Luke should be able to match you in highlevel performances?”

“He’s a fine athlete and he keeps himself in good shape,” I answered. “There are other people like that here — very strong and fast.”

He shook his head as we started out along the path. “I’m not arguing that,” he said. “It’s just that it seems like one coincidence too many. This guy hides his past the same way you do, and then it turns out that he really knows who you are anyhow. Tell me, is he really a big art buff?”

“Huh?”

“Art. He really cared enough about art to collect it?”

“Yes. We used to hit gallery openings and museum exhibits fairly regularly.”

He snorted, and swung his stick at a pebble, which splashed into the stream.

“Well,” he observed, “that weakens one point, but hardly destroys the pattern.”

“I don’t follow…”

“It seemed odd that he also knew that crazy occultist painter. Less odd, though, when you say that the guy was good and that Luke really did collect art.”

“He didn’t have to tell me that he knew Melman.”

“True. But all of this plus his physical abilities… I’m just building a circumstantial case, or course, but I feel that guy is very unusual.”

I nodded.

“I’ve been over it in my mind quite a few times since last night,” I said. “If he’s not really from here, I don’t know where the hell he’s from.”

“Then we may have exhausted this line of inquiry,” Bill said, leading me around a bend and pausing to watch some birds take flight from a marshy area across the water. He glanced back in the direction from which we had come, then, “Tell me — completely off the subject — what’s your, uh, rank?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the son of a Prince of Amber. What does that make you?”

“You mean titles? I’m Duke of the Western Marches and Earl of Kolvir.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not a Prince of Amber. Nobody has to worry about me scheming, no vendettas involving the succession.”

“Hm.”

“What do you mean, ‘Hm’?”

He shrugged. “I’ve read too much history. Nobody’s safe.”

I shrugged myself. “Last I heard, everything was peaceful on the home front.”

“Well, that’s good news, anyway.”

A few more turnings brought us to a wide area of pebbles and sand, rising gently for perhaps thirty feet to the place where it met an abrupt embankment seven or eight feet in height. I could see the high water line and a number of exposed roots from trees that grew along the top. Bill seated himself on a boulder back in their shade and relit his pipe. I rested on one nearby, to his left. The water splashed and rippled in a comfortable key, and we watched it sparkle for a time.

“Nice,” I said, a bit later. “Pretty place.”

“Uh-huh.”

I glanced at him. Bill was looking back the way we’d come.

I lowered my voice. “Something there?”

“I caught a glimpse a little earlier,” he whispered, “of someone else taking a walk this way — some distance behind us. Lost sight of him in all the turnings we took.”

“Maybe I should take a stroll back.”

“Probably nothing. It’s a beautiful day. A lot of people do like to hike around here. Just thought that if we waited a few minutes he’d either show up or we’d know he’d gone somewhere else.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Nope. Caught only the barest glimpse. I don’t think it’s anything to get excited about. It’s just that thing about your story made me a little wary — or paranoid. I’m not sure which.”

I found my own pipe and packed it and lit it and we waited. For fifteen minutes or so we waited. But no one showed.

Finally, Bill rose and stretched. “False alarm,” he said. “I guess.”

He started walking again and I fell in step beside him. “Then that Jasra lady bothers me,” he said. “You say she seemed to trump in — and then she had that sting in her mouth that knocked you for a loop?”

“Right.”

“Ever encounter anyone like her before?”

“No.”

“Any guesses?” I shook my head.

“And why the Walpurgisnacht business? I can see a certain date having significance for a psycho, and I can see people in various primitive religions placing great importance on the turning of the seasons. But S seems almost too well organized to be a mental case. And as for the other — ”

“Melman thought it was important.”

“Yes, but he was into that stuff. I’d be surprised if he didn’t come up with such a correspondence, whether it was intended or not. He admitted that his master had never told him that that was the case. It was his own idea. But you’re the one with the background in the area. Is there any special significance or any real Power that you know of to be gained by slaying someone of your blood at this particular time of year.”

“None that I ever heard of. But of course there are a lot of things I don’t know about. I’m very young compared to most of the adepts. But which way are you trying to go on this? You say you don’t think it’s a nut, but you don’t buy the Walpurgis notion either.”

“I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud. They both sound shaky to me, that’s all. For that matter, the French Foreign Legion gave everyone leave on April 30 to get drunk, and a couple of days after that to sober up. It’s the anniversary of the battle of Camerone, one of their big triumphs. But I doubt that figures in this either.”

“And why the sphinx?” he said suddenly. “Why a Trump that takes you someplace to trade dumb riddles or get your head bitten off?”

“I’d a feeling it was more the latter that was intended.”

“I sort of think so, too. But it’s certainly bizarre. You know what? I’ll bet they’re all that way — traps of some kind.”

“Could be.”

I put my hand in my pocket, reaching for them.

“Leave them,” he said. “Let’s not look for trouble. Maybe you should ditch them, at least for a while. I could put them in my safe, down at the office.”

I laughed.

“Safes aren’t all that safe. No thanks. I want them with me. There may be a way of checking them out without any risk.”

“You’re the expert. But tell me, could something sneak through from the scene on the card without you?”

“No. They don’t work that way. They require your attention to operate. More than a little of it.”

“That’s something, anyway. I — ”

He looked back again. Someone was coming. I flexed my fingers, involuntarily.

Then I heard him let go a big breath.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I know him. It’s George Hansen. He’s the son of the guy who owns the farm we’re behind. Hi, George!”

The approaching figure waved. He was of medium height and stocky build. Had sandy hair. He wore Levi’s and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, a pack of cigarettes twisted into its left sleeve. He looked to be in his twenties.

“Hi,” he answered, drawing near. “Swell day, huh?”

“Sure is,” Bill answered. “That’s why we’re out walking in it, instead of sitting at home.”

George’s gaze shifted to me.

“Me, too,” he said, raking his teeth over his lower lip. “Real good day.”

“This is Merle Corey. He’s visiting me.”

“Merle Corey,” George repeated, and he stuck out his hand. “Hi, Merle.”

I took it and shook it. It was a little clammy.

“Recognize the name?”

“Uh, Merle Corey,” he said again.

“You knew his dad.”

“Yeah? Oh, sure!”

“Sam Corey,” Bill finished, and he shot me a glance over George’s shoulder.

“Sam Corey,” George repeated. “Son of a gun! Good to know you. You going to be here long?”

“A few days, I guess,” I replied. “I didn’t realize you’d known my father.”

“Fine man,” he said. “Where you from?”

“California, but it’s time for a change.”

“Where you headed?”

“Out of the country, actually.”

“Europe?”

“Farther.”

“Sounds great. I’d like to travel sometime.”

“Maybe you will.”

“Maybe. Well, I’ll be moving on. Let you guys enjoy your walk. Nice meeting you, Merle.”

“My pleasure.”

He backed away, waved, turned, and walked off.

I glanced at Bill then and noticed that he was shaking.

“What’s the matter?” I whispered.

“I’ve known that boy all his life,” he said. “Do you think he’s on drugs?”

“Not the kind you have to make holes in your arms for. I didn’t see any tracks. And he didn’t seem particularly spacey.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know him the way I do. He seemed very different. It was just on impulse that I used the name Sam for your dad, because something didn’t seem right. His speech patterns have changed, his posture, his gait. Intangibles. I was waiting for him to correct me, and that I could have made a joke about premature senility. But he didn’t. He picked up on it instead. Merle, this is scary! I knew your father real well — as Carl Corey. Your dad liked to keep his place nice, but he was never much for weeding and mowing or raking leaves. George did his yard work for him for years while he was in school. He knew his name wasn’t Sam.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” he said, “and I don’t like it.”

“So he’s acting weird — and you think he was following us?”

“Now I do. This is too much of a coincidence, timed with your arrival.”

I turned.

“I’m going after him,” I said. “I’ll find out.”

“No. Don’t.”

“I won’t hurt him. There are other ways.”

“It might be better to let him think he’s got us fooled. It might encourage him to do something or say something later that could prove useful. On the other hand, anything you do — even something subtle or magical — might let him, or something, know that we’re on to him. Let it ride, be grateful you’re warned and be wary.”

“You’ve got a point there,” I agreed. “Okay.”

“Let’s head on back and drive into town for lunch. I want to stop by the office and pick up some papers and make some phone calls. Then I have to see a client at two o’clock. You can take the car and knock around while I’m doing that.”

“Fine.” As we strolled back I did some wondering. There were a number of things I had not told Bill. For instance, there had been no reason to tell him that I wore an invisible strangling cord possessed of some rather unusual virtues, woven about my left wrist. One of these virtues is that it generally warns me of nasty intentions aimed in my direction, as it had done in Luke’s presence for almost two years until we became friends. Whatever the reason for George Hansen’s unusual behavior, Frakir had not given me any indication that he meant me harm.

Funny, though… there was something about the way he talked, the way he said his words…

I went for a drive after lunch while Bill took care of his business. I headed out to the place where my father had lived years ago. I’d been by it a number of times in the past, but I’d never been inside. No real reason to, I guess, anyway. I parked up the road on a rise, off on the shoulder, and regarded it. A young couple lived there now, Bill had told me, with some kids — a thing I could see for myself from some scattered toys off to the side of the yard. I wondered what it would have been like, growing up in a place like that. I supposed that I could have. The house looked well kept, sprightly even. I imagined that the people were happy there.

I wondered where he was — if he were even among the living, no one could reach him via his Trump, though that didn’t necessarily prove anything. There are a variety of ways in which a Trump sending can be blocked. In fact one of these situations was even said to apply in his case, though I didn’t like to think about it.

One rumor had it that Dad had been driven mad in the Courts of Chaos by a curse placed upon him by my mother, and that he now wandered aimlessly through Shadow. She refused even to comment on this story. Another was that he had entered the universe of his own creation and never returned, which it seemed possible could remove him from the reach of the Trumps. Another was simply that he had perished at some point after his departure from the Courts and a number of my relatives there assured me that they had seen him leave after his sojourn. So, if the rumor of his death were correct, it did not occur in the Courts of Chaos. And there were others who claimed to have seen him at widely separated sites afterward, encounters invariably involving bizarre behavior on his part. I had been told by one that he was traveling in the company of a mute dancer — a tiny, lovely lady with whom he communicated by means of sign language — and that he wasn’t talking much himself either. Another reported him as roaring drunk in a raucous cantina, from which he eventually expelled all the other patrons in order to enjoy the music of the band without distraction. I could not vouch for the authenticity of any of these accounts. It had taken me a lot of searching just to come up with this handful of rumors. I could not locate him with a Logrus summoning either, though I had tried many times. But of course if he were far enough afield my powers of concentration may simply have been inadequate.

In other words, I didn’t know where the hell my father, Corwin of Amber, was, and nobody else seemed to know either. I regretted this sorely, because my only long encounter with him had been on the occasion of hearing his lengthy story outside the Courts of Chaos on the day of the Patternfall battle. This had changed my life. It had given me the resolve to depart the Court, with the determination to seek experience and education in the shadow world where he had dwelled for so long. I’d felt a need to understand it if I were to understand him better. I believed that I had now achieved something of this, and more. But he was no longer available to continue our conversation.

I believed that I was about ready to attempt a new means of locating him — now that the Ghostwheel project was almost off the ground — when the most recent fecal missile met the rotating blades. Following my cross-country trip, scheduled to wind up at Bill’s place a month or two from now, I was going to head off to my personal anomaly of a place and begin the work.

Now… other things had crowded in. The matters at hand would have to be dealt with before I could get on with the search.

I drove past the house slowly: I could hear the sounds of stereo music through open windows. Better not to know exactly what it was like inside. Sometimes a little mystery is best.

That evening after dinner I sat on the porch with Bill, trying to think of anything else I should run through his mind. As I kept drawing blanks, he was the first to renew our serial conversation:

“Something else,” he began.

“Yes?”

“Dan Martinez struck up his conversation with you by alluding to Luke’s attempts to locate investors for some sort of computer company. You later felt that the whole thing could simply have been a ploy, to get you off guard and then hit you with that question about Amber and Chaos.”

“Right.”

“But then Luke really did raise the matter of doing something along those lines. He insisted, though, that he had not been in touch with potential investors and that he had never heard of Dan Martinez. When he saw the man dead later he still maintained that he’d never met him.”

I nodded.

“Then either Luke was lying, or Martinez had somehow learned his plans.”

“I don’t think Luke was lying,” I said. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about that whole business some more. Just knowing him as I do, I don’t believe Luke would have gone around looking for investors until he was sure there was something to put the money into. I think he was telling the truth on that, too. It seems more likely to me that this might have been the only real coincidence in everything that’s happened so far. I have the feeling that Martinez knew a lot about Luke and just wanted that one final piece of information — about his knowledge of Amber and the Courts. I think he was very shrewd, and on the basis of what he knew already he was able to concoct something that seemed plausible to me, knowing I’d worked for the same company as Luke.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” he said. “But then when Luke really did — ”

“I’m beginning to believe,” I interrupted, “that Luke story was phoney, too.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I think he put it together the same way Martinez did, and for — similar reasons — to sound plausible to me so that he could get some information he wanted.”

“You’ve lost me. What information?”

“My Ghostwheel. He wanted to know what it was.”

“And he was disappointed to learn that it was just an exercise in exotic design, for other reasons than building a company?”

Bill caught my smile as I nodded.

“There’s more?” he said. Then: “Wait. Don’t tell me. You were lying, too. It’s something real.”

“Yes.”

“I probably shouldn’t even ask — unless you think it’s material and want to tell me. If it’s something big and very important it could be gotten out of me, you know. I have a low tolerance for pain. Think about it.”

I did. I sat there for some time, musing.

“I suppose it could be,” I said finally, “in a sort of peripheral way I’m sure you’re not referring to. But I don’t see how it could be — as you say — material. Not to Luke or to anyone else — because nobody even knows what it is but me. No. I can’t see how it enters the equation beyond Luke’s curiosity about it. So I think I’ll follow your suggestion and just keep it off the record.”

“Fine with me,” he said. “Then there is the matter of Luke’s disappearance — ”

Within the house, a telephone rang. “Excuse me,” Bill said.

He rose and went into the kitchen.

After a few moments, I heard him call, “Merle, it’s for you!”

I got up and went inside. I gave him a questioning look as soon as I entered and he shrugged and shook his head. I thought fast and recalled the location of two other phones in the house. I pointed at him, pointed in the direction of his study and pantomimed the motion of picking up a receiver and holding it to one’s ear. He smiled slightly and nodded. I took the receiver and waited a while, till I heard the click, only beginning to speak then, hoping the caller would think I’d picked up an extension to answer.

“Hello,” I said.

“Merle Corey?”

“That’s me.”

“I need same information I think you might have.”

It was a masculine voice, sort of familiar but not quite. “Who am I talking to?” I asked.

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that.”

“Then that will probably be my answer to your question, too.”

“Will you at least let me ask?”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Okay. You and Luke Raynard are friends.” He paused.

“You could say that,” I said, to fill the space.

“You have heard him speak of places called Amber and the Courts of Chaos.”

Again, a statement rather than a question.

“Maybe,” I said.

“Do you know anything of these places yourself?”

Finally, a question.

“Maybe,” I said again.

“Please. This is serious. I need something more than a maybe.”

“Sorry. ‘Maybe’ is all you’re going to get, unless you tell me who you are and why you want to know.”

“I can be of great service to you if you will be honest with me.”

I bit back a reply just in time and felt my pulse begin to race. That last statement had been spoken in Thari. I maintained my silence.

Then: “Well, that didn’t work, and I still don’t really know.”

“What? What don’t you know?” I said.

“Whether he’s from one of those places or whether you.”

“To be as blunt as possible, what’s it to you?” I asked him.

“Because one of you may be in great danger.”

“The one who is from such a place or the one who is not?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you that. I can’t afford another mistake.”

“What do you mean? What was your last one about?”

“You won’t tell me — either for purposes of self preservation, or to help a friend?”

“I might,” I said, “if I knew that that were really the case. But for all I know, it might be you that’s the danger.”

“I assure you I am only trying to help the right person.”

“Words, words, words,” I said. “Supposing we were both from such places?”

“Oh, my!” he said. “No. That couldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Never mind. What do I have to do to persuade you?”

“Mm. Wait a minute. Let me think,” I answered. “All right. How about this? I’ll meet you someplace. You name the place. I get a good look at you and we trade information, one piece at a time, till all the cards are on the table.”

There was a pause.

Then: “That’s the only way you’ll do it?”

“Yes.”

“Let me think about it. I’ll be back in touch soon.”

“One thing — ”

“What?”

“If it is me, am I in danger right now?”

“I think so. Yes, you probably are. Good-bye.” He hung up.

I managed to sigh and swear at the same time as I recradled the phone. People who knew about us seemed to be coming out of the woodwork.

Bill came into the kitchen, a very puzzled expression on his face.

“How’d whoever-the-hell-he-is even know you’re here?” were his first words.

“That was my question,” I said. “Think up another.”

“I will. If he wants to set something up, are you really going?”

“You bet. I suggested it because I want to meet this guy.”

“As you pointed out, he may be the danger.”

“That’s okay by me. He’s going to be in a lot of danger, too.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I’m not so happy with it myself. But it’s the best offer I’ve had so far.”

“Well, it’s your decision. It’s too bad there isn’t some way of locating him beforehand.”

“That passed through my mind, too.”

“Listen, why not push him a little?”

“How?”

“He sounded a little nervous, and I don’t think he liked your suggestion any more than I do. Let’s not be here when he calls back. Don’t let him think you’re just sitting around waiting for the phone to ring. Make him wait a little. Go conjure up some fresh clothes and we’ll drive over to the country club for a couple of hours. It’ll beat raiding the icebox.”

“Good idea,” I said. “This was supposed to be a vacation, one time. That’s probably the closest I’ll get. Sounds fine.” I renewed my wardrobe out of Shadow, trimmed my beard, showered, and dressed. We drove to the club then and had a leisurely meal on the terrace. It was a good evening for it, balmy and star-filled, running with moonlight like milk. By mutual consent we refrained from discussing my problems any further. Bill seemed to know almost everyone there, so it seemed a friendly place to me. It was the most relaxed evening I’d spent in a long while. Afterward we stopped for drinks in the club bar, which I gathered had been one of my dad’s favorite watering spots, strains of dance music drifting through from the room next door.

“Yeah, it was a good idea,” I said. “Thanks.”

“De nada,” he said. “I had a lot of good times here with your old man. You haven’t, by any chance?”

“No, no news of him.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll let you know when he turns up.”

“Sure. Sorry.”

The drive back was uneventful, and no one followed us. We got in a little after midnight, said good night, and I went straight to my room. I shrugged out of my new jacket and hung it in the closet, kicked off my new shoes and left them there, too. As I walked back into the room, I noticed the white rectangle on the pillow of my bed.

I crossed to it in two big steps and snatched it up. SORRY YOU WERE NOT IN WHEN I CALLED BACK, It said, in block capitals. BUT I SAW YOU AT THE CLUB AND CAN CERTAINLY UNDERSTAND YOUR WANTING A NIGHT OUT. IT GAVE ME AN IDEA. LET’S MEET IN THE BAR THERE, TOMORROW NIGHT, AT TEN. I’D FEEL BETTER WITH LOTS OF PEOPLE AROUND BUT NONE OF THEM LISTENING.

Damn. My first impulse was to go and tell Bill. My first thought following the impulse, though, was that there was nothing he could do except lose some sleep over it, a thing he probably needed a lot more than I did. So I folded the note and stuck it in my shirt pocket, then hung up the shirt.

Not even a nightmare to liven my slumber. I slept deeply and well, knowing Frakir would rouse me in the event of danger. In fact, I overslept, and it felt good. The morning was sunny and birds were singing.

I made my way downstairs to the kitchen after splashing and combing myself into shape and raiding Shadow for fresh slacks and a shirt. There was a note on the kitchen table. I was tired of fording notes, but this one was from Bill, saying he’d had to run into town to his office for a while and I should go ahead and help myself to anything that looked good for breakfast. He’d be back a little later.

I checked out the refrigerator and came up with some English muffins, a piece of cantaloupe and a glass of orange juice. Some coffee I’d started first thing was ready shortly after I finished, and I took a cup with me out onto the porch.

As I sat there; I began to think that maybe I ought to leave a note of my own and move on. My mysterious correspondent — conceivably S — had phoned here once and broken in once. How S had known I was here was immaterial. It was a friend’s house, and though I did not mind sharing some of my problems with friends, I did not like the idea of exposing them to danger. But then, it was daylight now and the meeting was set for this evening. Not that much longer till some sort of resolution was achieved. Almost silly to depart at this point. In fact, it was probably better that I hang around till then. I could keep an eye on things, protect Bill if anything came up today.

Suddenly, I had a vision of someone forcing Bill to write that note at gunpoint, then whisking him away as a hostage to pressure me into answering questions.

I hurried back to the kitchen and phoned his office. Horace Crayper, his secretary, answered on the second ring. “Hi, this is Merle Corey,” I said. “Is Mr. Roth in?”

“Yes,” he replied, “but he’s with a client right now. Could I have him call you back?”

“No, it’s not that important,” I said, “and I’ll be seeing him later. Don’t bother him. Thanks.” I poured myself another cup of coffee and returned to the porch. This sort of thing was bad for the nerves. I decided that if everything wasn’t squared away this evening I would leave.

A figure rounded the corner of the house.

“Hi, Merle.”

It was George Hansen. Frakir gave me the tiniest of pulses, as if beginning a warning and then reconsidering it. Ambiguous. Unusual.

“Hi, George. How’s it going?”

“Pretty well. Is Mr. Roth in?”

“Afraid not. He had to go into town for a while. I imagine he’ll be back around lunchtime or a little after.”

“Oh. A few days ago he’d asked me to stop by when I was free, about some work he wanted done.”

He came nearer, put his foot on the step. I shook my head.

“Can’t help you. He didn’t mention it to me. You’ll have to catch him later.”

He nodded, unwound his pack of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it, then rewound the pack in his shirt sleeves. This T-shirt was a Pink Floyd.

“How are you enjoying your stay?” he asked.

“Real well. You care for a cup of coffee?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

I rose and went inside.

“With a little cream and sugar,” he called after me.

I fixed him one and when I returned with it he was seated in the other chair on the porch.

“Thanks.” After he’d tasted it, he said, “I know your dad’s name’s Carl even though Mr. Roth said Sam. His memory must’ve slipped.”

“Or his tongue,” I said. He smiled.

What was it about the way he talked? His voice could almost be the one I’d heard on the phone last night, though that one had been very controlled and slowed just enough to neutralize any number of speech clues. It wasn’t that comparison that was bothering me.

“He was a retired military officer, wasn’t he? And some sort of government consultant?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he now?”

“Doing a lot of travelling — overseas.”

“You going to see him on your own trip?”

“I hope so.”

“That’ll be nice,” he said, taking a drag on his cigarette and another sip of coffee. “Ah! that’s good!”

“I don’t remember seeing you around,” he said suddenly then. “You never lived with your dad, huh?”

“No, I grew up with my mother and other relatives.”

“Pretty far from here, huh?”

I nodded. “Overseas.”

“What was her name?”

I almost told him. I’m not certain why, but I changed it to “Dorothy” before it came out.

I glanced at him in time to see him purse his lips. He had been studying my face as I spoke.

“Why do you ask?” I said.

“No special reason. Or genetic nosiness, you might say. My mother was the town gossip.”

He laughed and gulped coffee.

“Will you be staying long?” he asked then.

“Hard to say. Probably not real long, though.”

“Well, I hope you have a good time of it.” He finished his coffee and set the cup on the railing. He rose then, stretched and added, “Nice talking to you.”

Partway down the stairs he paused and turned.

“I’ve a feeling you’ll go far,” he told me. “Good luck.”

“You may, too,” I said. “You’ve a way with words.”

“Thanks for the coffee. See you around.”

“Yes.” He turned the corner and was gone. I simply didn’t know what to make of him, and after several attempts I gave up. When inspiration is silent reason tires quickly.

I was making myself a sandwich when Bill returned, so I made two. He went and changed clothes while I was doing this.

“I’m supposedly taking it easy this month,” he said while we were eating, “but that was an old client with some pressing business, so I had to go in. What say we follow the creek in the other direction this afternoon?”

“Sure.” As we hiked across the field I told him of George’s visit.

“No,” he said, “I didn’t tell him I had any jobs for him.”

“In other words — ”

“I guess he came by to see you. It would have been easy enough to see me leave, from their place.”

“I wish I knew what he wanted.”

“If it’s important enough he’ll probably wind up asking you, in time.”

“But time is running,” I said. “I’ve decided to leave tomorrow morning, maybe even tonight.”

As we made our way down the creek, I told him of last night’s note and this evening’s rendezvous. I also told him my feelings about exposing him to stray shots, or intended ones.

“It may not be that serious,” he began.

“My mind’s made up, Bill. I hate to cut things short when I haven’t seen you for so long, but I hadn’t counted on all this trouble. And if I go away you know that it will, too.

“Probably so, but…”

We continued in this vein for a while as we followed the watercourse. Then we finally dropped the matter as settled and returned to a fruitless rehashing of my puzzles. As we walked I looked back occasionally but did not see anyone behind us. I did hear a few sounds within the brush on the opposite bank at infrequent intervals, but it could easily have been an animal disturbed by our voices.

We had hiked for over an hour when I had the premonitory feeling that someone was picking up my Trump. I froze.

Bill halted and turned toward me.

“What — ”

I raised my hand.

“Long distance call,” I said.

A moment later I felt the first movement of contact. I also heard the noise in the bushes again, across the water.

“Merlin.”

It was Random’s voice, calling to me. A few seconds later I saw him, seated at a desk in the library of Amber.

“Yes?” I answered.

The image came into solidity, assumed full reality, as if I were looking through an archway into an adjacent room. At the same time, I still possessed my vision of the rest of my surroundings, though it was growing more and more peripheral by the moment. For example, I saw George Hansen start up from among the bushes across the creek, staring at me.

“I want you back in Amber right away,” Random stated. George began to move forward, splashing down into the water.

Random raised his hand, extended it. “Come on through,” he said.

By now my outline must have begun shimmering, and I heard George cry out, “Stop! Wait! I have to come with — ”

I reached out and grasped Bill’s shoulder.

“I can’t leave you with this nut,” I said. “Come on!” With my other hand I clasped Random’s.

“Okay,” I said, moving forward. “Stop!” George cried.

“The hell you say,” I replied, and we left him to clasp a rainbow.