The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10

by Roger Zelazny

  I stuck the gun in my belt beside the strut then, safety back on, of course.

  “Okay,” I told him. “Where are my clothes, and what’re you going to pay me?”

  “Your clothes were destroyed in the accident,” he said, “and I must tell you that your legs were definitely broken–the left one in two places. Frankly, I can’t see how you’re managing to stay on your feet. It’s only been two weeks—”

  “I always heal fast,” I said. “Now, about the money. . .

  “What money?”

  “The out-of-court settlement for my malpractice complaint. and the other one.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Who’s being ridiculous? I’ll settle for a thousand, cash, right now.”

  “I won’t even discuss such a thing.”

  “Well, you’d better consider it—and win or lose, think about the name it will give this place if I manage enough pretrial publicity. I’ll certainly get in touch with the AMA, the newspapers. the—”

  “Blackmail,” he said, “and I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

  “Pay now, or pay later, after a court order,” I said. “I don’t care. But it’ll be cheaper this way.”

  If he came across, I’d know my guesses were right and there was something crooked involved.

  He glared at me, I don’t know how long.

  Finally, “I haven’t got a thousand here,” he said.

  “Name a compromise figure,” I said.

  After another pause, “It’s larceny.”

  “Not if it’s cash-and-carry, Charlie. So, call it.”

  “I might have five hundred in my safe.”

  “Get it.”

  He told me, after inspecting the contents of a small wall safe, there was four-thirty, and I didn’t want to leave fingerprints on the safe just to check him out. So I accepted and stuffed the bills into my side pocket.

  “Now what’s the nearest cab company that serves this place?”

  He named it, and I checked in the phone book, which told me I was upstate.

  I made him dial it and call me a cab, because I didn’t know the name of the place and didn’t want him to know the condition of my memory. One of the bandages I had removed had been around my head.

  While he was making the arrangement I heard him name the place: it was called Greenwood Private Hospital.

  I snubbed out my cigarette, picked up another, and removed perhaps two hundred pounds from my feet by resting in a brown upholstered chair beside his bookcase.

  “We wait here and you’ll see me to the door,” I said.

  I never heard another word out of him.

  2

  It was about eight o’clock when the cab deposited me on a random corner in the nearest town. I paid off the driver and walked for around twenty minutes. Then I stopped in a diner, found a booth and had juice, a couple of eggs, toast, bacon and three cups of coffee. The bacon was too greasy.

  After giving breakfast a good hour, I started walking, found a clothing store, and waited till its nine-thirty opening.

  I bought a pair of slacks, three sport shirts, a belt, some underwear, and a pair of shoes that fit. I also picked up a handkerchief, a wallet, and pocket comb.

  Then I found a Greyhound station and boarded a bus for New York. No one tried to stop me. No one seemed to be looking for me.

  Sitting there, watching the countryside all autumn-colored and tickled by brisk winds beneath a bright, cold sky, I reviewed everything I knew about myself and my circumstances.

  I had been registered at Greenwood as Carl Corey by my sister Evelyn Flaumel. This had been subsequent to an auto accident some fifteen or so days past, in which I had suffered broken bones which no longer troubled me. I didn’t remember Sister Evelyn. The Greenwood people had been instructed to keep me passive, were afraid of the law when I got loose and threatened them with it. Okay. Someone was afraid of me, for some reason. I’d play it for all it was worth.

  I forced my mind back to the accident, dwelled upon it till my head hurt. It was no accident. I had that impression, though I didn’t know why. I would find out, and someone would pay. Very, very much would they pay. An anger, a terrible one, flared within the middle of my body. Anyone who tried to hurt me, to use me, did so at his own peril and now he would receive his due, whoever he was, this one. I felt a strong desire to kill, to destroy whoever had been responsible, and I knew that it was not the first time in my life that I had felt this thing, and I knew, too, that I had followed through on it in the past. More than once.

  I stared out the window, watching the dead leaves fall.

  When I hit the Big City, the first thing I did was to get a shave and haircut in the nearest clip joint, and the second was to change my shirt and undershirt in the men’s room, because I can’t stand hair down my back. The .32 automatic, belonging to the nameless individual at Greenwood, was in my right-hand jacket pocket. I suppose that if Greenwood or my sister wanted me picked up in a hurry, a Sullivan violation would come in handy. But I decided to hang onto it. They’d have to find me first, and I wanted a reason. I ate a quick lunch, rode subways and buses for an hour, then got a cab to take me out to the Westchester address of Evelyn, my nominal sister and hopeful jogger of memories.

  Before I arrived, I’d already decided on the tack I’d take.

  So, when the door to the huge old place opened in response to my knock, after about a thirty-second wait, I knew what I was going to say. I had thought about it as I’d walked up the long, winding, white gravel driveway, between the dark oaks and the bright maples, leaves crunching beneath my feet, and the wind cold on my fresh-scraped neck within the raised collar of my jacket. The smell of my hair tonic mingled with a musty odor from the ropes of ivy that crowded all over the walls of that old, brick place. There was no sense of familiarity. I didn’t think I had ever been here before.

  I had knocked, and there had come an echo.

  Then I’d jammed my hands into my pockets and waited.

  When the door opened, I had smiled and nodded toward the mole-flecked maid with a swarthy complexion and a Puerto Rican accent.

  “Yes?” she said,

  “I’d like to see Mrs. Evelyn Flaumel, please.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Her brother Carl.”

  “Oh come in please,” she told me.

  I entered a hallway, the floor a mosaic of tiny salmon and turquoise tiles, the wall mahogany, a trough of big-leafed green things occupying a room divider to my left. From overhead, a cube of glass and enamel threw down a yellow light.

  The gal departed, and I sought around me for something familiar.

  Nothing.

  So I waited.

  Presently, the maid returned, smiled, nodded, and said, “Please follow me. She will see you in the library.”

  I followed, up three stairs and down a corridor past two closed doors, The third one to my left was open, and the maid indicated I should enter it. I did so, then paused on the threshold.

  Like all libraries, it was full of books. It also held three paintings, two indicating quiet landscapes and one a peaceful seascape. The floor was heavily carpeted in green. There was a big globe beside the big desk with Africa facing me and a wall-to-wall window behind it, eight stepladders of glass. But none of these was the reason I’d paused.

  The woman behind the desk wore a wide-collared, V-necked dress of blue-green, had long hair and low bangs, all of a cross between sunset clouds and the outer edge of a candle flame in an otherwise dark room, and natural, I somehow knew, and her eyes behind glasses I didn’t think she needed were as blue as Lake Erie at three o’clock on a cloudless summer afternoon; and the color of her compressed smile matched her hair. But none of these was the reason I’d paused.

  I knew her, from somewhere, though I couldn’t say where.

  I advanced, holding my own smile.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Sit down,” said she, “please,” indica
ting a high-backed, big-armed chair that bulged and was orange, of the kind just tilted at the angle in which I loved to loaf.

  I did so, and she studied me.

  “Glad to see you’re up and around again.”

  “Me, too. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine, thank you. I must say I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I know,” I fibbed, “but here I am, to thank you for your sisterly kindness and care.” I let a slight note of irony sound within the sentence just to observe her response.

  At that point an enormous dog entered the room–an Irish wolfhound–and it curled up in front of the desk. Another followed and circled the globe twice before lying down.

  “Well,” said she, returning the irony, “it was the least I could do for you. You should drive more carefully.”

  “In the future,” I said, “I’ll take greater precautions, I promise.” I didn’t now what sort of game I was playing, but since she didn’t know that I didn’t know, I’d decided to take her for all the information I could. “I figured you would be curious as to the shape I was in, so I came to let you see.”

  “I was, ....am,” she replied. “Have you eaten?”

  “A light lunch, several hours ago.” I said.

  So she rang up the maid and ordered food. Then “I thought you might take it upon yourself to leave Greenwood,” she said, “when you were able, I didn’t think it would be so soon, though, and I didn’t think you’d come here.”

  “I know,” I said, “that’s why I did.”

  She offered me a cigarette and I took it, lit hers, lit mine.

  “You always were unpredictable,” she finally told me. “While this has helped you often in the past, however, I wouldn’t count on it now.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “The stakes are far too high for a bluff, and I think that’s what you’re trying, walking in here like this. I’ve always admired your courage, Corwin, but don’t be a fool. You know the score.”

  Corwin? File it away, under “Corey.”

  “Maybe I don’t,” I said. “I’ve been asleep for a while, remember?”

  “You mean you haven’t been in touch?”

  “Haven’t had a chance, since I woke up.”

  She leaned her head to one side and narrowed her wonderful eyes.

  “Rash,” she said, “but possible. Just possible. You might mean it. You might. I’ll pretend that you do, for now. In that case, you may have done a smart safe thing. Let me think about it.”

  I drew on my cigarette, hoping she’d say something more. But she didn’t, so I decided to seize what seemed the advantage I’d obtained in this game I didn’t understand with players I didn’t know for stakes I had no inkling of.

  “The fact that I’m here indicates something,” I said.

  “Yes,” she replied, “I know. But you’re smart, so it could indicate more than one thing. We’ll wait and see.”

  Wait for what? See what? Thing?

  Steaks then arrived and a pitcher of beer, so I was temporarily freed from the necessity of making cryptic and general statements for her to ponder as subtle or cagey. Mine was a good steak, pink inside and full of juice, and I tore at the fresh tough-crested bread with my teeth and gulped the beer with a great hunger and a thirst. She laughed as she watched me, while cutting off tiny pieces of her own.

  “I love the gusto with which you assail life, Corwin. It’s one of the reasons I’d hate to see you part company with it.”

  “Me, too,” I muttered.

  And while I ate, I pondered her. I saw her in a low-cut gown, green as the green of the sea, with full skirts. There was music, dancing, voices behind us. I wore black and silver and . . . The vision faded. But it was a true piece of my memory, I knew; and inwardly I cursed that I lacked it in its entirety. What had she been saying, in her green, to me in my black and silver, that night, behind the music, the dancing and the voices?

  I poured us more beer from the pitcher and decided to test the vision.

  “I remember one night,” I said, “when you were all in green and I in my colors. How lovely things seemed–and the music...”

  Her face grew slightly wistful, the cheeks smoothing.

  “Yes,” she said. “Were not those the days? . . . You really have not been in touch?”

  “Word of honor,” I said, for whatever that was worth.

  “Things have grown far worse,” she said, “and the Shadows contain more horrors than any had thought . . .”

  “And. . .?” I inquired.

  “He still has his troubles,” she finished,

  “Oh.”

  “Yes,” she went on, “and he’ll want to know where you stand.”

  “Right here,” I said,

  “You mean. . .”

  “For now,” I told her, perhaps too quickly, for her eyes had widened too much, “since I still don’t know the full state of affairs,” whatever that meant.

  “Oh.”

  And we finished our steaks and the beer, giving the two bones to the dogs.

  We sipped some coffee afterward, and I came to feel a bit brotherly but suppressed it. I asked, “What of the others?” which could mean anything, but sounded safe.

  I was afraid for a moment that she was going to ask me what I meant. Instead, though, she leaned back in her chair, stared at the ceiling, and said, “As always, no one new has been heard from. Perhaps yours was the wisest way. I’m enjoying it myself. But how can one forget–the glory?”

  I lowered my eyes, because I wasn’t sure what they should contain. “One can’t,” I said. “One never can.”

  There followed a long, uncomfortable silence, after which she said: “Do you hate me?”

  “Of course not,” I replied. “How could I–all things considered?”

  This seemed to please her, and she showed her teeth, which were very white.

  “Good, and thank you,” she said. “Whatever else, you’re a gentleman.”

  I bowed and smirked.

  “You’ll turn my head.”

  “Hardly,” she said, “all things considered.”

  And I felt uncomfortable.

  My anger was there, and I wondered whether she knew who it was that I needed to stay it. I felt that she did. I fought with the desire to ask it outright, suppressed it.

  “Well, what do you propose doing?” she finally asked, and being on the spot I replied, “Of course, you don’t trust me. . .”

  “How could we?”

  I determined to remember that we.

  “Well, then. For the time being. I’m willing to place myself under your surveillance. I’ll be glad to stay right here, where you can keep an eye on me.”

  “And afterward?”

  “Afterward? We’ll see.”

  “Clever,” she said, “very clever. And you place me in an awkward position.” (I had said it because I didn’t have any place else to go. and my blackmail money wouldn’t last me too long.) “Yes, of course you may stay. But let me warn you"–and here she fingered what I had thought to be some sort of pendant on a chain about her neck–"this is an ultrasonic dog whistle. Donner and Blitzen here have four brothers, and they’re all trained to take care of nasty people and they all respond to my whistle. So don’t start to walk toward any place where you won’t be desired. A toot or two and even you will go down before them. Their kind is the reason there are no wolves left in Ireland. you know.”

  “I know,” I said, realizing that I did.

  “Yes.” she continued, “Eric will like it that you are my guest. It should cause him to leave you alone, which is what you want, n’est-ce-pas?"

  “Oui.” I said.

  Eric! It meant something! I had known an Eric, and it had been very important, somehow. that I did. Not recently. But the Eric I had known was still around, and that was important.

  Why?

  I hated him, that was one reason. Hated him enough to have contemplated killing him. Perhaps I’d even tried.<
br />
  Also, there was some bond between us, I knew.

  Kinship?

  Yes, that was it. Neither of us liked it being brothers.

  ....I remembered, I remembered....

  Big, powerful Eric, with his wet curly beard, and his eyes—just like Evelyn’s!

  I was racked with a new surge of memory, as my temples began to throb and the back of my neck was suddenly warm.

  I didn’t let any of it show on my face, but forced myself to take another drag on my cigarette, another sip of beer, as I realized that Evelyn was indeed my sister! Only Evelyn wasn’t her name. I couldn’t think of what it was, but it wasn’t Evelyn. I’d be careful, I resolved. I’d not use any name at all when addressing her, until I remembered.

  And what of me? And what was it that was going on around me?

  Eric, I suddenly felt, had had some connection with my accident. It should have been a fatal one, only I’d pulled through. He was the one, wasn’t he? Yes, my feelings replied. It had to be Eric. And Evelyn was working with him, paying Greenwood to keep me in a coma. Better than being dead, but....

  I realized that I had just somehow delivered myself into Eric’s hands by coming to Evelyn, and I would be his prisoner, would be open to new attack, if I stayed.

  But she had suggested that my being her guest would cause him to leave me alone. I wondered. I couldn’t take anything at face value. I’d have to be constantly on my guard. Perhaps it would be better if I just went away, let my memories return gradually.

  But there was this terrible sense of urgency. I had to find out the full story as soon as possible and act as soon as I knew it. It lay like a compulsion upon me. If danger was the price of memory and risk the cost of opportunity, then so be it. I’d stay.

  “And I remember,” Evelyn said, and I realized that she had been talking for a while and I hadn’t even been listening. Perhaps it was because of the reflective quality of her words, not really requiring any sort of response—and because of the urgency of my thoughts.

  “And I remember the day you beat Julian at his favorite game and he threw a glass of wine at you and cursed you. But you took the prize. And he was suddenly afraid he had gone too far. But you laughed then, though, and drank a glass with him. I think he felt badly over that show of temper, normally being so cool, and I think he was envious of you that day. Do you recall? I think he has, to a certain extent, imitated many of your ways since then. But I still hate him and hope that he goes down shortly. I feel he will....”