He descended a well and emerged somehow upward onto a floor. Mad laughter rang about him, ceasing only when he realized it to be his own.
The sounds grew even louder, until it lefts as if he negotiated a gallery of demonic bells—wild, out of phase, their vibrations beating against him.
Thinking became painful. He knew that he must not stop, that he must not turn back, that he must not take any of the lesser turnings where the sounds came softer. Any of these courses would prove fatal. He reduced this to one
imperative: Continue.
Again, a pulsing at his wrist, and a faint, slow movement . . .
He gritted his teeth when he saw that he must climb once more, for her limbs had grown heavy. Each movement seemed as if it were performed underwater - slowly, requiring more than normal effort.
A screen of smoke offered frightening resistance. He drove himself against it for an age before he passed through and felt his movement become easy once again. Six times this occurred, and each time the pressure against him was greater.
When he crawled out, drooling and dripping blood, on the other side of the chamber from which he had entered, his eyes darted wildly and could not fix upon the small, dark figure which stood before him.
“You are a fool,” it told him.
It took some time for the words to register, and when they did he lacked the strength with which to reply.
“A lucky fool,” it went on, darkness flowing about it like wings. (Or were they really wings?) “I had not judged you ready to essay the Logrus for a long while yet.”
He closed his eyes against this speaker, and an image of the route he had followed danced within his mind’s seeing, like a bright, torn web folding in a breeze.
“ . . . And a fool not to have borne a blade and so enchanted it . . . or a mirror, a chalice, or a wand to brace your magic. No, all I see is a piece of rope. You should have waited, for more instruction, for greater strength; What
say you?”
He raised himself from the floor, and a mad light danced within his eyes.
“It was time,” he said. “I was ready.”
“And a cord! What a half-ass-luck!”
The cord, glowing now, tightened about his throat.
When the other released it, the dark one coughed and nodded.
“Perhaps you knew what you were doing—on that count . . . ” it muttered. “Is it really time? You will be leaving?”
“Yes.”
A dark cloak fell upon his shoulders. He heard the splash of water within a flask.
“Here.”
As he drank, the cord wrapped itself about his wrist and vanished.
“Thanks, Uncle.” he said, after several swallows.
The dark figure shook its head.
“Impulsive,” it said. “Just like your father.”
Roger Zelazny
The Trumps of Doom
The Second Amber Pentology - Merlin’s Story: Book 1
1
It is a pain in the ass waiting around for someone to try to kill you. But it was April 30, and of course it would happen as it always did. It had taken me a while to catch on, but now I at least knew when it was coming. In the past, I’d bin too busy to do anything about it. But my job was finished now. I’d only stayed around for this. I felt that I really ought to clear the matter up before I departed. I got out of bed, visited the bathroom, showered, brushed my teeth, et cetera. I’d grown a beard again, so I didn’t have to shave. I was not jangling with strange apprehensions, as I had been on that April 30 three years ago when I’d awakened with a headache and a premonition, thrown open the windows, and gone to the kitchen to discover all of the gas burners turned on and flameless. No. It wasn’t even like the April 30 two years ago in the other apartment when I awoke before dawn to a faint smell of smoke to learn that the place was on fire. Still, I stayed out of direct line of the light fixtures in case the bulbs were filled with something flammable, and I flipped all of the switches rather than pushing them. Nothing untoward followed these actions.
Usually, I set up the coffee maker the night before with a timer. This morning, though, I didn’t want coffee that had been produced out of my sight. I set a fresh pot going and checked my packing while I waited for it to brew. Everything I valued in this place resided in two medium-sized crates of clothing, books, paintings, some instruments, a few souvenirs, and so forth. I sealed the cases. A change of clothing, a sweatshirt, a good paperback, and a wad of traveler’s checks went into the backpack. I’d drop my key off at the manager’s on the way out, so he could let the movers in. The crates would go into storage.
No jogging for me this morning.
As I sipped my coffee, passing from window to window and pausing beside each for sidelong surveys of the streets below and the buildings across the way (last year’s attempt had been by someone with a rifle), I thought back to the first time it had happened, seven years ago. I had simply been walking down the street on a bright spring afternoon when an oncoming truck had swerved, jumped the curb, and nearly combined me with portions of a brick wall. I was able to dive out of the way and roll. The driver never regained consciousness. It had seemed one of those freak occurrences that occasionally invade the lives of us all.
The following year to the day, however, I was walking home from my lady friend’s place late in the evening when three men attacked me—one with a knife, the other two with lengths of pipe—without even the courtesy of first asking for my wallet.
I left the remains in the doorway of a nearby record store, and while I thought about it on the way home it did not strike me until the following day that it had been the anniversary of the truck crash. Even then, I dismissed it as an odd coincidence. The matter of the mail bomb that had destroyed half of another apartment the following year did cause me to begin wondering whether the statistical nature of reality might not be under a strain in my vicinity at that season. And the events of subsequent years served to turn this into a conviction.
Someone enjoyed trying to kill me once a year; it was as simple as that. The effort failing, there would be another year’s pause before an attempt was made again. It seemed almost a game.
But this year I wanted to play, too. My main concern was that he, she, or it seemed never to be present when the event occurred, favoring stealth and gimmicks or agents. I will refer to this person as S (which sometimes stands for “sneak” and sometimes for “shithead” in my private cosmology), because X has been overworked and because I do not like to screw around with pronouns with disputable antecedents.
I rinsed my coffee cup and the pot and set them in the rack. Then I picked up my bag and departed. Mr. Mulligan wasn’t in, or was sleeping, so I left my key in his mailbox before heading up the street to take my breakfast at a nearby diner.
Traffic was light, and all of the vehicles well behaved. I walked slowly, listening and looking. It was a pleasant morning, promising a beautiful day. I hoped to settle things quickly, so I could enjoy it at my leisure.
I reached the diner unmolested. I took a seat beside the window. Just as the waiter came to take my order I saw a familiar figure swinging along the street — a former classmate and later fellow employee Lucas Raynard: six feet tall, red-haired, handsome in spite, or perhaps because, of an artistically broken nose, with the voice and manner of the salesman he was.
I knocked on the window and he saw me, waved, turned and entered.
“Merle, I was right,” he said, coming up to the table, clasping my shoulder briefly, seating himself and taking the menu out of my hands.
“Missed you at your place and guessed you might be here.”
He lowered his eyes and began reading the menu.
“Why?” I asked.
“If’ you need more time to consider, I’ll come back,” the waiter said.
“No,” Luke answered and read off an enormous order.
I added my own.
Then: “Because you’re a creature of habit.”
&
nbsp; “Habit?” I replied. “I hardly eat here anymore.”
“I know,” he answered, “but you usually did when the pressure was on.
Like, right before exams—or if something was bothering you.”
“Hm,” I said: There did seem to be something to that, though I had never before realized it. I spun the ashtray with its imprint of a unicorn’s head, a smaller version of the stained-glass one that stood as part of a partition beside the doorway: “I can’t say why,” I finally stated. “Besides, what makes you think something’s bothering me?”
“I remembered that paranoid thing you have about April 30, because of a couple of accidents.”
“More than a couple. I never told you about all of them.”
“So you still believe it?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged. The waiter came by and filled our coffee cups.
“Okay,” he finally agreed. “Have you had it yet today?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I hope it doesn’t pall your thinking.”
I took a sip of coffee.
“No problem,” I told him.
“Good.” He sighed and stretched. “Listen, I just got back to town yesterday . . .”
“Have a good trip?”
“Set a new sales record.”
“Great.”
“Anyhow . . . I just learned when I checked in that you’d left.”
“Yeah. I quit about a month ago.”
“Miller’s been trying to reach you. But with your phone disconnected he couldn’t call. He even stopped by a couple of times, but you were out.”
“Too bad.”
“He wants you back.”
“I’m finished there.”
“Wait’ll you hear the proposition, huh? Brady gets kicked upstairs and you’re the new head of Design—for a twenty percent pay hike: That’s what he told me to tell you.”
I chuckled softly.
“Actually . . . it doesn’t sound bad at all. But, like I said, I’m finished.”
“Oh.” His eyes glistened as he gave me a sly smile. “You do have something lined up someplace else. He was wondering. Okay, if that’s the case he told me to tell you to bring him whatever the other guys offer. He’ll try like hell to top it.”
I shook my head.
“I guess I’ m not getting through,” I said: “I’ m finished. Period. I don’t want to go back. I’m not going to work for anyone else either. I’ m done with this sort of thing. I’ m `tired of computers.”
“But you’re really good. Say, you going to teach?”
“Nope.”
“Well, hell! You’ve got to do something. Did you come into some money?”
“No. I believe I’ll do some traveling. I’ve been in one place too long.”
He raised his coffee cup and drained it. Then he leaned back, clasped his hands across his stomach, and lowered his eyelids slightly: He was silent for a time.
Finally: “You said you were finished. Did you just mean the job and your life here, or something else as well?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“You had a way of disappearing back in college, too. You’d be gone for a while and then just as suddenly turn up again. You always were vague about it, too. Seemed like you were leading some sort of double life. That have anything to do with it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” He smiled.
“Sure you do,” he said. When I did not reply; he added: “Well, good luck with it—whatever.”
Always moving, seldom at rest, he fidgeted with a key ring while we had a second cup of coffee, bouncing and jangling keys and a blue stone pendant. Our breakfasts finally arrived and we ate is silence for a while.
Then he asked, “You still have the Starburst?”
“No. Sold her last fall,” I told him. “I’d been so busy I just didn’t have time to sail. Hated to see her idle.”
He nodded.
“`That’s too bad,” he said. “We had a lot of fun with her, back in school. Later, too. I’d have liked to take her out once more, for old times’ sake.”
“Yes.”
“Say, you haven’t seen Julia recently.”
“No, not since we broke up. I think she’s still going with some guy named Rick. Have you?”
“Yeah. I stopped by last night.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“She was one of the gang—and we’ve all been drifting apart.
“How was she?”
“Still looking good. She asked about you. Gave me this . . .to give to you, too.”
He withdrew a sealed envelope from inside his jacket and passed it to me. It bore my name, in her handwriting. I tore it open and read:
Merle, I was wrong: I know who you are and there is danger. I have to see you. I have something you will need. It is very important. Please call or come by as soon as you can.
Love, Julia
“Thanks,” I said, opening my pack and filing it.
It was puzzling as well as unsettling. In the extreme. I’d have to decide what to do about it later. I still liked her more than I cared to think about, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to see her again. But what did she mean about knowing who I am?
I pushed her out of my mind, again.
I watched the traffic for a time and drank coffee and thought about how I’d first met Luke, in our freshman year, in the Fencing Club. He was unbelievably good.
“Still fence?” I asked him.
“Sometimes. How about you?”
“Occasionally.”
“We never really did find out who was better.”
“No time now,” I said.
He chuckled and poked his knife at me a few times. “I guess not. When are you leaving?”
“Probably tomorrow. I’ m just cleaning up a few odds and ends. When that’s done I’ll go.”
“Where are you heading?”
“Here and there. Haven’t decided on everything yet.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Um-hm. Wanderjahr is what they used to call it. I missed out on mine and I want it now.”
“Actually it does sound pretty nice. Maybe I ought to try it myself sometime.”
“Maybe so. I thought you took your in installments, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t the only one who used to take off a lot.”
“Oh, that.” He dismissed it with the wave, of a hand. “That was business, not pleasure. Had to do some deals to pay the bills. You going to see your folks?”
Strange question. Neither of us had ever spoken of our parents before, except in the most general terms.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “How’re yours?”
He caught my gaze and held it, his chronic smile widening slightly.
“Hard to say,” he replied. “We’re kind of out of touch.”
I smiled, too.
“I know the feeling.”
We finished our food, had a final coffee. .
“So you won’t be talking to Miller?” he asked.
“No.”
He shrugged again. The check came by and he picked it up.
“This one’s on me,” he said. “After all, I’m working.”
“Thanks. Maybe I can get back at you for dinner. Where’re you staying?”
“Wait.” He reached into his shirt pocket, took out a matchbook, tossed it to me. “There. New Line Motel,” he said.
“Say I come by about six?”
“Okay.”
He settled up and we parted on the street.
“See you,” he said.
“Yeah.” Bye-bye, Luke Raynard. Strange man. We’d known each other for almost eight years. Had some good times. Competed in a number of sports.
Used to jog together almost every day We’d both been on the track team. Dated the same girls sometimes. I wondered about him again—strong, smart, and as private a person as myself. There was a bond between us, one that I did
n’t fully understand.
I walked back to my apartment’s parking lot and checked under my car’s hood and frame before I tossed my pack inside and started the engine. I drove slowly, looking at things that had been fresh and new eight years before, saying good-bye to them now. During the past week I had said it to all of the people who had mattered to me. Except for Julia.
It was one of those things I felt like putting off, but there was no time. It was either now or not at all, and my curiosity had been piqued. I pulled into a shopping mall’s lot and located a pay phone, but there was no answer when I rang her number. I supposed she could be working full-time on a dayshift again, but she could also be taking a shower or be out shopping. I decided to drive on over to her place and see. It wasn’t that far. And whatever it was that she had for me, picking it up would be a good excuse for seeing her this one last time.
I cruised the neighborhood for several minutes before I located a parking space. I locked the car, walked back to the corner, and turned right. The day had grown slightly warmer. Somewhere, dogs were barking.
I strolled on up the block to that huge Victorian house that had been converted into apartments. I couldn’t see her windows from the front. She was on the top floor, to the rear. I tried to suppress memories as I passed on up the front walk, but it was no good. Thoughts of our times together came rushing back along with a gang of old feelings. I halted . . . It was silly coming here. Why bother, for something I hadn’t even missed. Still . . .
Hell. I wanted to see her one more time. I wasn’t going to back out now. I mounted the steps and crossed the porch. The door was open a crack so I walked in.
Same foyer. Same tired-looking potted violet, dust on its leaves, on the chest before the gilt-framed mirror—the mirror that had reflected our embrace, slightly warped, many times. My face rippled as I went by.
I climbed the green-carpeted stairs. A dog began howling somewhere out back.
The first landing was unchanged. I walked the short hallway, past the drab etchings and the old end table, turned and mounted the second staircase. Halfway up I heard a scratching noise from overhead and a sound like a bottle or a vase rolling on a hardwood floor. Then silence again, save for a few gusts of wind about the eaves. A faint apprehension stirred within me and I quickened my pace. I halted at the head of the stairway and nothing looked to be out of order, but with my next inhalation a peculiar odor came to me. I couldn’t place it—sweat, must, damp dirt perhaps—certainly something organic.
The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10 Page 88