The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10

by Roger Zelazny

  He gave a brief laugh.

  “There’re a lot of things you don’t know about me, brother.”

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  Then he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and I noted that the finger he’d lost in the caves of Kolvir was back in place. Either this was the Jurt of a different time line or—

  “So how’s Julia?” I asked him. “Is she going to be all right?”

  “Julia?” he said. “Who’s that?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “You’re the wrong Jurt.”

  “Now what else does that mean?” he asked, propping himself on an elbow and glaring at me with his good eye.

  “The real Jurt was never anywhere near the Pattern of Amber—”

  “I am the real Jurt!”

  “You’ve got all your fingers. He lost one very recently. I was there.”

  He looked away suddenly.

  “You must be a Logrus-ghost,” I continued. “It must pull the same stunt the Pattern does—recording those who make it through it.”

  “Is that . . . what happened?” he asked. “I couldn’t quite recall . . . why I was here—except to race with you.”

  “I’ll bet your most recent memories before this place involve negotiating the Logrus.”

  He looked back. He nodded.

  “You’re right. What does it all mean?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’ve got some ideas about it. This place is a kind of eternal underside to Shadow. It’s damn near off limits for both the Pattern and the Logrus. But both can apparently penetrate here by means of their ghosts—artificial constructs from the recordings they made of us back when we passed through them—”

  “You mean that all I am is some sort of recording?” He looked as if he were about to cry. “Everything seemed so glorious just a little while ago. I’d made it through the Logrus. All of Shadow lay at my feet.” He massaged his temples. Then, “You!” he spat. “I was somehow brought here because of you—to compete with you, to show you up in this race.”

  “You did a pretty good job, too. I didn’t know you could run like that.”

  “I started practicing when I learned you were doing it in college. Wanted to get good enough to take you on.”

  “You got good,” I acknowledged.

  “But I wouldn’t be in this damned place if it weren’t for you. Or—” He gnawed his lip. “That’s not exactly right, is it?” he asked. “I wouldn’t be anywhere. I’m just a recording. . . . ” Then he stared directly at me. “How long do we last?” he said. “How long is a Logrus-ghost good for?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I said, “what goes into creating one or how it’s maintained. But I’ve met a number of Pattern-ghosts, and they gave me the impression that my blood would somehow sustain them, give them some sort of autonomy, some independence of the Pattern. Only one of them—Brand—got the fire instead of the blood, and it dissolved. Deirdre got the blood but was taken away then. I don’t know whether she got enough.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ve a feeling—I don’t know where it comes from—that something like that would work for me, too, and that it’s blood for the Pattern, fire for the Logrus.”

  “I don’t know how to tell in what regions my blood is volatile,” I said.

  “It’d flame here,” he answered. “Depends on who’s is control. I just seem to know it. I don’t know how.”

  “Then why did Brand show up in Logrus territory?” He grinned.

  “Maybe the Pattern sought to use a traitor for some sort of subversion. Or maybe Brand was trying to pull something on his own—like double-crossing the Pattern.”

  “That would be in character,” I agreed, my breath finally slowing.

  I whipped the Chaos blade out of my boot, slashed my left forearm, saw that it spouted fire, and held it toward him.

  “Quick! Take it if you can!” I cried. “Before the Logrus calls you back!”

  He seized my arm and seemed almost to inhale the fire that fountained from me. Looking down, I saw his feet become transparent, then his legs. The Logrus seemed anxious to reclaim him, just as the Pattern had Deirdre. I saw the fiery swirls begin within the haze that had been his legs. Then, suddenly, they flickered out, and the outline of those limbs became visible once again. He continued to draw my volatile blood from me, though I could no longer see flames as he was drinking now as Deirdre had, directly from the wound. His legs began to solidify.

  “You seem to be stabilizing,” I said. “Take more.”

  Something struck me in the right kidney, and I jerked away, turning as I fell. A tall dark man stood beside me, withdrawing his boot from having kicked me. He had on green trousers and a black shirt, a green bandanna tied about his head.

  “Now what perverse carrying-on is this?” he asked. “And in a sacred spot?”

  I rolled to my knees and continued on up to my feet, my right arm bending, its wrist turning over, coming in to hold the dagger beside my hip. I raised my left arm, extended it before me. Blood rather than fire now fell from my latest wound.

  “None of your damn business,” I said, then added his name, having grown certain on the way up, “Caine.”

  He smiled and bowed, and his hands crossed and came apart. They’d been empty going in, but the right one held a dagger coming out. It must have come from a sheath strapped to his left forearm, inside the billowy sleeve. He had to have practiced the move a lot, too, to be that fast at it. I tried to remember things I’d heard about Caine and knives, and then I did and wished I hadn’t. He was supposed to have been a master knife fighter. Shit.

  “You have the advantage of me,” he stated. “You took very familiar, but I do not believe I know you.”

  “Merlin,” I said. “Corwin’s son.”

  He had begun circling me slowly, but he halted. “Excuse me if I find that difficult to believe.”

  “Believe as you wish. It is true.”

  “And this other one—his name is Jurt, isn’t it?”

  He gestured toward my brother, who had just gotten to his feet.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  He halted, furrowing his brow, narrowing his eyes. “I—I’m not certain,” he said then.

  “I am,” I told him. “Try to remember where you are and how you got here.”

  He backed away, two paces. Then he cried, “He’s the one!” just as I saw it coming and shouted, “Jurt! Watch out!”

  Jurt turned and bolted. I threw the dagger—always a bad thing to do, save that I was wearing a sword with which I could reach Caine before Caine could reach me now.

  Jurt’s speed was still with him, and he was out of range in an instant. The dagger, surprisingly, struck at the side of Caine’s right shoulder point first, penetrating perhaps an inch or so into muscle. Then, even before he could turn back toward me, his body erupted in a dozen directions, emitting a series of vortices which sucked away all semblance of humanity in an instant, producing high-pitched whistling sounds as they orbited one another, two of them merging into a larger entity, which quickly absorbed the others then, its sound falling lower with each such acquisition. Finally there was but the one. For a moment it swayed toward me, then shot skyward and blew apart. The dagger was blown back in my direction, landing a pace to my right. When I recovered it, I found it to be warm, and it hummed faintly for several seconds before I sheathed it in my boot.

  “What happened?” Jurt asked, turning back, approaching.

  “Apparently Pattern-ghosts react violently to weapons from the Courts,” I said.

  “Good thing you had it handy. But why did he turn on me like that?”

  “I believe that the Pattern sent him to stop you from gaining autonomy—or to destroy you if you already had. I’ve a feeling it doesn’t want agents of the other side gaining strength and stability in this place.”

  “But I’m no threat. I’m not on anybody’s side but my own. I just want to get the hell out of here and be about
my own business.”

  “Perhaps that of itself constitutes a threat.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  “Who knows what your unusual background may fit you for as an independent agent—in light of what’s going on? You may disturb the balance of the Powers. You may possess or have access to information which the principals do not wish to see bruited about the streets. You may be like the gipsy moth. Nobody could see what its effect on the environment would be when it escaped from the lab. You may—”

  “Enough!” He raised a hand to silence me. “I don’t care about any of those things. If they let me go and leave me alone, I’ll stay out of their way.”

  “I’m not the one you have to convince,” I told him.

  He stared at me for a moment, then turned, describing a full circle. Darkness was all that I could see beyond the light of the roadway, but he called out in a large voice to anything, I suppose, “Do you hear me? I don’t want to be involved in all this. I just want to go away. Live and let live, you know? Is that okay with you?”

  I reached forward, caught hold of his wrist, and jerked him toward me. I did this because I had seen a small, ghostly replica of the Sign of the Logrus begin to take form in the air above his head. An instant later it fell, flashing like a lightning stroke, to the accompaniment of a sound like the cracking of a whip, passing through the space he had been occupying, opening a gap in the trail as it vanished.

  “I guess it’s not that easy to resign,” he said. He glanced overhead. “It could be readying another of those right now. It could strike again anytime, when I least expect it.”

  “Just like real life,” I agreed. “But I think you may take it as a warning shot and let it go at that. They have a hard time reaching here. More important, since I was led to believe that this is my quest, do you know offhand whether you’re supposed to be helping me or hindering me?”

  “Now that you mention it,” he said, “I remember suddenly being where I was with a chance to race you and feeling that we’d fight or something afterward.”

  “What’re your feelings on that now?”

  “We’ve never gotten along all that well. But I don’t like the idea of being used like this either.”

  “You willing to call a truce till I can see my way through this game and out of here?”

  “What’s in it for me?” he asked.

  “I will find a way out of this damned place, Jurt. Come along and give me a hand—or at least don’t get in the way—and I’ll take you with me when I go.”

  He laughed.

  “I’m not sure there is a way out of here,” he said, “unless the Powers release us.”

  “Then you’ve nothing to lose,” I told him, “and you’ll probably even get to see me die trying.”

  “Do you really know both kinds of magic—Pattern and Logrus?” he asked.

  “Yeah. But I’m a lot better at Logrus.”

  “Can you use either against its source?”

  “That’s a very intriguing metaphysical point, and I don’t know the answer,” I said, “and I’m not sure I’ll find out. It’s dangerous to invoke the Powers here. So all I’m left with is a few hung spells. I don’t think it’s magic that’ll get us out of here.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m not certain. I am sure that I won’t see the full picture till I get to the end of this trail, though.”

  “Well, hell—I don’t know. This doesn’t seem the healthiest place for me to spend my time. On the other hand, what if it’s the only place something like me can have an existence? What if you find me a door and I step through it and melt?”

  “If the Pattern-ghosts can manifest in Shadow, I’d guess you can, too. Those of Dworkin and Oberon came to me on the outside before I came to this place.”

  “That’s encouraging. Would you try it if it were you?”

  “You bet your life,” I said.

  He snorted.

  “I get the point. I’ll go a ways with you and see what happens. I’m not promising to help, but I won’t sabotage you.”

  I held out my hand, and he shook his head.

  “Let’s not get carried away,” he told me. “If my word’s no good without a handshake, it’s no good with one, is it?”

  “I guess not.”

  “And I’ve never had a great desire to shake hands with you.”

  “Sorry I asked,” I said. “Would you mind telling me why, though? I’ve always wondered.”

  He shrugged.

  “Why does there always have to be a reason?” he said.

  “The alternative is irrationality,” I replied.

  “Or privacy,” he responded, turning away.

  I commenced walking the trail once more. Shortly Jurt fell into step beside me. We walked for a long while in silence. One day I may learn when to keep my mouth shut or to quit when I’m ahead. Same thing.

  The trail ran straight for a time but seemed to vanish not too far ahead. When we neared the point of vanishment, I saw why: The trail curved behind a low prominence. We followed this turning and met with another, shortly thereafter. Soon we had entered upon a regular series of switchbacks, realizing quickly that they were mitigating a fairly steep descent. As we proceeded down this turning way, I suddenly became aware of a bright squiggle, hanging in the middle distance. Jurt raised his hand, pointing at it, and began, “What . . . ?” just as it became apparent that it was the continuation of our trail, rising. At this, an instant reorientation occurred, and I realized that we were descending into what seemed a massive pit. And the air seemed to have grown somewhat cooler.

  We continued our descent, and after a time something cold and moist touched the back of my right hand. I looked down in time to see a snowflake melting in the twilight glow which surrounded us. Moments later several more breezed by. A little after that we became aware of a larger brightness, far below.

  I don’t know what it is either, Frakir pulsed into my mind.

  Thanks, I thought strongly back at her, having decided against advising Jurt of her presence.

  Down. Down and around. Back. Back and forth. The temperature continued to decline. Snowflakes flitted. Arrays of rocks in the wall we now descended took on a bit of glitter.

  Oddly, I didn’t realize what it was until the first time I slipped.

  “Ice!” Jurt announced suddenly, half toppling and catching himself up against the stone.

  A distant sighing sound occurred, and it grew and grew, nearing us. It was not until it arrived, with a great buffeting gust, that we knew it to be a wind. And cold. It fled past like the breath of an ice age, and I raised my cloak against it. It followed us, softer thereafter, yet persistent, as we continued our descent.

  By the time we reached the bottom it was damn cold, and the steps were either fully frosted over or carved of ice. The wind blew a steady, mournful note, and flakes of snow or pellets of ice came and went.

  “Miserable climate!” Jurt growled, teeth chattering.

  “I didn’t think ghosts were susceptible to the mundane,” I said.

  “Ghost, hell” he observed. “I feel the same as I always did. You’d think whatever sent me fully dressed to cross your trail might at least have provided for this eventuality.

  “And this place isn’t that mundane,” he added. “They want us somewhere, you’d think they might have provided a shortcut. As it is, we’ll be damaged merchandise by the time we get there.”

  “I don’t really believe that either the Pattern or the Logrus has that much power in this place,” I told him. “I’d just as soon they stayed out of our way entirely.”

  Our trail led outward across a gleaming plain—so flat and so gleaming that I feared it to consist entirely of ice. Nor was I incorrect.

  “Looks slippery,” Jurt said. “I’m going to shapeshift my feet, make them broader.”

  “It’ll destroy your boots and leave you with cold feet,” I said. “Why not just shift some of your weight downward, lower your center of g
ravity?”

  “Always got an answer,” he began sullenly. Then, “But this time you’re right,” he finished.

  We stood there for several minutes as he grew shorter, more squat.

  “Aren’t you going to shift yourself?” he asked.

  “I’ll take my chances holding my center. I can move faster this way,” I said.

  “You can fall on your ass that way, too.”

  “We’ll see.”

  We started out. We held our balance. The winds were stronger away from the wall we had descended. The surface of our icy trail, however, was not so slick as it had appeared on distant inspection. There were small ripples and ridges to it, adequate to provide some traction. The air burned its way into my lungs; flakes were beaten into swirling snow devil towers which fled like eccentric tops across our way. It was a bluish glow which emanated from the trail, tinting those flakes which came within its ambit. We hiked for perhaps a quarter mile before a new series of ghostly images began. The first appeared to be myself, sprawled across a heap of armor back at the chapel; the second was Deirdre beneath a lamppost, looking at her watch.

  “What?” Jurt asked, as they came and went in a matter of instants.

  “I didn’t know the first time I saw them, and I still don’t know,” I answered, “though I thought you might be one of them when we first began our race. They come and go—at random, it would seem—with no special reason that I can figure.”

  The next was what appeared to be a dining room, a bowl of flowers on the table. There were no people in the room. There and gone—

  No. Not entirely. It went away, but the flowers remained, there on the surface of the ice. I halted, then walked out toward them.

  Merle, I don’t know about leaving the trail. . . .

  Oh, shit, I responded, moving toward a slab of ice which reminded me of the Stonehenge-like area back where I’d come aboard, incongruous flashes of color near its base.

  There were a number of them—roses of many sorts. I stooped and picked one up. Its color was almost silver. . . .

  “What are you doing here, dear boy?” I heard a familiar voice say.