The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  “He gave me his word that should he ever come into power here in Amber, I would not be forgotten.”

  “A little risky,” I said. “After all, that would still leave you with something on him—knowledge of the whereabouts of a rival claimant, and of his part in putting him there.”

  “True. But things sort of balanced out, and I would have to admit having become an accomplice in order to talk about it.”

  I nodded.

  “Tight, but not impossible,” I agreed. “But did you think he would let me continue living if he ever did get a chance at the throne?”

  “That was never discussed. Never.”

  “It must have crossed your mind, though.”

  “Yes, later,” she said, “and I decided that he would probably do nothing. After all, it was beginning to seem likely that you had been deprived of your memory. There was no reason to do anything to you so long as you were harmless.”

  “So you stayed on to watch me, to see that I remained harmless?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would you have done had I shown signs of recovering my memory?”

  She looked at me, then looked away.

  “I would have reported it to Eric.”

  “And what would he have done then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I laughed a little, and she blushed. I could not remember the last time I had seen Flora blush.

  “I will not belabor the obvious,” I said. “All right, you stayed on, you watched me. What next? What happened?”

  “Nothing special. You just went on leading your life and I went on keeping track of it.”

  “All of the others knew where you were?”

  “Yes. I’d make no secret of my whereabouts. In fact, all of them came around to visit me at one time or another.”

  “That includes Random?”

  She curled her lip.

  “Yes, several times,” she said.

  “Why the sneer?”

  “It is too late to start pretending I like him,” she said. “You know. I just don’t like the people he associates with—assorted criminals, jazz musicians . . . I had to show him family courtesy when he was visiting my shadow, but he put a big strain on my nerves, bringing those people around at all hours—jam sessions, poker parties. The place usually reeked for weeks afterward and I was always glad to see him go. Sorry. I know you like him, but you wanted the truth.”

  “He offended your delicate sensibilities. Okay. I now direct your attention to the brief time when I was your guest. Random joined us rather abruptly. Pursuing him were half a dozen nasty fellows whom we dispatched in your living room.”

  “I recall the event quite vividly.”

  “Do you recall the guys responsible—the creatures we had to deal with?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sufficiently well to recognize one if you ever saw another?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Had you ever seen one before?”

  “No.”

  “Since?”

  “No.”

  “Had you ever heard them described anywhere?”

  “Not that I can remember. Why?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not yet. This is my inquisition, remember? Now I want you to think back for a time before that evening. Back to the event that put me in Greenwood. Maybe even a little earlier. What happened, and how did you find out about it? What were the circumstances? What was your part in things?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I knew you would ask me that sooner or later. What happened was that Eric contacted me the day after it occurred—from Amber, via my Trump.”

  She glanced at me again, obviously to see how I was taking it, to study my reactions. I remained expressionless.

  “He told me you had been in a bad accident the previous evening, and that you were hospitalized. He told me to have you transferred to a private place, one where I could have more say as to the course of your treatment.”

  “In other words, he wanted me to stay a vegetable.”

  “He wanted them to keep you sedated.”

  “Did he or did he not admit to being responsible for the accident?”

  “He did not say that he had had someone shoot out your tire, but he did know that that was what had happened. How else could he have known? When I learned later that he was planning to take the throne, I assumed that he had finally decided it was best to remove you entirely. When the attempt failed, it seemed logical that he would do the next most effective thing: see that you were kept out of the way until after the coronation.”

  “I was not aware that the tire had been shot out,” I said.

  Her face changed. She recovered.

  “You told me that you knew it was not an accident—that someone had tried to kill you. I assumed you were aware of the specifics.”

  I was treading on slightly mucky ground again for the first time in a long while. I still had a bit of amnesia, and I had decided I probably always would. My memories of the few days prior to the accident were still spotty. The Pattern had restored the lost memories of my entire life up until then, but the trauma appeared to have destroyed recollection of some of the events immediately preceding it. Not an uncommon occurrence. Organic damage rather than simple functional distress, most likely. I was happy enough to have all the rest back, so those did not seem especially lamentable. As to the accident itself, and my feelings that it had been more than an accident, I did recall the gunshots. There had been two of them. I might even have glimpsed the figure with the rifle—fleetingly, too late. Or maybe that was pure fantasy. It seemed that I had, though. I had had something like that in mind when I had headed out for Westchester. Even at this late time. though, when I held the power in Amber, I was loath to admit this single deficiency. I had faked my way with Flora before with a lot less to go on. I decided to stick with a winning combination.

  “I was in no position to get out and see what had been hit,” I said. “I heard the shots. I lost control. I had assumed that it was a tire, but I never knew for sure. The only reason I raised the question was because I was curious as to how you knew it was a tire.”

  “I already told you that Eric told me about it.”

  “It was the way that you said it that bothered me. You made it sound as if you already knew all the details before he contacted you.”

  She shook her head.

  “Then pardon my syntax,” she said. “That sometimes happens when you look at things after the fact. I am going to have to deny what you are implying. I had nothing to do with it and I had no prior knowledge that it had occurred.”

  “Since Eric is no longer around to confirm or deny anything, we will simply have to let it go,” I said, “for now,” and I said it to make her look even harder to her defense, to direct her attention away from any possible slip, either in word or expression, from which she might infer the small flaw which still existed in my memory.

  “Did you later become aware of the identity of the person with the gun?” I asked.

  “Never,” she said. “Most likely some hired thug. I don’t know.”

  “Have you any idea how long I was unconscious before someone found me, took me to a hospital?”

  She shook her head again.

  Something was bothering me and I could not quite put my finger on it.

  “Did Eric say what time I had been taken into the hospital?”

  “No.”

  “When I was with you, why did you try walking back to Amber rather than using Eric’s Trump?”

  “I couldn’t raise him.”

  “You could have called someone else to bring you through,” I said. “Flora, I think you are lying to me.”

  It was really only a test, to observe her reaction. Why not?

  “About what?” she asked. “I couldn’t raise anyone else. They were all otherwise occupied. Is that what you mean?”

  She studied me.

  I raised my arm and pointed at her and the lightning
flashed at my back, just outside the window. I felt a tingle, a mild jolt. The thunderclap was also impressive. “You sin by omission,” I tried.

  She covered her face with her hands and began to weep.

  “I don’t know what you mean!” she said. “I answered all your questions! What do you want? I don’t know where you were going or who shot at you or what time it occurred! I just know the facts I’ve given you, damn it!”

  She was either sincere or unbreakable by these means, I decided. Whichever, I was wasting my time and could get nothing more this way. Also, I had better switch us away from the accident before she began thinking too much about its importance to me. If there was something there that I was missing, I wanted to find it first.

  “Come with me,” I said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I have something I want you to identify. I will tell you why after you see it.”

  She rose and followed me. I took her up the hall to see the body before I gave her the story on Caine. She regarded the corpse quite dispassionately. She nodded.

  “Yes,” she said, and, “Even if I did not know it I would be glad to say that I did, for you.”

  I grunted a noncommittal. Family loyalty always touches me, somewhere. I could not tell whether she believed what I had said about Caine. But things sort of equal to equal things sort of being equal to each other. it didn’t much seem to matter. I did not tell her anything about Brand and she did not seem to possess any new information concerning him. Her only other comment when everything I’d had to say was said, was, “You wear the jewel well. What about the headpiece?”

  “It is too soon to talk of such things,” I told her.

  “Whatever my support may be worth . . .”

  “I know,” I said. “I know.”

  My tomb is a quiet place. It stands alone in a rocky declivity, shielded on three sides against the elements, surrounded by transported soil wherein a pair of scrubby trees, miscellaneous shrubs, weeds, and great ropes of mountain ivy are rooted, about two miles down, in back of the crest of Kolvir. It is a long, low building with two benches in front, and the ivy has contrived to cover it to a great extent, mercifully masking most of a bombastic statement graven on its face beneath my name. It is, understandably, vacant most of the time.

  That evening, however, Ganelon and I repaired thither, accompanied by a good supply of wine and some loaves and cold cuts.

  “You weren’t joking!” he said, having dismounted, crossed over, and parted the ivy, able to read by the moon’s light the words that were rendered there.

  “Of course not,” I said, climbing down and taking charge of the horses. “It’s mine all right.”

  Tethering our mounts to a nearby shrub, I unslung our bags of provisions and carried them to the nearest bench. Ganelon joined me as I opened the first bottle and poured us a dark, deep pair.

  “I still don’t understand,” he said, accepting his.

  “What’s there to understand? I’m dead and buried there,” I said. “It’s my cenotaph, is what it is—the monument that gets set up when the body has not been recovered. I only just learned about mine recently. It was raised several centuries ago, when it was decided I wasn’t coming back.”

  “Kind of spooky,” he said. “What’s inside then?”

  “Nothing. Though they did thoughtfully provide a niche and a casket, just in case my remains put in an appearance. You cover both bets that way.”

  Ganelon made himself a sandwich.

  “Whose idea was it?” he asked.

  “Random thinks it was Brand’s or Eric’s. No one remembers for sure. They all seemed to feel it was a good idea at the time.”

  He chuckled, an evil noise that perfectly suited his creased, scarred, and red-bearded self.

  “What’s to become of it now?”

  I shrugged.

  “I suppose some of them think it’s a shame to waste it this way and would like to see me fill it. In the meantime, though, it’s a good place to come and get drunk. I hadn’t really paid my respects yet. “

  I put together a pair of sandwiches and ate them both. This was the first real breather I had had since my return, and perhaps the last for some time to come. It was impossible to say. But I had not really had a chance to speak with Ganelon at any length during the past week, and he was one of the few persons I trusted. I wanted to tell him everything. I had to. I had to talk with someone who was not a part of it in the same way as the rest of us. So I did.

  The moon moved a considerable distance and the shards of broken glass multiplied within my crypt.

  “So how did the others take it?” he asked me.

  “Predictably,” I answered. “I could tell that Julian did not believe a word of it even though he said that he did. He knows how I feel about him, and he is in no position to challenge me. I don’t think Benedict believes me either, but he is a lot harder to read. He is biding his time, and I hope giving me the benefit of the doubt while he is about it. As for Gerard, I have the feeling that this was the final weight, and whatever trust he had left for me has just collapsed. Still, he will be returning to Amber early tomorrow, to accompany me to the grove to recover Caine’s body. No sense in turning it into a safari, but I did want another family member present. Deirdre now—she seemed happy about it. Didn’t believe a word. I’m sure. But no matter. She has always been on my side, and she has never liked Caine. I’d say she is glad that I seem to be consolidating my position. I can’t really tell whether Llewella believed me or not. She doesn’t much give a damn what the rest of us do to one another, so far as I can see. As to Fiona, she simply seemed amused at the whole business. But then, she has always had this detached, superior way of regarding things. You can never be certain what represents her real thinking.”

  “Did you tell them the business about Brand yet?”

  “No. I told them about Caine and I told them I wanted them all to be in Amber by tomorrow evening. That is when the subject of Brand will be raised. I’ve an idea I want to try out.”

  “You contacted all of them by means of the Trumps?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There is something I have been meaning to ask you about that. Back on the shadow world we visited to obtain the weapons, there are telephones . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I learned about wiretaps and such while we were there. Is it possible, do you think, that the Trumps could be bugged?”

  I began to laugh, then caught myself as some of the implications of his suggestion sank in. Finally, “I don’t really know,” I said. “So much concerning Dworkin’s work remains a mystery—the thought just never occurred to me. I’ve never tried it myself. I wonder, though . . .”

  “Do you know how many sets there are?”

  “Well, everyone in the family has a pack or two and there were a dozen or so spares in the library. I don’t really know whether there are any others.”

  “It seems to me that a lot could be learned just by listening in.”

  “Yes. Dad’s deck. Brand’s, my original pack, the one Random lost—Hell! There are quite a number unaccounted for these days. I don’t know what to do about it. Start an inventory and try some experiments, I guess. Thanks for mentioning it.”

  He nodded and we both sipped for a while in silence.

  Then, “What are you going to do, Corwin?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  “About everything. What do we attack now, and in what order?”

  “My original intention was to begin tracing the black road toward its origin as soon as things were more settled here in Amber,” I said. “Now, though, I have shifted my priorities. I want Brand returned as soon as possible, if he is still living. If not, I want to find out what happened to him.”

  “But will the enemy give you the breathing time? He might be preparing a new offensive right now.”

  “Yes, of course. I have considered that. I feel we have some time, since they were defeated so recentl
y. They will have to pull themselves together again, beef up their forces, reassess the situation in light of our new weapons. What I have in mind for the moment is to establish a series of lookout stations along the road to give us advance warning of any new movements on their part. Benedict has already agreed to take charge of the operation.”

  “I wonder how much time we have.”

  I poured him another drink, as it was the only answer I could think of.

  “Things were never this complicated back in Avalon—our Avalon, I mean.”

  “True,” I said. “You are not the only one who misses those days. At least, they seem simpler now.”

  He nodded. I offered him a cigarette, but he declined in favor of his pipe. In the flamelight, he studied the Jewel of Judgment which still hung about my neck.

  “You say you can really control the weather with that thing?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve tried it. It works.”

  “What did you do?”

  “That storm this afternoon. It was mine.”

  “I wonder. . .”

  “What?”

  “I wonder what I would have done with that sort of power. What I would do with it.”

  “The first thing that crossed my mind,” I said, slapping the wall of my tomb, "was to destroy this place by lightning-strike it repeatedly and reduce it to rubble. Leave no doubt in anyone’s mind as to my feelings, my power.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Got to thinking about it a bit more then. Decided—Hell! They might really have a use for the place before too long, if I’m not smart enough or tough enough or lucky enough. Such being the case, I tried to decide where I would like them to dump my bones. It caught me then that this is really a pretty good spot—up high, clean, where the elements still walk naked. Nothing in sight but rock and sky. Stars, clouds, sun, moon, wind, rain . . . better company than a lot of other stiffs. Don’t know why I should have to lie beside anyone I wouldn’t want next to me now, and there aren’t many.”

  “You’re getting morbid, Corwin. Or drunk. Or both. Bitter, too. You don’t need that.”

  “Who the hell are you to say what I need?”