The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  “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 beer. 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 cro
ssed 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 high-level 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 Bower 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 re
peated, 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.”