The Chronicles of Amber

by Roger Zelazny

  So, “What is it that you want?” I asked.

  “Just to see it. Honestly,” she answered.

  “No, I mean that if you are what I think you really are, I’m asking the big question: Why?”

  Frakir began to pulse upon my wrist.

  Coral was silent for the space of an audible deep breath, then, “How could you tell?”

  “You betrayed yourself in small ways discernible only to one who has recently become paranoid,” I responded.

  “Magic,” she said. “Is that it?”

  “It’s about to be,” I replied. “I could almost miss you, but I can’t trust you.”

  I spoke the guide words to the spell, letting them draw my hands smoothly through the appropriate gestures. There followed two horrible shrieks, and then a third.

  But they weren’t hers. They came from around the corner in the passageway we had recently quitted.

  “What—?” she began.

  “—the hell!” I finished; and I rushed past her and rounded the corner, drawing my blade as I went.

  Backlighted by the distant cavemouth I beheld three figures on the floor of the cave. Two of them were sprawled and unmoving. The third was seated and bent forward, cursing. I advanced slowly, the point of my weapon directed toward the seated one. His shadowy head turned in my direction, and he climbed to his feet, still bent forward. He clutched his left hand with his right, and he backed away until he came into contact with the wall.

  He halted there, muttering something I could not quite hear. I continued my cautious advance, all of my senses alert. I could hear Coral moving at my back, then I glimpsed her accompanying me on my left when the passage widened. She had drawn her dagger, and she held it low and near to her hip. No time now to speculate as to what my spell might have done to her.

  I halted as I came to the first of the two fallen forms. I prodded it with the toe of my boot, ready to strike instantly should it spring into an attack. Nothing. It felt limp, lifeless. I used my foot to turn it over, and the head rolled back in the direction of the cavemouth. In the light that then fell upon it I beheld a half-decayed human face. My nose had already been informing me that this state was no mere illusion. I advanced upon the other one and turned him, also. He, too, bore the appearance of a decomposing corpse. While the first one clutched a dagger in his right hand, the second was weaponless. Then I noted another dagger—on the floor, near the live man’s feet. I raised my eyes to him. This made no sense whatsoever. I’d have judged the two figures upon the floor to have been dead for several days, at least, and I had no idea as to what the standing man had been up to.

  “Uh. . . . Mind telling me what’s going on?” I inquired.

  “Damn you, Merlin!” he snarled, and I recognized the voice.

  I moved in a slow arc, stepping over the fallen ones. Coral stayed near to my side, moving in a similar fashion. He turned his head to follow our progress, and when the light finally fell upon his face, I saw that Jurt was glaring at me out of his one good eye—a patch covered the other—and I saw, too, that about half of his hair was missing, the exposed scalp covered with welts or scars, his half-regrown ear-stub plainly visible. From this side I could also see that a bandana suitable for covering most of this damage had slipped down around his neck. Blood was dripping from his left hand, and I suddenly realized that his little finger was missing.

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  “One of the zombies hit my hand with his dagger as he fell,” he said, “when you expelled the spirits that animated them.”

  My spell—to evict a possessing spirit. . . . They had been within range of it. . . .

  “Coral,” I asked, “are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “But I don’t understand. . . . ”

  “Later,” I told her.

  I did not ask him about his head, as I recalled my struggle with the one-eyed werewolf in the wood to the east of Amber—the beast whose head I had forced into the campfire. I had suspected for some time that it had been Jurt in a shape-shifted form, even before Mandor had offered sufficient information to confirm it.

  “Jurt,” I began, “I have been the occasion of many of your ills, but you must realize that you brought them on yourself. If you would not attack me, I would have no need to defend myself—”

  There came a clicking, grinding sound. It took me several seconds to realize that it was a gnashing of teeth. “My adoption by your father meant nothing to me,” I said, “beyond the fact that he honored me by it. I was not even aware until recently that it had occurred.”

  “You lie!” he hissed. “You tricked him some way, to get ahead of us in the succession.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “We’re all so far down on the list that it doesn’t matter.”

  “Not for the Crown, you fool! For the House! Our father isn’t all that well!”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “But I’d never even thought of it that way. And Mandor’s ahead of all of us, anyhow.”

  “And now you’re second.”

  “Not by choice. Come on! I’ll never see the title. You know that!”

  He drew himself upright, and when he moved I became aware of a faint prismatic nimbus that had been clinging to his outline.

  “That isn’t the real reason,” I continued. “You’ve never liked me, but you’re not after me because of the succession. You’re hiding something now. It’s got to be something else, for all this activity on your part. By the way, you did send the Fire Angel, didn’t you?”

  “It found you that fast?” he said. “I wasn’t even sure I could count on that. I guess it was worth the price after all. But. . . . What happened?”

  “It’s dead.”

  “You’re very lucky. Too lucky,” he replied.

  “What is it that you want, Jurt? I’d like to settle this once and for all.”

  “Me, too,” he answered. “You betrayed someone I love, and only your death will set things right.”

  “Who are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

  He grinned suddenly.

  “You will,” he said. “In the last moments of your life I’ll let you know why.”

  “I may have a long wait, then,” I answered. “You don’t seem to be very good at this sort of thing. Why not just tell me now and save us both a lot of trouble?”

  He laughed, and the prism effect increased, and it occurred to me in that instant what it was.

  “Sooner than you think,” he said, “for shortly I will be more powerful than anything you ever met.”

  “But no less clumsy,” I suggested, both to him and to whomever held his Trump, watching me through it, ready to snatch him away in an instant. . . .

  “That is you, Mask, isn’t it?” I said. “Take him back. You don’t have to send him again either and watch him screw up. I’ll promote you on my list of priorities and come calling soon, if you’ll just give me an assurance that it’s really you.”

  Jurt opened his mouth and said something, but I couldn’t hear it because he faded fast and his words went away with him. Something flew toward me as this occurred; there was no need to parry it, but I couldn’t stop the reflex.

  Along with two moldering corpses and Jurt’s little finger, a dozen or so roses lay scattered on the floor at my feet, there at the rainbow’s end.

  Chapter 5

  As we walked along the beach in the direction of the harbor, Coral finally spoke.

  “Does that sort of thing happen around here very often?”

  “You should come by on a bad day,” I said.

  “If you don’t mind telling me, I’d like to hear what it was all about.”

  “I guess I owe you an explanation,” I agreed, “because I wronged you back there, whether you know it or not.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yep,”

  “Go on. I’m really curious.”

  “It’s a long story. . . . ” I began again.

&nb
sp; She looked ahead to the harbor, then up to Kolvir’s heights.

  “ . . . A long walk, too,” she said.

  “ . . . And you’re a daughter of the prime minister of a country with which we have somewhat touchy relations at the moment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some of the things that are happening may represent kind of sensitive information.”

  She put her hand on my shoulder and halted. She stared into my eyes.

  “I can keep a secret,” she told me. “After all, you know mine.”

  I congratulated myself on having finally learned my relatives’ trick of controlling facial expression even when puzzled as all hell. She had said something back in the cave when I had addressed her as if she were the entity, something that sounded as if she believed I had discovered a secret concerning her.

  So I gave her a wry smile and nodded.

  “Just so,” I said.

  “You’re not planning on ravaging our country or anything like that, are you?” she asked.

  “To my knowledge, no. And I don’t think it likely either.”

  “Well, then. You can only speak from your knowledge, can’t you?”

  “True,” I agreed.

  “So let’s hear the story.”

  “All right.”

  As we walked along the strand and I spoke, to the accompaniment of the waves’ deep notes, I could not help but remember again my father’s long narrative. Was it a family trait, I wondered, to go autobiographical at a time of troubles if the right listener turned up? For I realized I was elaborating my telling beyond the bounds of necessity. And why should she be the right listener, anyhow?

  When we reached the port district, I realized I was hungry, anyway, and I still had a lot of telling to do. In that it was still daylight and doubtless considerably safer than when I’d made my nighttime visit, I found my way over to Harbor Road—which was even dirtier in strong light—and, having learned that Coral was hungry, too, I took us on around to the rear of the cove, pausing for a few minutes to watch a many-masted vessel with golden sails round the sea wall and head in. Then we followed the curving way to the western shore, and I was able to locate Seabreeze Lane without any trouble. It was still early enough that we passed a few sober sailors. At one point a heavy, black-bearded man with an interesting scar on his right cheek began to approach us, but a smaller man caught up with him first and whispered something in his ear. They both turned away.

  “Hey,” I said. “What did he want?”

  “Nothin’,” the smaller man said. “He don’t want nothin’.” He studied me for a moment and nodded. Then, “I saw you here the other night,” he added.

  “Oh,” I said, as they continued to the next corner, turned it, and were gone.

  “What was that all about?” Coral said.

  “I didn’t get to that part of the story yet.”

  But I remembered it vividly when we passed the place where it had occurred. No signs of that conflict remained.

  I almost passed what had been Bloody Bill’s, though, because a new sign hung above the door. It read “Bloody Andy’s,” in fresh green letters. The place was just the same inside, however, except for the man behind the counter, who was taller and thinner than the shaggy, cragfaced individual who had served me last time. His name, I learned, was Jak, and he was Andy’s brother. He sold us a bottle of Bayle’s Piss and put in our order for two fish dinners through the hole in the wall. My former table was vacant and we took it. I laid my sword belt on the chair to my right, with the blade partly drawn, as I had been taught etiquette required here.

  “I like this place,” she said. “It’s . . . different.”

  “Uh . . . yes,” I agreed, glancing at two passed-out drunks—one to the front of the establishment, one to the rear—and three shifty-eyed individuals conversing in low voices off in one corner. A few broken bottles and suspicious stains were upon the floor, and some not-too-subtle artwork of an amorous nature hung on the far wall. “The food’s quite good,” I added.

  “I’ve never been in a restaurant like this,” she continued, watching a black cat, who rolled in from a rear room, wrestling with an enormous rat.

  “It has its devotees, but it’s a well-kept secret among discriminating diners.”

  I continued my tale through a meal even better than the one I remembered. When the door opened much later to admit a small man with a bad limp and a dirty bandage about his head I noticed that daylight was beginning to wane. I had just finished my story and it seemed a good time to be leaving.

  I said as much, but she put her hand on mine.

  “You know I’m not your entity,” she said, “but if you need any kind of help I can give you, I’ll do it.”

  “You’re a good listener,” I said. “Thanks. We’d better be going now.”

  We passed out of Death Alley without incident and made our way along Harbor Road over to Vine. The sun was getting ready to set as we headed upward, and the cobbles passed through a variety of bright earth tones and fire colors. Street and pedestrian traffic was light. Cooking smells drifted on the air; leaves rattled along the road; a small yellow dragon rode the air currents high overhead; curtains of rainbow light rippled high in the north beyond the palace. I kept waiting, expecting more questions from Coral than the few she had asked. They never came. If I’d just heard my story, I think I’d have a lot of questions, unless I were totally overpowered by it or somehow understood it thoroughly.

  “When we get back to the palace . . . ?” she said then.

  “Yes?”

  “ . . . You will take me to see the Pattern, won’t you?”

  I laughed.

  . . . Or unless something else were occupying my mind.

  “Right away? First thing in the door?” I asked.

  “Yes.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Then, that off her mind, “Your story changes my picture of the world,” she said, “and I wouldn’t presume to advise you. . . . ”

  “But—” I continued.

  “ . . . If seems that the Keep of the Four Worlds holds the answers you want. Everything else may fall into place when you learn what’s going on there. But I don’t understand why you can’t just do a card for it and trump in.”

  “Good question. There are parts of the Courts of Chaos to which no one can trump because they change constantly and cannot be represented in a permanent fashion. The same applies to the place where I situated Ghostwheel. Now, the terrain around the Keep fluctuates quite a bit, but I’m not positive that’s the reason for the blockage. The place is a power center, and I think it possible that someone diverted some of that power into a shielding spell. A good enough magician might be able to drill through it with a Trump, but I’ve a feeling that the force required would probably set off some psychic alarm and destroy any element of surprise.”

  “What does the place look like, anyway?” she asked.

  “Well. . . . ” I began. “Here.” I took my notebook and Scripto from my shirt pocket and sketched. “See, all of this area is volcanic.” I scribbled in a few fumaroles and wisps of smoke. “And this part is Ice Age.” More scribbles. “Ocean here, mountains here. . . . ”

  “Then it sounds as if your best bet is to use the Pattern again,” she said, studying the drawing and shaking her head.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think you’ll be doing it soon?”

  “Possibly.”

  “How will you attack them?”

  “I’m still working on that.”

  “If there’s any sort of way that I can help you, I meant what I said.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I’m well trained. I’m resourceful. I even know a few spells.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But no.”

  “No discussion?”

  “Nope.”

  “If you change your mind. . . . ”

  “I won’t.”

  “ . . . Let me know.”
/>   We reached the Concourse, moved along it. The winds grew more blustery here and something cold touched my cheek. Then again. . . .

  “Snow!” Coral announced, just as I realized that a few middle-sized flakes were drifting past us, vanishing immediately when they hit the ground.

  “If your party had arrived at the proper time,” I observed, “you might not have had your walk.”

  “Sometimes I’m lucky,” she said.

  It was snowing fairly hard by the time we reached the palace grounds. We used the postern gate again, pausing on the walkway to gaze back down over the light-dotted town, half screened by falling flakes. I knew she kept looking longer than I did, because I turned to gaze at her. She appeared—happy, I guess—as if she were pasting the scene in a mental scrapbook. So I leaned over and kissed her cheek, because it seemed like a good idea.

  “Oh,” she said, turning to face me. “You surprised me.”

  “Good,” I told her. “I hate to telegraph these things. Let’s get the troops in out of the cold.”

  She smiled and took my arm.

  Inside, the guard told me, “Llewella wants to know whether you two will be joining them all for dinner.”

  “When is dinner?” I asked him.

  “In about an hour and a half, I believe.”

  I glanced at Coral, who shrugged.

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “Front dining room, upstairs,” he told me. “Shall I pass the word to my sergeant—he’s due by soon—and have him deliver it? Or do you want to—”

  “Yes,” I said. “Do that.”

  “Care to wash up, change clothes . . . ?” I began, as we walked away.

  “The Pattern,” she said.

  “It would involve a lot more stairs,” I told her.

  She turned toward me, her face tightening, but saw that I was smiling.

  “This way,” I said, leading her to the main hall and through it.

  I didn’t recognize the guard at the end of the brief corridor that led up to the stair. He knew who I was, though, glanced curiously at Coral, opened the door, found us a lantern, and lit it.