I began jogging. I was thirsty and hungry, but I wasn’t likely to turn up breakfast in this desolate, rocky place under a lemon sky. Frakir recoiled and faded. I began drawing deep breaths as I headed away from the risen sun.
Wind in my hair; dust in my eyes . . . I bore toward a cluster of boulders, passed among them. Seen from amid their shadows the sky grew greenish above me. Emerging, I came upon a softer plain, glitters in the distance, a few clouds rising to my left.
I maintained a steady pace, reaching a small rise, mounting it, descending its farther side where sparse grasses waved. A grove of mop-topped trees in the distance . . . I headed for them, startling a small orange-furred creature that sprang across my path and tore away to the left. Moments later, a dark bird flashed by, uttering a wailing note, headed in the same direction. I ran on, and the sky continued to darken.
Green the sky and thicker the grasses, green the grasses, too . . . Heavy gusts of wind at irregular intervals . . . Nearer the trees . . . A singing sound emerges from their branches . . . The clouds sweep onward . . .
A tightness goes out of my muscles and a familiar fluidity enters . . . I pass the first tree, treading upon long, fallen leaves . . . I pass among hairy-barked boles . . . The way I follow is hard-packed, becomes a trail, strange foot marks cast within it . . . It drops, curves, widens, narrows again . . . The ground rises at either hand . . . the trees sound bass viol notes . . . Patches of sky amid the leaves are the color of Morinci turquoise . . . Streamers of cloud snake forward like silver rivers . . . Small clusters of blue flowers appear on the trail walls . . . The walls rise higher, passing above my head . . . The way grows rocky . . . I run on . . .
My path widens, widens, descending steadily . . . Even before I see or hear it, I smell the water . . . Carefully now, among the stones . . . A bit slower here . . . I turn and see the stream, high, rocky banks at either hand, a meter or two of shoreline before the rise . . .
Slower still, beside the gurgling, sparkling flow . . . To follow its meandering . . . Bends, curves, trees high overhead, exposed roots in the wall to my right, gray and yellow talus-fall along the flaky base . . .
My shelf widens, the walls lower . . . More sand and fewer rocks beneath my feet . . . Lowering, lowering . . . Head-height, shoulder-height . . . Another bending of the way, slope descending . . . Waist high . . . Green-leafed trees all about me, blue sky overhead, off to the right a hard-packed trail . . . I mount the slope, I follow it . . .
Trees and shrubs, bird notes and cool breeze . . . I suck the air, I lengthen my stride . . . I cross a wooden bridge, footfalls echoing, creek flowing to the now-masked stream, moss-grown boulders beside its cool . . . Low stone wall to my right now . . . Wagon ruts ahead. .
Wildflowers at either hand . . . A sound of distant laughter, echoing . . . The neigh of a horse . . . Creak of a cart . . . Turn left . . . Widening of the way . . . Shadow and sunlight, shadow and sunlight . . . Dapple, dapple . . . River to the left, wider now, sparkling . . . Haze of smoke above the next hill . . .
I slow as I near the summit. I reach it walking, dusting my garments, brushing my hair into place, limbs tingling, lungs pumping, bands of perspiration cooling me. I spit grit. Below me and to the right lies a country inn; some tables on its wide, rough-hewn porch, facing the river, a few in a garden nearby Bye-bye, present tense. I am arrived.
I walked on down and located a pump at the far side of the building, where I washed my face, hands and arms, my left forearm still sore and slightly inflamed where Jasra had attacked me. I made my way to the porch then and took a small table, after waving to a serving woman I saw within. After a time, she brought me porridge and sausages and eggs and bread and butter and strawberry preserves and tea. I finished it all quickly and ordered another round of the same. The second time through a feeling of returning normalcy occurred, and I slowed and enjoyed it and watched the river go by.
It was a strange way to wind up the job. I had been looking forward to some leisurely travel, to a long lazy vacation, now my work had been done. The small matter of S had been all that stood in my way—a thing I had been certain I could settle quickly. Now I was in the middle of something I did not understand, something dangerous and bizarre. Sipping my tea and feeling the day warm about me, I could be lulled into a momentary sense of peace. But I knew it for a fleeting thing. There could be no true rest, no safety for me, until this matter was settled. Looking back over events, I saw that I could no longer trust my reactions alone for my deliverance, for a resolution of this affair. It was time to formulate a plan.
The identity of S and S’s removal were high on my list of things that needed knowing and doing. Higher still was the determination of S’s motive. My notion that I was dealing with a simple-minded psycho had dissolved. S was too well organized and possessed some very unusual abilities. I began searching my past for possible candidates. But though I could think of quite a few capable of managing what had occurred thus far, none of these were particularly ill-disposed toward me. However, Amber had been mentioned in that strange diary of Melman’s. Theoretically, this made the whole thing a family matter and I suppose put me under some obligation to call it to the attention of the others. But to do so would be like asking for help, giving up, saying that I couldn’t manage my own affairs. And threats on my life were my own affair. Julia was my affair. The vengeance on this one was to be mine. I had to think about it some more . . .
Ghostwheel?
I mulled it over, dismissed it, thought about it again. Ghostwheel . . . No. Untried. Still developing. The only reason it had occurred to me at all was because it was my pet, my major accomplishment in life, my surprise for the others. I was just looking for an easy way out. I would need a lot more data to submit, which meant I had to go after it, of course.
Ghostwheel . . .
Right now I needed more information. I had the cards and the diary. I didn’t want to fool with the Trumps any more at this point, since the first one had seemed something of a trap. I would go through the diary soon, though my initial impression had been that it was too subjective to be of much help. I ought to go back to Melman’s for a final look around, though, in case there was anything I had missed. Then I ought to look up Luke and see whether he could tell me anything more—even some small remark—that might be of value. Yes . . .
I sighed and stretched. I watched the river a little longer and finished my tea. I ran Frakir over a fistful of money and selected sufficient transformed coinage to pay for my meal. Then I returned to the road. Time to run on back.
5
I came jogging up the street in the light of late afternoon and halted when I was abreast of my car. I’d almost failed to recognize it. It was covered with dust, ashes, and water stains. How long had I been away, anyhow? I hadn’t tried to reckon the time differential between here and where I’d been, but my car looked as if it had been standing exposed for over a month. It seemed intact, though. It had not been vandalized and—
My gaze had drifted past the hood and on ahead. The building that had housed the Brutus Storage Company and the late Victor Melman no longer stood. A burnt-out, collapsed skeleton of the place occupied the corner, parts of two walls standing. I headed toward it.
Walking about it, I studied what was left. The charred remains of the place were cold and settled. Gray streaks and sooty fairy circles indicated that water had been pumped into it, had since evaporated. The ashy smell was not particularly strong.
Had I started it, with that fire in the bathtub? I wandered. I didn’t think so. Mine had been a small enough blaze, and well confined, with no indication of its spreading while I was waiting.
A boy on a green bicycle pedaled past while I was studying tie ruin. Several minutes later he returned and halted about ten feet from me. He looked to be about ten years old.
“I saw it,” he announced. “I saw it burn.”
“When was that?” I asked him.
“Three days ago.”
“’
They know how it started?”
“Something in the storage place, something flam—”
“Flammable?”
“Yeah,” he said through a gap-toothed smile. “Maybe on purpose. Something about insurance.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. My dad said maybe business was bad.”
“It’s been known to happen,” I said. “Was anybody hurt in the fire?”
“They thought maybe the artist who lived upstairs got burned up because nobody could find him. But they didn’t see any bones or anything like that. It was a good fire. Burned a long time.”
“Was it nighttime or daytime?”
“Nighttime. I watched from over there.” He pointed to a place across the street and back in the direction from which I had come. “’They put a lot of water on it.”
“Did you see anyone come out of the building?”
“No,” he said. “I got here after it was burning pretty good.”
I nodded and turned back toward my car.
“You’d think bullets would explode in all that fire, wouldn’t you?” he said.
“Yes,” I answered.
“But they didn’t.” I turned back.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He was already digging in a pocket.
“Me and some of my friends were playing around in there yesterday,” he explained, “and we found a mess of bullets.”
He opened his hand to display several metallic objects. As I moved toward him, he squatted and placed one of the cylinders on the sidewalk. He reached out suddenly, picked up a nearby rock and swung it toward it.
“Don’t!” I cried.
The rock struck the shell and nothing happened.
“You could get hurt that way—” I began, but he interrupted.
“Naw. No way these suckers will explode. You can’t even set that pink stuff on fire. Got a match?”
“Pink stuff?” I said as he moved the rock to reveal a mashed shell casing and a small trailing of pink powder.
“That,” he said, pointing. “Funny, huh? I thought gunpowder was gray.”
I knelt and touched the substance. I rubbed it between my fingers. I sniffed it. I even tasted it. I couldn’t tell what the hell it was.
“Beats me,” I told him. “Won’t even burn, you say?”
“Nope. We put some on a newspaper and set the paper on fire. It’ll melt and run, that’s all.”
“You got a couple of extras?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“I’ll give you a buck for them,” I said.
He showed me his teeth and spaces again as his hand vanished into the side of his jeans. I ran Frakir over some odd Shadow cash and withdrew a dollar from the pile. He handed me two soot-streaked double 30’s as he accepted it.
“Thanks,” he said.
“My pleasure. Anything else interesting in there?”
“Nope. All the rest is ashes.”
I got into my car and drove. I ran it through the first car wash I came to, since the wipers had only smeared the crap on the windshield. As the rubbery tentacles slapped at me through a sea of foam, I checked to see whether I still had the matchbook Luke had given me. I did. Good. I’d seen a pay phone Outside.
“Hello. New Line Motel,” a young, male voice answered. “You had a Lucas Raynard registered there a couple of days ago,” I said. “I want to know whether he left a message for me. My name’s Merle Corey.”
“Just a minute.” Pause. Shuffle. Then: “Yes, he did.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s in a sealed envelope. I’d rather not”
“Okay I’ll come by “
I drove over. I located the man matching the voice at the desk in the lobby. I identified myself and claimed the envelope. The clerk—a slight, blond fellow with a bristly mustache—stared for a moment, then: “Are you going to see Mr. Raynard?”
“Yes.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a small brown, envelop, its sides distended. Luke’s name and room number were written on it.
“He didn’t leave a forwarding address,” he explained, opening the envelope, "and the maid found this ring on the bathroom counter after he’d checked out. Would you give it to him?”
“Sure,” I said, and he passed it to me.
I seated myself in a lounge area off to the left. The ring was of pink gold and sported a blue stone. I couldn’t recall ever having seen him wear it. I slipped it on the ring finger of my left hand and it fit perfectly. I decided to wear it until I could give it to him.
I opened the letter, written on motel stationery, and read:
Merle, Too bad about dinner. I did wait around. Hope everything’s okay. I’m leaving in the morning for Albuquerque. I’ll be there three days. Then up to Santa Fe for three more. Staying at the Hilton in both towns. I did have some more things I wanted to talk about. Please get in touch.
Luke
Hm. I phoned my travel agent and discovered that I could be on an afternoon flight to Albuquerque if I hustled. In that I wanted a face-to-face rather than a phone talk, I did that thing. I stopped by the office, picked up my ticket, paid cash for it, drove to the airport and said good-bye to my car as I parked it. I doubted I would ever see it again. I hefted my backpack and walked to the terminal.
The rest was smooth and easy. As I watched the ground drop away beneath me, I knew that a phase of my existence had indeed ended. Like so many things, it was not at all the way I had wanted it to be. I’d thought to wind up the matter of S pretty quickly or else decide to forget about it, and then visit people I’d been meaning to see for some time and stop at a few places I’d long been curious about. Then I would take off through Shadow for a final check on Ghostwheel, heading back to the brighter pole of my existence after that. Now, my priorities had been shuffled—all because S and Julia’s death were somehow connected, and because it involved a power from elsewhere in Shadow that I did not understand.
It was the latter consideration that troubled me most. Was I digging my grave as well as jeopardizing friends and relatives because of my pride? I wanted to handle this myself, but the more I thought about it the more impressed I became with the adversary powers I had encountered and the paucity of my knowledge concerning S. It wasn’t fair not to let the others know—not if they might be in danger, too. I’d love to wrap the whole thing up by myself and give it to them for a present. Maybe I would, too, but—
Damn it. I had to tell them. If S got me and turned on them, they needed to know. If it were a part of something larger, they needed to know. As much as I disliked the idea, I would have to tell them.
I leaned forward and my hand hovered above my backpack beneath the seat in front of me. It wouldn’t hurt, I decided, to wait until after I’d spoken with Luke. I was out of town and probably safe now. There was the possibility of picking up a clue or two from Luke. I’d rather have more to give them when I told my story. I’d wait a little longer.
I sighed. I got a drink from the stewardess and sipped it. Driving to Albuquerque in a normal fashion would have taken too long. Short-cutting through Shadow would not work, because I’d never been there before and didn’t know how to find the place. Too bad. I’d like to have my car there. Luke was probably in Santa Fe by now.
I sipped and I looked for shapes in the clouds. The things I found matched my mood, so I got out my paperback and read until we began our descent. When I looked again ranks of mountains filled my prospect for a time. A crackly voice assured me that the weather was pleasant. I wondered about my father.
I hiked in from my gate, passed a gift shop full of Indian jewelry, Mexican pots, and gaudy souvenirs, located a telephone, and called the local Hilton. Luke had already checked out, I learned. I phoned the Hilton in Santa Fe then. He had checked in there but was not in his room when they rang it for me. I made a reservation for myself and hung up. A woman at an information counter told me that I could catch a Shuttle back to Santa Fe in about half an hour and sent me in the
proper direction to buy a ticket. Santa Fe is one of the few state capitals without a major airport, I’d read somewhere.
While we were heading north on I-25, somewhere among lengthening shadows in the vicinity of Sandia Peak, Frakir tightened slightly upon my wrist and released the pressure a moment later. Again. Then once again. I glanced quickly about the small bus, seeking the danger against which I had just been warned.
I was seated in the rear of the vehicle. Up near the front was a middle-aged couple, speaking with Texas accents, wearing an ostentatious quantity of turquoise and silver jewelry; near the middle were three older women, talking about things back in New York; across the aisle from them was a young couple, very absorbed in each other; two young men with tennis racquets sat diagonally to the rear of them, talking about college; behind them was a nun, reading. I looked out the window again and saw nothing particularly threatening on the highway or near it. I did not want to draw to myself the attention that any location practices would involve either.
So I spoke a single word in Thari as I rubbed my wrist, and the warnings ceased. Even though the rest of the ride was uneventful, it bothered me, though an occasional false warning was possible just because of the nature of nervous systems. As I watched red shale and red and yellow earth streak by, bridged arroyos, viewed distant mountains and nearer slopes dotted with pinion, I wondered. Is S back there somewhere, somehow, watching, waiting? And if so, why? Couldn’t we just sit down and talk about it over a couple of beers? Maybe it was based on some sort of misunderstanding.
I’d a feeling it was not a misunderstanding. But I’d settle for just knowing what was going on, even if nothing were resolved. I’d even pay for the beers.
The light of the setting sun touched flashes of brightness from streaks of snow in the Sangre de Cristos as we pulled into town; shadows slid across gray-green slopes; most of the buildings in sight were stuccoed. It felt about ten degrees cooler when I stepped down from the bus in front of the Hilton than it had when I’d boarded in Albuquerque. But then, I’ d gained about two thousand feet in altitude and it was an hour and a quarter further along in the direction of evening.
The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10 Page 93
