The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10

by Roger Zelazny

  She looked about the room and spotted the Trump I’d just finished. She shot the bolt on the door and crossed to the table.

  “Very nice,” she observed, studying my handiwork. “So that’s where you’re headed? Where is it?”

  “The bar at a country club in the place I just came from,” I replied. “I’m supposed to meet an unknown party there at ten, local time. Hopefully, I will obtain information as to who has been trying to kill me, and why, and possibly even learn something of other matters that have been troubling me.”

  “Go,” she said, “and leave the Trump behind. That way, I can use it to spy, and if you should suddenly need help I will be in a position to provide it.”

  I reached out and squeezed her hand. Then I took up a position beside the table and focused my attention.

  After several moments, the scene took on depth and color. I sank into the emerging textures, and everything advanced toward me, growing larger, crowding out my immediate surroundings. My gaze sought the wall clock I remembered, to the right of the bar . . .

  9:48.

  I couldn’t have cut things much closer.

  I could see the patrons now, hear the sounds of their voices. I looked for the best point of arrival. Actually, there was no one at the right end of the bar, near that clock. Okay . . .

  I was there. Trying to look as if I had been, all along. Three of the patrons snapped glances in my direction. I smiled and nodded. Bill had introduced me to one of the men the previous evening. The other I had seen, but not spoken with at that time. Both of them returned my nod, which seemed to satisfy the third that I was real, as he immediately turned his attention back to the woman he was with.

  Shortly, the bartender came up to me. He recalled me from last night, also, because he asked whether Bill was around.

  I had a beer from him and retired with it to the most secluded table, where I sat and nursed it, my back to the wall, glancing occasionally at the clock, watching the room’s two entrances between times. If I tried, I could feel Fiona’s presence.

  Ten o’clock came and went. So did a few patrons, new and old. None of them seemed particularly interested in me, though my own attention was drawn to an unescorted young lady with pale hair and a cameo-like profile, which ends the resemblance because cameos don’t smile much and she did the second time she glanced at me, right before she looked away. Damn, I thought, why did I have to be wrapped up in a life-and-death situation? Under almost any other circumstances I would have finished the beer, walked over for another, passed a few pleasantries, then asked her whether she’d care to join me. In fact . . .

  I glanced at the clock.

  10:20.

  How much longer should I give the mystery voice? Should I just assume it had been George Hansen, and that he’d given up on tonight when he’d seen me fade? How much longer might the lady hang around?

  I growled softly. Stick to business. I studied the narrowness of her waist, the swell of her hips, the tension of her shoulders . . .

  10:25.

  I noticed that my mug was empty. I took it over for a refill.

  Dutifully, I watched the progress of the mug.

  “I saw you sitting there,” I heard her say. “Waiting for someone?”

  She smelled strongly of a strange perfume.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I’m beginning to think it’s too late.”

  “I’ve a similar problem,” she said, and I turned toward her. She was smiling again. “We could wait together,” she concluded.

  “Please join me,” I said. “I’d much rather pass the time with you.”

  She picked up her drink and followed me back to the table.

  “My name’s Merle Corey,” I told her, as soon as we were seated:

  “I’m Meg Devlin. I haven’t seen you around before.”

  “I’m just visiting. You, I take it, are not?” She shook her head slightly.

  “Afraid not. I live in the new apartment complex a couple of miles up the road.”

  I nodded as if I knew where it was located.

  “Where are you from?” she wanted to know.

  “The center of the universe,” I said, then hastily added, “San Francisco.”

  “Oh, I’ve spent a lot of time there. What do you do?” I resisted a sudden impulse to tell her that I was a sorcerer, and instead described my recent employment at Grand Design. She, I learned in turn, had been a model, a buyer for a large store, and later manager of a boutique. I glanced at the clock.

  It was 10:45. She caught the look.

  “I think we’ve both been stood up,” she said.

  “Probably,” I agreed, “but we ought to give them till eleven to be decent about it.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Earlier.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Some. Yes. Are you?”

  “Uh-huh, and I noticed some people had food in here earlier. I’ll check.”

  I learned we could get sandwiches, so we got two, with some salad on the side.

  “I hope your date didn’t include a late supper,” I said suddenly.

  “It wasn’t mentioned, and I don’t care,” she replied, taking a bite.

  Eleven o’clock came and went. I’d finished my drink and the food, and I didn’t really want another.

  “At least the evening wasn’t a total loss,” she said, crumpling her napkin and setting it aside.

  I watched her eyelashes because it was a pleasant thing to do. She wore very little or very pale makeup. It didn’t matter at all. I was about to reach out and cover her hand with my own, but she beat me.

  “What were you going to do tonight?” I asked her.

  “Oh, dance a bit, have a few drinks, maybe take a walk in the moonlight. Silly things like that.”

  “I hear music in the next room. We could stroll on over.”

  “Yes, we could,” she said. “Why don’t we?”

  As we were leaving the bar, I heard Fiona, like a whisper:

  “Merlin! If you leave the scene on the Trump you will be out of range to me.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I answered.

  “What?” Meg asked me.

  “Uh—I want to visit the rest room first,” I said.

  “Good idea. I’ll do the same. Meet you in the hall here in a couple of minutes.”

  The place was vacant, but I took a stall in case anyone wandered in. I located Fiona’s Trump in the packet I corned. Moments later, I reached Fiona.

  “Listen, Fi,” I said. “Obviously, no one’s going to show. But the rest of the evening promises to shape up nicely, and I might as well have a little fun while I’m here. So thanks for your help. I’ll just wander on back later.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t tike you going with a stranger, under the circumstances. There may still be danger around there for you, somewhere.”

  “There isn’t,” I replied. “I have a way of knowing, and it doesn’t register for her. Besides, I’m sure it was a fellow I’d met here and that he gave up when I trumped out. I’ll be all right.”

  “I don’t like it, “ she said.

  “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

  “I suppose so. Call me immediately if there are any problems.”

  “There won’t be. You might as well turn in.”

  “And call when you’re ready to come back. Don’t worry about waking me. I want to bring you home personally.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that. Good night.”

  “Stay wary.”

  “I always am.”

  “Good night, then.”

  She broke the contact.

  A few minutes later we were on the dance floor, turning and listening and touching. Meg had a strong tendency to lead. But what the hell, I can be led. I even tried being wary occasionally but there was nothing more threatening than loud music and sudden laughter.

  At eleven-thirty we checked the bar. There were several couples there, b
ut her date wasn’t. And no one even gave me a nod. We returned to the music.

  We looked again a little after midnight with similar results. We seated ourselves then and ordered a final drink.

  “Well, it was fun,” she said, resting her hand where I could cover it with my own. So I did.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I wish we could do it more often. But I’m going to be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Back to the center of the universe.”

  “A pity,” she said. “Do you need a ride anywhere?”

  I nodded. “Anywhere you’re going.”

  She smiled and squeezed my hand.

  “All right,” she agreed. “Come on over and I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

  We finished our drinks and headed out to the parking lot, pausing a few times to embrace along the way. I even tried being wary again, but we seemed to be the only people in the lot. Her car was a neat little red Porsche convertible with the top down.

  “Here we are. You care to drive?” she asked.

  “No, you do it and I’ll watch for headless horsemen.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a lovely night, and I’ve always wanted a chauffeur who looked exactly like you.”

  We got in and she drove. Fast, of course. It just seemed to follow. The roads were deserted and a feeling of exhilaration swept over me. I raised one hand and summoned a lighted cigar from Shadow. I took a few puffs and tossed it away as we roared over a bridge. I regarded the constellations, which had grown familiar to me these past eight years. I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. I tried to analyze my feelings and realized that I was happy. I hadn’t felt that way in a long while.

  A mass of light occurred beyond a fringe of trees up ahead. A minute later we rounded a curve and I saw that it came from a small apartment complex off to the right. She slowed and turned there when we reached it.

  She parked in a numbered slot, from whence we made our way along a shrub-lined walk to the building’s entrance. She let us in and we crossed the lobby to the elevators. The ride up was over too soon, and once we reached her apartment she really did make coffee.

  Which was fine with me. It was good coffee, and we sat together and sipped it. Plenty of time . . .

  One thing finally did lead to another. We found ourselves in the bedroom a bit later, our clothes on a nearby chair, and I was congratulating myself that the meeting for which I had returned had not come off. She was smooth and soft and warm, and there was just enough of her in all the right places. A vise in velvet, with honey . . . the scent of her perfume . . .

  We lay there, much later, in that peaceful state of temporary fatigue on which I will not waste metaphors. I was stroking her hair when she stretched, turned her head slightly, and regarded me through half-lidded eyes.

  “Tell me something,” she said. “Sure.”

  “What was your mother’s name?”

  I felt as if something prickly had just been rolled along my spine. But I wanted to see where this was leading. “Dara,” I told her.

  “And your father?”

  “Corwin.”

  She smiled.

  “I thought so,” she said, “but I had to be sure.”

  “Do I get some questions now? Or can only one play?”

  “I’ll save you the trouble. You want to know why I asked.”

  “You’re on the ball.”

  “Sorry,” she said, moving her leg.

  “I take it their names mean something to you?”

  “You are Merlin,” she stated, “Duke of Kolvir and Prince of Chaos.”

  “Damn!” I observed. “It seems everybody in this shadow knows who I am! Do you all belong to a club or something?”

  “Who else knows?” she asked quickly, her eyes suddenly wide.

  “A fellow named Luke Raynard, a dead man named Dan Martinez; a local man named George Hansen, probably, and another dead man named Victor Melman . . . Why? These names ring any bells?”

  “Yes, the dangerous one is Luke Raynard. I brought you here to warn you about him, if you were the right one.”

  “What do you mean ‘the right one’?”

  “If you were who you are—the son of Dara.”

  “So warn me.”

  “I just did: Don’t trust him.”

  I sat up and propped a pillow behind me.

  “What’s he after? My stamp collection? My traveler’s checks? Could you be a little more specific?”

  “He tried several times to kill you, years ago—”

  “What? How?”

  “The first time it involved a truck that almost ran you down. Then the next year—”

  “Gods! You really do know! Give me the dates, the dates he tried it.”

  “April 30, always April 30.”

  “Why? Do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “Shit. How do you know all of this?”

  “I was around. I was watching.”

  “Why didn’t you do something about it?”

  “I couldn’t. I didn’t know which of you was which.”

  “Lady, you’ve lost me completely. Who the hell are you, and what’s your part in this?”

  “Like Luke, I am not what I seem,” she began.

  There came a sharp buzzing around from the next room.

  “Oh my!” she said and sprang out of bed.

  I followed her, arriving in the foyer as she pushed a button beside a small grating and said, “Hello?”

  “Honey, it’s me,” came the reply. “I got home a day early. Buzz me in, will you? I’m carrying a bunch of packages.”

  Oh-oh.

  She released the one button and pushed another, turning toward me as she did so.

  “The husband,” she said, suddenly breathless. “You’ve got to leave now. Please! Take the steps!”

  “But you haven’t told me anything yet!”

  “I’ve told you enough. Please don’t make trouble!”

  “Okay,” I said, hurrying back to the bedroom, pulling on my pants and slipping my feet into my loafers.

  I stuffed my socks and underwear into my hip pockets drew on my shirt.

  “I’m not satisfied,” I said. “You know more and I want it.”

  “Is that all you want?”

  I kissed her cheek quickly.

  “Not really. I’ll be back,” I said.

  “Don’t,” she told me. “It won’t be the same. We shall meet again, when the time is right.”

  I headed for the door.

  “That’s not good enough,” I said as I opened it.

  “It will have to be.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I tore off up the hall and pushed open the door beneath the EXIT sign.

  I buttoned my shirt and tucked it in on my way down the steps. I paused at the bottom to draw on my socks. I ran a hand through my hair then and opened the door to the lobby.

  No one in sight. Good.

  As I left the building and headed down the walk a black sedan pulled up in front of me and I heard the hum of a power window and saw a flash of red.

  “Get in, Merlin,” came a familiar voice.

  “Fiona!”

  I opened the door and slid inside. We began moving immediately, “Well, was she?” she asked me.

  “Was she what?” I said.

  “The one you went to the club to meet.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way until she said it.

  “You know,” I said a little later. “I think maybe she was.”

  She turned onto the road and drove back in the direction from which we had come earlier.

  “What kind of game was she playing?” Fiona asked.

  “I’d give a lot to know,” I answered.

  “Tell me about it,” she said, “and feel free to edit certain portions.”

  “Well, all right,” I said, and I let her have it.

  We were back in the country club parking lot before I was finish
ed.

  “Why are we here again?” I asked:

  “This is where I got the car. It might belong to a friend of Bill’s. I thought I’d be nice and bring it back.”

  “You used the Trump I’d made to go through to the bar in there?” I asked, gesturing.

  “Yes, right after you went in to dance. I watched you for about an hour, mostly from the terrace. And I’d told you to be wary.”

  “Sorry, I was smitten.”

  “I’d forgotten they don’t serve absinthe here. I had to make do with a frozen marguerita.”

  “Sorry about that, too. Then you hot-wired a car and followed us when we left?”

  “Yes. I waited in her parking lot and maintained the most peripheral of touches with you via your Trump. If I’d felt danger I would have come in after you.”

  “Thanks. How peripheral?”

  “I am not a voyeur, if that’s what you mean. Very well, we’re up to date.”

  “There’s a lot more to the story than this fast part.”

  “Keep it,” she said, “for now. There is only one thing I am curious about at the moment. Would you happen to have a picture of this Luke Raynard?”

  “I might,” I told her, reaching for my wallet. “Yes; I think I do.”

  I withdrew my shorts from my hip pocket and explored further.

  “At least you don’t wear jockeys,” she remarked:

  I withdrew my wallet and turned on the overhead light. As I flipped the wallet open she leaned toward me, resting her hand on my arm. Finally, I found a clear colored photo of Luke and me at the beach, with Julia and a girl named Gail whom Luke used to date.

  I felt her grip tighten as she drew in a short, sharp breath.

  “What is it?” I asked. “You know him?”

  She shook her head too quickly.

  “No. No,” she said. “Never saw him before in my life.”

  “You’re a lousy liar, Auntie. Who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Come on! You nearly broke my arm when you saw him.

  “Don’t push me;” she said.

  “It involves my life.”

  “It involves more than your life, I think.”

  “So?”

  “Let it be, for now.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I must insist.”

  She turned more fully and both of her hands came up between us. Smoke began to rise from her well-manicured fingertips. Frakir throbbed upon my wrist, which meant she was sufficiently pissed off to lean on me if it came to that.