She smiled. “Yes, you are like Corwin,” she said. “Crass, but perceptive.”
She rose and crossed to the closet, took out a lavender robe and donned it.
“What,” she said, belting it about her, “was that all about?”
“It’s a long story—”
“Then I’d better hear it over lunch. Are you hungry?” she asked.
I grinned.
“It figures. Come on.”
She led me out through a French Provincial living room and into a large country kitchen full of tiles and copper. I offered to help her, but she pointed at a chair beside the table and told me to sit.
As she was removing numerous goodies from the refrigerator, I said, “First—”
“Yes?”
“Where are we?”
“San Francisco,” she replied.
“Why have you set up housekeeping here?”
“After I finished that business of Random’s I decided to stay on. The town looked good to me again.”
I snapped my fingers. I’d forgotten she’d been sent to determine the ownership of the warehouse where Victor Melman had had his apartment and studio, and where Brutus Storage had a supply of ammo that would fire in Amber.
“So who owned the warehouse?” I asked.
“Brutus Storage,” she replied. “Melman rented from them.”
“And who owns Brutes Storage?”
“J. B. Rand, Inc.”
“Address?”
“An office in Sausalito. It was vacated a couple of months ago.”
“Did the people who owned the place have a home address for the renter?”
“Just a post office box. It’s been abandoned too.”
I nodded. “I’d a feeling it would be something like that,” I said. “Now tell me about Jasra. Obviously you know the lady.”
She sniffed. “No lady,” she said. “A royal whore is what she was when I knew her.”
“Where?”
“In Kashfa.”
“Where’s that?”
“An interesting little shadow kingdom, a bit over the edge of the Golden Circle of those with which Amber has commerce. Shabby barbaric splendor and all that. It’s kind of a cultural backwater.”
“How is it you know it at all, then?”
She paused a moment in stirring something in a bowl.
“Oh, I used to keep company with a Kashfan nobleman I’d met in a wood one day. He was out hawking and I happened to have twisted my ankle—”
“Uh,” I interjected, lest we be diverted by details. “And Jasra?”
“She was consort to the old king Menillan. Had him wrapped around her finger.”
“What have you got against her?”
“She stole Jasrick while I was out of town.”
“Jasrick?”
“My nobleman. Earl of Kronklef.”
“What did His Highness Menillan think of these goings-on?”
“He never knew. He was on his deathbed at the time. Succumbed shortly thereafter. In fact, that’s why she really wanted Jasrick. He was chief of the palace guard and his brother was a general. She used them to pull off a coup when Menillan expired. Last I heard, she was queen in Kashfa and she’d ditched Jasrick. Served him proper, I’d say. I think he had his eye on the throne, but she didn’t care to share it. She had him and his brother executed for treason of one sort or another. He was really a handsome fellow. . . . Not too bright, though.”
“Do the people of Kashfa have any—uh—unusual physical endowments?” I asked.
She smiled. “Well, Jasrick was one hell of a fellow. But I wouldn’t use the word ‘unusual’ to—”
“No, no,” I interrupted. “What I meant was some sort of anomaly of the mouth—retractable fangs or a sting or something of that sort.”
“Un-uh,” she said, and I could not tell whether her heightened coloring came from the heat of the stove. “Nothing like that. They’re built along standard lines. Why do you ask?”
“When I told you my story back in Amber I omitted the part where Jasra bit me, and I was barely able to trump out because of some sort of poison she seemed to have injected. It left me numb, paralyzed and very weak for a long while.”
She shook her head.
“Kashfans can’t do anything like that. But then, of course, Jasra is not a Kashfan.”
“Oh? Where’s she from?”
“I don’t know. But she’s a foreigner. Some say a slaver brought her in from a distant land. Others say she just wandered in herself one day and caught Menillan’s eye. It was rumored she was a sorceress. I don’t know.”
“I do. That rumor is right.”
“Really? Perhaps that’s how she got Jasrick.”
I shrugged. “How long ago was your—experience—with her?”
“Thirty or forty years, I’d guess.”
“And she is still queen in Kashfa?”
“I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve been back that way.”
“Is Amber on bad terms with Kashfa?”
She shook her head. “No special terms at all, really. As I said, they’re a bit out of the way. Not as accessible as a lot of other places, with nothing greatly desirable for trade.”
“No real reason then for her to hate us?”
“No more than for hating anyone else.”
Some delightful cooking odors began to fill the room. As I sat there sniffing them and thinking of the long, hot shower I would head for after lunch, Flora said what I had somehow known she would say.
“That man who dragged Jasra back. . . . He looked familiar. Who was he?”
“He was the one I told you about back in Amber,” I replied. “Luke. I’m curious whether he reminds you of anyone.”
“He seems to,” she said, after a pause. “But I can’t say just who.”
As her back was to me I said, “If you’re holding anything that might break or spill if you drop it, please put it down.”
I heard something set to rest on the countertop. Then she turned, a puzzled expression on her face.
“Yes?”
“His real name is Rinaldo, and he’s Brand’s son,” I told her. “I was his prisoner for over a month in another shadow. I just now escaped.”
“Oh, my,” she whispered. Then, “What does he want?”
“Revenge,” I answered.
“Against anyone in particular?”
“No. All of us. But Caine, of course, was first.”
“I see.”
“Please don’t burn anything,” I said. “I’ve been looking forward to a good meal for a long time.”
She nodded and turned away. After a while she said, “You knew him for a pretty long time. What’s he like?”
“He always seemed to be a fairly nice guy. If he’s crazy, like his dad, he hid it well.”
She uncorked a wine bottle, poured two glasses and brought them over. Then she began serving the meal.
After a few bites she paused with her fork half raised and stared at nothing in particular.
“Who’d have thought the son of a bitch would reproduce?” she remarked.
“Fiona, I think,” I told her. “The night before Caine’s funeral she asked me whether I had a photo of Luke. When I showed her one I could tell that something was bothering her, but she wouldn’t say what.”
“And the next day she and Bleys were gone,” Flora said. “Yes. Now I think of it, he does look somewhat the way Brand did when he was very young—so long ago. Luke seems bigger and heavier, but there is a resemblance.”
She resumed eating.
“By the way, this is very good,” I said.
“Oh, thanks.” She sighed then. “That means I have to wait till you’re finished eating to hear the whole story.”
I nodded, because my mouth was full. Let the empire totter. I was starved.
Chapter 2
Showered, trimmed, manicured and garbed in fresh-conjured finery, I got a number out of Information and placed a call t
o the only Devlin listed in Bill Roth’s area. The voice of the woman who answered did not possess the proper timbre, though I still recognized it.
“Meg? Meg Devlin?” I said.
“Yes,” came the reply. “Who is this?”
“Merle Corey.”
“Who?”
“Merle Corey. We spent an interesting night together some time back—”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “There must be some mistake.”
“If you can’t talk freely now I can call whenever you say. Or you can call me.”
“I don’t know you,” she said, and she hung up.
I stared at the receiver. If her husband were present I’d assumed she’d play it a bit cagey but would at least give some indication that she knew me and would talk another time. I had held off on getting in touch with Random because I’d a feeling he’d summon me back to Amber immediately, and I’d wanted to talk to Meg first. I certainly couldn’t spare the time to go and visit her. I could not understand her response, but for now at least I was stuck with it. So I tried the only other thing that occurred to me. I got hold of Information again and obtained the number for Bill’s next-door neighbors, the Hansens.
It was answered on the third ring—a woman’s voice I recognized as Mrs. Hansen’s. I had met her in the past, though I had not seen her on my most recent trip to the area.
“Mrs. Hansen,” I began. “It’s Merle Corey.”
“Oh, Merle. . . . You were just up here a while ago, weren’t you?”
“Yes. Couldn’t stay long, though. But I did finally get to meet George. Had several long talks with him. In fact, I’d like to speak with him right now if he’s handy.”
The silence ran several beats too long before she responded.
“George. . . . Well, George is over at the hospital just now, Merle. Is it something you could tell me?”
“Oh, it’s not urgent,” I said. “What happened to George?”
“It—it’s nothing real bad. He’s just an outpatient now, and today’s his day to get checked over and pick up some medication. He had a—sort of breakdown last month. Had a couple days’ worth of amnesia, and they can’t seem to figure what caused it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well, the X-rays didn’t show any damage—like he’d hit his head or anything. And he seems okay now. They say he’ll probably be fine. But they want to keep an eye on him a little longer. That’s all.” Suddenly, as if struck by inspiration, she asked, “How’d he seem when you were talking with him, anyway?”
I’d seen it coming, so I didn’t hesitate.
“He seemed fine when I talked with him,” I answered. “But of course I hadn’t known him before, so I couldn’t tell whether he was acting any different.”
“I see what you mean,” she said. “Do you want him to call you back when he gets in?”
“No. I’m going to be going out,” I said, “and I’m not sure when I’ll be getting back. It was nothing really important. I’ll get in touch again one of these days.”
“Okay, then. I’ll tell him you called.”
“Thanks. G’bye.”
That one I’d almost expected. After Meg. George’s behavior had been overtly weird, at the end there. What had bothered me was that he’d seemed to know who I really was and to know about Amber—and he even wanted to follow me through a Trump. It was as if he and Meg had both been subjected to some strange manipulation.
Jasra came to mind immediately in this regard. But then she was Luke’s ally, it seemed, and Meg had warned me against Luke. Why would she do that if Jasra were controlling her in some fashion? It didn’t make sense. Who else did I know who might be capable of causing such phenomena?
Fiona, for one. But then she’d been party to my later return to this shadow from Amber and had even picked me up after my evening with Meg. And she’d seemed just as puzzled about the course of events as I was.
Shit. Life is full of doors that don’t open when you knock, equally spaced amid those that open when you don’t want them to.
I went back and knocked on the bedroom door, and Flora told me to come in. She was seated before a mirror, applying makeup.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“Not too well. Totally unsatisfactory, actually.” I summarized the results of my calls.
“So what are you going to do now?” she inquired.
“Get in touch with Random,” I said, “and bring him up to date. I’ve got a feeling he’ll call me back to hear it all. So I wanted to say good-bye, and thanks for helping me. Sorry if I broke up your romance.”
She shrugged, her back still to me, as she studied herself in the mirror. “Don’t worry—”
I did not hear the remainder of her sentence, though she continued talking. My attention was snatched away by what seemed the beginning of a Trump contact. I made myself receptive and waited. The feeling grew stronger but the caller s presence did not become manifest. I turned away from Flora.
“Merle, what is it?” I heard her say then.
I raised one hand to her as the feeling intensified. I seemed to be staring down a long black tunnel with nothing at its farther end.
“I don’t know,” I said, summoning the Logrus and taking control of one of its limbs. “Ghost? Is that you? Are you ready to talk?” I asked. There was no reply. I felt a chill as I remained receptive, waiting. I had never experienced anything quite like this before. I’d a strong feeling that if I but moved forward I would be transported somewhere. Was this a challenge? A trap? Whatever, I felt that only a fool would accept such an invitation from the unknown. For all I knew, it might deliver me back to the crystal cave.
“If there is something you want,” I said, “you are going to have to make yourself known and ask. I’ve given up on blind dates.”
A sense of presence trickled through, then, but no intimations of identity.
“All right,” I said. “I’m not coming and you have no message. The only other thing I can think of is that you’re asking to come to me. If that’s the case, come ahead.”
I extended both of my apparently empty hands, my invisible strangling cord writhing into position in my left, an unseen Logrus death bolt riding my right. It was one of those times when courtesy demanded professional standards.
A soft laughter seemed to echo within the dark tunnel. It was purely a mental projection, however, cold and genderless.
Your offer is, of course, a trick, come to me then. For you are not a fool. Still, I grant your courage, to address the unknown as you do. You do not know what you face, yet you await it. You even invite it.
“The offer is still good,” I said.
I never thought of you as dangerous.
“What do you want?”
To regard you.
“Why?”
There may come a time when I will face you on different terms.
“What terms?”
I feel that our purposes will be crossed.
“Who are you?”
Again, the laughter.
No. Not now. Not yet. I would merely look upon you, and observe your reactions.
“Well? Have you seen enough?”
Almost.
“If our purposes are crossed, let the conflict be now,” I said. “I’d like to get it out of the way so I can get on with some important business.”
I appreciate arrogance. But when the time comes the choice will not be yours.
“I’m willing to wait,” I said, as I cautiously extended a Logrus limb out along the dark way.
Nothing. My probe encountered nothing. . . .
I admire your performance. Here!
Something came rushing toward me. My magical extension informed me that it was soft—too soft and loose to do me any real harm—a large, cool mass showing bright colors. . . .
I stood my ground and extended through it—beyond, far, farther—reaching for the source. I encountered something tangible but yielding: a body perhaps, perhaps not; t
oo—too big to snap back in an instant.
Several small items, hard and of sufficiently low mass, recommended themselves to my lightning search. I seized upon one, tore it free of whatever held it and called it to me.
A wordless impulse of startlement reached me at the same time as the rushing mass and the return of my Logrus summoning.
It burst about me like fireworks: flowers, flowers, flowers. Violets, anemones, daffodils, roses. . . . I heard Flora gasp as hundreds of them rained into the room. The contact was broken immediately. I was aware that I held something small and hard in my right hand, and the heady odors of the floral display filled my nostrils.
“What the hell,” said Flora, “happened?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered, brushing petals from my shirtfront. “You like flowers? You can have these.”
“Thanks, but I prefer a less haphazard arrangement,” she said, regarding the bright mound that lay at my feet. “Who sent them?”
“A nameless person at the end of a dark tunnel.”
“Why?”
“Down payment on a funeral display, maybe. I’m not sure. The tenor of the whole conversation was somewhat threatening.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d help me pick them up before you go.”
“Sure,” I said.
“There are vases in the kitchen and the bathroom. Come on.”
I followed her and collected several. On the way, I studied the object I had brought back from the other end of the sending. It was a blue button mounted in a gold setting, a few navy blue threads still attached. The cut stone bore a curved, four-limbed design. I showed it to Flora and she shook her head.
“It tells me nothing,” she said.
I dug into my pocket and produced the chips of stone from the crystal cave. They seemed to match. Frakir stirred slightly when I passed the button near her, then lapsed again into quiescence, as if having given up on warning me about blue stones when I obviously never did anything about them.
“Strange,” I said.
“I’d like some roses on the night table,” Flora told me, “and a couple of mixed displays on the dresser. You know, no one’s ever sent me flowers this way. It’s a rather intriguing introduction. Are you sure they were for you?”
The Chronicles of Amber Page 107
