“There was a coup, at dawn, this morning.”
“Palace?”
“Possibly that, too. But it was backed by external military force.”
“What was Benedict doing while this was going on?”
“I ordered him to pull the troops out yesterday, right before I came home myself. Things seemed stable, and it wouldn’t have looked good to have combat troops from Amber stationed there during the coronation.”
“True,” I said. “So somebody moved right in, almost as soon as Benedict moved out and did away with the man who would be king, without the local constabulary even suggesting that that was not nice?”
Random nodded slowly.
“That’s about the size of it,” he said. “Now why do you think that might be?”
“Perhaps they were not totally displeased with the new state of affairs.”
Random smiled and snapped his fingers.
“Inspired,” he said. “One could almost think you knew what was going on.”
“One would be wrong,” I said.
“Today your former classmate Lukas Raynard becomes Rinaldo I, King of Kashfa.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “I’d no idea he really wanted that job. What are you going to do about it?”
“I think I’ll skip the coronation.”
“I mean, over a slightly longer term.”
Random sighed and turned away, kicking at the rubble.
“You mean, am I going to send Benedict back, to depose him?”
“In a word, yes.”
“That would make us look pretty bad. What Luke just did is not above the Graustarkian politics that prevail in the area. We’d moved in and helped straighten out something that was fast becoming a political shambles. We could go back and do it again, too, if it were just some half-assed coup by a crazy general or some noble with delusions of grandeur. But Luke’s got a legitimate claim, and it actually is stronger than Shadburne’s. Also, he’s popular. He’s young, and he makes a good appearance. We’d have a lot less justification for going back than we had for going in initially. Even so, I was almost willing to risk being called an aggressor to keep that bitch’s homicidal son off the throne. Then my man in Kashfa tells me that he’s under Vialle’s protection. So I asked her about it. She says that it’s true and that you were present when it happened. She said she’d tell me about it after the operation Dworkin’s doing now, in case he needs her empathic abilities. But I can’t wait. Tell me what happened.”
“You tell me one more thing first.”
“What is it?”
“What military forces brought Luke to power?”
“Mercenaries.”
“Dalt’s?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Luke canceled his vendetta against the House of Amber,” I said. “He did this freely, following a conversation with Vialle, just the other night. It was then that she gave him the ring. At the time I thought it was to keep Julian from trying to kill him, as we were on our way down to Arden.”
“This was in response to Dalt’s so-called ultimatum regarding Luke and Jasra?”
“That’s right. It never occurred to me that the whole thing might be a setup—to get Luke and Dalt together so they could go off and pull a coup. That would mean that even that fight was staged, and now that I think of it, Luke did have a chance to talk with Dalt before it occurred.”
Random raised his hand.
“Wait,” he said. “Go back and tell me the thing from the beginning.”
“Right.”
And so I did. By the time I’d finished we had both paced the length of the studio countless times.
“You know,” he said then, “the whole business sounds like something Jasra might have set up before her career as a piece of furniture.”
“The thought had occurred to me,” I said, hoping he wasn’t about to pursue the matter of her present whereabouts. And the more I thought of it, recalling her reaction to the information about Luke following our raid on the Keep, the more I began to feel not only that she had been aware of what was going on but that she’d even been in touch with Luke more recently than I had at that time.
“It was pretty smoothly done,” he observed. “Dalt must have been operating under old orders. Not being certain how to collect Luke or locate Jasra for fresh instructions, he took a chance with that feint on Amber. Benedict might well have spitted him again, with equal skill and greater effect.”
“True. I guess you have to give the devil his due when it comes to guts. It also means that Luke must have done a lot of fast plotting and laid that fixed fight out during their brief conference in Arden. So he was really in control there, and he conned us into thinking he was a prisoner, which precluded his being the threat to Kashfa that he really was—if you want to look at it that way.”
“What other way is there to look at it?”
“Well, as you said yourself, his claim is not exactly without merit. What do you want to do?”
Random massaged his temples.
“Going after him, preventing the coronation, would be a very unpopular move,” he said. “First, though, I’m curious. You say this guy’s a great bullshitter. You were there. Did he con Vialle into placing him under her protection?”
“No, he didn’t,” I said. “He seemed as surprised as I was at her gesture. He called off the vendetta because he felt that honor had been satisfied, that he had to an extent been used by his mother, and out of friendship for me. He did it without any strings on it. I still think she gave him the ring so the vendetta would end there, so none of us would go gunning for him.”
“That is very like her,” Random said. “If I thought he’d taken advantage of that, I was going to go after him myself. The embarrassment for me is unintentional then, and I guess I can live with it. I prime Arkans for the throne, and then he’s shunted aside at the last minute by someone under my wife’s protection. Almost makes it look as if there’s a bit of divisiveness here at the center of things—and I’d hate to give that impression.”
“I’ve got a hunch Luke will be very conciliatory. I know him well enough to know he appreciates all of these nuances. I’d guess he’d be a very easy man for Amber to deal with, on any level.”
“I’ll bet he will. Why shouldn’t he?”
“No reason,” I said. “What’s going to happen to that treaty now?”
Random smiled.
“I’m off the hook. I never felt right about the Eregnor provisions. Now, if there’s to be a treaty at all, we go at it ab initio. I’m not even sure we need one, though. The hell with ’em.”
“I’ll bet Arkans is still alive,” I said.
“You think Luke’s holding him hostage, against my giving him Golden Circle status?”
I shrugged.
“How close are you to Arkans?”
“Well, I did set him up for this thing, and I feel I owe him. I don’t feel I owe him that much, though.”
“Understandable.”
“There would be loss of face for Amber even to approach a second-rate power like Kashfa directly at a time like this.”
“True,” I said, “and for that matter, Luke isn’t officially head of state yet.”
“Arkans would still be enjoying life at his villa if it weren’t for me, though, and Luke really does seem to be a friend of yours—a scheming friend, but a friend.”
“You would like me to mention this during a forthcoming discussion of Tony Price’s atomic sculpture?”
He nodded.
“I feel you should have your art discussion very soon. In fact, it would not be inappropriate for you to attend a friend’s coronation—as a private individual. Your dual heritage will serve us well here, and he will still be honored.”
“Even so, I’ll bet he wants that treaty.”
“Even if we were inclined to grant it, we would not guarantee him Eregnor.”
“I understand.”
“And you are not empowered to commit us to anythi
ng.”
“I understand that, too.”
“Then why don’t you clean up a bit and go talk to him about it? Your room is just around the abyss. You can leave through the hole in the wall and shinny down a beam I noticed was intact.”
“Okay, I will,” I answered, moving in that direction. “But one question first, completely off the subject.”
“Yes?”
“Has my father been back recently?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “We’re all pretty good at hiding our comings and goings if we wish, of course. But I think he’d have let me know if he were around.”
“Guess so,” I said, and I turned and exited through the wall, skirting the abyss.
Chapter 11
No.
I hung from the beam, swung, and let go. I landed almost gracefully in the middle of the hallway in an area that would have been located approximately midway between my two doors, save that the first door was missing, also the section of wall through which it had provided entrance (or exit, depending on which side you happened to be), not to mention my favorite chair and a display case which had held seashells I’d picked up from beaches around the world. Pity.
I rubbed my eyes and turned away, for even the prospect of my ruined apartment took second place just now. Hell, I’d had apartments ruined in the past. Usually around April 30 . . .
As in “Niagara Falls,” slowly I turned . . .
No.
Yes. Across the hall from my rooms, where I had previously faced a blank wall, there was now a hallway running to the north. I’d gotten a glimpse up its sparkling length as I’d dropped from my rafter. Amazing. The gods had just up-tempoed my background music yet again. I’d been in that hallway before, in one of its commoner locations up on the fourth floor, running east-west between a couple of storerooms. One of Castle Amber’s intriguing anomalies, the Corridor of Mirrors, in addition to seeming longer in one direction than the other, contained countless mirrors. Literally countless. Try counting them, and you never come up with the same total twice. Tapers flicker in high, standing holders, casting infinities of shadows. There are big mirrors, little mirrors, narrow mirrors, squat mirrors, tinted mirrors, distorting mirrors, mirrors with elaborate frames—cast or carved—plain, simply framed mirrors, and mirrors with no frames at all; there are mirrors in multitudes of sharp-angled geometric shapes, amorphous shapes, curved mirrors.
I had walked the Corridor of Mirrors on several occasions, sniffing the perfumes of scented candles, sometimes feeling subliminal presences among the images, things which faded at an instant’s sharp regard. I had felt the mixed enchantments of the place but had somehow never roused its sleeping genii. Just as well perhaps. One never knew what to expect in that place; at least that’s what Bleys once told me. He was not certain whether the mirrors propelled one into obscure realms of Shadow, hypnotized one and induced bizarre dream states, cast one into purely symbolic realms decorated with the furniture of the psyche, played malicious or harmless head games with the viewer, none of the above, all of the above, or some of the above. Whatever, it was something less than harmless, though, as thieves, servants, and visitors had occasionally been found dead or stunned and mumbling along that sparkling route, oft-times wearing highly unusual expressions. And generally around the solstices and equinoxes—though it could occur at any season—the corridor moved itself to a new location, sometimes simply departing altogether for a time. Usually it was treated with suspicion, shunned, though it could as often reward as injure one or offer a useful omen or insight as readily as an unnerving experience. It was the uncertainty of it that roused trepidations.
And sometimes, I was told, it was almost as if it came looking for a particular person, bearing its ambiguous gifts. On such occasions it was said to be more dangerous to turn it down than to accept its invitation.
“Aw, come on,” I said. “Now?”
The shadows danced along its length, and I caught a I whiff of those intoxicating tapers. I moved forward. I extended my left hand past its corner and patted the wall. Frakir didn’t stir.
“This is Merlin,” I said, “and I’m kind of busy just now. You sure you wouldn’t rather reflect someone else?”
The nearest flame seemed, for an instant, a fiery hand, beckoning.
“Shit,” I whispered, and I strode forward.
There was no sense of transition as I entered. A long red-patterned runner covered the floor. Dust motes spun in the lights I passed. I was beside myself in many aspects, flickering flame-light harlequinading my garments, transforming my face within a dance of shadows.
Flicker.
For an instant it seemed that the stern visage of Oberon regarded me from a small high metal-framed oval—as easily a trick of the light as the shade of his late highness, of course.
Flicker.
I’d swear an animalistic travesty of my own face had leered at me for a moment, tongue lolling, from a midlevel rectangle of quicksilver to my left, framed is ceramic flowers, face humanizing as I turned, quickly, to mock me.
Walking. Footsteps muffled. Breathing slightly tight. I wondered whether I should summon my Logrus sight or even try that of the Pattern. I was loath to attempt either, though, memories of the nastier aspects of both Powers still too fresh within me for comfort. Something was about to happen to me, I was certain.
I halted and examined the one I thought must have my number—framed in black metal, with various signs from the magical arts inlaid in silver about it. The glass was murky, as if spirits swam just out of sight within its depths. My face looked leaner, its lines more heavily inscribed, the faintest of purple halos, perhaps, flickering about my head within it. There was something cold and vaguely sinister about that image, but though I studied it for a long while, nothing happened. There were no messages, enlightenments, changes. In fact, the longer I stared, the more all of the dramatic little touches seemed but tricks of the lighting.
I walked on, fast glimpses of unearthly landscapes, exotic creatures, hints of memory, neat subliminals of dead friends and relatives. Something within a pool even waved a rake at me. I waved back. Having so recently survived the traumas of my trek through the land between shadows, I was not as intimidated by these manifestations of strangeness and possible menace as I would likely have been at almost any other time. I thought I had sight of a gibbeted man, swinging as in a strong wind, hands tied behind his back, El Greco sky above him.
“I’ve had a rough couple of days,” I said aloud, “and there’s no sign of any letup. I’m sort of in a hurry, if you know what I mean.”
Something punched me in the right kidney, and I spun around, but there was no one there. Then I felt a hand upon my shoulder, turning me. I cooperated quickly. No one there either.
“I apologize,” I said, “if the truth requires it here.”
Invisible hands continued to push and tug at me, moving me past a number of attractive mirrors. I was steered to a cheap-looking mirror in a dark-stained wooden frame. It looked as if it might have come from some discount house. There was a slight imperfection in the glass, in the vicinity of my left eye. Whatever forces had propelled me to this point released me here. It occurred to me that the powers that be here might actually have been attempting to expedite things per my request, rather than simply hustling me in a peevish spirit.
So, “Thanks,” I said, just to be safe, and I continued to stare. I moved my head back and forth and from side to side, producing ripple effects across my image. I repeated the movements while waiting for whatever might occur.
My image remained unchanged, but on the third or fourth ripple my background was altered. It was no longer a wall of dimly lit mirrors that stood behind me. It flowed away and did not return with my next movement. In its place was a stand of dark shrubbery beneath an evening sky. I continued to move my head slightly several times more, but the ripple effect had vanished. The bushes seemed very real, though my peripheral vision showed me that the
hallway was intact in both directions and still seemed to possess its right-hand wall at both ends.
I continued to search the seemingly reflected shrubbery, looking for portents, omens, signs, or just a little movement. None of these became apparent, though a very real sensation of depth was there. I could almost feel a cool breeze upon my neck. I must have stared for several minutes, waiting for the mirror to produce something new. But it did not. If this was the best the mirror had to offer, it was time to move on, I decided.
Something seemed to stir in the bushes at my back, then, causing reflex to take over. I turned quickly, raising my hands before me.
It was only the wind that had rustled them, I saw. And then I realized that I was not in the hallway, and I turned again. The mirror and its wall were gone. I now faced a low hill, a line of broken masonry at its top. Light flickered from behind that shattered wall. Both curiosity and my sense of purpose roused, I began climbiing slowly, my wariness yet present.
The sky seemed to grow darker even as I climbed and it was cloudless, a profusion of stars pulsing in unfamiliar constellations across it. I moved with some stealth amid stones, grasses, shrubs, broken masonry. From beyond the vine-clad wall I now heard the sounds of voices. Though I could not distinguish the words being spoken, it did not seem conversation that I overheard, but rather a cacophony—as if a number of individuals, of both genders and various ages, were delivering simultaneous monologues.
Coming to the hill’s top, I extended my hand until it made contact with the wall’s irregular surface. I decided against going around it to see what sort of activity was in progress on the other side. It could make me visible to I knew not what. It seemed so much simpler to reach as high as I could, hook my fingers over the top of the nearest depressed area, and draw myself upward—as I did. I even located toeholds as my head neared the top, and I was able to ease some of the strain on my arms by resting part of my weight upon them.
I drew myself carefully up those final few inches, peering past fractured stone and down into the interior of the ruined structure. It appeared to have been some sort of church. The roof was fallen, and the far wall still stood, in much the same condition as the one I clung to. There was an altar in bad repair in a raised area off to my right. Whatever had happened here must have happened long ago, for shrubs and vines grew in the interior as well as without, softening the lines of collapsed pews, fallen pillars, fragments of the roof.
The Chronicles of Amber Page 165
