Roger Zelazny's The Dawn of Amber

by John Gregory Betancourt

  I beheld a monster like none I had ever seen before. Clearly this wasn’t one of the hell-creatures I had fought in Ilerium . . . so what was it? And why would it want me dead enough to risk murdering me in my own rooms?

  My battle-rage had begun to fade, and I took a deep cleansing breath, muscles suddenly weak. I felt like I’d lost control of my life, and I didn’t like the sensation.

  So, yet another mystery faced me. What had this crea­ture been doing here, inside Dworkin’s castle? How had he slipped past all those guards—past an entire army on the lookout? And most of all, how had he known to come to me posing as a barber?

  I frowned. Clearly he must have had help. Someone had sent him—and set me up to be killed. Much as I hated the thought, I knew what it meant: Dworkin had a spy in his castle, someone in a fairly high position who knew our family’s comings and goings. Someone who could smuggle a hell-creature into the castle, get him the clothes and tools of a barber, and give him enough information to get him safely into my rooms and make me lower my guard.

  Rising, I paced for a second, trying to work through the problem, trying to decide what to do next. Should I call Dworkin’s guards? No, I wouldn’t know whether to trust them. Any of them might be another hell-creature in dis­guise, and I didn’t want to reveal how much I knew yet. Freda, maybe? She seemed to have her own plots. Aber the prankster? I wasn’t sure what help he could be; I needed solid advice, not Trumps.

  That left only Dworkin, and I certainly couldn’t go running to him at the first sign of trouble. It would make me look weak, helpless, unable to protect myself . . . in short, a perfect target.

  Another problem worried me more. If assassins roamed Juniper’s halls disguised as servants, I reasoned, they might just as easily pose as family members. Since I didn’t know anyone in Juniper well enough to tell real from fake, except perhaps Dworkin, I knew how easily I could be fooled by another assassin. Ivinius had come close to succeeding; I didn’t want to give his masters a second chance.

  Taking a deep breath, I rose. When in doubt, do nothing you know is wrong. That was one of the lessons Dworkin had always stressed throughout my childhood. I wouldn’t report this attempt on my life just yet, I decided. Perhaps whoever had set me up would reveal himself if I simply showed up alive and well, like nothing had happened. Surely someone would be curious as to what had happened. I’d have to be doubly watchful.

  One problem remained: how to proceed?

  Clean up, I decided. I’d have to hide the body somewhere and get rid of it after dark. Perhaps it could be dumped into the moat, or smuggled out into the forest. Though exactly how I might do so, when I knew none of Juniper’s passageways—let alone the safest, least guarded path to the forest—escaped me at the moment.

  Details could come later, I decided. For now, it was enough to have a plan.

  I dragged the corpse into the little sitting room and po­sitioned it behind a heavy tapestry where it couldn’t be seen from the main room. Hopefully, servants wouldn’t stumble across it before I was ready, and hopefully it wouldn’t begin to stink too much. Then I began tidying up, setting the chair I’d knocked over back where it belonged, picking up Ivinius’s razor and returning it to the tray with the towels, straightening the table with the basin, re­trieving the desk and restoring its papers and blotter to their proper order—generally putting everything back the way it had been before the fight. To my surprise, the hardest part came last: mopping up the spilled ink. I cleaned it up as best I could with one of the towels, then covered the spot on the carpet with a smaller rug.

  Not a bad job, I finally decided, standing back and studying my work critically. The room looked more or less normal. You couldn’t tell there had been a fight or that I’d hidden a corpse in the next room.

  Then I spotted my reflection in the mirror that had saved my life, and I sighed. I still had the residue of a full lather on my face and neck, and it had begun to dry and flake off. Well, I needed to get cleaned up for dinner any­way—no sense in wasting a sharp razor, even if it had been meant to slit my throat.

  I returned to the basin and the block of soap, lathered up again with the brush, pulled the mirror over to the win­dow’s light while my beard softened, and began to shave myself with one of the smaller razors, which had a blade about as long as my hand. It gave me something to do while I continued to think things through.

  A plan . . . that’s what I needed right now. Some way to sort friend from foe, hell-creature from servant or rela­tive . . .

  Behind me, a floorboard suddenly squeaked. I whirled, razor up. I should have buckled on my swordbelt, I real­ized. More assassins, come to finish the job—?

  No, it was only Aber, grinning at me like a happy pup who’d found its master. I forced myself to relax. He held what looked like one of Freda’s Trumps in his left hand, I noticed, and he carried a small carved wooden box in his right.

  “A present for you, brother,” he said, holding out the box. “Your first set of family Trumps!”

  I took them. “For me? I thought Freda was the expert.”

  “Oh, everyone needs a set. Besides, she already has all the Trumps she wants.”

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, glancing pointedly at the door. The hinges most definitely had not given their telltale squeak. “How did you get in here? Is there another way—a secret passage?”

  “You’ve been listening to too many fairy tales,” he said with a little laugh. “Secret passages? I only know of one in the whole castle, and it’s used all the time by servants as a short-cut between floors. Not much of a secret, if you ask me.”

  “Then how did you get in here?”

  Silently he raised the Trump in his hand, turning it so I could see the picture: my bedroom. He had drawn it per­fectly, right down to the tapestries on the wall and the zig­zag quilt on the bed.

  Suddenly I remembered how the trump with Aber’s picture on it had seemed to move, almost to come alive, when Freda and I were in the carriage. Her cryptic com­ment about not wanting Aber to join us came back to me, and now it made sense. He had to be a wizard. One who used Trumps to move from place to place. That’s how he had gotten in here without opening my door.

  “It’s a good drawing,” I said, taking the card and study­ing it. He had caught not just the look, but the feel of my bedchamber. As I stared at it, the image seemed to grow lifelike and started to loom before me . . . I had the distinct impression that I could have stepped forward and been in the next room. Hurriedly I pulled my gaze away and fo­cused on him.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said, chest swelling a bit with pride. “Art is but one of my many talents, if I do say so myself.”

  “Are there any more cards like this one?”

  “No, that’s the only one I’ve done so far.”

  Instead of handing it back, I tossed it atop the pile of dirty towels on the tray.

  “You don’t mind if I keep it.” Deliberately, I made it a statement instead of a question. I didn’t need him—or anyone else—popping in on me unannounced.

  “Not at all.” He shrugged. “I made it as part of your set, so it’s yours anyway. You should always have a few safe places to fall back on if need arises.”

  “Then . . . thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He gestured toward the box I still held. “Go ahead, take a look at the others.”

  I took a moment to admire the mother-of-pearl dragon inlaid on the top of the box—also his work, it turned out—then unlatched the clasp and swung back the lid. Inside, nestled in a velvet-lined compartment, lay a small stack of Trumps, all face down. Their backs showed a blue-painted field with an intricate gold lion in the middle, exactly like Freda’s.

  I pulled all the cards out and fanned them—about twenty-five, I judged. Most showed portraits done much like the ones in Freda’s set. I pulled out Aber’s. He looked even more heroic than in Freda’s set, if possible; here, he held a bloody sword in one hand and the severed head
of a lion in the other. Clearly he had no problems with his own self-image.

  “They’re terrific,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ll have to show me how they work later, when we have more time.” I put them back in the box, adding the one of my bedroom to the top of the stack.

  “You don’t know . . .” he began. “Sorry! I thought you knew. This morning, someone used my card. Just for a sec­ond, I thought I saw you and Freda inside a carriage.”

  “That was me,” I admitted. “But it was an accident. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not hard. Take out a card and con­centrate on it. If it’s a place, it will seem to grow life-sized before you, like a doorway. Just step through and you’re there.”

  “And the people?”

  “You’ll be able to talk to them,” he said, “but only if they want to talk to you, too. After contact is made, either one can help the other pass across.”

  “It works both ways?”

  “That’s right.” He nodded. “Just stick out your hand, the person you’re talking to will grasp it, and you step forward. Fast and easy.”

  “It almost seems too good to be true!” I said, a trifle skeptical. Why would anyone bother with horses or car­riages if a single card could make traveling quick and painless? “Freda said you liked pranks. You’re pulling my leg now, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he insisted, “I’m telling the truth. I always tell the truth. It’s just that half the time nobody believes me!”

  I gave a snort. “That’s what the best liars say.”

  “You don’t know me well enough to say that. Give me the benefit of the doubt, Oberon.”

  “Very well—explain to me again how you got in here.”

  “I used that Trump of your bedroom,” he said solemnly, indicating the one I’d put in the box. “I left Dad in his study just a minute ago. Which reminds me, I’m here because he wants to see you. So you’d better hurry up. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  I had to smile. “Some things never change.”

  Throughout my childhood, Dworkin had hated wait­ing for anything, from lines at the baker’s to finishing my penmanship lessons so we could get on to more important things, like swordplay and military tactics.

  “So,” I went on, “if I concentrated on Dad’s card right now, he’d pull me into his study? Just like that?” I’d never be able to master such a trick, I thought. It sounded impos­sibly hard, somehow.

  “Sure. But I wouldn’t do it with Dad, ever, unless you haven’t any other choice . . . he doesn’t like to be distracted when he’s working. Sometimes he has delicate experi­ments going on, and if you accidentally mess one up . . . well, let’s just say he has quite a temper.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. I knew what he meant about our father’s temper, all right. Once in the marketplace, when a soldier twice his size had insulted my mother, Dworkin had beaten the fool senseless with his bare hands. It had taken four of the city watch to drag him away, or he surely would have killed the fellow. I hadn’t seen him that angry very often, but it was a terrible thing to behold.

  Some things, it seemed, never changed.

  “Let me finish getting ready,” I said, turning back to the mirror and picking up the razor. “Then maybe you can show me the way down.”

  “Sure, glad to.”

  “Anari was supposed to find me some clothes. Maybe you can hurry him up.”

  “What about those?” He pointed through my bedroom door, and to my amazement I saw brown hose, a green shirt, and undergarments laid out on the chair next to the bed where I’d been sleeping.

  “I must be going blind,” I said, shaking my head. “I would’ve sworn they weren’t there five minutes ago!”

  He chuckled. “Okay, you caught me. I put them there. After I saw Dad, I went to my room first to pick up your set of Trumps. Ivinius was in the hall, and I told him to let you know I’d bring in some clothes for you. I guess he forgot to mention it.”

  I laughed with relief. “So I’m not crazy!”

  “No . . . at least, I hope not! Say, why didn’t you let him shave you?”

  “The way his hands were shaking? Never!”

  “Well, he is getting old.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “Someone ought to tell Anari to find us a new barber.”

  “I think that would be a good idea. I wouldn’t want to have my throat cut.”

  I finished shaving quickly. All the while I studied my brother. He stood by the window, gazing out across the cas­tle grounds. He didn’t seem at all surprised at finding me alive. If anything, he seemed to like my company; I thought he must be lonely. It was easy to rule him out as a suspect in a conspiracy to have me killed—you didn’t kill friends, especially ones with as little power here as I had.

  And that, I thought, made him my first potential ally.

  I splashed water on my face, then toweled dry. Not the best job, I thought, studying my reflection and rubbing my chin, but it would do for now. I’d get a haircut tomorrow, if I could find a real barber.

  I began to dress quickly. Anari had a good eye for clothes; these fit me almost perfectly. A tiny bit too narrow in the shoulders, a little too wide in the waist, but with a belt, they would do nicely.

  “You look a bit like him,” Aber said suddenly as I pulled on my boots.

  “Who?”

  “Taine. Those are his clothes.”

  Taine . . . another of my missing half-brothers. I studied my reflection more critically . . . yes, I thought, dressed in his colors, I looked a lot like him in his Trump.

  I said, “Freda thinks Taine is dead. Do you?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. He has Dad’s temper, and he left after a fight with Locke. I suppose he could be off somewhere, brooding and planning his revenge.”

  “What did they fight about?”

  “I don’t know. Locke has never said.”

  I finished dressing and reached for my sword, but Aber shook his head. “Leave it,” he said. “Father doesn’t allow swords in his workroom.”

  Shrugging, I did so. Ivinius’s impersonator was dead . . . there probably wouldn’t be another attempt on my life tonight. And walking around without a sword clearly showed my lack of fear . . . I couldn’t let my enemy or enemies know how much my nerves had been shaken.

  “Lead on!” I said.

  “Want to try a Trump down?” he asked suddenly.

  “I thought you said—”

  “Dad doesn’t like to use them. But I’ve made Trumps of every interesting room in the castle . . . and many of the uninteresting ones, too.” He chuckled. “Those can be even more useful, you know.”

  “I can imagine. And I suppose you know an uninterest­ing one near Dad’s workshop?”

  “There’s a cloakroom just off the main hall . . . and it’s about thirty feet from there to his workshop door.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. Much as I liked the idea of trying out some magic, this wasn’t the right time. “Juniper is huge. I’ll never get a feel for its layout if we jump around like spring hares. Let’s walk. That will give us a chance to get to know each other, and you can tell me about the castle as we go.”

  “As you wish.” With a little shrug, he led the way out to the hall. “Those are my rooms,” he said, pointing to the double doors directly across from mine. “Then Davin’s to the left, then Mattus. Locke, Alanar, and Titus have the rooms to the right, and then Fenn and Taine and Conner opposite. Our sisters have the floor above.”

  We started down a broad stone stairway, heading back toward the salon in which we’d had drinks earlier that afternoon. As we walked, servants quickly stepped aside to let us pass, bowing their heads. I thought I recognized a few from my last trip through here, and several of them called me “Lord Oberon” as we passed. Clearly news of my arrival was spreading.

  I still regarded them with veiled suspicion. Any might be another hell-creature spy or as
sassin in human guise. And yet I couldn’t allow myself to become too fearful or paranoid. If Juniper had to be my home now, I would ac­cept it, even if it came with a measure of danger. I couldn’t brood on Ivinius and the possibility of assassination attempts or the assassins would have won . . . they would rule me.

  No, I vowed, I would ferret them out in due course. But I wouldn’t let them change how I lived my life—heartily, savoring the pleasures and passions.

  Where to start, though? Best to get Aber talking, I decided. He might reveal more information about our family and the military situation here—what I needed most at this point was information. With so many sol­diers stationed around Juniper, and hell-creatures infil­trating the castle, the war Freda had mentioned must be imminent.

  I decided to start with a comfortable topic before work­ing our way to more sensitive matters, something to loosen his natural reserve. What Freda had said about him in the horseless carriage came back to me: Aber the prankster, Aber the artist, Aber the distraction who could not be trusted to join us. Art seemed one of his main interests.

  I said, “So, you make your own Trumps?” Most people enjoyed talking about themselves, and his talent for art seemed a natural place to begin.

  “That’s right!” He grinned, and I knew my question pleased him. “Everyone says I inherited Dad’s artistic ten­dencies, just not his temperament. Apparently he used to make Trumps all the time when he was my age, but I don’t think he has in years. There are more interesting things, he keeps saying. He’s always got dozens of experiments going on in his workshop.”

  Experiments? A workshop? I had never seen this side of Dworkin in Ilerium . . . or perhaps I’d been too young to notice.

  “I’ve been impressed by everything he’s made,” I said. “That horseless carriage—”

  He snorted derisively.

  “You don’t like it?” I asked, bewildered. I’d found it the finest means of transportation I’d ever used, except perhaps horse and saddle.