Suddenly, I had a vision of someone forcing Bill to write that note at gunpoint, then whisking him away as a hostage to pressure me into answering questions.
I hurried back to the kitchen and phoned his office. Horace Crayper, his secretary, answered on the second ring. “Hi, this is Merle Corey,” I said. “Is Mr. Roth in?”
“Yes,” he replied, “but he's with a client right now. Could I have him call you back?”
“No, it's not that important,” I said, “and I'll be seeing him later. Don't bother him. Thanks.” I poured myself another cup of coffee and returned to the porch. This sort of thing was bad for the nerves . I decided that if everything wasn't squared away this evening I would leave.
A figure rounded the corner of the house.
“Hi, MerIe.”
It was George Hansen. Frakir gave me the tiniest of pulses, as if beginning a warning and then reconsidering it. Ambiguous. Unusual.
“Hi, George. How's it going?” “Pretty well. Is Mr. Roth in?”
“Afraid not. He had to go into town for a while. I imagine he'll be back around lunchtime or a little after.”
“Oh. A few days ago he'd asked me to stop by when I was free, about some work he wanted done.”
He came nearer, put his foot on the step. I shook my head.
“Can't help you. He didn't mention it to me. You'll have to catch him later.”
He nodded, unwound his pack of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it, then rewound the pack in his shirt sleeves. This T-shirt was a Pink Floyd.
“How are you enjoying your stay?” he asked.
“Real well. You care for a cup of coffee?”
“Don't mind if I do.”
I rose and went inside.
“With a little cream and sugar,” he called after me.
I fixed him one and when I returned with it he was seated in the other chair on the porch.
“Thanks.” After he'd tasted it, he said, “I know your dad's name's Carl even though Mr. Roth said Sam. His memory must've slipped.”
“Or his tongue,” I said. He smiled.
What was it about the way he talked? His voice could almost be the one I'd heard on the phone last night, though that one had been very controlled and slowed just enough to neutralize any number of speech clues. It wasn't that comparison that was bothering me.
“He was a retired military officer, wasn't he? And some sort of government consultant?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“Doing a lot of traveling-overseas.”
“You going to see him on your own trip?”
“I hope so.”
“That'll be nice,” he said, taking a drag on his cigarette and another sip of coffee. “Ah! that's good!”
“I don't remember seeing you around,” he said suddenly then. “You never lived with your dad, huh?”
“No, I grew up with my mother and other relatives.”
“Pretty far from here, huh?”
I nodded. “Overseas.”
“What was her name?”
I almost told him. I'm not certain why, but I changed it to “Dorothy” before it came out.
I glanced at him in time to see him purse his lips. He had been studying my face as I spoke.
“Why do you ask?” I said.
“No special reason. Or genetic nosiness, you might say. My mother was the town gossip.”
He laughed and gulped coffee.
“Will you be staying long?” he asked then.
“Hard to say. Probably not real long, though.”
“Well, I hope you have a good time of it.” He finished his coffee and set the cup on the railing. He rose then, stretched and added, “Nice talking to you.”
Partway down the stairs he paused and turned.
“I've a feeling you'll go far,” he told me. “Good luck.”
“You may, too,” I said. “You've a way with words.”
“Thanks for the coffee. See you around.”
“Yes.” He turned the corner and was gone. I simply didn't know what to make of him, and after several attempts I gave up. When inspiration is silent reason tires quickly.
I was making myself a sandwich when Bill returned, so I made two. He went and changed clothes while I was doing this.
“I'm supposedly taking it easy this month,” he said while we were eating, “but that was an old client with some pressing business, so I had to go in. What say we follow the creek in the other direction this afternoon?”
“Sure.” As we hiked across the field I told him of George's visit.
“No,” he said, “I didn't tell him I had any jobs for him.”
“In other words—”
“I guess he came by to see you. It would have been easy enough to see me leave, from their place.”
“I wish I knew what he wanted.”
“If it's important enough he'll probably wind up asking you, in time.”
“But time is running,” I said. “I've decided to leave tomorrow morning, maybe even tonight.”
As we made our way down the creek, I told him of last night's note and this evening's rendezvous. I also told him my feelings about exposing him to stray shots, or intended ones.
“It may not be that serious,” he began.
“My mind's made up, Bill. I hate to cut things short when I haven't seen you for so long, but I hadn't counted on all this trouble. And if I go away you know that it will, too. “Probably so, but...”
We continued in this vein for a while as we followed the watercourse. Then we finally dropped the matter as settled and returned to a fruitless rehashing of my puzzles. As we walked I looked back occasionally but did not see anyone behind us. I did hear a few sounds within the brush on the opposite bank at infrequent intervals, but it could easily have been an animal disturbed by our voices.
We had hiked for over an hour when I had the premonitory feeling that someone was picking up my Trump. I froze.
Bill halted and turned toward me.
“What—”
I raised my hand.
“Long distance call,” I said.
A moment later I felt the first movement of contact. I also heard the noise in the bushes again, across the water.
“Merlin.”
It was Random's voice, calling to me. A few seconds later I saw him, seated at a desk in the library of Amber.
“Yes?” I answered.
The image came into solidity, assumed full reality, as if I were looking through an archway into an adjacent room. At the same time, I still possessed my vision of the rest of my surroundings, though it was growing more and more peripheral by the moment. For example, I saw Gearge Hansen start up from among the bushes across the creek, staring at me.
“I want you back in Amber right away,” Random stated. George began to move forward, splashing down into the water.
Random raised his hand, extended it. “Come on through,” he said.
By now my outline must have begun shimmering, and I heard George cry out, “Stop! Wait! I have to come with-!”
I reached out and grasped Bill's shoulder.
“I can't leave you with this nut,” I said. “Come on!” With my other hand I clasped Random's.
“Okay,” I said, moving forward. “Stop!” George cried.
“The hell you say,” I replied, and we left him to clasp a rainbow.
CHAPTER 7
Random looked startled as the two of us came through into the library. He rose to his feet, which still left him shorter than either of us, and he shifted his attention to Bill.
“Merlin, who's this?” he asked.
“Your attorney, Bill Roth,” I said. “You've always dealt with him through agents in the past. I thought you might like to—”
Bill began dropping to one knee, “Your Majesty,” on his lips, but Random caught him by the shoulders.
“Cut the crap,” he said. “We're not in Court.” He clasped his hand, then said, “Call me Random. I've alway
s intended to thank you personally for the work you did on that treaty. Never got around to it, though. Good to meet you.”
I'd never seen Bill at a loss for words before, but he just stared, at Random, at the room, out of the window at a distant tower.
Finally, “It's real...” I heard him whisper moments later.
“Did I not see someone springing toward you?” Random said to me, running a hand through his unruly brown hair. "And surely your last words back there were not addressed to me?”
“We were having a little problem,” I answered. “That's the real reason I brought Bill along. You see, someone's been trying to kill me, and—”
Random raised his hand. “Spare me the details for the moment. I'll need them all later, but-but let it be later. There is more nastiness than usual afoot at the moment, and yours may well be a part of it. But I've got to breathe a bit.”
It was only then that some deepened lines in his naturally youthful face registered and I began to realize that he was under a strain.
“What's the matter?” I asked.
“Caine is dead. Murdered,” he replied. “This morning.”
“How did it happen?”
“He was off in Shadow Deiga-a distant port with which we have commerce. He was with Gerard, to renegotiate an old trade agreement. He was shot, through the heart. Died instantly.”
“Did they catch the bowman?”
“Bowman, hell! It was a rifleman, on a rooftop. And he got away.”
“I thought gunpowder didn't work around here.” He made a quick palms-up gesture.
“Deiga may be far enough off in Shadow for it to work. Nobody here can remember ever testing any there. For that matter, though, your father once came up with a compound that worked here.”
“True. I'd almost forgotten.”
“Anyway, the funeral is tomorrow—”
“Bill! Merlin!”
My aunt Flora-who had turned down Rossetti's offers, one of them being to model for him-had entered the room. Tall, slim and burnished, she hurried forward and kissed Bill on the cheek. I had never seen him blush before. She repeated the act for me, too, but I-was less moved, recalling that she had once been my father's warden.
“When did you get in?” Her voice was lovely, too.
“Just now,” I said.
She immediately linked arms with both of us and attempted to lead us off.
“We have so much to talk about,” she began.
“Flora!” This from Random.
“Yes, brother?”
“You may give Mr. Roth the full tour, but I require Merlin's presence for a time.”
She pouted slightly for a moment, then released my arm. “Now you know what an absolute monarchy is,” she explained to Bill. “You can see how power corrupts.”
“I was corrupt before I had power,” Random said, “and rich is better. You have my leave to depart, sister.”
She sniffed and led Bill away.
“It's always quieter around here when she fords a boyfriend off somewhere in Shadow,” Random observed. “Unfortunately, she's been home for the better part of a year this time.”
I made a tsking sound.
He gestured toward a chair and I took it. He crossed to a cabinet then.
“Wine?” he asked.
“Don't mind if I do.”
He poured two glasses, brought me one, and seated himself in a chair to my left, a small table between us. “Someone also took a shot at Bleys,” he said, “this afternoon, in another shadow. Hit him, too, but not bad. Gunman got away Bleys was just on a diplomatic mission to a friendly kingdom.”
“Same person, you think?”
“Sure. We've never had rifle sniping in the neighborhood before. Then two, all of a sudden? It must be the same person. Or the same conspiracy.”
“Any clues?”
He shook his head and tasted the wine.
“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he said then, “before any of the others got to you. There are two things I'd like you to know.”
I sipped the wine and waited.
“The first is that this really scares me. With the attempt on Bleys it no longer appears to have been simply a personal thing directed at Caine. Somebody seems to have it in for us—or at least some of us. Now you say there's someone after you, too.”
“I don't know whether there's any connection—” “Well, neither do I. But I don't like the possible pattern I see developing. My worst fear is that it may be one or more of us behind it.”
“Why?” He glowered into his goblet.
“For centuries the personal vendetta has been our way of settling disagreements, not necessarily proceeding inevitably to death-though that was always a possibility-but certainly characterized by intrigues, to the end of embarrassing, disadvantaging, maiming, or exiling the other and enhancing one's own position. This reached its latest peak in the scramble for the succession. I thought everything was pretty much settled, though, when I wound up with the job, which I certainly wasn't looking for. I had no real axes to grind, and I've tried to be fair. I know how touchy everyone here is. I don't think it's me, though, and I don't think it's the succession. I haven't had any bad vibes from any of the others. I'd gotten the impression they had decided I was the lesser of all possible evils and were actually cooperating to make it work. No, I don't believe any of the others is rash enough to want my crown. There was actually amity, goodwill, after the succession was settled. But what I'm wondering now is whether the old pattern might be recurring -that some of the others might have taken up the old game again to settle personal grievances. I really don't want to see that happen-all the suspicion, precautions, innuendoes, mistrust, double dealings. It weakens us, and there's always some possible threat ar other against which we should be strong. Now, I've spoken with everyone privately, and of course they all deny any knowledge of current cabals, intrigues, and vendettas, but I could see that they're getting suspicious of each other. It's become a habit of thought. And it wasn't at all difficult for them to dig up some of grudge each of the others might still have had against Caine despite the fact that he saved all our asses by taking out Brand. And the same with Bieys—everyone could fins motives for everyone else.”
“So you want the killer fast, because of what he's done to morals”
“Certainly. I don't need all this backbiting and grudgehunting. It's all still so close to the surface that we're likely to have real cabals, intrigues, and vendettas before long, if we don't already, and some little misunderstanding could lead to violence again.”
“Do you think it's one of the others?”
“Shit! I'm the same as they are. I get suspicious by reflex. It well may be, but I haven't really seen a bit of evidence.”
“Who else could it be?”
He uncrossed and recrossed his legs. He took another drink of wine.
“Hell! Our enemies are legion. But most of them wouldn't have the guts. They all know the kind of reprisal they could expect once we found them out.”
He clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the rows of books.
“I don't know bow to say this,” he began after a time, “but I have to.”
I waited again. Then he said quickly, “There's talk it's Corwin, but I don't believe it.”
“No,” I said softly.
“I told you I don't believe it. Your father means a lot to me.”
“Why would anybody believe it?”
“There's a rumor he's gone crazy. You've heard it. What if he's reverted to some past state of mind, from the days when his relations with Came and Bleys were a lot less than
cordial—or with any of us, for that matter? That's what they're saying.”
“I don't believe it.”
“I just wanted you to be aware that it's being kicked around.”
“Nobody'd better kick it in my direction.”
He sigh. “Don't you start. Please. They're upset. Don't look for trouble.”
I took a dr
ink of wine. “Yes, you're right,” I said.
“Now I have to listen to your story. Go ahead, complicate my life some more.”
“Okay. At least I'm fresh on it,” I told him.
So I ran through it again. It took a long while, and it was getting dark by the time I finished. He had interrupted me only for occasional clarifications and had not indulged in the exploration of contingencies the way Bill had when he'd heard it.
When I had finished, he rose and lit a few oil lamps. I could almost hear him thinking.
Finally he said, “No, you've got me on Luke. He doesn't ring any bells at all. The lady with the sting bothers me a bit, though. It seems I might have heard something about people like that, but I can't recall the circumstances. It'll come to me. I want to know more about this Ghostwheel project of yours, though. Something about it troubles me.”
“Sure,” I said. “But there is something else I am reminded to tell you first.”
“What's that?”
“I covered everything for you pretty much the way I did when I was talking to Bill. In fact, my just having been through it recently made me almost use it like a rehearsal. But there was something I didn't mention to Bill because it didn't seem important at the time. I might even have forgotten it entirely in the light of everything else, till this business about the sniper came up-and then you reminded me that Corwin once developed a substitute for gunpowder that will work here.”
“Everybody remembered it, believe me.”
“I forgot about two rounds of ammunition I have in my pocket that came from the ruins of that warehouse where Melman had his studio.”
“So—”
“They don't contain gunpowder. There's some kind of pink stuff in them instead-and it won't even burn. At least back on that shadow Earth...”
I dug one out.
“Looks like a 30-30,” he said.
“I guess so.”
Random rose and drew upon a braided cord that hung beside one of the bookshelves.
By the time he'd returned to his seat there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he called.
A liveried servant entered, a young blond fellow.
“That was quick,” Random said.
The Great Book of Amber Page 97
