 Roger Zelazny
 THE AMBER CHRONICLES - BOOK SIX
 TRUMPS OF DOOM


CHAPTER 1

     It is a pain in the ass waiting around for someone to try to kill  you.
But  it was April 30, and of course it would happen as it always did. It had
taken me a while to catch on, but now I at least knew when it was coming. In
the past, I'd bin too busy to do anything about it. But my job was  finished
now.  I'd  only  stayed around for this. I felt that I really ought to clear
the  matter  up  before  I  departed.I  got  out   of   bed,   visited   the
bathroom,showered,  brushed my teeth, et cetera. I'd grown a beard again, so
I didn't have to shave. I was not jangling with strange apprehensions, as  I
had  been on that April 30 three years ago when I'd awakened with a headache
and a premonition, thrown open the windows,  and  gone  to  the  kitchen  to
discover  all of the gas burners turned on and flameless. No. It wasn't even
like the April 30 two years ago in the other apartment when I  awoke  before
dawn to a faint smell of smoke to learn that the place was on fire. Still, I
stayed  out  of  direct  line  of  the light fixtures in case the bulbs were
filled with something flammable, and I flipped all of  the  switches  rather
than pushing them. Nothing untoward followed these actions.
     Usually,  I set up the coffee maker the night before with a timer. This
morning, though, I didn'.t want coffee that had  been  produced  out  of  my
sight.  I set a fresh pot going and checked my packing while I waited for it
to brew. Everything I valued in  this  place  resided  in  two  medium-sized
cratesclothing, books, paintings, some instruments, a few souvenirss, and so
forth.  I  sealed  the  cases.  A  change  of clothing, a sweatshirt, a good
paperback, and a wad of traveler's checks went into the backpack.  I'd  drop
my  key  off at the manager's on the way out, so he could let the movers in.
The crates would go into storage.
     No jogging for me this morning.
     As I sipped my coffee, passing from window to window and pausing beside
each for sidelong surveys of the streets below and the buildings across  the
way (last year's attempt had been - by someone with a rifle}, I thought back
to  the  first  time  it  had  happened,  seven years ago. I had simply been
walking down the street on a bright spring afternoon when an oncoming  truck
had  swerved,  jumped  the  curb,  and nearly combined me with portions of a
brick wall. I was able to dive out of the way and  roll.  The  driver  never
regained  consciousness.  It  had seemed one of those freak occurrences that
occasionally invade the lives of us all.
     The following year to the day, however, I was walking home from my lady
friend's place late in the evening when three men  attacked  me-one  with  a
knife, the other two with lengths of pipe-without even the courtesy of first
asking for my wallet.
     I left the remains in the doorway of a nearby record store, and while I
thought  about  it  on the way home it did not strike me until the following
day that it had been the anniversary  of  the  truck  crash.  Even  then,  I
dismissed  it  as  an  odd coincidence. The matter of the mail bomb that had
destroyed half of another apartment the following year did cause me to begin
wondering whether the statistical nature of reality might  not  be  under  a
strain  in  my  vicinity  at that season. And the events of subsequent years
served to turn this into a conviction.
     Someone enjoyed trying to kill me once a year,  it  was  as  simple  as
that.  The  effort  failing,  there  would be another year's pause before an
attempt was made again. It seemed almost a game.
     But this year I wanted to play, too. My main concern was that he,  she,
or  it  seemed never to be present when the event occurred, favoring stealth
and gimmicks or agents. I will 'refer to this person as S  (which  sometimes
stands  for  "sneak"  and sometimes for "shithead" in my private cosmology),
because X has been overworked and because I do not like to screw around with
pronouns with disputable antecedents.
     I rinsed my coffee cup and the pot and set them in  the  rack.  Then  I
picked up my bag and departed. Mr. Mulligan wasn't in, or was sleeping, so I
left my key in his mailbox before heading up the street to take my breakfast
at a nearby diner.
     Traffic  was  light,  and  all  of  the vehicles well behaved. I walked
slowly, listening and looking.  It  was  a  pleasant  morning,  promising  a
beautiful  day.  I hoped to settle things quickly, so I could enjoy it at my
leisure.
     I reached the diner unmolested. I took a seat beside the  window.  Just
as  the  waiter came to take my order I saw a familiar figure swinging along
the street - a former classmate and later fellow employee Lucas Raynard: six
feet tall,  red-haired,  handsome  in  spite,  or  perhaps  because,  of  an
artistically broken nose, with the voice and manner of the salesman he was.
     I knocked on the window and he saw me, waved, turned and entered.
     "Merle,  I  was  right,"  he  said, coming up to the table, clasping my
shoulder briefly, seating himself and taking  the  menu  out  of  my  hands.
"Missed you at your place and guessed you might be here."
     He lowered his eyes and began :reading the menu.
     "Why?" I asked.
     "If' you need more time to consider, I'll come back," the waiter said.


     "No," Luke answered and read off an enormous order.
     I added my own.
     Then: "Because you're a creature of habit."
     "Habit?" I replied. "I hardly eat here anymore."
     "I  know,"  he answered, "but you usually did when the pressure was on.
Like, right before exams - or if something was bothering you."
     "Hm," I said: There did seem to be something  to  that,  though  I  had
never before realized it. I spun the ashtray with its imprint of a unicorn's
head,  a  smaller  version  of the stained-glass one that stood as part of a
partition beside the doorway: "I can't say why," I finally stated. "Besides,
what makes you think something's bothering me?"
     "I remembered that paranoid thing you have about April 30, because of a
couple of accidents."
     "More than a couple. I never told you about all of them."
     "So you still believe it?"
     "Yes."
     He shrugged. The waiter came by and filled our coffee cups.
     "Okay," he finally agreed. "Have you had it yet today?"
     "No."
     "Too bad. I hope it doesn't pall your thinking."
     I took a sip of coffee.
     "No problem," I told him.
     "Good." He sighed and stretched. "Listen,  I  just  got  back  to  town
yesterday . . ."
     "Have a good trip?"
     "Set a new sales record."
     "Great."
     "Anyhow . . . I just learned when I checked in that you'd left."
     "Yeah. I quit about a month ago."
     "Miller's been trying to reach you. But with your phone disconnected he
couldn't call. He even stopped by a couple of times, but you were out."
     "Too bad."
     "He wants you back."
     "I'm finished there."
     "Wait'll  you hear the proposition, huh? Brady gets kicked upstairs and
you're the new head of Design-for a twenty percent pay hike: That's what  he
told me to tell you."
     I chuckled softly.
     "Actually..it  doesn't  sound  bad  at  all.  But,  like  I  said,  I'm
finished."
     "Oh." His eyes glistened as he gave  me  a  sly  smile.  "You  do  have
something  lined  up  someplace  else. He was wondering. Okay, if that's the
case he told me to tell you to bring him  whatever  the  other  guys  offer.
He'll try like hell to top it."
     I shook my head.
     "I  guess  I' m not getting through," I said: "I' m finished. Period. I
don't want to go back. I'm not going to work for anyone else  either.  I'  m
done with this sort of thing. I' m `tired of computers."
     "But you're really good. Say, you going to teach?"
     "Nope."
     "Well, hell! You've got to do something. Did you come into some money?"
     "No.  I  believe  I'll  do  some  traveling. I've been in one place too
long."
     He raised his coffee cup and drained it. Then he leaned  back,  clasped
his  hands  across  his  stomach,  and  lowered his eyelids slightly: He was
silent for a time.
     Finally: "You said you were finished. Did you just  mean  the  job  and
your life here, or something else as well?"
     "I don't follow you."
     "You  had  a  way of disappearing - back in college, too. You'd be gone
for a while and then just as suddenly turn up again. You always  were  vague
about  it,  too. Seemed like you were leading some sort of double life. That
have anything to do with it?"
     "I don't know what you mean." He smiled.
     "Sure you do," he said. When I did not reply;  he  added:  "Well,  good
luck with it -whatever."
     Always moving, seldom at rest, he fidgeted with a key ring while we had
a second  cup of coffee, bouncing and jangling keys and a bhp shone pendant.
Our breakfasts finally arrived and we ate is silence for a while.
     Then he asked, "You still have the Starburst?"
     "No. Sold her last fall," I told him. "I'd been so busy I  just  didn't
have time to sail. Hated to see her idle."
     He nodded.
     "`That's  too  bad,"  he  said.  "We had a lot of fun with her, back in
school. Later, too. I'd have liked to take her out once more, for old times'
sake."
     "Yes."
     "Say, you haven't seen Julia recently."
     "No, not since we broke up. I think she's still  going  with  some  guy
named Rick. Have you?"
     "Yeah. I stopped by last night."
     "Why?"
     He shrugged.
     "She was one of the gang-and we've all been drifting apart.
     "How was she?"
     "Still  looking  good.  She asked about you. Gave me this ...to give to
you, too."
     He withdrew a sealed envelope from inside his jacket and passed  it  to
me. It bore my name, in her handwriting. I tore it open and read:

     Merle,  I. was wrong: I know who you are and there is danger. I have
to see you. I have something you will nod. It is very important. Please call
or come by as soon as you can.
     Love, Julia

     "Thanks," I said, opening my pack and filing it.
     It was puzzling as well as unsettling. In  the  extreme.  I'd  have  to
decide  what  to  do  about it later. I still liked her more than I cared to
think about, but I wasn't sure I wanted to see her again. But what  did  she
mean about knowing who I am?
     I pushed her out of my mind, again.
     I watched the traffic for a time and drank coffee and thought about how
I'd first  met  Luke,  in  our  freshman  year,  in the Fencing Club. He was
unbelievably good.
     "Still fence?" I asked him.
     "Sometimes. How about you?"
     "Occasionally."
     "We never really did find out who was better."
     "No time now," I said.
     He chuckled and poked his knife at me a few times. "I guess  not.  When
are you leaving?"
     "Probably  tomorrow.  I'  m  just cleaning up a few odds and ends. When
that's done I'll go."
     "Where are you heading?"
     "Here and there. Haven't decided on everything yet."
     "You're crazy."
     "Um-hm. Wanderjahr is what they used to call it. I missed out  on  mine
and I want it now."
     "Actually  it  does  sound  pretty nice. Maybe I ought to try it myself
sometime."
     "Maybe so. I thought you took your in installments, though."
     "What do you mean?"
     "I wasn't the only one who used to take off a lot."
     "Oh, that." He dismissed it  with  the  wave,  of  a  hand.  "that  was
business,  not pleasure. Had to do some deals to pay the bills. You going to
see your folks?"
     Strange question. Neither of us had ever spoken of our parents  before,
except in the most general terms.
     "I don't think so," I said. "How're yours?"
     He caught my gaze and held it, his chronic smile widening slightly.
     "Hard to say," he replied. "We're kind of out of touch."
     I smiled, too.
     "I know the feeling."
     We finished our food, had a final coffee. .


     "So you won't be talking to Miller?" he asked.
     "No."
     He shrugged again. The check came by and he picked it up:
     "This one's on me," he said. "After all, I'm working."
     "Thanks. Maybe I can get back at you for dinner. Where're you staying?"
     "Wait."  He reached into his shirt pocket, took out a matchbook, tossed
it to me. "There. New Line Motel," he said.
     "Say I come by about six?"
     "Okay."
     He settled up and we parted on the street.
     "See you," he said.
     "Yeah." Bye-bye, Luke Raynard. Strange man. We'd known each  other  for
almost  eight  years.  Had  some good times. Competed in a number of sports.
Used to jog together almost every day We'd both  been  on  the  track  team.
Dated  the  same girls sometimes. I wondered about him again--strong, smart,
and as private a person as myself. There was a bond between us, one  that  I
didn't fully understand.
     I  walked back to my apartment's parking lot and checked under my car's
hood and frame before I tossed my pack inside  and  started  the  engine.  I
drove  slowly,  looking  at  things  that had been fresh and new eight years
before, saying good-bye to them now. During the past week I had said  it  to
all of the people who had mattered to me. Except for Julia.
     It  was  one  of those things I felt like putting off, but there was no
time. It was either now or not at all, and my curiosity had been  piqued.  I
pulled  into a shopping mall's lot and located a pay phone, but there was no
answer when I rang her number. I supposed she could be working full-time  on
a  dayshift again, but she could also be taking a shower or be out shopping.
I decided to drive on over to her place and see. It  wasn't  that  far.  And
whatever  it  was  that she had for me, picking it up would be a good excuse
for seeing her this one last time.
     I cruised the neighborhood for several  minutes.  before  I  located  a
parking  space.  I  locked  the  car,  walked back to the corner, and turned
right. The day had grown slightly warmer. Somewhere, dogs were barking.
     I strolled on up the block to that huge Victorian house that  had  been
converted  into  apartments.  I couldn't see her windows from the front. She
was on the top floor; to the rear. I tried to suppress memories as I  passed
on  up  the  front  walk, but it was no good. Thoughts of our times together
came rushing back along with a gang of old feelings. I halted.. It was silly
coming here. Why bother, for something I hadn't even missed. Still . . .
     Hell. I wanted to see her one more time. I wasn't going '· to back  out
now. I mounted the steps and crossed the porch. The door was open a crack so
I walked in.
     Same  foyer.  Same  tired-looking potted violet, dust on its leaves, on
the chest before the gilt-framed mirror-the mirror that  had  reflected  our
embrace, slightly warped, many times. My face rippled as I went by.
     I  climbed the green-Öarpeted stairs. A dog began howling somewhere out
back.
     The first landing was unchanged. I walked the short hallway,  past  the
drab  etchings  and  the  old  end  table,  turned  'and  mounted the second
staircase. Halfway up I heard a scratching noise from overhead and  a  sound
like  a  bottle  or  a vase rolling on a hardwood floor. Then silence again,
save for a few gusts of wind about the eaves. A faint  apprehension  stirred
within  me and I quickened my pace. I halted at the head of the stairway and
nothing looked to be out of order, but with my next  inhalation  a  peculiar
odor   came   to   me.   I   couldn't   place   it-sweat,  must,  damp  dirt
perhaps-certainly something organic.
     I moved then to Julia's door and waited for several moments.  The  odor
seemed stronger there, but I heard no new sounds.
     I  rapped  softly on the dark wood. For a moment it seemed that I heard
someone stirring within, but only for a moment. I knocked again.
     "Julia?" I called out. "It's me Merle."
     Nothing.
     I knocked louder.
     Something fell with a crash. I tried the doorknob. Locked.
     I twisted and jerked and tore the doorknob, the  lock  plate,  and  the
entire locking mechanism free. I moved immidiately to my left then, past the
hinged  edge  of the door and the frame. I extended my left hand and applied
gentle pressure to the upper panel with my fingertips.
     I moved the door a few inches inward and paused. No new sounds  ensued,
and  nothing  but  a  slice  of  wall  and floor came into view, with narrow
glimpses of a watercolor, the red sofa, the green rug. I eased the door open
a little farther. More of the same. And the odor was even stronger.
     I took a half step to my right and applied a steady pressure.
     Nothingnothingnothing . . .
     I snatched my hand away when she came into view.  Lying  there.  Across
the room. Bloody . . .
     There  was  blood  on  tie  floor,  the rug, a bloody disarray near the
corner off to my left. Upset furniture, torn cushions . . .
     I suppressed an impulse to rush forward.
     I took one slow step and then  another,  all  of  my  senses  alert.  I
crossed  the  threshold.  There  was  nothing  else/no one else in the room.
Frakir tightened about my wrist. I should have said something then,  but  my
mind was elsewhere.
     I approached and knelt at her side. I felt sick. From the doorway I had
not been  able  to see that half of her face and her right arm were missing.
She was not breathing and her carotid was silent. She  had  on  a  torn  and
bloodied peachcolored robe; there was a blue pendant about her neck.
     The  blood  that had spilled beyond the rug onto the hardwood floor was
smeared and tracked. They were not human  footprints,  however,  but  large,
elongated, three-toed things, well padded, clawed.
     A  draft  of which I had been only half-consciously aware-' coming from
the opened bedroom door at my back-was suddenly  diminished,  as  the-  odor
intensified.  There  came  another  quick  pulsing at my wrist. There was no
sound, though. It was absolutely silent, but I knew that it was there.
     I spun up out of my kneeling position into a crouch, turning
     I saw a large mouthful of big teeth, bloody  lips  curled  back  around
them.  They  lined the muzzle belonging to several hundred pounds of doglike
creature covered with coarse, moldy-looking yellow fur. Its ears  were  like
clump of fungi, its yellow-orange eyes wide and feral.
     As  I  had  no  doubt  whatever  concerning its intentions I hurled the
doorknob, which I had been clutching half consciously for the  past  minute.
It  glanced off the bony ridge above its left eye without noticeable effect.
Still soundlessy the thing sprang at me.
     Not even time for a word to Frakir . . .
     People who work in slaughterhouses know that there  is  a  spot  on  an
animal's  forehead  to  be found by drawing an imaginary line from the right
ear to the left eye and another from the left ear to the right eye. They aim
the killing blow , an inch or two above the junction of  this  X.  My  uncle
taught  me  that.  He didn't work in a slaughterhouse, though. Ire just knew
how to kill things.
     So I spun forward and to the side as it sprang, and I struck  a  hammer
blow  at the death spot: It moved even faster than I'd anticipated, however,
and when my fist struck it, it was  already  rushing  by  Its  neck  muscles
helped it to absorb the force of my blow.
     This drew the first sound from it, though-a yelp. It shook its head and
turned  with  great  speed then, and it was at me again. Now a low, rumbling
growl came up from its chest and its leap was high. I knew that  I  was  not
going to be able to sidestep this one.
     My uncle had also taught me how to grab a dog by the flesh on the sides
of its  neck and under the jaws. You need a good grip if it's a big one, and
you've got to get it just right. I had no real choice at the  moment.  If  I
tried a kick and missed it would probably take off my foot.
     My  hands  shot  forward  and snaked upward and I braced myself when we
met. I was sure it outweighed me and I had to meet its momentum as well.
     I'd had visions of losing fingers or a hand, but I  got  in  under  the
jaw,  caught  hold and squeezed. I kept my arms extended and leaned into the
impact. I was shaken by the force of its lunge, but I was able  to  maintain
my grip and absorb it.
     As I listened to the growls and regarded the slavering muzzle a foot or
so away  from  my  face  I  realized  that I hadn't thought much beyond this
point. With a dog, you might be able to bash its head against anything  hard
and  handy; its carotids are too deeply buried to rely on direct pressure to
take it out. But this thing was strong and my grip was already beginning  to
slip  against its frantic twisting. As I held its jaws away from me and kept
pushing it upward, I also realized that  it  was  taller  than  I  was  when
extended  along  the vertical. I could try for a kick at its soft underside,
but I would probably go off balance as well as lose my  grip,  and  then  my
groin would be exposed to its teeth.
     But  it twisted free of my left hand, and I had no choice but to use my
right or lose it. So I pushed as hard as I could and retreated again. I  had
been  looking.  for  a  weapon, any weapon, but there was nothing handy that
would serve.
     It Lunged again, coming for my throat, coming too fast and high for  me
to manage a kick to its head. I couldn't get out of its way either.
     Its  forelegs were level with my midriff, and I hoped that my uncle had
been right about this one too, as I seized them  and  twisted  backward  and
inward  with  all  of my strength, dropping to one knee to avoid those jaws,
chin lowered to protect my throat, my head  drawn  back.  Bones  popped  and
crunched  as  I twisted and its head lowered almost immediately to attack my
wrists. But by then I was already rising, thrusting forward, springing up.
     It went over backward, twisted, and almost caught itself. When its paws
struck the floor, however, it made a sound halfway between a whimper  and  a
snarl and collapsed forward.
     I  was about to try for another blow to the skull when it recovered its
footing, moving faster than I'd  thought  it  could.  It  raised  its  right
foreleg  immediately  upon standing and balanced itself on three legs, still
growling, eyes fixed on my own, saliva dampening  its  lower  jaw.  I  moved
slightly  to  my  left,  certain  that  it  was about to- rush me yet again,
angling my bay, positioning myself in a way  that  no  one  had  taught  me,
because I do occasionally have original thoughts.
     It  was  a  little  slower when it came for me this time. Maybe I could
have gone for the skull and gotten it. I don't know because I didn't try.  I
seized it once more by the neck, and this time it was familiar territory. It
would  not  pull  away as it had before in the few moments I needed. Without
breaking its momentum I turned and dropped low and thrust and pulled, adding
some guidance to its trajectory:
     It turned in midair, its back striking the window. With  a  shattering,
splintering  sound  it passed through, taking most of the frame, the curtain
and the curtain rod along with it.
     I heard it hit three stories below. When I rose and looked out I saw it
twitch a few times and grow still, there on the concrete patio  where  Julia
and I had often had a midnight beer.
     I  returned  to  Julia's  side and held her hand. I began to realize my
anger. Someone had to be behind this. Could it be S again? Was this my April
30 present for this year? I'd a feeling that it was and I wanted to do  unto
S as I had just done unto the creature that had performed the act. There had
to be a reason. There ought to be a clue.
     I  rose, went to the bedroom, fetched a blanket, and covered Julia with
it. Mechanically, I wiped my fingerprints from  the  fallen  doorknob  as  I
began my search of the apartment.
     I  found  them  on  the  mantelpiece  between  the clock and a stack of
paperbacks dealing with the occult. The moment I touched them and felt their
coldness I realized that this was even more serious than I had thought. They
had to be the thing of mine she'd had that I would be needing-only they were
not really mine, though as I riffled through I recognized them on one  level
and was puzzled by them on another. They were cards, Trumps, like yet unlike
any I had ever seen before.
     It  was not a complete deck. Just a few cards, actually, and strange. I
slipped them into my side pocket quickly when I heard the  siren.  Time  for
solitaire later.
     I tore down the stairs and out the back door, encountering no one. Fido
still  lay where he had fallen and all the neighborhood dogs were discussing
it. I vaulted fences and tram
     pled flowerbeds, cutting through backyards on my way over to  the  side
street where I was parked.
     Minutes  later  I  was miles away, trying to scrub the bloody pawprints
from my memory.,

CHAPTER 2

     I drove away from the bay until I came to a quiet, well-treed  area.  I
stopped the car and got out and walked.
     After a long while I located a small, deserted park. I seated myself on
one of  the benches, took out the Trumps and studied them. A few seemed half
familiar and the rest were totally puzzling. I stared too long  at  one  end
seemed to hear a siren song. I put them down. I did not recognize the style.
This was extremely awkward.
     I  was  reminded  of  the  story  of  a  world-famous  toxicologist who
inadvertently ingested a  poison  for  which  there  was  no  antidote.  The
question  foremost in his mind was, Had he taken a lethal dose? He looked it
up in a classic textbook that he himself had written years before. According
to his own book he had had it. He checked another,  written  by  an  equally
eminent professional. According to that one he had taken only about half the
amount  necessary  to  do  in  someone  of his body mass. So he sat down and
waited, hoping he'd been wrong.
     I felt that way because I am an expert on these things. I thought  that
I  knew the work of everyone who might be capable of producing such items. I
picked up  one  of  the  cards,  which  held  a  peculiar,  almost  familiar
fascination  for  me-depicting a small grassy point jutting out into a quiet
lake, a sliver of something bright,glistening, unidentifiable,  off  to  the
right.  I  exhaled heavily upon it, fogging it for an instant, and struck it
with my fingernail. It rang like a glass bell and flickered to life. Shadows
swam and pulsed as the scene inched into evening. I passed my hand  over  it
and it grew still once again-back to lake, grasses, daytime.
     Very  distant.  Time's stream flowed faster there in relationship to my
present situation. Interesting.
     I groped for an old pipe with which I sometimes indulge myself,  filled
it,  lit  it, puffed it, and mused. The cards were functional all right, not
some clever imitations, and though I did not understand their purpose,  that
was not my main concern at the moment.
     Today  was  April  30,  and  I had faced death once again. I had yet to
confront the person who had been playing with my life. S had again  employed
a  proxy menace. And that was no ordinary dog I had destroyed. And the cards
. . . where had Julia gotten them and why had she wanted me  to  have  them?
The  cards  and the dog indicated a power beyond that of an ordinary person.
All along I had thought I'd been the subject of the unwelcome  attention  of
some psycho, whom I could deal with at my leisure. But this morning's events
put  an  entirely  different complexion on the case. It meant that I had one
hell of an enemy somewhere.
     I shuddered. I wanted to talk to Luke again,  get  him  to  reconstruct
their  conversation  of  the  previous  evening,  see whether Julia had said
anything that might provide me with a clue. I'd like to go back  and  search
her  apartment  more  carefully,  too. But that was out of the question. The
cops had pulled up in front of the place as I was driving away.  There'd  be
no getting back in for some time.
     Rick.  There  was  Rick  Kinsky,  the guy she'd begun seeing after we'd
broken up. I knew him on  sight-a  thin,  mustached,  cerebral  sort,  thick
glasses  and all. He managed a bookstore I'd visited once or twice. I didn't
know him beyond that; though. Perhaps he could tell me something  about  the
cards  and  how  Julia might have gotten into whatever situation it was that
had cost her her life.
     I brooded a little longer, then put the cards away. I wasn't  about  to
fool  with them any further. Not yet. First, I wanted as much information as
I could get.
     I headed back for the car. As I walked I reflected that this  April  30
wasn't  over.  Suppose  S didn't really consider this morning's encounter as
aimed directly at me? In that case there was  plenty  of  time  for  another
attempt.  I  also had a feeling that if I began getting close S would forget
about dates and go for my throat whenever there was an opening.  I  resolved
not  to  let my guard down at all henceforth, to live as in a state of siege
until this matter was settled. And all of my energies were now going  to  be
dire  toward settling it. My well-being seemed to require the destruction of
my enemy, very soon.
     Should I seek counsel? I wonder. And if so, from  whom?  There  was  an
awful lot I still didn't know about my heritage . . .
     No.  Not  yet,  I  decided. I had to make every effort to handle things
myself. Besides the fact that I wanted  to,  I  needed  the  practice.  It's
necessary to be able to deal with nasty matters where I come from.
     I  drove, looking for a pay phone and trying not to think of Julia as I
had last seen her. A few clouds blew in from the west. My watch ticked on my
wrist, next to unseen Frakir. The news on the radio  was  international  and
cheerless.
     I stopped in a drugstore and used a phone there to try to reach Luke at
his motel.  He  wasn't  in.  So I had a club sandwich and a milkshake in the
dining area and tried again afterward. Still out.
     Okay. Catch him  later.  I  headed  into  town.  The  Browserie,  as  I
recalled, was the name of the bookstore where Rick worked.
     I drove by and saw that the place was open. I parked a couple of blocks
up the  street and walked back. I had been alert all of the way across town,
but could not detect any sign that I was being followed.
     A cool breeze touched me as I walked;  hinting  of  rain.  I  saw  Rick
through the store's window, seated at his high counter reading a book. There
was no one else in sight in the place.
     A  small bell jangled above the door as I entered, and he looked up. He
straightened and his eyes widened as I approached.
     "Hi," I said, pausing then for a moment. "Rick, I  don't  know  whether
you remember me."
     "You're Merle Corey," he stated softly.
     "Right."  I leaned on the counter and he drew back. "I wondered whether
you might be able to help me with a little information."
     "What kind of information?"
     "It's about Julia," I said.
     "Look," he answered, "I never went near her until  after  you  two  had
broken up."
     "Huh?  No, no, you don't understand. I don't care about that. It's more
recent information that I need. She'd been trying to get in  touch  with  me
this past week and-"
     He shook his head:
     "I haven't heard from her for a couple of months."
     "Oh?"
     "Yeah, we stopped seeing each other. Different interests, you know?"
     "Was she okay when you-stopped seeing each other?"
     "I guess so."
     I  stared  straight  into his eyes and he winced. I didn't like that "I
guess so." I could see that he was a little afraid of me  so  I  decided  to
push it.
     "What do you mean `different interests'?" I asked.
     "Well, she got a little weird, you know?" he said.
     "I don't know. Tell me."
     He  licked  his  lips  and  looked  away "I don't want any trouble," he
stated.
     "I'd rather not indulge either. What was the matter?"
     "Well," he said, "she was scared."
     "Scared? Of what?"
     "Uh-of you."
     "Me? That's ridiculous. I never did anything to frighten her. What  did
she say?"
     "She  never  said  it in so many words, but I could tell, whenever your
name came up. Then she developed all these funny interests."
     "You've lost me," I said. "Completely. She got  weird?  She  got  funny
interests?  What kind? What was going on? I really don't understand, and I'd
like to."
     He got to his feet and headed for the rear of the store, glancing at me
as if I should follow him. I did.
     He slowed when he reached a section full of books  on  natural  healing
and  organic  farming and martial arts and herbal remedies and having babies
at home, but he went on past it into the hardcore occult section.
     "Here," he said, halting. "She borrowed a few of  these,  brought  them
back, borrowed a few more."
     I shrugged.
     "That's all? That's hardly weird."
     "But she really got into it."
     "So do a lot of people."
     "Let me finish," he went on. "She started with theosophy, even attended
meetings  of  a  local  group. She got turned off on it fairly quick, but by
then she'd met some people with different connections. Pretty soon  she  was
hanging around with Sufis, Gurdjieffians, even a shaman."
     "Interesting," I said. "No yoga?"
     "No  yoga.  When I asked her that same thing she said that it was power
she was after, not samadhi. Anyhow,  she  just  kept  fording  stranger  and
stranger  acquaintances.  The  atmosphere got too rarefied for me, so I said
good-bye."
     "I wonder why?" I mused.
     "Here," he said, "take a look at this one."
     He tossed me a black book and stepped back. I caught it. It was a  copy
of the Bible. I opened it to the publishing credits page.
     "Something special about this edition?" I asked.
     He sighed.
     "No. I'm sorry."
     He took it back and replaced it on the shelf.
     "Just a minute," he said.
     He  returned  to  the  counter  and  took a cardboard sign from a shelf
beneath it. It read JUST STEPPED OUT: WE'LL REOPEN AT and there was a  clock
face  beneath  it  with movable hands. He set them to indicate a time a half
hour hence and went and hung the sign in the door's window. Then he shot the
bolt and gestured for me to follow him to a room in the rear.
     The back office contained a desk, a couple of chairs, cartons of books.
He seated himself behind the desk and nodded toward  the  nearest  chair.  I
took  it. He switched on a telephone answering machine then, removed a stack
of forms and correspondence from the blotter, opened a drawer and took out a
bottle of Chianti.
     "Care for a glass?" he asked.
     "Sure, thanks."
     He rose and stepped through the opened door of  a  small  lavatory.  He
took  a  pair of glasses from a shelf and rinsed them. He brought them back,
set them down, filled both, and. pushed one in my direction. They were  from
the Sheraton.
     "Sorry  I  tossed  the  Bible  at  you," he said, raising his glass and
taking a sip.
     "You looked as if you expected one to go up in a puff of smoke."
     He nodded.
     "I am really convinced that the reason she wants power has something to
do with you. Are you into some form of occultism?"
     "No."
     "She talked sometimes as if you might even be a  supernatural  creature
yourself."
     I laughed.
     He did, too, after a moment.
     "I  don't know," he said then: "'There're lots of strange things in the
world. 'they can't all be right, but . . ."
     I shrugged.
     "Who knows? So you think she was looking for  some  system  that  would
give her power to defend herself against me?"
     "That was the impression I got."
     I took a drink of the wine.
     "That doesn't make sense," I told him.
     But  even  as  I said it I knew that it was probably true. And if I had
driven her into the path of whatever had destroyed her, then  I  was  partly
responsible for her death. I suddenly . felt the burden along with the pain.
     "Finish the story," I said.
     "That's pretty much it," he answered. "I got tired of people who wanted
to discuss cosmic crap all the, time and I split."
     "And  that's  all?  Did she find the right system, the right guru? What
happened?"
     He took a big drink and stared at me.
     "I really liked her," he said.
     "I'm sure."
     "The Tarot, Caballa, Golden Dawn, Crowley, Fortunethat's where she went
next."
     "Did she stay?"
     "I don't know for sure. But I think so.  I  only  heard  this  after  a
while."
     "Ritual magic, then?"
     "Probably."
     "Who does it?"
     "Lots of people."
     "I mean who did she find? Did you hear that?"
     "I think it was Victor Melman."
     He  looked at me expectantly. I shook my head. "I'm sorry. I don't know
the name."
     "Strange man," he mused, taking a sip and leaning back  in  his  chair,
clasping  his  hands  behind  his  neck  and bringing his elbows forward. He
stared off into the lavatory. "II've heard it said-by a  number  of  people,
some  of  them  fairly  reliable-that he really has something going for him,
that he has a hold on a piece of  something,  that  he's  known  a  kind  of
enlightenment,  has  been  initiated, has a sort of power and is sometimes a
great teacher. But he's got these ego problems, too, that seem to  go  along
with  that  sort of thing. And there's a touch of the seamy side there. I've
even heard it said that that's not his real name, that he's  got  a  record,
and there's more of Manson to him than Magus. I don't know. He's nominally a
painter-actually a pretty good one. His stuff does sell."
     "You've met him?" .
     A pause, then, "Yes."
     "What were your own impressions?"
     "I don't know. Well...I'm prejudiced. I can't really say."
     I swirled the wine in my glass. "How come?"
     "Oh, I wanted to study with him once. He turned me down."
     "So you were into this, too. I thought-"
     "I'm  not  into anything," he snapped. "I tried everything at some time
or other, I mean. Everybody  goes  through  phases.  I  wanted  to  develop,
expand;  advance.  Who  doesn't?  But  I never found it." He unbent and took
another gulp of wine. "Sometimes I felt that I was  close,  that  there  was
some  power,  some  vision that I could almost touch or see. Almost. Then it
was gone. It's all a lot of crap. You just delude yourself. Sometimes I even
thought I had it. Then a few days would go by and  I  realized  that  I  was
lying to myself again."
     "All of this was before you met Julia?" He nodded.
     "Right.  That  might be what held us together for a while. I still like
to talk about all this bullshit, even if I don't believe  it  anymore.  Then
she  got  too  serious  about  it,  and  I didn't feel like going that route
again."
     "I see."
     He drained his glass and refilled it.
     "There's nothing to any of it," he said. "'There are an infinite number
of ways of lying to yourself, of rationalizing things  into  something  they
are  not.  I  guess  that  I wanted magic, and there is no real magic in the
world."
     "That why you threw the Bible at me?" He snorted.
     "It could as easily have been the Koran or the  Vedas,  I  suppose.  It
would have been neat to see you vanish in a flash of fire. But no go."
     I smiled.
     "How can I find Melman?"
     "I've  got it here somewhere," he said, lowering his eyes and opening a
drawer. "Here."
     He withdrew a small notebook and flipped through it. He copied  out  an
address on an index card and handed it to me. He took another drink of wine.
     "It's  his studio, but he lives there, too," he added. I nodded and set
down my glass.
     "I appreciate everything you told me."
     He raised the bottle.
     "Have another drink?"
     "No, thanks."
     He shrugged and topped off his own.
     I rose.
     "You know, it's really sad," he said.
     "What?"
     "That there's no magic, that there never was, there probably never will
be."
     "That's the breaks," I said.
     "The world would be a lot more interesting place."
     "Yeah."
     I turned to go.
     "Do me a favor," he said.
     "What?"
     "On the way out, set that sign for three o'clock and let  the  bolt  in
the door snap shut again."


     "Sure."  I left him there and did those things. The sky had grown a lot
darker, the wind a bit more chill. I tried again to reach Luke, from a phone
on the comer, but he was still out.
     We were happy. It had been a terrific day. The weather was perfect, and
everything we did had worked out right. We went to a fan party that  evening
and  afterward had a late dinner at a really good little place we'd stumbled
upon by accident. We lingered over drinks, hating for the  day  to  end.  We
decided  then  to  prolong  a  winning  streak, and we drove to an otherwise
deserted beach where we sat around and splashed around and watched the  moon
and felt the breezes. For a long while. I did something then that I had sort
of  promised  myself  I  would  not. Hadn't Faust thought a beautiful moment
worth a soul?
     "Come on," I said, aiming my beer can at a trash bin and catching  hold
of her hand. "Let's take a walk."
     "Where to?" she asked, as I drew her to her feet.
     "Fairy land," I replied. "The fabled realms of yore. Eden. Come on."
     Laughing,  she let me lead her along the beach, toward a place where it
narrowed, squeezing by high embankments. The moon was generous  and  yellow,
the sea sang my favorite song.
     We  strolled hand in hand past the bluffs, where a quick turning of the
way took us out of sight of our stretch of sand: I looked for the cave  that
should be occurring soon, high and narrow . . .
     "A cave," I announced moments later. "Let's go in."
     "It'll be dark."
     "Good," I said, and we entered.
     The  moonlight  followed us for about six paces. By then, though, I had
spotted the turnoff to the left.
     "'This way," I stated. "It is dark!"
     "Sure. Just keep hold of me a little longer. It'll be okay." Fifteen or
twenty steps and there was a faint illumination to  the  right.  I  led  her
along that turning and the way bright- ened as we advanced.
     "We may get lost," she said softly.
     "I don't get lost," I answered her.
     It  continued  to brighten. 'The way turned once more, and we proceeded
along that last passage to emerge at the foot of a mountain in  sight  of  a
low forest, the sun standing at midmorning height above its trees.
     She froze, blue eyes wide. "It's daytime!" she said.
     "Tempus fugit," I replied. "Come on."
     We  walked through the woods for a time, listening to the birds and the
breezes, dark-haired Julia and I, and I led her  after  a  while  through  a
canyon  of  colored  rocks  and  grasses, beside a stream that flowed into a
river.
     We followed the river until we came,  abruptly,  to  a  precipice  from
whence  it  plunged  a  mighty distance, casting rainbows and fogs. Standing
there, staring out across the great valley that lay below, we beheld a  city
of spires and cupolas, ,gilt and crystal, through morning and mist.
     "Where are we?" she asked.
     "Just around the comer," I said. "Come."
     I  led  her  to the left, then down a trail that took us back along the
face of the cliff, passing finally behind the cataract. Shadows and  diamond
beads . . . a roaring to approach the power of silence . . .
     We  passed  at last into a tunnel, damp at first but drying as it rose.
We followed it to a gallery, open to our left and looking out upon night and
stars, stars, stars. . . . It was an enormous  prospect,  blazing  with  new
constellations,  their  light  sufficient  to cast our shadows onto the wall
behind us. She leaned over the low parapet,  her  skin  some  rare  polished
marble, and she looked downward.
     "'They're  down  there,  too,"  she  said. "And to both sides! There is
nothing below but more stars. And to the sides . . ."
     "Yes. Pretty things, aren't they?"
     We remained there for a long while, watching, before I  could  persuade
her  to  come  away  and follow the tunnel farther.. It bore us out again to
behold a ruined classical amphitheater beneath a  late  afternoon  sky.  Ivy
grew  over  broken  benches  and  fractured  pillars.  Here  and there lay a
shattered statue, as if cast  down  by  earthquake.  Very  picturesque.  I'd
thought  she'd like it, and I was right. We took turns seating ourselves and
speaking to each other. The acoustics were excellent.
     We walked away then, hand in hand, down myriad ways  beneath  skies  of
many  colors,  coming  at  last in sight of a quiet lake with a sun entering
evening upon its farther shore. There was a glittering mass of rock  off  to
my right. We walked out upon a small point cushioned with mosses and ferns.
     I  put  my  arms around her and we stood there for a long time, and the
wind in the trees was lute song counterpointed  by  invisible  birds.  Later
still, I unbuttoned her blouse. "Right here?" she said.
     "I like it here. Don't you?"
     "It's beautiful. Okay. Wait a minute."
     So  we  lay down and love till the shadows covered us. After a time she
slept, as I desired.
     I set a spell upon her to keep her asleep, for I was beginning to  have
second  thoughts over the wisdom of making this journey. Then I dressed both
of us and picked her up to carry her back. I took a shortcut.
     On the beach from which we' d started I put her down and stretched  out
beside her. Soon I slept also.
     We did not awaken till after the sun was up, when the sounds of bathers
roused us.
     She sat up and stared at me.
     "Last  night,"  she said, "could not have been a dream. But it couldn't
have been real either. Could it?"
     "I guess so," I said. She furrowed her brow.
     "What did you just agree to?" she asked.
     "Breakfast," I said. "Let's go get some. Come on."
     "Wait a minute." She put a hand on my arm. "Something unusual happened.
What was it?"
     "Why destroy the magic by talking about it? Let's go eat."
     She questioned me a lot in the days that followed, but I was adamant in
refusing to talk about it. Stupid, the whole  thing  was  stupid.  I  should
never  have  taken  her on that walls. It contributed to that final argument
that set us permanently apart.
     And now, driving, as I thought about it, I realized something more than
my stupidity. I realized that I had been in love  with  her,  that  I  still
loved her. Had I not taken her on that walk, or had I acknowledged her later
accusation  that  I was a sorcerer, she, would not have taken the route that
she took, seeking power of her own-probably for self protection.  She  would
be alive.
     I bit my lip and cried out. I cut around the braking car in front of me
and crashed  a  light. If I had killed the thing I loved, I was certain that
the opposite was not going to be true.




CHAPTER 3

     Grief and anger shrink my world,  and  I  resent  this.  They  seem  to
paralyze  my  memory  of happier times, of friends, places, things; options.
Squeezed by the grip of intense, unsettling emotion, I grow  smaller  in  my
single-mindedness.  I  suppose it is partly because I have discarded a range
of choices, impairing in some measure my freedom of will. I don't like this,
but after a point I have small control over it. It  makes  me  feel  that  I
.have  surrendered  to  a  kind of determinism, which imitates me even more.
Then, vicious cycle, this feeds back into the emotion  that  drives  me  and
intensifies it. The simple way of ending this situation is the headlong rush
to  remove  its  object.  The difficult way is more philosophical, a drawing
back, the reestablishment  of  control.  As  usual,  the  difficult  way  is
preferable. A headlong rush may also result in a broken neck.
     I parked in the first place that I saw, opened the window, lit my pipe.
I vowed  not  to  depart until I had grown calm. All of my life I have had a
tendency to overreact to things. It seems to run in my family. But I did not
want to be like the others . They made a lot of trouble for themselves  that
way.  The full-scale, all-or-nothing reaction may be all right if you always
win, but that way also lies high tragedy or at least opera if you happen  to
be  up against something extraordinary. And I did have indications that this
was the case. Therefore, I was a fool. I told myself this  till  I  believed
it.
     Then  I  listened  to  my caliper self as it agreed that I was indeed a
fool-for not having seen my own feelings when I could  have  done  something
about  them,  for  having displayed a power and denied its consequences, for
not having at least guessed at the strange nature of my enemy in  all  these
years,  for  my present simplification of the coming encounter. It would not
do to seize Victor Melman on sight and try to beat the truth out of  him.  I
resolved  to  proceed carefully, covering myself at all times. Life is never
simple, I told myself. Sit still and gather, regroup.
     Slowly, I felt the tension go out of me: Slowly,  too,  my  world  grew
again,  and  I  saw within it the possibility that S really knew me, knew me
well, and may even have arranged  events  so  that  I  would  dispense  with
thinking and surrender to the moment. No, I would not be like the others . .
.
     I  sat  there  and thought for a long while before I started the engine
again and drove on slowly.
     It was a grimy brick building situated on a corner. It was four stories
in height, with occasional spray-painted obscenities on the alley  side  and
on  the  wall  facing  the narrower street. I discovered the graffiti, a few
broken windows and the fire escape as I strolled  slowly  about  the  place,
looking  it over. By then a light rain was just beginning to fall. The lower
two stories were occupied by the Brutus Storage Company, according to a sign
beside the stairs in a small hallway I entered. The place smelled of  urine,
and  there was an empty Jack Daniels bottle lying on the dusty windowsill to
my right. Two mailboxes  hung  upon  the  flaking  wall.  One  said  "Brutus
Storage," the other bore the legend "V M." Both were empty.
     I mounted the stair, expecting it to creak. It did not. There were four
knobless  doors  letting  upon the second floor hallway, all of them closed.
The outlines of what might be cartons were visible through  several  of  the
frosted panes in their upper sections. There were no sounds from within.
     I  surprised  a  black  cat dozing on the next stairway. She arched her
back, showed me her teeth, made a hissing noise, then turned and bounded  up
the stairs and out of sight.
     The   next  landing  also  had  four  doors-three  of  them  apparently
nonfunctional, the fourth dark-stained and shellacked shiny. It bore a small
brass plate that read "Melman." I knocked.
     There was no answer. I tried again several times, with the same result.
No sounds from within either. It seemed likely that these  were  his  living
quarters and that the fourth floor, with the possibility of a skylight, held
his studio. So I turned away and took the final flight.
     I reached the top and saw that one of the four doors there was slightly
ajar.  I  halted and listened for a moment. From beyond it came faint sounds
of movement. I advanced and gave it a few knocks. I heard a sudden intake of
breath from somewhere inside. I pushed on the door.
     He stood about twenty feet away beneath a large  skylight  and  he  had
turned  to face me-a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark beard and eyes. He
held a brush in his left hand  and  a  palette  in  his  right.  He  wore  a
paint-smeared  apron  over  his  Levi's  and had on a plaid sport shirt. The
easel at his back held the outlines of what could be a  madonna  and  child.
There  were  a great many other canvases about, all of them facing the walls
or covered.
     "Hello," I said. "You are Victor Melman?"
     He nodded, neither smiling nor frowning, placed his palette on a nearby
table, his brush into a jar of solvent. He picked up  a  damp-looking  cloth
then and wiped his hands with it.
     "And yourself ?" he asked, tossing the cloth aside and facing me again.
     "Merle Corey. You knew Julia Barnes."
     "I  don't  deny it," he said. "Your use of the past tense would seem to
indicate-"
     "She's dead all right. I want to talk to you about it."
     "All right," he said, untying his apron. "Let's go downstairs then.  No
place to sit up here."
     He  hung  the  apron  upon  a nail near the door and stepped outside. I
followed him. He turned back and locked the studio  before  proceeding  down
the  stairs.  His  movements  were smooth, almost graceful. I could hear the
rain on the roof.
     He used the same key to unlock the dark door on  the  third  floor.  He
drew  the  door  open  and  stood  aside,  gesturing for me to enter. I did,
traversing a hallway that led past a  kitchen,  its  counters  covered  with
empty  bottles,  stacks  of  dishes,  pizza  cartons. Bursting bags of trash
leaned against cupboards; the floor looked sticky here  and  there  and  the
place smelled like a spice factory next door to a slaughterhouse.
     The   living   room,   which  I  came  to  next,  .was  large,  with  a
comfortable-looking  pair  of  black  sofas,  facing  each  other  across  a
battlefield of Oriental carpets and miscellaneous tables, each of which bore
several  overflowing  ashtrays. There was a beautiful concert-sized piano in
the far corner, before a wall covered with heavy  red  drapery.  There  were
numerous  low  bookcases  filled  with occult materials, stacks of magazines
beside them, atop them, and alongside a few easy chairs. What could  be  the
corner  of  a  pentacle protruded slightly from beneath the largest rug. The
stale smells of incense and pot lingered in patches. To my right, there  was
an archway leading to another room, a closed door to my left. Paintings of a
semireligious nature-which I took to be his work-were hung on several of the
walls. There was a Chagall-like quality to them. Quite good.
     "Have a seat."
     He gestured toward an easy chair and I took it. "Care for a beer?"
     "Thank you, no."
     He  seated himself on the nearer sofa, clasped his hands, and stared at
me.
     "What happened?" he asked.
     I stared back at him.
     "Julia Barnes got interested in occult systems," I said. "She  came  to
you  to  learn  more  about  them.  She died this morning under very unusual
circumstances."
     The left corner of his  mouth  twitched  slightly.  He  made  no  other
movement.
     "Yes, she was interested in such matters," he said. "She came to me for
instruction and I provided it."
     "I want to know why she died." He continued to stare.
     "Her time was up," he said. "It happens to everybody, in the long run."
     "She  was  killed  by an animal that should not exist here. Do you know
anything about it?"
     "The universe is a stranger place than most of us can imagine."
     "Do you know or don't you?"
     "I know you," he said, smiling for the first time. "She spoke  of  you,
of course."
     "What does that mean?"
     "It  means," he answered, "that I know you are more than a little aware
of such matters yourself."
     "And so?"
     "The Arts have a way of bringing  the  right  people  together  at  the
proper moment when there is work in progress."
     "And that's what you think this is all about?"
     "I know it."
     "How?"
     "It was promised."
     "So you were expecting me?"
     "Yes."
     "Interesting. Would you care to tell me more about it?"
     "I'd rather show you."
     "You say that something was promised. How? By whom?"
     "All of that will become clear shortly."
     "And Julia's death?"
     "That, too, I'd say."
     "How do you propose rendering me this enlightenment?"
     He smiled. "I just want you to take a look at something," he said.
     "All right. I'm willing. Show me."
     He nodded and rose.
     "It's  in  here,"  he  explained, turning and heading toward the closed
door.
     I got to my feet and followed him across the room.
     He reached into his shirtfront and drew up a chain. He lifted  it  over
his head and I could see that it bore a key. He used it to unlock the door.
     "Go in," he said, pushing it open and stepping aside.
     I  entered.  It  was  not  a  large room, and it was dark. He flipped a
switch and a blue light of small wattage came  on  within  a  plain  fixture
overhead. I saw then that there was one window, directly across from me, and
that  all  of  its panes had been painted black. There were no furnishings .
save for a few cushions scattered here and there across the floor. A portion
of the wall to my right was covered with black drapery. The other walls were
unadorned.
     "I'm looking," I said.
     He chuckled.
     "A moment, a moment," he advised me. "Have you any  idea  of  my  major
concern in the occult arts?"
     "You're a cabalist," I stated.
     "Yes," he admitted. "How could you tell?"
     "People  in  Eastern  disciplines  tend to run a tight ship," I stated.
"But cabalists always seem to be slobs."
     He snorted.
     "It is all a matter of what is really important to you," he said then.
     "Exactly." He kicked a cushion into the middle of the  floor.  "Have  a
seat," he said.
     "I'll stand." He shrugged.
     "Okay," he said, and he began muttering softly.
     I  waited.  After a time, still speaking quietly, he moved to the black
curtain. He opened it with a single quick movement and I stared.
     A painting of the cabalistic Tree of Life was revealed, showing the ten
sephira in some of their qlipphotic aspects. It  was  beautifully  executed,
and the sense of recognition that struck me as I regarded it was unsettling.
It  was  no  standard  item  from  some  head  shop,  but rather an original
painting. It was not, however, in the style of any of the works  hanging  in
the other room. Still, it was familiar to me.
     As  I  studied it I had no doubt whatsoever that it had been painted by
the same person who had done the Trumps I had found in Julia's apartment.
     Melman continued his incantation as I regarded the painting.
     "Is this your work?" I asked him.
     He did not answer me. Instead, he advanced and pointed, indicating  the
third  sephiroth, the one called Binah. I studied it. It seemed to represent
a wizard before a dark altar, and
     No! I couldn't believe it. It shouldn't
     I felt a contact with that figure. It was not  just  symbolic.  He  was
real, and he was summoning me. He loomed larger, grew three-dimensional. The
room began to fade about me. I was almost
     There.  It was a place of twilight, a small glade in a twisted wood. An
almost bloody light illuminated the slab before me.  The  wizard,  his  face
hidden  by  cowl  and  shadov, manipulated objects upon the stone, his hands
moving too rapidly for me to follow. From somewhere, I still seems  to  hear
the chanting, faintly.
     Finally,  he  raised  a  single  object  in  his right hand and held it
steady. It was a black, obsidian dagger. He laid his left arm upon the altar
and brushed it across the surface, sweeping everything else to the ground.
     He looked at me for the first time. "Come here," he said then.
     I began to smile at the stupid simplicity of the request.
     But then I felt my feet move without my willing them to do  so,  and  I
knew that a spell lay upon me in this dark shadow.
     I  thanked  another  uncle,  who  dwelled  in  the  most  distant place
imaginable, as I began to speak in Thari, a spell of my own.
     A piercing cry, as of some swooping night bird, rent  the  air.  .  The
wizard  was  not  distracted,  nor my feet freed, but I was able to raise my
arms before me. I kept them at the proper level, and when they  reached  the
forward  edge of the altar I cooperated with the summoning spell, increasing
the force of each automatonlike step that I took. I let my elbows bend.
     The wizard was already swinging the blade toward  my  fingers,  but  it
didn't matter. I put all of my weight behind it and heaved at the stone.
     The  altar  toppled  backward.  The wizard scurried to avoid it, but it
struck one-perhaps both-of his legs. Immediately, as he fell to the  ground,
I felt the spell depart from me. I could move properly again and my mind was
clear.
     He  drew  his  knees up to his chest and began to roll even as I leaped
over the wrecked altar. and reached toward him. I  moved  to  follow  as  he
somersaults  down  a  small slope and passed between two standing stones and
into the darkened wood.
     As soon as I reached the clearing's edge I saw eyes, hundreds of  feral
eyes  blazing  from  the darkness at many levels. The incanting grew louder,
seemed nearer, seemed to be coming from behind me.
     I turned quickly.
     The altar was still in wreckage. Another cowled figure stood behind it,
much larger than the first. This one was doing the chanting, in  a  familiar
masculine  voice. Frakir pulsed upon my wrist. I felt a spell building about
me, but this time I was not unprepared. The opposite of my walk, a  summons,
brought  an  icy  wind  that  swept  the  spell  away like so much smoke. My
garments were lashed about me, changing shape and color. Purple, gray . .  .
light  the  trousers  and dark the cloak, the shirtfront. Black my boots and
wide belt, my gauntlets  tucked  behind,  my  silver  Frakir  woven  into  a
bracelet about my left wrist, visible now and shining. I raised my left hand
and shielded my eyes with my right, as I summoned a flash of light.
     "Be silent," I said then. "You offend me." The chanting ceased.
     The  cowl  was  blown  back  from  his  head  and  I  regarded Melman's
frightened face.
     "All right. You wanted me,," I stated, "and now  you  have  me,  heaven
help you. You said that everything would become clear to me. It hasn't. Make
it clear."
     I took a step forward.
     "Talk!"  I  said. "It can be easy or it can be hard. But you will talk.
The choice is yours."
     He threw back his head and bellowed: "Master!"
     "Summon your master then, by any means," I said. "I will wait. For  he,
too, must answer."
     He called out again, but there was no answer. He bolted then, but I was
ready  for this with a major summoning. The woods decayed and fell before he
could reach them, and then they moved, were swept up in a mighty wind  where
there  should  be stillness. It circled the glade, gray and red, building an
impenetrable wall to infinites above and  below.  We  inhabited  a  circular
island  in  the  night,  several  hundred  meters  across,  its edges slowly
crumbling.
     "He is not coming," I said, "and you are not going. He cannot help you.
No one will help you. This is a place of high magic and you profane it  with
your  presence.  Do  you know what lies beyond the advancing winds? Chaos. I
will give you to it now, unless you tell me about Julia and your master  and
why you dared to bring me here."
     He  drew back from the Chaos and turned to face me. "Take me back to my
apartment and I will tell you everything," he said.
     I shook my head.
     "Kill me and you will never know."
     I shrugged.
     "In that case, you will tell me in order to stop the pain. Then I  will
give you to the Chaos."
     I moved toward him.
     "Wait!"  He  raised  his  hand. "Give me my life for what I am about to
tell you."
     "No bargain. Talk."
     The winds swirled around us and our island  shrank.  Half  heard,  half
intelligible  voices  babbled  within  the  wind and fragments of forms swam
there. Melman drew back from the crumbling edge of things.
     "All right," he said, speaking loudly. "Yes, Julia came to me, as I had
been told she would, and I taught her some things-not  the  things  I  would
have  taught  her  even a year ago, but pieces of some new things I had only
learned myself more recently. I had been told to teach her in  this  manner,
also."
     "By whom? Name your master." He grimaced.
     "He  was not so foolish as to give me his name," he said, "that I might
seek some control over him. Like yourself, he is not human, but a being from
some other plane."
     "He gave you the painting of the Tree?" Melman nodded.
     "Yes, and it actually transported me to each sephiroth. Magic worked in
those places. I gained powers."
     "And the Trumps? He did those, too? He gave them  to  you  to  give  to
her?"
     "I don't know anything about any Trumps," he answered.
     "These!"  I  cried,  drawing them from beneath my cloak, spreading them
like a conjurer's fan and advancing toward him. I thrust them at him and let
him stare for a few moments, withdrawing them before he got  the  idea  that
they might represent a means of escape.
     "I never saw them before," he said.
     The  ground  continued  its  steady erosion toward us. We withdrew to a
point nearer the center.
     "And you sent the creature that slew her?"
     He shook his head vehemently.
     "I did not. I knew that she was going to die, for he had told  me  that
that  was  what  would  bring you to me. He told me, too, that it would be a
beast from Netzach that would slay her-but I never saw it and I had no  part
in its summoning."
     "And why did he want you to meet me, to bring me here?"
     He laughed wildly.
     "Why?" he repeated. "To kill you, of course. He told me that if I could
sacrifice  you  in this place I would gain your powers. He said that you are
Merlin, son of Hell and Chaos, and that I would become the greatest mage  of
all could I slay you here."
     Our  world was at best a hundred meters across now, and the rate of its
shrinkage was accelerating.
     "Was it true?" he asked. "Would I have gained had I succeeded?"
     "Power is like money," I said.  "You  can  usually  get  it  if  you're
competent and it's the only thing you want in life. Would you have gained by
it, though? I don't think so."
     "I'm talking about the meaning of life. You·know that."
     I shook my head.
     "Only  a  fool believes that life has but one meaning," I said. "Enough
of this! Describe your master."
     "I never saw him."
     "What?"
     "I mean, I saw him but I don't know what he looks like. He always  wore
a hood and a black trench coat. Gloves, too. I don't even know his race."
     "How did you meet?"
     "He  appeared  one  day  in  my studio. I just turned around and he was
standing there. He offered me power, said that he would teach me  things  in
return for my service."
     "How did you know he could deliver?"
     "He took me on a journey through places not of this world."
     "I see."
     Our  island of existence was now about the size of a large living room.
The voices of the wind were mocking, then compassionate, frightened, sad and
angry, too. Our wraparound vision shifted constantly.  The  ground  trembled
without  letup.  The  light  was  still baleful. A part of me wanted to kill
Melman right then, but if he had not really been the one who had hurt  Julia
. . .
     "Did your master tell you why he wanted me dead?" I asked him.
     He licked his lips and glanced back at the advancing Chaos.
     "He  said that you were his enemy," he explained, "but he never told me
why. And he said that it was going to happen today, that  he  wanted  it  to
happen today."
     "Why today?"
     He smiled briefly.
     "I  suppose  because it's Walpurgisnacht," he replied, "though he never
actually said that."
     "That's all?" I said. "He never mentioned where he was from?"
     "He once referred to something called the Keep of the Four Worlds as if
it were important to him."
     "And you never felt that he was simply using you?"
     He smiled.
     "Of course he was using me," he replied. "We all use somebody. That  is
the way of the world. But he paid for this use with knowledge and power. And
I think his promise may yet be fulfilled."
     He  seemed  to  be  glancing  at something behind me. It was the oldest
trick in the world, but I turned. There was no  one  there.  Immediately,  I
spun back to face him.
     He held the black dagger. It must have been up his sleeve. He lunged at
me, thrusting, mouthing fresh incantations.
     I  stepped  back  and  swirled  my cloak at him. He disengaged himself,
sidestepping and slashing, turned and advanced again. This time he  came  in
low,  trying to circle me, his lips still moving. I kicked at the knifehand,
but he snapped it back. I caught up the left edge of my cloak then,  wrapped
it  about  my arm. When he struck again, I blocked the thrust and seized his
biceps. Dropping lower as I drew him forward, I  caught  hold  of  his  left
thigh  with  my  right hand, then straightened, raising him high in the air,
and threw him.
     As I turned my body, completing the throw, I realized what I had  done.
Too  late. With my attention focused on my adversary I had not kept track of
the rapid, grinding advance of the destroying winds. The edge of  Chaos  was
much  nearer  than  I  had  thought,  and  Melman had time for only the most
abbreviated of curses before death took him where he would incant no more.
     I cursed, too, because I was certain there was still  more  information
that  I could have gotten from him; and I shook my head, there at the center
of my diminishing world. The day was not yet over and it was already my most
memorable Walpurgisnacht ever.

CHAPTER 4

     It was a long walk back. I changed my clothes on the way. My exit  from
the  labyrinth  took  the  form of a narrow alleyway between a pair of dirty
brick buildings. It was still raining and the day  had  made  its  way  into
evening.  I  saw  my  parked  car across the street at the edge of a pool of
light cast by one of the unbroken streetlamps. I  thought  wistfully  for  a
moment of my dry garments in the trunk, then I headed back toward the Brutus
Storage sign.
     A  small  light burned within the first-floor office, spilling a little
illumination into the otherwise  dark  entranceway.  I  trudged  on  up  the
stairs,  terminally  moist  and  reasonably alert. The apartment door opened
when I turned the knob and pushed. I switched  on  the  light  and  entered,
bolting the door behind me.
     A  quick prowl showed me that the place was deserted, and I changed out
of my wet shirt into one from Melman's closet. His trousers were too big  in
the waist and a bit long for me, though. I transferred my Trumps to a breast
pocket to keep them dry.
     Step two. I began a systematic ransacking of the place.
     After  a few minutes, I came across his occult diary in a locked drawer
in his bedside table. It was as  messy  as  the  rest  of  the  place,  with
misspellings, crossed-out words, and a few beer and coffee stains. It seemed
to  contain  a  lot  of  derivative  stuff  mixed  with the usual subjective
businessdreams and meditations. I flipped farther along in it,  looking  for
the  place where he'd met his master. I came to it and skimmed along. It was
lengthy; and seemed mostly comprised of enthusiastic ejaculations  over  the
workings  of  the Tree he had been given. I decided to save it for later and
was about to stow it when a final riffling of the pages brought a brief poem
into view. Swinburnian, overly allusive and full of rapture, the lines  that
first  caught my eye were, "-the infinite shadows of Amber, touched with her
treacherous taint." Too much alliteration,  but  it  was  the  thought  that
counted.  It  revived  my  earlier feeling of vulnerability and caused me to
ransack faster. I suddenly wanted only to get out, get far away and think.
     The room held no further surprises. I departed it, gathered an  armload
of  strewn  newspapers,  carried  them  to  the  john,  tossed them into the
bathtub, and set fire to them, opening the window on the way out. I  visited
the sanctum then, fetched out the Tree of Life painting, brought it back and
added it to the blaze. I switched aff the bathroom light and closed the door
as I left. I'm one hell of an art critic.
     I headed for the stacks of miscellaneous papers on the bookshelves then
and began a disappointing search among them. I was halfway through my second
heap when the telephone rang.
     The  world  seemed  to freeze as my thoughts sprinted. Of course. Today
was the day when I was supposed to find my way here and be  killed.  Chances
seemed  decent  that  if  it were going to happen it would -have happened by
now. So this could well be S, calling to learn whether my obituary had  been
posted.  I  turned  and located the phone, back on the shadowy wall near the
bedroom. I had known immediately that I  was  going  to  answer  it.  Moving
toward  it,  I was allowing two to three rings-twelve to eighteen seconds-in
which to decide whether my response was to consist of a wisecrack, an insult
and a threat, or whether I was going to try to fake it and see what I  might
learn.  As  satisfying  as the former could be, spoilsport prudence dictated
the latter course and also suggested I confine myself to  low  monosyllables
and pretend to be injured and out of breath. I raised the receiver, ready to
hear S's voice at last and find out whether I knew him.
     "Yes?" I said.
     "Well? Is it done?" came the response.
     Damn  pronoun.  It  was  a  woman.  Wrong  gender  but  a rightsounding
question. One out of two isn't bad, though. I exhaled heavily, then: "Yeah."
     "What's the matter?"
     "I'm hurt," I croaked.
     "Is it serious?"
     "Think so. Got something-here-though. Better come-see."
     "What is it? Something of his?"
     "Yeah. Can't talk. Getting dizzy. Come."
     I cradled the phone and smiled. I thought it very well  played.  I'd  a
feeling I'd taken her in completely.
     I  crossed  the  living  room to the same chair I had occupied earlier,
drew up one of the small tables bearing a large ashtray, seated myself,  and
reached for my pipe: Time to rest, cultivate patience, think a bit.
     Moments  later  I felt a familiar, almost electrical tingling. I was on
my feet in an instant, snatching up the ashtray, butts flying  like  bullets
about  me,  cursing my stupidity yet again as I looked frantically about the
room.
     There! Before the red drapes, beside the piano. Taking form . . .
     I waited for the full outline, then hurled the ashtray  as  hard  as  I
could.
     An  instant  later she was there-tall, russet-haired, darkeyed, holding
what looked like a .38 automatic.
     The ashtray hit her in the stomach and she doubled forward with a gasp.


     I was there before she could straighten.
     I jerked the gun out of her hand and threw it across the room.  Then  I
seized  both  her wrists, spun her around and seated her hard in the nearest
chair. In her left hand she still held a Trump. I snatched ~ it away. It was
a representation of this apartment, and it was done in the same style as the
Tree and the cards in my pocket.
     "Who are you?" I snarled.
     "Jasra," she spat back, "dead man!"
     She opened her mouth wide and her head fell forward. I felt  the  moist
touch of her lips upon the back of my left forearm, which still held her own
right  wrist  against  the chair's arm. Seconds later I felt an excruciating
pain there. It was not a bite, but rather felt as if a fiery nail  had  been
driven into my flesh.
     I  let  go her wrist and jerked my arm away. The movement was strangely
slow, weakened. A cold, tingling sensation moved down into the hand  and  up
along  the  arm.  My  hand  dropped  to  my  side and seemed to go away. She
extricated herself easily  from  my  grip,  smiled,  placed  her  fingertips
lightly upon my chest and pushed.
     I  fell  backward.  I  was  ridiculously weak and I couldn't control my
movements. I felt no pain when I struck the floor, and it was a real  effort
to turn my head to regard her as she rose to her feet.
     "Enjoy  it," she stated. "After you awaken, the remainder of your brief
existence will be painful."
     She passed out of my line of sight, and moments later I heard her raise
the telephone receiver.
     I was certain she was phoning S, and I believed what she had just said.
At least, I would get to meet the mysterious artist . . .
     Artist! I twitched the forgers of my right hand. They still functioned,
albeit slowly. Straining every bit of will and anatomy that  remained  under
my  control,  I  tried then to raise the hand to my chest. The movement that
followed was a jerky, slow-motion thing. At least I had fallen upon my  left
side, and my back masked this feeble activity from the woman who had done me
in.
     My  hand  was trembling and seemed to be slowing even more when it came
to the breast pocket. For ages after, I seemed  to  pick  at  the  edges  of
pieces  of  pasteboard.  Finally,  one came free and I was able to twitch it
high enough to view it. By then I was very dizzy and my vision was beginning
to blur. I wasn't certain I could manage the transfer. From  across  a  vast
distance I could hear Jasra's voice as she conversed with someone, but I was
unable to distinguish the words.
     I focused what remained of my attention upon the card. It was a sphinx,
crouched  upon  a blue, rocky ledge. I reached for it. Nothing. My mind felt
as if it were embedded in cotton. I possessed  barely  enough  consciousness
for one more attempt.
     I  felt  a  certain coldness and seemed to see the sphinx move slightly
upon its stony shelf. I felt as if I were falling forward into a black  wave
that was rushing upward.
     And that was all.
     I was a long time coming around. My consciousness dribbled back, but my
limbs  were  still  leaden and my vision clouded. The lady's sting seemed to
have delivered a neurotropic toxin. I tried flexing my fingers arid toes and
could not be certain whether I'd succeeded. I tried to speed up  and  deepen
my breathing. That worked, anyway.
     After  a  time,  I heard what seemed a roaring sound. It stepped itself
down a little later, and I realized it was my own rushing blood in my  ears.
A  while after that I felt my heartbeat, and my vision began to clear. Light
and dark and shapelessness resolved into sand and rocks. I felt little areas
of chill, all over. Then I began to shiver, and this passed and  I  realized
that I could move. But I felt very weak, so I didn't. Not for a while.
     I  heard  noises-rustlings,  stirrings-coming  from somewhere above and
before me. I also became aware of a peculiar odor.
     "I say, are you awake?" This from the same direction as the  sounds  of
movement.
     I decided that I was not entirely ready to qualify for that state, so I
did not answer. I waited for more life to flow back into my limbs.
     "I  really  wish  you'd let me know whether you can hear me," the voice
came again. "I'd like to get on with it."
     My curiosity finally overcame my judgment and I raised my head.
     "There! I knew it!"
     On the blue-gray ledge above me was crouched a sphinx,  also  blue-lion
body,  large  feathered  wings  folded  tight  against it, a genderless face
looking down upon me. It licked its lips and revealed a  formidable  set  of
teeth.
     "Get  on  with  what?"  I  asked,  raising myself slowly into a sitting
position and drawing several deep breaths.
     "The riddling," it answered, "the thing I do best."
     "I'll take a rain check," I said, waiting for the cramps in my arms and
legs to pass.
     "Sorry. I must insist."
     I rubbed my punctured forearm and glared at the creature. Most  of  the
stories  I  recalled  about  sphinxes  involved  their  devouring people who
couldn't answer riddles. I shook my head.
     "I won't play your game," I said.
     "In that case, you lose  by  forfeit,"  it  replied,  shoulder  muscles
beginning to tighten.
     "Hold on," I said, raising my hand. "Give me a minute or two to recover
and I'll probably feel differently:"
     It  settled  back  and  said, "Okay. That, would make it more official.
Take five. Let me know when you're ready."
     I climbed to my feet and began swinging my arms and stretching. While I
was about it, I surveyed the area  quickly.  We  occupied  a  sandy  arroyo,
punctuated  here and there with orange, gray, and blue rocks. The stony wall
whose ledge the sphinx occupied rose  steeply  before  me  to  a  height  of
perhaps  twenty-five feet; another wall of the same height lay at about that
distance to my rear. The wash rose steeply to my right, ran off  in  a  more
level  fashion  to  my  left.  A  few spiky green shrubs inhabited rifts and
crevices. The hour seemed verging upon dusk. The sky was a weak yellow  with
no  sun  in sight. I heard a distant wind but did not feel it. The place was
cool but not chill.
     I spotted a rock the size of a small dumbbell on the ground nearby. Two
ambling paces-as I continued swinging my  arms  and  stretching-and  it  lay
beside my right foot.
     The sphinx cleared its throat. "Are you ready?" it asked.
     "No," I said. "But I'm sure that won't stop you."
     "You're right."
     I felt an uncontrollable desire to yawn and did so.
     "You  seem  to  lack something of the proper spirit," it observed. "But
here it is: I rise in flame from the earth. The wind assails me  and  waters
lash me. Soon I will oversee all things."
     I waited. Perhaps a minute passed.
     "Well?" the sphinx finally said.
     "Well what?"
     "Have you the answer?"
     "To what?"
     "The riddle, of course!"
     "I  was  waiting. There was no question, only a series of statements. I
can't answer a question if I don't know what it is."
     "It's a time-honored  format.  The  interrogative  is  implied  by  the
context. Obviously, the question is, `What am I?"'
     "It could just as easily be, `Who is buried in Grant's tomb?' But okay.
What is  it?  The  phoenix, of coursenested upon the earth; rising in flames
above it, passing through the air, the clouds, to a great height-"
     "Wrong."
     It smiled and began to slit.
     "Hold on," I said. "It is not wrong. It fits. It may not be the  answer
you want, but it is an answer that meets the requirements."
     It shook its head.
     "I am the final authority on these answers. I do the defining."
     "Then you cheat."
     "I do not!"
     "I  drink off half the contents of a flask. Does that make it half full
or half empty?"
     "Either. Both."
     "Exactly. Same thing. If more than one answer fits,  you  have  to  buy
them all. It's like waves and particles."
     "I  don't  like  that approach," it stated. "It would open all sorts of
doors to ambiguity. It could spoil the riddling business."
     "Not my fault," I said, clenching and unclenching my hands.
     "But you do raise an interesting point."
     I nodded vigorously.
     "But there should only be one correct answer."
     I shrugged.
     "We inhabit a less than ideal world," I suggested.
     "Hm."
     "We could just call it a tie," I offered. "Nobody wins, nobody loses."
     "I find that esthetically displeasing."
     "It works okay in lots of other games."
     "Also, I've grown a bit hungry."
     "The truth surfaces."
     "But I am not unfair. I serve the truth, in my fashion. Your mention of
a tie raises the possibility of a solution."
     "Good. I'm glad you see things-'
     "That being a tie breaker. Ask me your riddle."
     "This is silly," I said. "I don't have any riddles."
     "Then you'd better come up with one fast. Because it's the only way out
of our deadlock-that, or I judge you the loser."
     I swung my arms and did a few deep kneebends. My body  felt  as  if  it
were afire. It also felt stronger.
     "Okay," I said. "Okay. Just a second."
     What the hell . . .
     "What's green and red and goes round and round and round?"
     The sphinx blinked twice, then fiurrowed its brow. I used the time that
followed  for  some more deep breathing and some running in place. The fires
subsided, my head grew clearer, my pulse steadied . . .
     "Well?" I said some minutes later.
     "I'm thinking."
     "Take your time."
     I did a little shadowboxing. Did some  isometrics,  too.  The  sky  had
darkened a bit more and a few stars were now visible off to my right.
     "Uh, I hate to rush you," I said, "but-"
     The  sphinx  snorted. "I'm still thinking." "Maybe we should set a time
limit."
     "It shouldn't be much longer."
     "Mind if I rest?"
     "Go ahead."
     I stretched out on the sand and closed my eyes, muttering a guard  word
to Frakir before I slept.
     I  woke  with  a shiver, light in my eyes and a breeze upon my face. It
took me several moments  to  realize  that  it  was  morning.  The  sky  was
brightening  to  my  left,  stars  were  fading  to my right. I was thirsty.
Hungry, too.
     I rubbed my eyes. I got to my feet.  I  located  my  comb  and  ran  it
through my hair. I regarded the sphinx.
     ". . . and goes round and round and round," it muttered.
     I  cleared  my  throat.  No  reaction. The beast was staring past me. I
wondered whether I might simply be able to slip off...
     No. The gaze shifted to me.
     "Good morning," I said cheerfully. There was a brief gnashing of teeth.
     "AlI right," I said, "you've taken a lot longer  than  I  did.  If  you
haven't got it by now I don't care to play any longer."
     "I don't like your riddle," it said at last.


     "Sorry."
     "What is the answer?"
     "You're giving up?"
     "I must: What is the answer?" I raised a hand.
     "Hold  on,"  I  said.  "These  things should be done in proper order. I
should have the preferred answer to yours before I tell you mine."
     It nodded.
     "There is some justice in that. All right-the Keep of the Four Worlds."
     "What?"
     "That is the answer. The Keep of the Four Worlds ."
     I thought of Melman's words: "Why?" I asked.
     "It lies at the crossroads of the worlds of the four elements, where it
rises from the earth in flames, assailed by the winds and waters."
     "What about the business of overseeing all things?"
     "It could refer to the view, or to its master's imperialistic  designs.
Or both."
     "Who is its master?"
     "I don't know. That information is not essential to the answer."
     "Where'd you pick up this riddle, anyhow?"
     "From a traveler, a few months back."
     "Why'd  you  choose  this one, of all the riddles you must know, to ask
me?"
     "It stopped me, so it had to be good."
     "What became of the traveler?"
     "He went on his way, uneaten. He'd answered my riddle."
     "He had a name?"
     "He wouldn't say."
     "Describe him, please."
     "I can't. He was well muffled."
     "And he said nothing more about the Keep of the Four Worlds?"
     "No."
     "Well," I said. "I believe I'll follow his  example  and  take  a  walk
myself."
     I turned and faced the slope to my right.
     "Waitl"
     "What?" I asked.
     "Your  riddle," it stated. "I've given you the answer to mine. You must
now tell me what it is that is green and red and goes round  and  round  and
round."
     I  glanced  downward,  scanned  the  ground.  Oh,  yes, there it was-my
dumbbell-shaped stone. I took several steps and stood beside it.
     "A frog in a Cuisinart," I said.
     "What?"
     Its shoulder muscles bunched, its eyes  narrowed  and  its  many  teeth
became  very  apparent. I spoke a few words to Frakir and felt her stir as I
squatted and caught hold of the stone with my right hand.
     "That's it," I said, rising. "It's one of those visual things-
     "That's a rotten riddle!" the sphinx announced.
     With my left index finger I made two quick movements in the air  before
me.
     "What are you doing?" it asked.
     "Drawing  lines  from  your  ears  to your eyes," I said. Frakir became
visible at about that moment, sliding from my left wrist to my hand, twining
among my fingers. The sphinx's eyes darted in that direction. I  raised  the
stone  level  with  my  right shoulder. One end of Frakir fell free and hung
writhing from my extended hand. She began to brighten, then  glowed  like  a
hot silver wire.
     "I believe the contest is a draw," I stated. "What do you think?"
     The sphinx licked its lips.
     "Yes," it finally said, sighing. "I suppose you are right."
     "Then I will bid you good day," I said.
     "Yes.  Pity.  Very  well.  Good  day. But before you go may I have your
name-for the record?"
     "Why not?" I said. "I am Merlin, of Chaos."


     "Ah," it said, "then someone would have come to avenge you."
     "It's possible."
     "Then a draw is indeed best. Go."
     I backed farther off before turning and proceeding up the slope  to  my
right.  I  remained on guard until I was out of that place, but there was no
pursuit.
     I began jogging. I was thirsty and hungry, but I wasn't likely to  turn
up  breakfast  in  this  desolate,  rocky  place  under  a lemon sky. Frakir
recoiled and faded. I began drawing deep breaths as I headed away  from  the
risen sun.
     Wind  in  my  hair,  dust  in  my eyes . : : I bore toward a cluster of
boulders, passed among them. Seen from  amid  their  shadows  the  sky  grew
greenish  above  me.  Emerging,  I came upon a softer plain, glitters in the
distance, a few clouds rising to my left.
     I maintained a  steady  pace,  reaching  a  small  rise,  mounting  it,
descending  its  farther  side  where  sparse  grasses  waved.  A  grove  of
mop-topped trees in the distance . . . I headed for them, startling a  small
orange-furred creature that sprang across my path and tore away to the left.
Moments  later,  a  dark bird flashed by, uttering a wailing note, headed in
the same direction. I ran on, and the sky continued to darken.
     Green the sky and thicker the grasses, green the grasses,  too  .  .  .
Heavy  gusts  of  wind at irregular intervals . . . Nearer the trees . . . A
singing sound emerges from their branches . . . The clouds sweep onward .  .
.
     A tightness goes out of my muscles and a familiar fluidity enters . . .
I pass  the first tree, treading upon long, fallen leaves . . . I pass among
hairy-barked boles . . . The way I follow is hard-packed, becomes  a  trail,
strange  foot  marks  cast within it . . . It drops, curves, widens, narrows
again . . . The ground rises at either hand . . . the trees sound bass  viol
notes  .  .  .  Patches  of  sky  amid  the  leaves are the color of Morinci
turquoise . . . Streamers of cloud snake forward like silver rivers  .  .  .
Small  clusters  of  blue  flowers appear on the trail walls . . . The walls
rise higher, passing above my head . . . The way grows rocky .  .  .  I  run
on...
     My  path widens, widens, descending steadily . . . Even before I see or
hear it, I smell the water . . . Carefully now, among the stones . . . A bit
slower here . . . I turn and see the stream, high,  rocky  banks  at  either
hand, a meter or two of shoreline before the rise . . .
     Slower  still,  beside the gurgling, sparkling flow . . . To follow its
meandering . . . Bends, curves, trees high overhead, exposed  roots  in  the
wall to my right, gray and yellow talus-fall along the flaky base . . .
     My  shelf  widens,  the  walls  lower  .  . . More sand and fewer rocks
beneath my feet . . . Lowering, lowering . . . Headheight, shoulder-height .
. . Another bending of the way, slope descending . . .  Waist  high  .  .  .
Green-leafed  trees  all  about  me,  blue  sky overhead, off to the right a
hard-packed trail . . . I mount the slope, I follow it . . .
     Trees and shrubs, bird notes and cool breeze . . . I suck  the  air,  I
lengthen  my  stride . . . I cross a wooden bridge, footfalls echoing, creek
flowing to the now-masked stream, moss-grown boulders beside its cool . .  .
Low stone wall to my right now . . . Wagon ruts ahead . .
     Wildflowers at either hand . . . A sound of distant laughter, echoing .
. . The  neigh  of  a  horse  .  .  .  Creak of a cart . . . Turn left . . :
Widening of the way . . . Shadow and sunlight, shadow and  sunlight  .  .  .
Dapple,  dapple  . . . River to the left, wider now, sparkling . . . Haze of
smoke above the next hill . . .
     I slow as I near the summit. I reach it walking, dusting  my  garments,
brushing  my  hair  into  place,  limbs  tingling,  lungs  pumping, bands of
perspiration cooling me. I spit grit. Below me  and  to  the  right  lies  a
country  inn, some tables on its wide, rough-hewn porch, facing the river, a
few in a garden nearby Bye-bye, present tense. I am arrived.
     I walked on down and located a pump at the far side of ' the  building,
where  I  washed  my  face,  hands  and arms, my left forearm still sore and
slightly inflamed where Jasra had attacked me. I made my way  to  the  porch
then  and  took a small table, after waving to a serving woman I saw within.
After a time, she brought me porridge and sausages and eggs  and  bread  and
butter and strawberry preserves and tea.
     I  finished  it  all quickly and ordered another round of the same. The
second time through a feeling of returning normalcy occurred, and  I  slowed
and enjoyed it and watched the river go by.
     It  was a strange way to wind up the job. I had been looking forward to
some leisurely travel, to a long lazy vacation, now my work had  been  done.
The  small  matter of S had been all that stood in my way-a thing I had been
certain I could settle quickly. Now I was in the middle of something  I  did
not  understand, something dangerous and bizarre. Sipping my tea and feeling
the day warm about me, I could be lulled into a momentary  sense  of  peace.
But  I  knew it for a fleeting thing. There could be no tree rest, no safety
for me, until this matter was settled. Looking back over events, I saw  that
I  could  no  longer  trust  my  reactions  alone  for my deliverance, for a
resolution of this affair. It was time to formulate a plan.
     The identity of S and S's removal were high on my list of  things  that
needed  knowing and doing. Higher still was the determination of S's motive.
My notion that I was dealing with a simple-minded psycho  had  dissolved.  S
was  too  well  organized and possessed some very unusual abilities. I began
searching my past for possible candidates. But though I could think of quite
a few capable of managing what had occurred thus far,  none  of  these  were
particularly  ill-disposed  toward  me. However, Amber had been mentioned in
that strange diary of Melman's. Theoretically, this made the whole  thing  a
family  matter  and I suppose put me under some obligation to call it to the
attention of the others. But to do so would be like asking for help,  giving
up,  saying  that  I  couldn't manage my own affairs. And threats on my life
were my own affair. Julia was my affair. The vengeance on this one was to be
mine. I had to think about it some more...
     Ghostwheel? I mulled it over, dismissed it,  thought  about  it  again.
Ghostwheel  .  .  .  No.  Untried.  Still developing. The only reason it had
occurred to me at all was because it was my pet, my major accomplishment  in
life, my surprise for the others.
     I was just looking for an easy way out. I would need a lot more data to
submit, which meant I had to go after it, of course.
     Ghostwheel . . .
     Right  now  I needed more information. I had the cards and the diary. I
didn't want to fool with the Trumps any more at this point, since the  first
one  had  seemed  something  of  a  trap. I would go through the diary soon,
though my initial impression had been that it was too subjective  to  be  of
much  help.  I ought to go back to Melman's for a final look around, though,
in case there was anything I had missed. Then I ought to look  up  Luke  and
see whether he could tell me anything more-even some small remark-that might
be of value. Yes . . .
     I  sighed  and  stretched.  I  watched  the  river  a little longer and
finished my tea.  I  ran  Frakir  over  a  fistful  of  money  and  selected
sufficient  transformed  coinage  to pay for my meal. Then I returned to the
road. Time to run on back.






CHAPTER 5

     I came jogging up the street in the light of late afternoon and  halted
when  I  was  abreast  of  my car. I'd almost failed to recognize it. It was
covered with dust, ashes, and water  stains.  How  long  had  I  been  away,
anyhow?  I  hadn't  tried  to  reckon the time differential between here and
where I'd been, but my car looked as if it had  been  standing  exposed  for
over a month. It seemed intact, though. It had not been vandalized and
     My  gaze  had drifted past the hood and on ahead. The building that had
housed the Brutus Storage Company and  the  late  Victor  Melman  no  longer
stood.  A  burnt-out,  collapsed  skeleton  of the place occupied the comer,
parts of two walls standing. I headed toward it.
     Walking about it, I studied what was left. The charred remains  of  the
place  were cold and settled. Gray streaks and sooty fairy circles indicated
that water had been pumped into it, had since evaporated. The ashy smell was
not particularly strong.
     Had I started it, with that fire in the bathtub? I wandered.  I  didn't
think  so.  Mine  had  been a small enough blaze, and well confined, with no
indication of its spreading while I was waiting.
     A boy on a green bicycle pedaled past while I was  studying  tie  ruin.
Several  minutes  later  he  returned  and halted about ten feet from me. He
looked to be about ten years old.
     "I saw it," he announced. "I saw it burn."
     "When was that?" I asked him.
     "Three days ago."
     "'They know how it started?"
     "Something in the storage place, something flam-"
     "Flammable?"
     "Yeah," he  said  through  a  gap-toothed  smile.  "Maybe  on  purpose.
Something about insurance."
     "Really?"
     "Uh-huh. My dad said maybe business was bad."
     "It's been known to happen," I said. "Was anybody hurt in the fire?"
     "They thought maybe the artist who lived upstairs got burned up because
nobody  could find him. But they didn't see any bones or anything like that.
It was a good fire. Burned a long time."
     "Was it nighttime or daytime?"
     "Nighttime. I watched from over there." He pointed to  a  place  across
the street and back in the direction from which I had come. "'They put a lot
of water on it."
     "Did you see anyone come out of the building?"
     "No," he said. "I got here after it was burning pretty good."
     I nodded and turned back toward my car.
     "You'd  think bullets would explode in all that fire, wouldn't you?" he
said.
     "Yes," I answered.
     "But they didn't." I turned back.
     "What do you mean?" I asked.
     He was already digging in a pocket.
     "Me and some of my friends were playing around in there yesterday,"  he
explained, "and we found a mess of bullets."
     He  opened  his  hand  to  display several metallic objects. As I moved
toward him, he squatted and placed one of the cylinders on the sidewalk.  He
reached out suddenly, picked up a nearby rock and swung it toward it.
     "Don't!" I cried.
     The rock struck the shell and nothing happened.
     "You could get hurt that way-" I began, but he interrupted.
     "Naw.  No  way these suckers will explode. You can't even set that pink
stuff on fire. Got a match?"
     "Pink stuff ?" I said as he moved the rock to  reveal  a  mashed  shell
casing and a small trailing of pink powder.
     "That," he said, pointing. "Funny, huh? I thought gunpowder was gray."
     I  knelt  and  touched the substance. I rubbed it between my fingers. I
sniffed it. I even tasted it. I couldn't tell what the hell it was.
     "Beats me," I told him. "Won't even burn, you say?"
     "Nope. We put some on a newspaper and set the paper on fire. It'll melt
and run, that's all."
     "You got a couple of extras?"
     "Well . . . yeah."
     "I'll give you a buck for them," I said.
     He showed me his teeth and spaces again as his hand vanished  into  the
side  of  his  jeans.  I ran Frakir over some odd Shadow cash and withdrew a
dollar from the pile. He handed  me  two  sootstreaked  double  30's  as  he
accepted it.
     "Thanks," he said.
     "My pleasure. Anything else interesting in there?"
     "Nope. All the rest is ashes."
     I got into my car and drove. I ran it through the first car wash I came
to, since  the  wipers  had  only smeared the crap on the windshield. As the
rubbery tentacles slapped at me through a sea of  foam,  I  checked  to  see
whether I still had the matchbook Luke had given me. I did. Good. I'd seen a
pay phone Outside.
     "Hello. New Line Motel," a young, male voice answered. "You had a Lucas
Raynard  registered  there  a  couple  of days ago," I said. "I want to know
whether he left a message for me. My name's Merle Corey."
     "Just a minute." Pause. Shuffle. Then: "Yes, he did."
     "What does it say?"
     "It's in a sealed envelope. I'd rather not"
     "Okay I'll come by "
     I drove over. I located the man matching the voice at the desk  in  the
lobby.  I  identified  myself  and claimed the envelope. The clerk-a slight,
blond fellow with a bristly mustache-stared for a  moment,  then:  "Are  you
going to see Mr. Raynard?"
     "Yes."  He  opened  a drawer and withdrew a small brown , envelope, its
sides distended. Luke's name and room number were written on it.
     "He didn't leave a  forwarding  address,"  he  explained,  opening  the
envelope,  "and the, maid found this ring on the bathroom counter after he'd
checked out. Would you give it to him?"
     "Sure," I said, and he passed it to me.
     I seated myself in a lounge area off to the left. The ring was of  pink
gold  and  sported a blue stone. I couldn't recall ever having seen him wear
it. I slipped it on the ring finger of my left hand and it fit perfectly.  I
decided to wear it until I could give it to him.
     I opened the letter, written on motel stationery, and read:
     Merle,  Too  bad  about dinner. I did wait around. Hope everything's
okay. I'm leaving in the morning for Albuquerque. I'll be there three  days.
Then  up  to Santa Fe for three more. Staying at the Hilton in both towns. I
did have some more things I wanted to talk about. Please get in touch.
     Luke
     Hm. I phoned my travel agent and discovered  that  I  could  be  on  an
afternoon   flight  to  Albuquerque  if  I  hustled.  In  that  I  wanted  a
face-to-face rather than a phone talk, I did that thing. I  stopped  by  the
office, picked up my ticket, paid cash for it, drove to the airport and said
good-bye  to  my  car as I parked it. I doubted I would ever see it again. I
hefted my backpack and walked to the terminal.
     The rest was smooth and easy. As I watched the ground drop away beneath
me, I knew that a phase of my existence  had  indeed  ended.  Like  so  many
things, it was not at all the way I had wanted it to be. I'd thought to wind
up  the  matter  of  S pretty quickly or else decide to forget about it, and
then visit people I'd been meaning to see for some time and stop  at  a  few
places I'd long been curious about. Then I would take off through Shadow for
a  final  check  on  Ghostwheel,  heading  back  to  the brighter pole of my
existence after that. Now, my priorities had been shuffled-all because S and
Julia's death were somehow connected, and because it involved a  power  from
elsewhere in Shadow that I did not understand.
     It was the latter consideration that troubled me most. Was I digging my
grave  as  well as jeopardizing friends and relatives because of my pride? I
wanted to handle this myself, friendly skies, but the more I  thought  about
it  the  more impressed I became with the adversary powers I had encountered
and the paucity of my knowledge concerning S. It wasn't fair not to let  the
others  know-not if they might be in danger, too. I'd love to wrap the whole
thing up by myself and give it to them for a present. Maybe  I  would,  too,
but
     Damn  it.  I  had  to  tell  them. If S got me and turned on them, they
needed to know. If it were a part of something larger, they needed to  know.
As much as I disliked the idea, I would have to tell them.
     I leaned forward and my hand hovered above my backpack beneath the seat
in front  of me. It wouldn't hurt, I decided, to wait until after I'd spoken
with Luke. I  was  out  of  town  and  probably  safe  now.  There  was  the
possibility  of  picking up a clue or two from Luke. I'd rather have more to
give them when I told my story. I'd wait a little longer.
     I sighed. I got a drink from the stewardess and sipped it.  Driving  to
Albuquerque  in  a  normal  fashion would have taken too long. Short-cutting
through Shadow would not work, because  I'd  never  been  there  before  and
didn't  know  how to find the place. Too bad. I'd like to have my car there.
Luke was probably in Santa Fe by now.
     I sipped and I looked for shapes in the  clouds.  The  things  I  found
matched  my  mood,  so  I  got  out my paperback and read until we began our
descent. When I looked again ranks of mountains filled  my  prospect  for  a
time.  A  crackly voice assured me that the weather was pleasant. I wondered
about my father.
     I hiked in from my gate, passed a gift shop  full  of  Indian  jewelry,
Mexican pots, and gaudy souvenirs, located a telephone, and called the local
Hilton.  Luke  had  already  checked  out, I learned. I phoned the Hilton in
Santa Fe then. He had checked in there but was not in  his  room  when  they
rang  it  for me. I made a reservation for myself and hung up. A woman at an
information counter told me that I could catch a Shuttlejack to Santa Fe  in
about  half  an  hour  and  sent me in the proper direction to buy a ticket.
Santa Fe is one of the few state capitals without a major airport, I'd  read
somewhere.
     While  we  were  heading  north  on  I-25,  somewhere among lengthening
shadows in the vicinity of Sandia Peak, Frakir tightened  slightly  upon  my
wrist  and  released  the pressure a moment later. Again. Then once again. I
glanced quickly about the small bus, seeking the danger against which I  had
just been warned.
     I  was  seated  in  the  rear  of the vehicle. Up near the front was. a
middle-aged couple, speaking with Texas  accents,  wearing  an  ostentatious
quantity  of  turquoise and silver jewelry; near the middle were three older
women, talking about things back in New York; across the aisle from them was
a young couple, very absorbed in each  other;  two  young  men  with  tennis
racquets  sat  diagonally to the rear of them, talking about college; behind
them was a nun, reading. I looked out  the  window  again  and  saw  nothing
particularly threatening on the . highway or near it. I did not want to draw
to myself the attention that any location practices would involve either.
     So  I  spoke  a  single  word  in  Thari  as I rubbed my wrist, and the
warnings ceased. Even though  the  rest  of  the  ride  was  uneventful,  it
bothered me, though an occasional false warning was possible just because of
the  nature  of  nervous  systems. As I watched red shale and red and yellow
earth streak by, bridged arroyos, viewed distant mountains and nearer slopes
dotted with piÔon, I wondered.  S?  Is  S  back  there  somewhere,  somehow,
watching,  waiting? And if so, why? Couldn't we just sit down and talk about
it  over  a  couple  of  beers?  Maybe  it  was  based  on  some   sort   of
misunderstanding.
     I'd  a  feeling  it was not a misunderstanding. But I'd settle for just
knowing what was going on, even if nothing were resolved. I'd even  pay  for
the beers.
     The light of the setting sun touched flashes of brightness from streaks
of snow in the Sangre de Cristos as we pulled into town; shadows slid across
gray-green  slopes;  most  of  the buildings in sight were stuccoed. It felt
about ten degrees cooler when I stepped down from the bus in  front  of  the
Hilton  than  it  had when I'd boarded in Albuquerque. But then, I' d gained
about two thousand feet in altitude and it was an hour and a quarter further
along in the direction of evening.
     I registered and found my room. I tried phoning Luke, but there was  no
answer. I showered then and changed into my spare outfit. Rang his room once
more then, but still
     no answer. I was getting hungry and I'd hoped to have dinner with him.
     I decided to find the bar and nurse a beer for a while, then try again.
I hoped he didn't have a heavy date.
     A  Mr. Brazda, whom I approached in the lobby and asked for directions,
turned out to be the manager. He asked about my room,  we  exchanged  a  few
pleasantries  and  he  showed  me  the corridor leading off to the lounge. I
started in that direction, but didn't quite make. it.
     "Merle! What the hell are you doing here?" came a familiar voice.
     I turned and regarded Luke, who had, just entered the lobby. Sweaty and
smiling, he was wearing dusty fatigues and boots, a fatigue cap, and  a  few
streaks  of  grime.  We  shook  hands and I said, "I wanted to talk to you."
Then: "What'd you do, enlist in something?"
     "No, I've been off hiking in the Pecos all day," he answered. "I always
do that when I'm out this way. It's great.
     "I'll have to try it sometime," I said. "Now it seems it's my  turn  to
buy dinner."
     "You're right," he answered. "Let me catch a shower and change clothes.
I'll meet you in the bar in fifteen, twenty minutes. Okay?"
     "Right. See you."
     I  headed  up  the corridor and located the place. It was medium-sized,
dim, cool and relatively crowded, divided into two widely  connected  rooms,
with low, comfortablelooking chairs and small tables.
     A  young  couple  was  just  abandoning  a corner table off to my left,
drinks in hand, to follow a waitress into the adjacent dining room.  I  took
the table. A little later a cocktail waitress came by, and I ordered a beer.
     Sitting  there,  several  minutes  later,  sipping, and letting my mind
drift over the perversely  plotted  events  of  the  past  several  days,  I
realized  that one of the place's passing figures had failed to pass. It had
come to a halt at my side-just far enough to the rear to register only as  a
dark peripheral presence.
     It spoke softly: "Excuse me. May I ask you a question?"
     I  turned  my  head, to behold a short, thin man of Spanish appearance,
his hair and mustache flecked with gray. He was  sufficiently  well  dressed
and  groomed  to  seem  a local business type. I noted a chipped front tooth
when he smiled so briefly-just a twitch-as to indicate nervousness.
     "My name's Dan Martinez," he said, not  offering  to  shake  hands.  He
glanced at the chair across from me. "Could I sit down a minute?"
     "What's  this  about?  If you're selling something, I'm not interested.
I'm waiting for somebody and-'
     He shook his head.
     "No, nothing like that. I'know you're waiting for someone - a Mr. Lucas
Raynard. It involves him, actually "
     I gestured at the chair.
     "Okay. Sit down and ask your question."
     He did so, clasping his hands and placing them on the table between us.
He leaned forward.
     "I overheard you talking in the  lobby,"  he  began,  "and  I  got  the
impression you knew him fairly well. Would you mind telling me for about how
long you've known him?"
     "If  that's  all you want to know," I answered, "for about eight years.
We went to college together, and we worked for the same company for  several
years after that."
     "Grand  Design,"  he  stated,  "the San Francisco computer firm. Didn't
know him before college, huh?"
     "It seems you already know quite a bit," I said. "What  did  you  want,
anyway? Are you some kind of cop?"
     "No,"  he  said, "nothing like that. I assure you I'm not trying to get
your friend into trouble. I am simply trying to save  myself  some.  Let  me
just ask you-'
     I shook my head.
     "No  more  freebies,"  I  told  him. "I don't care to talk to strangers
about my friends without some pretty good reasons."
     He unclasped his hands and spread them wide.
     "I'm not being underhanded," he said, "when  I  know  you'll  tell  him
about it. In fact, I want you to. He knows me. I want him to know I'm asking
around  about  him,  okay?  It'll actually be to his benefit. Hell, I'm even
asking - a friend, aren't I? Someone who might be willing to lie to help him
out. And I just need a couple simple facts-"
     "And I just need one simple reason: why do you want this information?"
     He sighed. "Okay," he said. "He offered me - tentatively, mind you -  a
very  interesting  investment  opportunity.  It would involve a large sum of
money. There is an element of  risk,  as  in  most  ventures  involving  new
companies  in a highly competitive area, but the possible returns do make it
tempting."
     I nodded.
     "And you want to know whether he's honest."
     He chuckled.
     "I don't really care whether he's honest," he said. "My  .only  concern
is whether he can deliver a product with no strings on it."
     Something  about  the  way  this  man  talked reminded me of someone. I
tried, but couldn't recall who it was:
     "Ah," I said, taking a sip of beer. "I'm slow today. Sorry.  Of  course
this deal involves computers."
     "Of course."
     "You  want to know whether his present employer can nail him if he goes
into business out here with whatever he's bringing with him."
     "In a word, yes."
     "I give up," I said. "It would take a better  man  than  me  to  answer
that.  Intellectual  properties  represent a tricky area of the law. I don't
know what he's selling and I don't know where it comes from-he gets around a
lot. But even if I did know, I have no idea what your legal  position  would
be.
     "I  didn't  expect  anything  beyond  that," he said, smiling. I smiled
back.
     "So you've sent your message," I said. He nodded and began to rise.
     "Oh, just one thing more," he began.
     "Yes?"
     "Did he ever mention places," he  said,  staring  full  into  my  eyes,
"called Amber or the Courts of Chaos?"
     He  could  not  have  failed to note my startled reaction, which had to
have given him a completely false impression. I was sure that he was sure  I
was lying when I answered
     him truthfully.
     "No, I never heard him refer to them. Why do you ask?"
     He shook his head as he pushed his chair back and stepped away from the
table. He was smiling again.
     "It's not important. Thank you, Mr. Corey. Nus a dhabzhun dhuilsha."
     He practically fled around the corner.
     "Wait!"  I called out, so loudly that there was a moment of silence and
heads turned in my direction.
     I got to my feet and started after him, when I heard my name called.
     "Hey, Merle! Don't run off ! I'm here already!"
     I turned. Luke had just come in through the entrance  behind  me,  hair
still  shower-damp.  He  advanced,  clapped  me on the shoulder, and lowered
himself into the seat Martinez had  just  vacated.  He  nodded  at  my  half
finished beer as I sat down again.
     "I need one of those," he said. "Lord, am I thirsty!" Then, "Where were
you off to when I came in?"
     I  found  myself  reluctant  to describe my recent encounter, not least
because of its strange conclusion. Apparently, he  had  just  missed  seeing
Martinez.
     So: "I was heading for the john."
     "It's  back  that way," he told me, nodding in the direction from which
he had entered. "I passed it on the way in." His eyes shifted downward.
     "Say, that ring you have on-"
     "Oh, yeah," I said. "You left it at the New Line Motel. I picked it  up
for you when I collected your message. Here, let me . . ."
     I tugged at it, but it wouldn't come off.
     "Seems to be stuck," I noted. "Funny. It went on easy enough."
     "Maybe your finger's swollen," he remarked. "It could have something to
do with the altitude. We're up pretty high."
     He  caught  the  waitress's  attention and ordered a beer, while I kept
twisting at the ring.
     "Guess I'll just have to sell it to you;" he said:  "Give  you  a  good
deal."
     "We'll see," I told him. "Back in a minute."
     He  raised  one hand limply and let it fall as I headed toward the rest
room.
     There was no one else in the facility, and so I spoke  the  words  that
released  Frakir  from  the  suppression spell I had uttered back aboard the
Shuttlejack. There followed immediate movement. Before I could issue another
command, Frakir became shimmeringly visible in the act of  uncoiling,  crept
across  the  back  of  my  hand  and  wound about my ring finger. I watched,
fascinated, as the finger darkened  and  began  to  ache  beneath  a  steady
tightening.
     A  loosening  followed  quickly, leaving my finger looking as if it had
been threaded. I got the idea. I unscrewed the ring along the track that had
been pressed into my flesh. Frakir moved again  as  if  to  snag  it  and  I
stroked her.
     "Okay," I said. "'Thanks. Return."
     There  seemed  a  moment  of  hesitation, but my will proved sufficient
without a more formal command. She retreated back across  my  hand,  rewound
herself about my wrist, and faded.
     I  finished up in there and returned to the bar. I passed Luke his ring
as I seated myself, and took a sip of beer.  "How'd  you  get  it  off?"  he
asked.
     "A bit of soap," I answered.
     He  wrapped  it  in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. "Guess I
can't take your money for it, then."
     "Guess not. Aren't you going to wear it?"
     "No, it's a present. You know, I hardly expected you to make the  scene
here,"  he  commented,  scooping  a  handful of peanuts from a bowl that had
appeared in my absence. "I thought maybe you'd just call  when  you  got  my
message,  and we could set something up for later. Glad you did, though. Who
knows when later might have been. See, I had some plans that started  moving
faster  than  I'd thought they would-and that's what I wanted to talk to you
about."
     I nodded.
     "I had a few things I wanted to talk to you about, too."
     He returned my nod.
     I  had  decided  back  in  the  lavatory  definitely  to  refrain  from
mentioning  Martinez  yet,  and  the  first  things he had said and implied.
Although the entire setup did not sound as if it involved anything in  which
I  had  any  interest  any longer, I always feel more secure in talking with
anyoneeven friends-when I have at least a little  special  information  they
don't know r have. So I decided to keep it that way for now.
     "So  let's  be  civilized  and  hold  everything  important  till after
dinner," he said, slowly shredding his napkin and wadding the  pieces,  "and
go somewhere we can talk in private then."
     "Good idea," I agreed. "Want to eat here?" He shook his head. .
     "I've  been eating here. It's good, but I want a change. I had my heart
set on eating at a place around the corner. Let me go and see if they've got
a table."
     "Okay." He gulped the rest of his drink and departed.
     . . . And then the mention of Amber. Who the hell was Martinez? It  was
more than a little necessary that I learn this, because it was obvious to me
that he was something other than he appeared to be. His final words had been
in Thari, my native tongue. How this could be and why it should be, I had no
idea.  I  cursed  my own inertia, at having let the S situation slide for so
long. It was purely a result of my  arrogance.  I'd  never  anticipated  the
convoluted  mess  the  affair would become. Served me right, though I didn't
appreciate the service.
     "Okay," Luke said, rounding the corner, digging into  his  pocket,  and
tossing  some  money  on  the table. "We've got a reservation. Drink up, and
let's take a walk."
     I finished, stood and followed him. He led  me  through  the  corridors
and. back to the lobby, then out and along a hallway to the rear. We emerged
into  a  balmy  evening and crossed the parking lot to the sidewalk that ran
along Guadaloupe Street. From there it was only  a  short  distance  to  the
place where it intersected with Alameda. We crossed twice there and strolled
on  past a big church, then turned right at the next comer. Luke pointed out
a restaurant called La Tertulia across the street a short distance ahead.
     "'There," he said.
     We crossed over and found our way to the entrance. It was a  low  adobe
building, Spanish, venerable, and somewhat elegant inside. We went through a
pitcher  of sangria, orders of pollo adova, bread puddings, and many cups of
coffee, keeping our agreement  not  to  speak  of  anything  serious  during
dinner.
     During the course of the meal Luke was greeted twice, by different guys
passing  through  the  room,  both of whom paused at the table to pass a few
pleasantries.
     "You know everybody in this town?" I asked him a bit later.
     He chuckled. "I do a lot of business here."
     "Really? It seems a pretty small town."
     "Yes, but that's deceptive. It is the state capital. There're a lot  of
people here buying what we're selling."
     "So you're out this way a lot?"
     He nodded. "It's one of the hottest spots on my circuit."
     "How  do  you  manage  all  this business when you're out hiking in the
woods?"
     He looked up from the small battle formation he was creating  from  the
things on the table. He smiled.
     "I've got to have a little recreation," he said. "I get tired of cities
and offices.  I  have  to  get  away  and  hike around, or canoe or kayak or
something like that-or I'd go out of my gourd. In fact, that's  one  of  the
reasons  I  built up the business in this town-quick access to a lot of good
places for that stuff."
     He took a drink of coffee.
     `.`You know," he continued, "it's such a nice night we ought to take  a
drive, let you get a feeling of what I mean."
     "Sounds  good,"  I  said,  stretching  my shoulders and looking for our
waiter. "But isn't it too dark to see much?"
     "No. The moon'll be up, the stars are out, the air's real clear. You'll
see."
     I got the tab, paid up, and we strolled out. Sure enough, the moon  had
risen.
     "Car's in the hotel lot," he said as we hit the street. "'This side."
     He  indicated  a  station  wagon  once we were back in the parking lot,
unlocked it, and waved me aboard. He drove us out,  turned  at  the  nearest
corner,  and followed the Ala meda to the Paseo, took a right leading uphill
on a street called Otero and another onto  Hyde  Park  Road.  From  then  on
traffic  was  very  light.  We passed a sign indicating that we were heading
toward a ski basin.
     As we worked our way through many curves, heading generally  upward,  I
felt  a  certain  tension  going  out  of  me. Soon we had left all signs of
habitation behind  us,  and  the  night  and  the  quiet  settled  fully  No
streetlights  here.  Through the opened window I smelled pine trees. The air
was cool. I rested, away from S and everything else.
     I glanced at Luke. He stared straight ahead, brow furrowed. He felt  my
gaze, though, because he seemed to relax suddenly and he shot me a grin.
     "Who goes first?" he asked.
     "Go ahead," I answered.
     "Okay.  When we were talking the other morning about your leaving Grand
D, you said you weren't going to work anywhere else and you weren't planning
on teaching."
     "That's right."
     "You said you were just going to travel around."
     "Yep"
     "Something else did suggest itself to me a little later on."
     I remained silent as he glanced my way.
     "I was wondering," he said after a time,  "whether  you  might  not  be
shopping around-either for backing in getting your own company going, or for
a buyer for something you have to sell. You know what I mean?"
     "You  think  I  came  up with something-innovativeand didn't want Grand
Design to have it."
     He slapped the seat beside him.
     "Always knew you were no fool," he said.  "So  you're  screwing  around
now,  to  allow  decent time for its development. Then you hunt up the buyer
with the most bread."
     "Makes sense," I said, "if that were the case. But it isn't."
     He chuckled.
     "It's okay," he said. "Just because I work for Grand D doesn't make  me
their fink. You ought to know that."
     "I do know it."
     "And  I  wasn't  asking  just  to  pry. In fact, I had other intentions
completely. I'd like to see you make out with it, make out big."
     "Thanks."
     "I might even be of some assistance-valuable assistance-in the matter."
     "I begin to get the drift, Luke, but-"
     "Just hear me out, huh? But answer one thing first, though,  v  if  you
would: You haven't signed anything with anybody in the area, have you?"
     "No."
     "Didn't think so. It would seem a little premature."
     The  roadside trees were larger now, the night breeze a bit more chill.
The moon seemed bigger, more brilliant up here  than  it  had  in  the  town
below.  We  rounded several more curves, eventually commencing a long series
of switchbacks that bore us higher and higher. I caught occasional  glimpses
of sharp drops to the left. There was no guard rail.
     "Look,"  he said, "I'm not trying to cut myself in for nothing. I'm not
asking you for a. piece of the action for old times' sake or  anything  like
that. That's one thing and business is another-though it never hurts to do a
deal  with someone you know you can trust. Let me tell you some of the facts
of life. If you've got some really fantastic design, sure, you can  go  sell
it  for  a  bundle to lots of people in the business-if you're careful, damn
careful. But that's it. Your golden opportunity's flown then. If you  really
want  to  clean  up,  you start your own outfit. Look at Apple. If it really
catches on you can always sell out then, for a lot more than you'd get  from
just  peddling  the  idea.  You  may  be  a  whiz  at design, but I know the
marketplace. And I know people-all over the country-people  who'd  trust  me
enough  to bankroll us to see it off the ground and out on the street. Shit!
I'm not going to stay with Grand D all my life. Let me in and  I'll  get  us
the  financing.  You run the shop and I'll run the business. That's the only
way to go with something big."
     "Oh, my," I sighed. "Man, it actually sounds nice. But you're following
a bum scent. I don't have anything to sell."
     "Come on!" he said. "You know you  can  level  with  me.  Even  if  you
absolutely  refuse  to  go that way, I'm not going to talk about it. I don't
screw my buddies. I just think you're making a mistake if you don't  develop
it yourself."
     "Luke, I meant what I said."
     He  was  silent for a little while. Then I felt his gaze upon me again.
When I glanced his way I saw that he was smiling.
     "What," I asked him, "is the next question?"
     "What is Ghostwheel?" he said.
     "What?"
     "Top secret, hush-hush, Merle Corey project. Ghostwheel," he  answered.
"Computer  design  incorporating  shit  nobody's  ever  seen  before. Liquid
semiconductors, cryogenic tanks, plasma-"
     I started laughing.
     "My God!" I said. "It's a joke, that's what it is. Just a  crazy  hobby
thing.  It  was  a design game-a machine that could never be built on Earth.
Well, maybe most of it could. But it wouldn't function. It's like an  Escher
drawing-looks great on paper, but it can't be done in real life."
     Then  after  a  moment's  reflection, I asked, "How is it you even know
about it? I've never mentioned it to anyone."
     He cleared his throat as he took another turn. The moon  was  raked  by
treetops. A few beads of moisture appeared upon the windshield.
     "Well,  you weren't all that secret about it," he answered. "There were
designs and graphs and notes all over your work table and drawing  hard  any
number of times I was at your place. I could hardly help but notice. Most of
them  were  even  labeled  `Ghostwheel.'  And  nothing anything like it ever
showed up at Grand D, so I simply assumed it was your pet project  and  your
ticket  to security. You never impressed me as the impractical dreamer type.
Are you sure you're giving this to me straight?"
     "If we were to sit down and build as much as could  be  constructed  of
that  thing  right  here,"  I replied honestly, "it would just sit there and
look weird and wouldn't do a damned thing."
     He shook his head.
     "That sounds perverse," he said. "It's not like  you,  Merle.  Why  the
hell would you waste your time designing a machine that doesn't function?"
     "It was an exercise in design theory" I began.
     "Excuse  me,  but that sounds like bullshit," he said. "You mean to say
there's no place in the universe that  damn  machine  of  yours  would  kick
over?"
     "I  didn't  say  that.  I  was  trying to explain that I designed it to
operate under bizarre hypothetical conditions."
     "Oh. In other words, if I find a place like that on  another  world  we
can clean up?"
     "Uh, yeah."
     "You're weird, Merle. You know that?"
     "Uh-huh."
     "Another  dream  shot  to  shit.  Oh, well . . . Say, is there anything
unusual about it that could be adapted to the here and now?"
     "Nope. It couldn't perform its functions here."
     "What's so special about its functions, anyhow?"
     "A lot of theoretical crap involving space and time and some notions of
some guys named Everett and Wheeler. It's only amenable  to  a  mathematical
explanation."
     "You sure?"
     "What  difference  does it make, anyhow? I've got no product, we've got
no company. Sorry. Tell Martinez and associates it was a blind alley."
     "Huh? Who's Martinez?"
     "One of your potential investors in Corey and Raynard, Inc.,"  I  said.
"Dan  Martinez-middle-aged,  a  bit  short,  kind  of distinguished-looking,
chipped front tooth . . ."
     His brow furrowed. "Merle, I don't know who  the  hell  you're  talking
about."
     "He  came  up  to  me while I was waiting for you in the bar. Seemed to
know an awful lot about you. Started asking questions on what I can now  see
as  the potential situation you just described. Acted as if you'd approached
him to invest in the thing."
     "Uh-uh," he said. "I don't know  him.  How  come  you  didn't  tell  me
sooner?"
     "He  beat  it,  and you said no business till after dinner. Didn't seem
all that important, anyway. He even as much as asked me to let you know he'd
been inquiring about you."
     "What, specifically, did he want to know?"
     "Whether you could deliver an unencumbered computer property  and  keep
the investors out of court, was what I gathered."
     He slapped the wheel. "This makes no sense at all," he said. "It really
doesn't."
     "It  occurs to me that he might have been hired to investigate a bit-or
even just to shake you up some and keep you honest-by the people you've been
sounding out to invest in this thing."
     "Merle, do you think I'm so damn stupid I'd waste a lot of time digging
up investors before I was even sure there was something  to  put  the  money
into? I haven't talked to anybody about this except you, and I guess I won't
be now either. Who do you think he could have been? What did he want?"
     I shook my head, but I was remembering those words in Thari.
     Why not?
     "He  also  asked  me whether I'd ever heard you refer to a place called
Amber."
     He was looking in the rearview mirror when I said it, and he jerked the
wheel to catch a sudden curve. "Amber? You're kidding."
     "No."
     "Strange. It has to be a coincidence-"
     "What?"
     "I did hear a reference to a kind of dreamland place called Amber, last
week. But I never mentioned it to anybody. It was just drunken babbling."
     "Who? Who said it?"
     "A painter I know. A real nut, but a very talented guy. Name's  Melman.
I like his work a lot, and I've bought several of his paintings. I'd stopped
by  to  see  whether  he  had  anything new this last time I was in town. He
didn't, but I stayed pretty late at his place anyway, talking  and  drinking
and  smoking  some  stuff  he  had.  He got pretty high after a while and he
started talking about magic. Not card tricks,  I  mean.  Ritual  stuff,  you
know?"
     "Yes."
     "Well,  after  a time he started doing some of it. If it weren't that I
was kind of stoned myself  I'd  swear  that  it  worked-that  he  levitated,
summoned  sheets  of fire, conjured and banished a number of monsters. There
had to've been acid in something he gave me. But damn! It sure seemed real."
     "Uh-huh."
     "Anyway," he went on, "he  mentioned  a  sort  of  archetypal  city.  I
couldn't tell whether it sounded more like Sodom and Gomorrah or Camelot-all
the  adjectives he used. He called the place Amber, and said that it was run
by a half mad family, with the city itself peopled  by  their  bastards  and
folks  whose ancestors they'd brought in from other places ages ago. Shadows
of the family and the city supposedly figure in most major legends and  such
whatever  that  means.  I  could  never  be  sure  whether he was talking in
metaphor, which he did a lot, or just what the hell  he  meant.  But  that's
where I heard the place mentioned."
     "Interesting,"  I  said.  "Melman  is dead. His place burned down a few
days ago."
     "No, I didn't know." He glanced into the mirror again.  "Did  you  know
him?"
     "I  met  him-after you left this last time. Kinsky told me Julia'd been
seeing him, and I looked the guy up to see what he could tell me about  her.
You see-well, Julia's dead."
     "How'd it happen? I just saw her last week."
     "In a very bizarre fashion. She was killed by a strange animal:"
     "Lord!" He braked suddenly and pulled off the road onto a wide shoulder
to the  left.  It  looked  upon a steep, tree-filled drop. Above the trees I
could see the tiny lights of the city across a great distance.
     He killed the engine and the headlights . He took a Durham's  bag  from
his  pocket  and began rolling a cigarette. I caught him glancing upward and
ahead.
     "You've been checking that mirror a lot."
     "Yes," he replied. "I was just about sure a car had been  following  us
all  the  way  from  the  parking lot down at the Hilton. It was a few turns
behind us for the longest while. Now it seems to have disappeared."
     He lit his cigarette and opened the door. "Let's get some air."
     I followed him and we stood for a few moments staring  out  across  the
big  spaces,  the  moonlight strong enough to cast the shadows of some trees
near to us. He threw down the cigarette and stamped on it.
     "Shit!" he said. "'This is getting  too  involved!  I  knew  Julia  was
seeing Melman, okay? I went to see her the night after I'd seen him, okay? I
even delivered a small parcel he' d asked me to take her, okay?"
     "Cards," I said. He nodded.
     I  withdrew  them  from  my  pocket and held them toward him. He barely
glanced at them there in the dim light, but he nodded again.
     "Those cards," he said. Then: "You still liked her, didn't you?"
     "Yes, I guess I did."
     "Oh, hell," he sighed. "All right. There are some things I'm  going  to
have  to tell you, old buddy. Not all of them nice. Give me just a minute to
sort it all out. You've just given me one big problem-or I've  given  it  to
myself, because I've just decided something."
     He kicked a patch of gravel and the stones rattled down the hillside.
     "Okay," he said. "First, give me those cards."
     ".Why?"
     "I'm going to tear them into confetti."
     "The hell you are. Why?"
     "They're dangerous."
     "I already know that. I'll hang onto them."
     "You don't understand."
     "So explain."
     "It's  not  that  easy.  I have to decide what to tell you and what not
to."
     "Why not just tell me everything?"
     "I can't. Believe me-"
     I hit the ground as soon as I heard the first  shot,  which  ricocheted
off  a  boulder  to  our  right.  Luke  didn't. He began running in a zigzag
pattern toward a cluster of trees off to our left, from which two more shots
were fired. He had something in his hand and he raised it.
     Luke fired three times. Our assailant got off  one  more  round.  After
Luke's  second  shot  I  heard  someone  gasp.  I was on my feet by then and
running toward him, a rock in my hand. After his third shot I heard  a  body
fall.
     I reached him just as he was turning the body over, in time to see what
seemed  a  faint cloud of blue or gray mist emerge from the man's mouth past
his chipped tooth and drift away.
     "What the hell was that?" Luke asked as it blew away.
     "You saw it, too? I don't know."
     He looked down at the limp form with the dark spot  growing  larger  on
its shirtfront, a 38' revolver still clutched in the right hand.
     "I didn't know you carried a gun," I said.
     "When  you're on the road as much as I am, you go heeled," he answered.
"I pick up a new one in each city I hit and sell it when  I  leave.  Airline
security.  Guess  I  won't be selling this one. I never saw this guy, Merle.
You?"
     I nodded. ,
     "That's Dan Martinez, the man I was telling you about."
     "Oh, boy," he said. "Another damn complication.  Maybe  I  should  just
join a Zen monastery someplace and persuade myself it doesn't matter. I-"
     Suddenly,  he  raised  his left fingertips to his forehead. "Oh-oh," he
said then. "Merle, the keys are in the ignition. Get in the  car  and  drive
back to the hotel right away. Leave me here. Hurry!"
     "What's going on? What-"
     He raised his weapon, a snub-nosed automatic, and pointed it at me.
     "Now! Shut up and go!" "But-"
     He lowered the muzzle and put a bullet into the ground between my feet.
Then he  aimed  it  squarely at my abdomen. "Merlin, son of Corwin," he said
through clenched teeth,
     "if you don't start running right now you're a dead  man!"  I  followed
his  advice,  raising  a  shower of gravel and laying some streaks of rubber
coming out of the U-turn I spun the wagon through. I roared  down  the  hill
and  skidded  around  the curve to my right. I braked for the next one to my
left. Then I slowed.
     I pulled off to the left, at the foot of a bluff, near some  shrubbery.
I  killed  the  engine and the lights and put on the parking brake. I opened
the door quietly and did not close it fully after I'd  slipped  out.  Sounds
carry too well in places like this.
     I  started  back, keeping to the darker, righthand side of the road. It
was very quiet. I rounded the first  turn  and  headed  for  the  next  one.
Something  flew  from  one  tree - to another. An owl, I think. I moved more
slowly than I wanted to, for the sake of silence, as  I  neared  the  second
turning.
     I  made  my way around that final corner on all fours, taking advantage
of the cover provided by rocks and foliage. I halted then  and  studied  the
area we had occupied. Nothing in sight. I advanced slowly, cautiously, ready
to freeze, drop, dive, or spring up into a run as the situation required.
     Nothing stirred, save branches in the wind. No one in sight.
     I  rose  into  a crouch and continued, still more slowly; still hugging
the cover.
     Not there. He had taken off for somewhere. I moved nearer, halted again
and listened for at least a minute. No sounds betrayed any moving presences.
     I crossed to the place where Martinez had fallen. The body was gone.  I
paced about the area but could locate nothing to give me any sort of clue as
to  what  might  have  occurred  following my departure. I could think of no
reason for calling out, so I didn't.
     I walked back to the car without misadventure, got in  and  headed  for
town. I couldn't even speculate as to what the hell was going on.
     I  left  the wagon in the hotel lot, near to the spot where it had been
parked earlier. Then I went inside, walked to Luke's room,  and  knocked  on
the  door. I didn't really expect a response; but it seemed the proper thing
to do preparatory to breaking and entering.
     I was careful to snap only the lock, leaving  the  door  and  the  fame
intact,  because  Mr. Brazda had seemed a nice guy. It took a little longer,
but there was no one in sight. I reached in and turned on the light,  did  a
quick  survey,  then  slipped  inside  quickly.  I stood listening for a few
minutes but heard no sounds of activity from the hall.
     Tight  ship.  Suitcase  on  luggage  rack,  empty.  Clothing  hung   in
closet-nothing  in  the  pockets  except  for  two matchbooks, and a pen and
pencil. A few other garments and some undergarments  in  a  drawer,  nothing
with  them.  Toiletries  in  shaving  kit  or  neatly arrayed on countertop.
Nothing peculiar there. A copy of B . H. Liddell Hart's  Strategy  lay  upon
the bedside table, a bookmark about threequarters of the way into it.
     His  fatigues  had been thrown onto a chair, his dusty boots stood next
to it, socks beside them. Nothing inside the boots but a  pair  of  blousing
bands.  I  checked  the  shirt  pockets, which at first seemed empty, but my
fingertips then discovered a number of small white paper pellets in  one  of
them.  Puzzled, I unfolded a few. Bizarre secret messages? No . . . No sense
getting completely paranoid, when a few brown flecks on a paper answered the
question. Tobacco.  They  were  pieces  of  cigarette  paper:  Obviously  he
stripped  his  butts  when he was hiking in the wilderness. I recalled a few
past hikes with him. He hadn't always been that neat.
     I went through the trousers. There was a damp bandana in one hid pocket
and a comb in the other. Nothing in the right front pocket, a  single  round
of  ammo  in  the left. On an impulse, I pocketed the shell, then went on to
look beneath the mattress and behind the  drawers.  I  even  looked  in  the
toilet's flush box. Nothing. Nothing to explain his strange behavior.
     Leaving the car keys on the bedside table I departed and returned to my
own room.  I  did  not  care that he'd know I'd broken in. In fact, I rather
liked the idea. It irritated me that he'd  poked  around  in  my  Ghostwheel
papers. Besides,
     he  owed  me  a  damned  good  explanation  for  -his behavior v on the
mountain.
     I undressed, showered, got into bed, and doused my light. I'd have left
him a note, too, except that I don't like - to create evidence and I  had  a
strong feeling that he wouldn't be coming back.

CHAPTER 6

     He  was  a  short, heavy-set man with a somewhat florid complexion, his
dark hair streaked with white and perhaps a bit thin on top. I  sat  in  the
study  of his semirural home in upstate New York, sipping a beer and telling
him my troubles. It was a breezy, star-dotted night beyond the window and he
was a good listener.
     "You say that Luke didn't show up the following day," he said. "Did  he
send a message?"
     " No."
     "What exactly did you do that day?"
     "I  checked his room in the morning. It was just as I'd left it. I went
by the desk. Nothing, like I said. Then I had breakfast and I checked again.
Nothing again. So I took a long walk around the  town.  Got  back  a  little
after noon, had lunch, and tried the room again. It was the same. I borrowed
the car keys then and drove back up to the place we'd been the night before.
No sign of anything unusual there, looking at it in the light of day. I even
climbed  down  the slope and hunted around. No body, no clues. I drove back,
replaced the keys, hung around the hotel till dinner time, ate, then  called
you.  After  you told me to come on up, I made a reservation and went to bed
early. Caught the Shuttlejack this morning and flew here from Albuquerque."
     "And you checked again this morning?"
     "Yeah. Nothing new."
     He shook his head and relit his pipe.
     His name was Bill Rosh, and he had been my father's friend as  well  as
his  attorney,  back  when he'd lived in this area. He was possibly the only
man on Earth Dad had trusted, and I trusted him,  too.  I'd  visited  him  a
number of times during my eight years-most recently, unhappily, a year and a
half  earlier,  at the time of his wife, Alice's, funeral. I had told him my
father's story, as I had heard it from his own lips, outside the  Courts  of
Chaos,  because  I'd  gotten  the impression that he had wanted Bill to know
what had been going on, felt he' d owed him some sort of explanation for all
the help he'd given him. And Bill actually seemed to understand and  believe
it. But then, he'd known Dad a lot better than I did.
     "I've remarked before on the resemblance you bear your father."
     I nodded.
     "It  goes beyond the physical," he continued. "For a while there he had
a habit of showing up like a downed fighter pilot behind enemy  lines.  I'll
never  forget the night he arrived on horseback with a sword at his side and
had me trace a missing compost heap for him." He  chuckled.  "Now  you  come
along  with  a  story  that  makes  me believe Pandora's box has been opened
again. Why couldn't you just want a divorce like any sensible young man?  Or
a  will  written  or a trust set up? A partnership agreement? Something like
that? No, this sounds more like one of Carl's problems. Even the other stuff
I've done for Amber seems pretty sedate by comparison."
     "Other stuff ? You mean the Concord-the time Random sent Fiona  with  a
copy  of  the  Patternfall  Treaty  with  Swayvil, King of Chaos, for her to
translate and you to look at for loopholes?"


     "That, yes," he said, "though I wound up studying your language  myself
before  I  was done. Then Flora wanted her library recovered-no easy job-and
then an old flame traced-whether for reunion or  revenge  I  never  learned.
Paid  me  in  gold, though. Bought the place in Palm Beach with it. Then-Oh,
hell. For a while there, I thought of adding `Counsel to the Court of Amber'
to my business card. But that sort of work was understandable. I do  similar
things  on a mundane level all the time. Yours, though, has that black magic
and sudden-death quality to it that seemed to follow your father  about.  It
scares the hell out of me, and I wouldn't even know how to go about advising
you on it."
     "Well,  the black magic and sudden-death parts are my area, I guess," I
observed. "In fact, they may color my thinking too  much.  You're  bound  to
look  at  things  a lot differently than I do. A blind spot by definition is
something you're not aware of. What might -I be missing?"
     He took a sip of his beer, lit his pipe again.
     "Okay," he said. "Your friend Luke-where's he from?"
     "Somewhere in the Midwest, I believe he said: Nebraska, Iowa,  Ohio-one
of those places."
     "Mm-hm. What line of work is his old man in?"
     "He never mentioned it."
     "Does he have any brothers or sisters?"
     "I don't know. He never said."
     "Doesn't  that  strike  you as somewhat odd-that he never mentioned his
family or talked about his home town in the whole eight years  you've  known
him?"
     "No. After all, I never talked about mine either."
     "It's  not  natural,  Merle.  You  grew  up in a strange place that you
couldn't talk about. You had every reason to change the subject,  avoid  the
issues. He obviously did, too. And then, back when you came you weren't even
certain  how  most  people  here  behaved.  But didn't you ever wonder about
Luke?"
     "Of course. But he respected my reticence. I could do no less for  him.
You  might  say  that we had a sort of tacit agreement that such things were
off limits."
     "How'd you meet him?"
     "We were freshmen together, had a lot of the same classes."
     "And you were both strangers in town, no other friends. You hit it  off
from the beginning..."
     "No.  We  barely  talked  to  each  other. I thought he was an arrogant
bastard who felt he was ten times better  than  anybody  he'd  ever  met.  I
didn't like him, and he didn't like me much either."
     "Why not?"
     "He felt the same way about me."
     "So  it  was  only  gradually  that  you  came to realize you were both
wrong?"
     "No. We were both right. We got to know each other by  trying  to  show
each  other  up.  if I'd do something kind ofoutstanding-he'd try to top it.
And vice versa. We got so we'd go out for the same sport, try  to  date  the
same girls, try to beat each other's grades."
     "And . . . ?"
     "Somewhere  along  the  line  I guess we started to respect each other.
When we both made the Olympic finals something broke.  We  started  slapping
each  other on the back and laughing, and we went out and had dinner and sat
up all night talking and he said he didn't give a shit  about  the  Olympics
and  I  said  I  didn't either. He said he'd just wanted to show me he was a
better man and now he didn't care anymore. He'd decided we  were  both  good
enough,  and he'd just as soon let the matter stand at that - I felt exactly
the same way and told him so. That was when we got to be friends."
     "I can understand  that,"  Bill  said.  "It's  a  specialized  sort  of
friendship. You're friends in certain places."
     I laughed and took a drink.
     "Isn't everyone?"
     "At  first,  yes.  Sometimes always. Nothing wrong with that. It's just
that yours seems a much more highly specialized friendship than most."
     I nodded slowly. "Maybe so."
     "So it still doesn't make sense. Two  guys  as  close  as  you  got  to
be-with no pasts to show to each other."
     "I guess you're right. What does it mean?"
     "You're not a normal human being."
     "No, I' m not."
     "I'm not so sure Luke is either."
     "What, then?"
     "That's your department."
     I nodded.
     "Apart  from  that  issue,"  Bill  continued,  "something else has been
bothering me."
     "What?" "This Martinez fellow. He followed you out  to  the  boondocks,
stopped  when you did, stalked you, then opened fire. Who was he after? Both
of you? Just Luke? Or just you?"
     "I don't know. I'm not sure which of us that first shot was aimed  for.
After  that, he was firing at Luke-because by then Luke was attacking and he
was defending himself."
     "Exactly. If he were S - or S's agent - why would he even have bothered
with that conversation with you in the bar?"
     "I now have the impression  that  the  whole  thing  was  an  elaborate
buildup  to  that  final  question  of his, as to whether Luke knew anything
about Amber."
     "And your reaction, rather than your answer, led him to believe that he
did."
     "Well, apparently Luke does-from the way he addressed me right there at
the end. You think he was really gunning for someone from Amber?"
     "Maybe. Luke is no Amberite, though?"
     "I never heard of anyone like him in the time I spent there  after  the
war.  And  I  got  plenty  of lectures on genealogy. My relatives are like a
sewing circle when it comes to keeping track of such matters -  a  lot  less
orderly  about  it  than they are in Chaos - can't even decide exactly who's
oldest, because some of them were born in different time streams-but they're
pretty thorough"
     "Chaos! That's right! You're also lousy with relatives  on  that  side!
Could-?"
     I  shook  my  head. "No way. I have an even more extensive knowledge of
the families there. I believe I'm acquainted with just about all of the ones
who can manipulate Shadow, traverse it. Luke's not one of them and-"
     "Wait a minute! There are people in the Courts who can walk in  Shadow,
also?"
     "Yes. Or stay in one place and bring things from Shadow to them. It's a
kind of reverse-"
     "I thought you had to walk the Pattern to gain that power?"
     "They  have  a  sort  of  equivalent  called the Logrus. It's a kind of
chaotic maze. Keeps shifting about. Very dangerous. Unbalances you mentally,
too, for a time. No fun."
     "So you've done it?"
     "Yes."
     "And you walked the Pattern as well?"
     I licked my lips, remembering.
     "Yes. Damn near killed me. Suhuy'd thought it would, but Fiona  thought
I could make it if she helped. I was-"
     "Who's Suhuy?"
     "He's  Master  of  the Logrus. He's an uncle of mine, too. He felt that
the Pattern of Amber and the Logrus of Chaos were incompatible, that I could
not bear the images of both within me. Random, Fiona, and Gerard  had  taken
me  down to show me the Pattern. I got in touch with Suhuy then and gave him
a look at it. He said that they seemed antithetical, and that I would either
be destroyed by the attempt or the Pattern would  drive  the  image  of  the
Logrus  from me, probably the former. But Fiona said that the Pattern should
be able to encompass anything, even the Logrus, and from what she understood
of the Logrus it should be able to work its way around  anything,  even  the
Pattern.  So  they  left it up to me, and I knew that I had to walk it. So I
did. I made it, and I still bear the Logrus as well as  the  Pattern.  Suhuy
acknowledged  that  Fi  had  been right, and he speculated that it had to do
with my mixed parentage. She disagreed, though-"
     Bill raised his hand. "Wait a minute. I don't understand  how  you  got
your  uncle  Suhuy  down  into  the  basement  of Amber Castle on a moment's
notice."
     "Oh, I have a set of Chaos Trumps as well as a set of Amber Trumps, for
my relatives back in the Courts."
     He shook his head. "All of this is fascinating, but we're straying from
the point. Is there anyone else who can walk in Shadow? Or are  there  other
ways of doing it?"
     "Yes,  there are different ways it could be done. There are a number of
magical beings, like the Unicorn, who can just wander  wherever  they  want.
And  you can follow a Shadow walker or a magical being through Shadow for so
long as you can keep track of it, no matter who you are. Kind of like Thomas
Rhymer is the ballad. And one Shadow walker could lead an army through.  And
then  there  are  the  inhabitants of the various Shadow kingdoms nearest to
Amber and to Chaos. Those at both ends breed mighty sorcerers, just  because
of  their  proximity  to  the  two  power centers. Some of the good ones can
become fairly adept at it-but their images of the Pattern or the Logrus  are
imperfect,  so  they're never quite as good as the real thing. But on either
end they don't  even  need  an  initiation  to  wander  on  in.  The  Shadow
interfaces  are  thinnest  there. We even have commerce with them, actually.
And established routes become easier and easier to follow with  time.  Going
outward  is  harder,  though.  But large attacking forces have been known to
come through. That's why we maintain patrols. Julian  in  Arden,  Gerard  at
sea, and so forth."
     "Any other ways?"
     "A Shadow-storm perhaps."
     "What's that?"
     "It's  a  natural  but  not  too  well-understood  phenomenon. The best
comparison I can think of is a tropical storm. One theory as to their origin
has to do with the beat frequencies of waves that pulse outward  from  Amber
and  from  the  Courts, shaping the nature of shadows. Whatever, when such a
storm rises it can flow through a large number of shadows  before  it  plays
itself  out.  Sometimes  they do a lot of damage, sometimes very little. But
they often transport things in their progress."
     "Does that include people?"
     "It's been known to happen."
     He finished his fixer. I did the same with mine.
     "What about the Trumps?" he asked. "Could anybody learn to use them?"
     "Yes."
     "How many sets are there kicking around?"
     "I don't know."
     "Who makes them?"
     "T'here are a number of experts in the Courts. That's where I  learned.
And  there  are  Fiona  and  Bleys  back  in Amber - and I believe they were
teaching Random"
     "Those sorcerers you spoke of - from the adjacent kingdoms . . .  Could
any of them do up a set of Trumps?"
     "Yes,  but  theirs  would  be less than perfect. It is my understanding
that you have to be an initiate of either the Pattern or the  Logrus  to  do
them  properly.  Some of them could do a sort of half assed set, though, one
you'd be taking your chances on using-maybe  winding  up  dead  or  in  some
limbo, sometimes getting where you were headed."
     "And the set you found at Julia's place . . . ?"
     "They're the real thing."
     "How do you account for them?"
     "Someone  who  knew  how  to  do it taught someone else who was able to
learn it, and I never heard about it. That's all."
     "I see."
     "I'm afraid none of this is too productive."
     "But I need it all to think with," he replied. "How else can I come  up
with lines of inquiry? You ready for another beer?"
     "Wait."  I  closed  my  eyes  and  visualized  an  image  of the Logrus
shifting, ever shifting. I framed my desire and two of  the  swimming  lines
within  the eidolon increased in brightness and thickness. I moved my arms ,
slowly, imitating their undulations, their jerkings. Finally, the lines  and
my  arms  seemed  to  be  one,  and I opened my hands and extended the lines
outward, outward through Shadow.
     Bill cleared his throat.
     "Uh-what are you doing, Merle?"
     "Looking for something," I replied. "Just a minute."  The  lines  would
keep  extending  through  an  infinitude of Shadow till they encountered the
objects of my desire-or until  I  ran  out  of  patience  or  concentration.
Finally, I felt the jerks, like bites on a pair of fishing lines.
     "There  they  are," I said, and I reeled them in quickly. An icy bottle
of beer appeared in each of my hands. I grasped them as they did and  passed
one to Bill.
     "That's  what  I  meant  by  the  reverse  of  a  Shadow walk," I said,
breathing deeply a few times. "I sent out to Shadow for a couple  of  beers.
Saved you a trip to the kitchen."
     He regarded the orange label with the peculiar green script on it.
     "I  don't  recognize  the brand," he said, "let alone the language. You
sure it's safe?"
     "Yes, I ordered real beer."
     "Uh-you didn't happen to pick up an opener, too; did you?"
     "Oops!" I said. "Sorry. I'll-" "That's all right."
     He got up, walked out to the kitchen, and came back a little later with
an opener. When he opened the first one it foamed a bit and he had  to  hold
it over the wastebasket till it settled. The same with the other.
     "Things  can  get  a  bit agitated when you pull them in fast the way I
did," I explained. "I don't usually get my beer that way and I forgot-"
     "That's okay," Bill said, wiping his hands on his handkerchief . . .
     He tasted his beer then.
     . "At least it's good beer;" he observed. "I wonder . . . Naw."
     "What?"
     "Could you send out for a pizza?"
     "What do you want on it?" I asked.
     The next morning we took a long walk beside a wandering creek, which we
met at the back of some farmland owned by a neighbor and client of  his.  We
strolled  slowly, Bill with a stick in his hand and a pipe in his mouth, and
he continued the previous evening's questioning.
     "Something you said didn't really register properly at  the  time,"  he
stated,  "because  I  was more interested in other aspects of the situation.
You say that you and Luke actually made it up to the finals for the Olympics
and then dropped out?"
     "Yes."
     "What area?"
     "Several different track and field events. We were both runners and-"
     "And his time was close to yours?"
     "Damn close. And sometimes it was mine that was close to his."
     "Strange."
     "What?"
     The bank grew steeper, and we crossed on some stepping  stones  to  the
other  side where the way was several feet wider and relatively flat, with a
well-trod path along it.
     "It strikes me as more than a little coincidental," he said,"that  this
guy  should  be about as good as you are in sports. From all I've heard, you
Amberites are several times stronger than a normal human being, with a fancy
metabolism giving you unusual  stamina  and  recuperative  and  regenerative
powers.   How   come   Luke  should  be  able  to  match  you  in  highlevel
performances?"
     "He's a fine athlete and he keeps himself in good shape,"  I  answered.
"There are other people like that here-very strong and fast."


     He  shook  his  head as we started out along the path. "I'm not arguing
that," he said. "It's just that it seems like one coincidence too many. This
guy hides his past the same way you do, and then it turns out that he really
knows who you are anyhow. Tell me, is he really a big art buff ?"
     "Huh?"
     "Art. He really cared enough about art to collect it?"
     "Yes. We used to  hit  gallery  openings  and  museum  exhibits  fairly
regularly."
     He  snorted,  and  swung his stick at a pebble, which splashed into the
stream.
     "Well," he observed, "that weakens one point, but hardly  destroys  the
pattern."
     "I don't follow . . ."
     "It  seemed  odd  that  he also knew that crazy occultist painter. Less
odd, though, when you say that the guy was good and  that  Luke  really  did
collect art."
     "He didn't have to tell me that he knew Melman."
     "True.  But  all  of  this  plus  his physical abilities . . . I'm just
building a circumstantial case, or course, but  I  feel  that  guy  is  very
unusual."
     I nodded.
     "I've  been  over  it in my mind quite a few times since last night," I
said. "If he's not really from here, I don't know where the hell he's from."
     "Then we may have exhausted this line of inquiry," Bill  said,  leading
me  around  a bend and pausing to watch some birds take flight from a marshy
area across the water. He glanced back in the direction from  which  we  had
come,  then,  "Tell me-completely off the subject-what's your, uh, rank?" he
asked.
     "What do you mean?"
     "You're the son of a Prince of Amber. What does that make you?"
     "You mean titles? I'm Duke of the Western Marches and Earl of Kolvir."
     "What does that mean?"
     "It means I'm not a Prince of Amber.  Nobody  has  to  worry  about  me
scheming, no vendettas involving the succession" `
     "Hm."
     "What do you mean, `Hm'?"
     He shrugged. "I've read too much history. Nobody's safe."
     I  shrugged  myself. "Last I heard, everything was peaceful on the home
front."
     "Well, that's good news, anyway."
     A few more turnings brought us to a wide  area  of  pebbles  and  sand,
rising  gently  for  perhaps thirty feet to the place where it met an abrupt
embankment seven or eight feet in height. I could see the  high  water  line
and  a  number  of  exposed  roots  from trees that grew along the top. Bill
seated himself on a boulder back in their shade and relit his pipe. I rested
on one nearby, to his left. The water splashed and rippled in a  comfortable
key, and we watched it sparkle for a time.
     "Nice," I said, a bit later. "Pretty place."
     "Uh-huh."
     I glanced at him. Bill was looking back the way we'd come.
     I lowered my voice. "Something there?"
     "I  caught  a glimpse a little earlier," he whispered, "of someone else
taking a walk this way-some distance behind us. Lost sight of him in all the
turnings we took."
     "Maybe I should take a stroll back."
     "Probably nothing. It's a beautiful day. A lot of  people  do  like  to
hike  around  here. Just thought that if we waited a few minutes he'd either
show up or we'd know he'd gone somewhere else."
     "Can you describe him?"
     "Nope. Caught only the barest glimpse. I don't think it's  anything  to
get  excited  about.  It's just that thing about your story made me a little
wary-or paranoid. I'm not sure which."
     I found my own pipe and packed it and lit it and we waited. For fifteen
minutes or so we waited. But no one showed.
     Finally, Bill rose and stretched. "False alarm," he said. "I guess."
     He started walking again and I fell in  step  beside  him.  "Then  that
Jasra  lady  bothers  me," he said. "You say she seemed to trump in-and then
she had that sting in her mouth that knocked you for a loop?"
     "Right."
     "Ever encounter anyone like her before?"
     "No."
     "Any guesses?" I shook my head.
     "And why the Walpurgisnacht business? I can see a certain  date  having
significance  for  a  psycho,  and  I  can  see  people in various primitive
religions placing great importance on the turning  of  the  seasons.  But  S
seems almost too well organized to be a mental case. And as for the other-"
     "Melman thought it was important."
     "Yes, but he was into that stuff. I'd be surprised if he didn't come up
with such a correspondence, whether it was intended or not. He admitted that
his master  had  never told him that that was the case. It was his own idea.
But you're the one with the background in the area.  Is  there  any  special
significance  or  any  real  Bower  that you know of to be gained by slaying
someone of your blood at this particular time of year."
     "None that I ever heard of. But of course there are a lot of  things  I
don't  know  about. I'm very young compared to most of the adepts. But which
way are you trying to go on this? You say you don't think it's  a  nut,  but
you don't buy the Walpurgis notion either."
     "I don't know. I'm just thinking out loud. They both sound shaky to me,
that's  all.  For that matter, the French Foreign Legion gave everyone leave
on April 30 to get drunk, and a couple of days after that to sober up.  It's
the  anniversary of the battle of Camerone, one of their bi, triumphs. But I
doubt that figures in this either."
     "And why the sphinx?" he said suddenly. "Why a  Trump  that  takes  you
someplace to trade dumb riddles or get your head bitten off ?"
     "I'd a feeling it was more the latter that was intended."
     "I  sort  of  think so, too. But it's certainly bizarre. You know what?
I'll bet they're all that way-traps of some kind."
     "Could be."
     I put my hand in my pocket, reaching for them.
     "Leave them," he said. "Let's not look for trouble.  Maybe  you  should
ditch  them,  at least for a while. I could put them in my safe, down at the
office."
     I laughed.
     "Safes aren't all that safe. No thanks. I want them with me. There  may
be a way of checking them out without any risk."
     "You're the expert. But tell me, could something sneak through from the
scene on the card without you."
     "No.  They don't work that way. They require your attenlion to operate.
More than a little of it."
     "That's something, anyway. I-"
     He looked  back  again.  Someone  was  coming.  I  flexed  my  fingers,
involuntarily.
     Then I heard him let go a big breath.
     "It's  okay," he said. "I know him. It's George Hansen. He's the son of
the guy who owns the farm we're behind. Hi, George!"
     The approaching figure waved. He was of medium height and stocky build.
Had sandy hair. He wore Levi's and  a  Grateful  Dead  T-shirt,  a  pack  of
cigarettes twisted into its left sleeve. He looked to be in his twenties.
     "Hi," he answered, drawing near. "Swell day, huh?"
     "Sure is," Bill answered. "'That's why we're out walking in it, instead
of sitting at home."
     George's gaze shifted to me.
     "Me, too," he said, raking his teeth over his lower lip. "Real good day
"
     "This is Merle Corey. He's visiting me."
     "Merle Corey," George repeated, and he stuck out his hand. "Hi, Merle."
     I took it and shook it. It was a little clammy.
     "Recognize the name?"
     "Uh Merle Corey," he said again.
     "You knew his dad."
     "Yeah? Oh, sure!"
     "Sam  Corey,"  Bill  finished,  and  he  shot me a glance over George's
shoulder.
     "Sam Corey," George repeated. "Son of a gun!  Good  to  know  you.  You
going to be here long?"
     "A  few  days,  I  guess,"  I replied. "I didn't realize you'd known my
father."
     "Fine man," he said. "Where you from?"
     "California, but it's time for a change."
     "Where you headed?"
     "Out of the country, actually."
     "Europe?"
     "Farther."
     "Sounds great. I'd like to travel sometime."
     "Maybe you will."
     "Maybe. Well, I'Il be moving on. Let you guys  enjoy  your  walk.  Nice
meeting you, Merle."
     "My pleasure."
     He backed away, waved, turned, and walked off.
     I glanced at Bill then and noticed that he was shaking.
     "What's the matter?" I whispered.
     "I've  known  that  boy  all  his life," he said. "Do you think he's on
drugs?"
     "Not the kind you have to make holes -in your arms for.  I  didn't  see
any tracks. And he didn't seem particularly spacey."
     "Yeah,  but  you don't know him the way I do. He seemed very-different.
It was just on impulse that I used  the  name  Sam  for  your  dad,  because
something  didb't  seem right.His speech patterns have changed, his posture,
his gait. Intangibles. I was waiting for him to correct me, and tht I  could
have  made a joke about premature senility. But t didn't. He picked up on if
instead. Merle, this is scary! H knew your father real well-as  Carl  Corey.
Your dad liked to keep his place nice, but he was never much for weeding and
mowing or raking leaves. George did his yard work fog him for years while he
was in school. He knew his name wasn't Sam."
     "I don't understand."
     "Neither do I," he said, "and I don't like it."
     "So he's acting weird-and you think he was following us?"
     "Now I do. This is too much of a coincidence, timed with your arrival."
     I turned.
     "I'm going after him," I said. "I'll find out."
     "No. Don't."
     "I won't hurt him. There are other ways."
     "It  might  be  better  to  let  him think he's got us fooled. It might
encourage him to do something  or  say  something  later  that  could  prove
useful.  On  the  other  hand,  anything  you  do-even  something  subtle or
magical-might let him, or something, know that we're on to him. Let it ride,
be grateful you're warned and be wary."
     "You've got a point there," I agreed. "Okay "
     "Let's head on back and drive into town for lunch. I want  to  stop  by
the office and pick up some papers and make some phone calls. Then I have to
see  a client at two o'clock. You can take the car and knock around while I'
m doing that."
     "Fine." As we strolled back I did some wondering. There were  a  number
of  things  I  had  not told Bill. For instance, there had been no reason to
tell him that I wore an invisible strangling cord possessed of  some  rather
unusual  virtues, woven about my left wrist. One of these virtues is that it
generally warns me of nasty intentions aimed in my direction, as it had done
in Luke's presence for almost two years until we  became  friends.  Whatever
the reason for George Hansen's unusual behavior, Frakir had not given me any
indication that he meant me harm.
     Funny,  though  .  . . there was something about the way he talked, the
way he said his words . . .
     I went for a drive after lunch while Bill took care of his business.  I
headed  out to the place where my father had lived years ago. I'd been by it
a number of times in the past, but I'd never been inside. No real reason to,
I guess, anyway. I parked up the road on a rise, off on  the  shoulder,  and
regarded  it.  A  young  couple lived there now, Bill had told me, with some
kids-a thing I could see for myself from some scattered toys off to the side
of the yard. I wondered what it would have been like, growing up in a  place
like  that.  I  supposed  that  I  could  have.  The house looked well kept,
sprightly even. I imagined that the people were happy there.
     I wondered where he was-if he were even among the living: No, one could
reach him via his Trump, though that  didn't  necessarily  prove-  anything.
There are a variety of ways in which a Trump sending can be blocked. In fact
one  of these situations was even said to apply in his case, though I didn't
like to think about it.
     One rumor had it that Dad had been driven mad in the Courts of Chaos by
a curse placed upon him by my mother, and that  he  now  wandered  aimlessly
through  Shadow.  She  refused  even  to  comment on this story. Another was
thaLhe had entered the universe of his  own  creation  and  never  returned,
which  it  seemed  possible  could  remove him from the reach of the Trumps.
Another was simply that he had perished at some point  after  his  departure
from  the  Courtsand a number of my relatives there assured me that they had
seen him leave after his sojourn.  So,  if  the  rumor  of  his  death  were
correct,  it did not occur in the Courts of Chaos. And there were others who
claimed to have seen him at widely  separated  sites  afterward,  encounters
invariably  involving  bizarre  behavior on his part. I had been told by one
that he was traveling in the company of a mute dancer-a  tiny,  lovely  lady
with  whom  he  communicated  by  means  of sign language-and that he wasn't
talking much himself either. Another reported him  as  roaring  drunk  in  a
raucous  cantina, from which he eventually expelled all the other patrons in
order to enjoy the.. music of the band  without  distraction.  I  could  not
vouch for the authenticity of any of theseaccounts. It had taken me a lot of
searching  just  to  come up with this handful of rumors. I could not locate
him with a Logrus summoning either, though I had tried many  times.  But  of
course  if  he  were far enough afield my powers of concentration may simply
have been inadequate.
     In other words, I didn't know where  the  hell  my  father,  Corwin  of
Amber,  was, and nobody else seemed to know either. I regretted this sorely,
because my only long encounter with him had been on the occasion of  hearing
his  lengthy story outside the Courts of Chaos on the day of the Patternfall
battle. This had changed my life. It had given me the resolve to depart  the
Court, with the determination to seek experience and education in the shadow
world  where he had dwelled for so long. I'd-felt a need to understand it if
I were to understand  him  better.  I  believed  that  I  had  now  achieved
something  of this, and more. But he was no longer available to continue our
conversation.
     I believed that I was about ready to attempt a new  means  of  locating
him-now  that the Ghostwheel project was almost off the ground-when the most
recent fecal missile met the rotating  blades.  Following  my  cross-country
trip,  scheduled  to  wind up at Bill's place a month or two from now, I was
going to head off to my personal anomaly of a place and begin the work.
     Now . . . other things had crowded in. The matters at hand  would  have
to be dealt with before I could get on with the search.
     I  drove past the house slowly: I could hear the sounds of stereo music
through open windows. Better not to know exactly what it  was  like  inside.
Sometimes a little mystery is best.
     That evening after dinner I sat on the porch with Bill, trying to think
of anything else i should run through his mind. As I kept drawing blanks, he
was the first to renew our serial conversation:
     "Something else," he began. "Yes?.,
     "Dan Martinez struck up his conversation with you by alluding to Luke's
attempts  to  locate  investors for some sort of computer company. You later
felt that the whole thing could simply have been a  ploy,  to  get  you  off
guard and then hit you with that question about Amber and Chaos."
     "Right."
     "But  then  Luke  really  did raise the matter of doing something along
those lines. He insisted, though,  that  he  had  not  been  in  touch  with
potential investors and that he had never heard of Dan Martinet. When he saw
the man dead later he still maintained that he'd never met him."
     I nodded.
     "Then  either  Luke  was  lying,  or  Martinet  had somehow learned his
plans."
     "I don't think Luke was lying," I said. "In fact,  I've  been  thinking
about  that  whole  business  some  more.  Just knowing him as I do, I don't
believe Luke would have gone around looking for investors until he was  sure
there  was something to put the money into. I think he was telling the truth
on that, too. It seems more likely to me that this might have been the  only
real  coincidence  in  everything that's happened so far. i have the feeling
that Martinez knew a ` lot about Luke and just wanted that one  final  piece
of  information-about  his knowledge of Amber and the Courts. I think he was
very shrewd, and on the basis of what he knew already he was able to concoct
something that seemed plausible to me,  knowing  I'd  worked  for  the  same
company as Luke."
     "I suppose it's possible," he said. "But then when Luke really did-"
     "I'm beginning to believe," I interrupted, "that Luke story was phoney,
too."
     "I don't follow you."
     "I  think he put it together the same way Martinez did, and for-similar
reasons-to sound plausible to me so that he could get  some  information  he
wanted."
     "You've lost me. What information?"
     "My Ghostwheel. He wanted to know what it was."
     "And he was disapointed to learn that it was just an exercise in exotic
design, for other reasons than building a company?"
     Bill caught my smile as I nodded.
     "There's  more?"  he  said. Then: "Wait. Don't tell me. You were lying,
too. It's something real."
     "Yes." "I probably shouldn't even ask - unless you think it's  material
and  want  to  tell me. If it's something big and very important it could be
gotten out of me, you know. I have a low tolerance  for  pain.  Think  about
it."
     I did. I sat there for some time, musing.
     "I  suppose  it could be," I said finally, "in a sort of peripheral way
I'm sure you're not referring to. But I don't see how  it  could  be-as  you
say-material.  Not  to Luke or to anyone else-because nobody even knows what
it is but me. No. I can't see how  it  enters  the  equation  beyond  Luke's
curiosity  about it. So i think I'll follow your suggestion and just keep it
off the record."
     "Fine  with  me,"  he  said.  "Then  there  is  the  matter  of  Luke's
disappearance-"
     Within the house, a telephone rang. "Excuse me," Bill said.
     He rose and went into the kitchen.
     After a few moments, I heard him call, "Merle, it's for you!"
     I  got  up  and went inside. I gave him a questioning look as soon as I
entered and he shrugged and shook his head. I thought fast and recalled  the
location  of two other phones in the house. I pointed at him, pointed in the
direction of his study and pantomimed the motion of picking  up  a  receiver
and  holding  it  to  one's  ear.  He smiled slightly and nodded. I took the
receiver and waited a while, till I heard the click, only beginning to speak
then, hoping the caller would think I' d picked up an extension to answer.
     "Hello," I said.
     "Merle Corey?"
     "That's me."
     "I need same information I think you might have."
     It was a masculine voice, sort of familiar but not  quite.  "Who  am  I
talking to?" I asked.
     "I'm sorry. I can't tell you that."
     "Then that will probably be my answer to your question, too."
     "Will you at least let me ask?"
     "Go ahead," I said.
     "Okay. You and Luke Raynard are friends." He paused.
     "You could say that," I said, to fill the space.
     "You  have  heard  him  speak  of places called Amber and the Courts of
Chaos."
     Again, a statement rather than a question.
     "Maybe," I said.
     "Do you know anything of these places yourself?"
     Finally, a question.
     "Maybe," I said again.
     "Please. This is serious. I need something mare than a `maybe."'
     "Sorry. `Maybe' is all you're going to get, unless you tell me who  you
are and why you want to know."
     "I can be of great service to you if you will be honest with me."
     I  bit  back a reply just in time and felt my pulse begin to race. That
last statement had been spoken in Thari. I maintained my silence.
     Then: "Well, that didn't work, and I still don't really know."
     "What? What don't you know?" I said.
     "Whether he's from one of those places or whether you."
     "To be as blunt as possible, what's it to you?" I asked him.
     "Because one of you may be in great danger."
     "The one who is from such a place or the one who is not?" I asked.
     "I can't tell you that. I can't afford another mistake."
     "What do you mean? What was your last one about?"
     "You won't tell me-either for purposes of self preservation, or to help
a friend?"
     "I might," I said, "if I knew that that were really the case.  But  for
all I know, it might be you that's the danger."
     "I assure you I am only trying to help the right person."
     "Words,  words,  words,"  I  said.  "Supposing  we  were both from such
places?" ,
     "Oh, my!" he said. "No. That couldn't be."
     "Why not?"
     "Never mind. What do I have to do to persuade you?"
     "Mm. Wait a minute. Let me think," I answered. "All  right.  How  about
this?  I'll meet you someplace. You name the place. I get a good look at you
and we trade information, one piece at a time, till all the cards are on the
table."
     There was a pause.
     Then: "That's the only way you'll do it?"
     "Yes."
     "Let me think about it. I'll be back in touch soon."
     "One thing-"
     ".What?"
     "If it is me, am I in danger right now?"
     "I think so. Yes, you probably are. Good-bye." He hung up.
     I managed to sigh and swear at the same time as I recradled the  phone.
People who knew about us seemed to be coming out of the woodwork.
     Bill came into the kitchen, a very puzzled expression on his face.
     "How'd  whoever-the-hell-he-is  even  know you're here?" were his first
words.
     "That was my question," I said. "Think up another."
     "I will. If he wants to set something up, are you really going?"
     "You bet. I suggested it because I want to meet this guy."
     "As you pointed out, he may be the danger."
     "'That's okay by me. He's going to be in a lot of danger,too."
     "I don't like it."
     "I'm not so happy with it myself. But it's the best offer I've  had  so
far."
     "Well,  it's  your  decision.  It's  too  bad  there  isn't some way of
locating him beforehand."
     "That passed through my mind, too."
     "Listen, why not push him a little?"
     "How?"
     "He sounded  a  little  nervous,  and  I  don't  think  he  liked  your
suggestion  any  more than I do. Let's not be here when he calls back. Don't
let him think you're just sitting around waiting for the phone to ring. Make
him wait a little. Go conjure up some fresh clothes and we'll drive over  to
the country club for a couple of hours. It'll beat raiding the icebox."
     "Good  idea,"  I  said.  "This was supposed to be a vacation, one time.
That's probably the closest I'll get. Sounds ime." I renewed my wardrobe out
of Shadow, trimmed my beard, showered, and dressed. We  drove  to  the  club
then  and had a leisurely meal on the terrace. It was a good evening for it,
balmy and star-filled, running with moonlight like milk. By  mutual  consent
we  refrained  from  discussing my problems any further. Bill seemed to know
almost everyone there, so it seemed a friendly place to me. It was the most.
relaxed evening I'd spent in a long while. Afterward we stopped  for  drinks
in the club bar, which I gathered had been one of my dad's favorite watering
spots, strains of dance music drifting through from the room next door.
     "Yeah, it was a good idea," I said. "Thanks."
     "De nada, " he said. "I had a lot of good times here with your old man.
You haven't, by any chance-?"
     "No, no news of him."
     "Sorry."
     "I'll let you know when he turns up."
     "Sure. Sorry."
     The  drive  back  was  uneventful,  and no one followed us. We got in a
little after midnight, said good night, and I went straight to  my  room.  I
shrugged  out  of my new jacket and hung it in the closet, kicked off my new
shoes and left them there, too. As I walked back into the  room,  I  noticed
the white rectangle on the pillow of my bed.
     I crossed to it in two big steps and snatched it up. SORRY YOU WERE NOT
IN WHEN I CALLED BACK, It said, in block capitals. BUT I SAW YOU AT THE CLUB
AND CAN  CERTAINLY  UNDERSTAND YOUR WANTING A NIGHT OUT. IT GAVE ME AN IDEA.
LET'S MEET IN THE BAR THERE, TOMORROW NIGHT, AT TEN. I'D  FEEL  BETTER  WTTH
LOTS OF PEOPLE AROUND BUT NONE OF THEM LISTENING.
     Damn.  My  first  impulse  was  to  go and tell Bill. My. first thought
following the impulse, though, was that there was nothing he could do except
lose some sleep over it, a thing he probably needed a lot more than  I  did.
So  I  folded  the  note  and  stuck it in my shirt pocket, then hung up the
shirt.
     Not even a nightmare to liven my slumber.  I  slept  deeply  and  well,
knowing  Frakir would rouse me in the event of danger. In fact, I overslept,
and it felt good. The morning was sunny and birds were singing.
     I made my way downstairs to the kitchen  after  splashing  and  combing
myself into shape and raiding Shadow for fresh slacks and a shirt. There was
a  note on the kitchen table. I was tired of fording notes, but this one was
from Bill, saying he'd had to run into town to his office for a while and  I
should  go ahead and help myself to anything that looked good for breakfast.
He'd be back a little later.
     I checked out the refrigerator and came up with some English muffins, a
piece of cantaloupe and a glass of orange juice.  Some  coffee  I'd  started
first thing was ready shortly after I finished, and I took a cup with me out
onto the porch.
     As  I sat there; I began to think that maybe I ought to leave a note of
my own and move on. My  mysterious  correspondent-conceivably  S-had  phoned
here  once and broken in once. How S had known I was here was immaterial. It
was a friend's house, and though I did not mind sharing some of my  problems
with  friends, I did not like the idea of exposing them to danger. But then,
it was daylight now and the meeting was set for this evening. Not that  much
longer till some sort of resolution was achieved. Alinost silly to depart at
this  point. In fact, it was probably better that I hang around till then. I
could keep an eye on things, protect Bill if anything came up today
     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 always 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 drink 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 man looked puzzled.
     "Your Majesty, I do not understand . . ."
     "What's to understand? I rang. You came."
     "Sire, I was not on duty in the quarters. I was sent to tell  you  that
dinner is ready to be served, awaiting your pleasure."
     "Oh.  Tell  them I'll be along shortly. As soon as I've spoken with the
person I've called."
     "Very good, Sire."
     The man departed backward with a quick bow.
     "I thought that was too good to be true;" Random muttered.
     A little later another guy appeared, older and less elegantly garbed.
     "Rolf, would you run down to the armory and talk to whoever's on duty?"
Random said. "Ask him to go through that collection of rifles we  have  from
the  time  Corwin came to Kolvir with them, the day Eric died. See if he can
dig up a 30-30 for me, in good shape. Have him clean it and
     send it up. We're going down to dinner now.  You  can  just  leave  the
weapon in the corner over there."
     "30-30, Sire?"
     "Right."
     Rolf  departed,  Random  rose and stretched. He pocketed the round I' d
given him and gestured toward the door. "Let's go eat."
     "Good idea."
     There were  eight  of  us  at  dinner:  Random,  Gerard,  Flora,  Bill;
Martin-who  had been called back a little earlier in the day, Julian-who had
just arrived from Arden, Fionawho had also just come in, from  some  distant
locale, and myself. Benedict was due in the morning, and Llewella later this
evening.
     I  sat to Random's left, Martin to his right. I hadn't seen Martin in a
long while and was curious what he'd been about. But tie atmosphere was  not
conducive  to  conversation.  As  soon as anyone spoke everyone else evinced
unusually acute attention-far beyond the dictates of  simple  politeness.  I
found  it rather unnerving, and I guess Random did, too, because he sent for
Droppa MaPantz, the court jester, to fill the heavy silences.
     Droppa had a rough time at first.  He  began  by  juggling  some  food,
eating  it  as  it moved by until it was gone, wiped his mouth on a borrowed
napkin, then insulted each of  us  in  turn.  After  that,  he  commenced  a
stand-up routine I found very funny.
     Bill,  who  was  at  my left, commented softly, "I know enough Thari to
catch most of it, and that's a George Carlin shtick! How-"
     "Oh, whenever Droppa's stuff starts sounding stale,  Random  sends  him
off  to  various  clubs in Shadow," I explained, "to pick up new material. I
understand he's a regular at Vegas. Random even accompanies  him  sometimes,
to play cards."
     He  did  start  getting laughs after a while which loosened things up a
bit. When he knocked off for a drink it  became  possible  to  talk  without
being  the  center of attention, as separate conversations had sprung up. As
soon as this hap- pened, a massive arm passed behind Bill and fell  upon  my
shoulder. Gerard was leaning back in his chair and sideward toward me.
     "Merlin,"  he  said,  "good  to  see  you again. Listen, when you get a
chance I'd like to have a little talk with you in private."
     "Sure," I said, "but Random and I have to take care of something  after
dinner. "
     "When you get a chance," he repeated. I nodded.
     A  few moments later I had the feeling that someone was trying to reach
me via my Trump.
     "Merlin!"
     It was Fiona. But she was just sitting at the other end of the table  .
. .
     Her  image  came  clear, however, and I answered her, "Yes?" and then I
glanced down the table and saw that she was staring into  her  handkerchief.
She looked up at me then, smiled, and nodded.
     I  still  retained the mental image of her, simultaneously, and I heard
it say, "I dislike raising my voice,  for  a  number  of  reasons.  I'  m
certain  that  you will be rushed off after dinner, and I just wanted to let
you know that we ought to take a walk, or row out on one of  the  ponds,  or
Trump  out  to  Cabra  or go look at the Pattern together sometime soon. You
understand?"
     "I understand," I said. "I'll be in touch."
     "Excellent. "
     The contact was broken then, and when I glanced her way she was folding
her handkerchief and studying her plate.
     Random did not linger, but rose  quickly  after  he  had  finished  his
dessert,  bidding the others a good night and gesturing for Martin and me to
accompany him as he departed.
     Julian brushed by me on the way out, trying to look somewhat less  than
sinister and almost succeeding.
     "We  must go riding together in Arden," he said, "soon." "Good idea," I
told him. "I'll be in touch."
     We departed the dining room. Flora caught me in the hall. She still had
Bill in tow.
     "Stop by my room for a nightcap," she said, "before  you  turn  in.  Or
come by for tea tomorrow."
     "Thank  you," I said. "We'll get together. It all depends on how things
run, as to just when."
     She nodded and hit me with the smile that had caused numerous duels and
Balkan crises in the past. Then she moved on and we did too.
     As we mounted the stair on the way to the library,  Random  asked,  "Is
that everyone?"
     "What do you mean?" I said.
     "Have they all set up assignations with you by now?"
     "Well, they're all tentative things, but yes."
     "He   laughed.   "Didn't  think  they'd  waste  any  time.  You'll  get
everybody's pet suspicions that way Might as well collect them.  Some  might
come  in  handy  later. They're probably all looking for allies, too-and you
should seem a pretty safe choice."
     "I do want to visit with all of them. It's just a shame it  has  to  be
this way."
     He  gestured  as  we  came  to  the top of the stairs. We turned up the
hallway and headed toward the library.
     "Where are we going?" Martin asked.
     Although he resembled Random, Martin looked a little less  sneaky,  and
he  was  taller. Still, he was not a really big "To pick up a rifle," Random
said.
     "Oh? Why?"
     "I want to test some ammo Merlin brought back. If  it  actually  fires,
our lives have just acquired an additional complication."
     We entered the library. The oil lamps were still burning.
     The  rifle  was  standing in a corner. Random went to it, dug the shell
out of his pocket, and loaded it.
     "Okay. What should we try it on?" he mused.
     He stepped back out into the hall and looked around.
     "Ah! Just the thing!'"
     He shouldered it, aimed at a suit of armor up the  hall,  and  squeezed
the  trigger.  There  followed  a sharp report and the ringing of metal. The
armor shook.
     "Holy shit!" Random said. "It worked! Why me, Unicorn?  I  was  looking
for a peaceful reign."
     "May I try it, father," Martin asked. "I've always wanted to."
     "Why not?" Random said. "You still got that other round, Merlin?"
     "Yes," I said, and I rummaged about in my pocket and brought out two. I
passed  them  to  Random. "One of these shouldn't work, anyway," I said. "It
just got mixed in with the other two."
     "All right."
     Random accepted both, loaded one: He passed the weapon to  Martin  then
and  began  explaining  its operation. In the distance I heard the sounds of
alarm.
     "We're about to have the  entire  palace  guard  descend  upon  us,"  I
observed.
     "Good," Random answered, as Martin raised the piece to his shoulder. "A
little realistic drill every now and then never hurts." ,
     The  rifle  roared  and  the  armor  rang  a second time. Martin looked
startled and quickly passed the weapon back to Random. Random glanced at the
shell in his hand, said, "What the hell!", loaded the final round and  fired
without sighting.
     There was a third report, followed by sounds of a ricochet, just as the
guard reached the top of the stair.
     "I  guess  I  just don't live right," Random remarked. After Random had
thanked the guard for their prompt response to a  training  exercise  and  I
overheard  a  mutter  about  the  king being in his cups, we returned to the
library and he asked me the question.
     "I found the third one  in  the  pocket  of  Luke's  field  jacket,"  I
answered, and I proceeded to explain the circumstances.
     "I  can  no  longer  afford not to know about Luke Raynard," he finally
said. "Tell me how you read what just happened."
     "The building that burned down," I  began.  "Upstairs  was  Melman  who
wanted  to  sacrifice  me. Downstairs was the Brutes Storage Company. Brutus
apparently was storing ammo of this sort. Luke admitted that he knew Melman.
I had no idea that there might  be  some  connection  with  Brutes  and  the
ammunition,  also.  The  fact that they were located in the same building is
too much, though."
     "If they're  turning  it  out  in  such  quantities  that  it  requires
warehousing,  then  we're  in big trouble," Random said. "I want to know who
owned that building-and who owned the company, if it's a different person."
     "It shouldn't be too difficult to check."
     "Who should I send to do it?" he mused. Then he snapped his forgers and
smiled. "Flora is about to undertake an important mission for the Crown."
     "Inspired," I said.
     Martin smiled at that and then shook his  head.  "I'm  afraid  I  don't
understand what's going on," he told us, "and I want to." '
     "Tell  you  what,"  Random said. "You fill him in while I go give Flora
her assignment. She can leave right after the funeral."
     "Yes," I said as he departed, and I began telling my tale  once  again,
editing for brevity.
     Martin  had  no  fresh  insights and no new information, not that I had
expected any of him. He had spent the past few years off in a more  pastoral
setting,  I  learned.  I  got  the  impression  that he was more fond of the
countryside than of cities.
     "Merlin," he said. "You should have brought this  whole  mess  home  to
Amber sooner. We're all affected."
     And  what  of  the  Courts of Chaos? I wondered. Would rifle have fired
there? Still, it had been Caine and Bleys who had been targets. No  one  had
summoned  me  back  to  the Courts to brief me on any incidents. Still . . .
perhaps I ought to bring my other relatives aboard at some point.
     "But up until a few days ago  matters  were  a  lot  simpler,"  I  told
Martin,  "and  then when things began developing fast I was too caught up in
them."
     "But all those years . . . those attempts on your life . : ."
     I said, "I don't call home whenever I stub my  toe.  Nobody  else  does
either. I couldn't see any connection, all that time."
     But  I  knew  that  he  was  right and I was wrong. Fortunately, Random
returned about then.
     "I couldn't quite get her to believe it was an honor,"  he  said,  "but
she'll do it."
     We  talked  for a while then about more general matters, mostly what we
had been doing for the past several years.  I  recalled  Random's  curiosity
about  Ghostwheel  and  mentioned the project to him. He changed the subject
immediately, giving the impression he wanted to save it for a fully  private
conversation.  After  a  time,  Martin  began to yawn and it was contagious.
Random decided to bid us good night and rang for a servant to show me to  my
room.
     I  asked  Dik,  who  had led me to my quarters, to find me some drawing
materials. It took him about ten  minutes  to  turn  up  everything  that  I
needed.
     It  would  have  been a long, difficult walk back and I was tired. So I
seated myself beside a table and commenced the construction of a  Trump  for
the  bar  at  the  country club Bill had taken me to the previous evening. I
worked for perhaps twenty minutes before I was satisfied.
     Now it was just a matter of time differential, a thing that was subject
to variation, the 2.5-to-1 ratio being only a rule of  thumb  between  Amber
and  the  shadow  I had recently inhabited. It was quite possible that I had
missed my rendezvous with the nameless housebreaker.
     I set everything aside except for the Trump. I rose to my feet.
     There came a knock on my door. I was tempted not to answer it,  but  my
curiosity won out. I crossed the room, unbolted the door, and opened it.
     Fiona stood there, her hair down for a change. She had on an attractive
green evening dress and a small jeweled pin that matched her hair perfectly.
     "Hello, Fi," I said. "What brings you around?"
     "I  felt  you working with certain forces," she answered, "and I didn't
want anything happening to you before we had our talk. May I come in?"
     "Of course," I said, stepping aside. "But I am in a hurry."
     "I know, but perhaps I can be of help."
     "How?" I asked, closing the door.
     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  cloak  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 r 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  cameolike  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 cir- cumstances 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 Hensen, 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,
but  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 mess 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 firom 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 finished.
     "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 marguerite."
     "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.
     I made a warding gesture and decided to back off.
     "Okay, let's call it a day and head home."
     She flexed her fingers and the smoke fled.  Frakir  became  still.  She
withdrew  a  packet  of  Trumps  from her purse and shuffled out the one for
Amber.
     "But sooner or later I'm going to have to know," I added.
     "Later," she said, as the vision of Amber grew before us.
     One thing I always liked about Fiona: she didn't believe in hiding  her
feelings.
     I  reached  up  and  switched  off  the dome light as Amber came on all
around us.


CHAPTER 8


     I guess that my  thoughts  at  funerals  are  typical.  Like  Bloom  in
Ulysses,  I think the most mundane things about the deceased and the current
goings-on. The rest of the time my mind wanders.
     On the wide strand of shoreline at the southern foot of Kolvir there is
a small chapel dedicated to the Unicorn, one of several such throughout  the
realm at places where she had been sighted. This one seemed most appropriate
for Caine's service in that-like Gerard-he had once expressed a desire to be
laid  to  rest  in  one  of the sea caves at the mountain's foot, facing the
waters he had sailed so long, so often. One such had been prepared for  him,
and there would be a procession after the service to inter him there. It was
a windy, misty, sea-cool morning with only a few
     sails in sight, moving to or- from the port over half a league westward
of us.
     Technically,  I  suppose  Random  should  have  officiated,  since  his
kingship automatically made him high  priest,  but  aside  from  reading  an
opening  and  closing passage on the Passing of Princes from the Book of the
Unicorn, he turned the service over to Gerard to perform in  his  stead,  as
Caine  had  gotten  along  with  Gerard  better than with anyone else in the
family. So Gerard's booming voice filled the small stone  building,  reading
long  sections  involving  the  sea and mutability. It was said that Dworkin
himself had penned the Book in his saner days, and that  long  passages  had
come  direct from the Unicorn. I don't know. I wasn't there. It is also said
that we are descended of Dworkin and the Unicorn, which gives rise  to  some
unusual  mental  images.  Origins  of  anything  tend to fade off into myth,
though. Who knows? I wasn't around then.
     ". . . And all things return to the sea," Gerard was saying.  I  looked
about  me.  Besides  the  family,  there  were perhaps forty or fifty people
present, mostly nobility from the town, a few merchants with whom Caine  had
been  friendly,  representatives of realms in several adjacent shadows where
Caine had spent time on both official and personal business, and  of  course
Vinta  Bayle.  Bill had expressed a desire to be present, and he stood to my
left. Martin was at my right. Neither Fiona nor Bleys was present. Bleys had
pleaded his injury and excused himself from the service.  Fiona  had  simply
vanished. Random had been unable to locate her this morning. Julian departed
partway  through  the service, to check on the guard he had posted along the
strand, someone having pointed out that a would-be assassin could rack up  a
high  score  with that many of us together in one small space. Consequently,
Julian's foresters, with short sword, dagger, and  longbow  or  lance,  were
spotted  strategically  all  over the place-and every now and then we'd hear
the baying of one of his hellhounds, to be answered  almost  immediately  by
several  others,  a  mournful, unnerving thing, counterpointing waves, wind,
and reflections upon mortality. Where had she gotten  off  to?  I  wondered.
Fiona?  Fear of a trap? Or something to do with last night? And Benedict . .
. he had sent regrets and regards, mentioning sudden business that precluded
his making it back in time. Llewella simply hadn't shown, and could  not  be
reached  by  Trump.  Flora  stood  ahead  and to the left of me, knowing she
looked lovely in dark colors, too. Perhaps I do her an  injustice.  I  don't
know. But she seemed more fidgety than contemplative.
     At  the  conclusion  of  the  service we filed out, four seamen bearing
Caine's casket, and we formed up into a procession that would  lead  to  the
cave  and his sarcophagus. A number of Julian's troops came up to pace us as
an armed escort.
     As we walked along, Bill nudged me and gestured upward with  his  head,
toward  Kolvir.  I  looked  in that direction and beheld a black-cloaked and
cowled figure standing upon a ledge in the shadow  of  a  rocky  projection.
Bill  leaned close so that I could hear him above the sound of the pipes and
strings that were now playing.
     "Is that one some part of the ceremony?" he asked.
     "Not that I know of," I answered.
     I broke out of line and moved forward. In another minute or so we would
pass directly beneath the figure.
     I caught up with Random and put my hand on his shoulder. When he looked
back I pointed upward. He halted and stared, squinting.
     His right hand rose to his breast, where he wore the Jewel of Judgment,
as on most state occasions. Instantly, the winds rose.
     "Halt!" Random called out. "Stop the procession!  Everyone  stay  where
you are!"
     The figure moved then, slightly, head turning as if to stare at Random.
In the  sky,  as  if  by  trick  photography,  a cloud blew itself together,
growing, above Kolvir. A red, pulsing glow  emerged  from  beneath  Random's
hand.
     Suddenly,  the  figure  looked  upward  and  a hand flashed beneath the
cloak, emerging moments later to perform a quick casting  movement.  A  tiny
black object hung in the air, then began its descent.
     "Everybody down!" Gerard called out.
     Random  did not move as the others of us dropped. He remained standing,
watching, as lightning emerged from the cloud and played across the face  of
the cliff.
     The  thunder  that followed coincided almost exactly with the explosion
that occurred high overhead. The distance had been too great. The  bomb  had
gone  off  before  it reached us-though it would probably have scored had we
continued as we were, to pass beneath the ledge and have it dropped directly
upon us. When the spots stopped dancing before my eyes, I regarded the cliff
again. The dark figure was gone.
     "Did you get him?" I asked Random.
     He shrugged as he lowered his hand. The Jewel had ceased its pulsing.
     "Everybody on your feet!" he  called  out.  "Let's  get  on  with  this
funeral!"
     And  we  did.  There  were  no  more  incidents,  and  the business was
concluded as planned.
     My thoughts, and probably everyone else's, were already playing  family
games  as  the  box was being fitted into the vault. Might the attacker have
been one of our absent kin? And if so, which one? What. motives  might  each
of  them  possess  for  the  act?  Where  were they now? And what were their
alibis? Could there have been a coalition involved? Or cold it have been  an
outsider?  If so, how was access obtained to the local supply of explosives?
Or was this imported stuff ? Or had someone local come up  with  the  proper
formula?  If  it  were  an  outsider,  what was the motive and where was the
person from? Had one of us imported an assassin? Why?
     As we filed past the vault I did think fleetingly of Caine, but more as
part of the puzzle picture than as an individual. I had not  known  him  all
that  well. But then, several of the others had told me early on that he was
not the easiest person to get to know. He was tough and cynical  and  had  a
streak  of  cruelty  in his nature. He had made quite a few enemies over the
years and seemed even to be proud of this fact. He had  always  been  decent
enough with me, but then we'd never been at cross-purposes over anything. So
my  feelings did not run as deep for him as they did for most of the others.
Julian was another of this cut, but more polished on the surface. And no one
could be certain what lay beneath that surface an any given day. Caine . . .
I wish I'd gotten to know you better. I am certain that I am  diminished  by
your passing in ways that I do not even understand.
     Departing,  afterward, heading back to the palace for food and drink, I
wondered, not for the first time, how my problems and everyone  else's  were
connected.  For  I  felt  they  were. I don't mind small coincidences, but I
don't trust big ones.
     And Meg Devlin? Did she know something of this business, too? It seemed
possible that she might. Husband or no husband, I decided, we  had  a  date.
Soon.
     Later,  in  the  big dining hall, amid the buzz of conversation and the
rattle of cutlery and crockery, one vague possibility occurred to me  and  I
resolved  to  pursue  it  immediately.  Excusing  myself  from  the cold but
attractive company of Vinta Bayle, third daughter of some minor nobility and
apparently Caine's last mistress, I made my way to the far end of  the  hall
and  the  small  knot of people surrounding Random. I was standing there for
several minutes, wondering how to break in, when he spotted me.  He  excused
himself  from  the others immediately,: advanced upon me, and caught hold of
my sleeve.
     "Merlin," he said, "I don't have time now, but I just wanted to let you
know that I don't  consider  our  conversation  concluded.  I  want  to  get
together  with you again later this afternoon or this evening-as soon as I'm
free. So don't go running off anywhere till we've talked, okay?"
     I nodded.
     "One quick question," I said, as  he  began  turning  back  toward  the
others.
     "Shoot," he said.
     "Are  there  any Amberites currently in residence on the shadow Earth I
just departed-agents of any sort?"
     He shook his head.
     "I don't have any, and I don't believe any of the others do just now. I
have a number of  contacts  there  in  different  places,  but  they're  all
natives-like Bill."
     His eyes narrowed.
     "Something new come up?" he asked then.
     I nodded again.
     "Serious?"
     "Possibly."
     "I  wish I had the time to hear it, but it'll just have to keep till we
talk later."
     "I understand."
     "I'Il send for you," he said, and he returned to his companions.
     That shot down the only explanation I could think of for Meg Devlin. It
also foreclosed the possibility of my taking off to see her  as  soon  as  I
could leave the gathering.
     I  consoled  myself  with  another  plate  of food. After a time, Flora
entered the hall, studied all the knots of humanity, then made her way among
them to settle beside me on the window seat.
     "No way of talking to Random right now without an audience," she said.
     "You're right," I replied. "May I get you something to eat or drink?"
     "Not now. Maybe you can help. You're a sorcerer."
     I didn't like that opening, but I asked, "What's the problem?"
     "I went to Bleys' rooms, to see whether he wanted to come down and join
us. He's gone."
     "Wasn't his door locked? Most people do that around here."
     "Yes, from the inside. So he must have trumped out. I broke in when  he
didn't answer, since there'd been one attempt on his life already."
     "And what would you want of a sorcerer?"
     "Can you trace him?"
     "Trumps  don't  leave tracks," I said. "But even if I could, I'm not so
sure that I would. He knows what he's doing, and he obviously  wants  to  be
left alone."
     "But  what if he's involved? He and Caine had been on opposite sides in
the past."
     "If he's mixed up in something dangerous to the rest of us  you  should
be happy to see him go."
     "So you can't help-or won't?"
     I nodded.
     "Both,  I  guess.  Any decision to seek him out should really come from
Random, don't you think?"
     "Maybe."
     "I'd suggest keeping it to yourself till you can talk to Random. No use
stirring up fruitless speculations among the others. Or I' ll tell  him,  if
you' d like. I' m going to be talking with him a bit later."
     "What about?"
     Ouch.
     "Not sure," I said. "It's something he wants to tell me, or ask me."
     She studied me carefully.
     "We haven't really had our own little talk yet," she said then.
     "Looks like we're having it now."
     "Okay. May I hear about your problems in one of my favorite shadows?"
     "Why  not?"  I said, and I launched into a synopsis of the damned thing
again. I felt that this would be the final time, though. Once Flora knew  it
I was confident it would make the rounds.
     She had no information bearing upon my case that she cared to share. We
chatted  for  a  while  then-local  gossipand  she  finally  decided  to get
something to eat. She departed in the direction of  the  food  and  did  not
return.
     I  talked with a few of the others, too-about Caine, about my father. I
did not hear anything that I did not already know. I  was  introduced  to  a
number  of  people  I  had  not  met before. I memorized a mess of names and
relationships since I had nothing better to do.
     When things finally broke up, I kept an eye on Random and contrived  to
depart at about the same time he did.
     "Later,"  he  said  as we passed, and he went off with a couple of guys
he'd been talking with.
     So I went back to my rooms and stretched out on the  bed.  When  things
are brewing you take your rest whenever you can.
     After a time I shpt, and I dreamed . . .
     I  was walking in the formal garden behind the palace. Someone else was
with me, but I did not know who it was. This did not seem to matter. I heard
a familiar howling. Suddenly, there were growling noises near at  hand.  The
first  time  I  looked  about  I  saw nothing. But then, abruptly, they were
there-three huge, doglike creatures similar  to  the  one  I  had  slain  in
Julia's apartment. They were racing toward me across the garden. The howling
continued,  but  they  were  not  its authors. They restricted themselves to
growling and slavering as they came on. Just as suddenly,  I  realized  that
this  was a dream and that I had dreamt it several times before only to lose
track of it upon awakening. The knowledge that it was a dream,  however,  in
no  ,way  detracted from the feeling of menace as they rushed toward me. All
three of them were surrounded by a kind of light-pale,  distorting.  Looking
past  them,  through  their  haloes,  I  did  not  see the garden but caught
glimpses of a forest. When they drew near and sprang to attack it was as  if
they had encountered a glass wall. They fell back, rose and dashed toward me
once  more  only to be blocked again. They leaped and growled and whined and
tried again. It was as if I stood beneath a  bell  jar  or  within  a  magic
circle, though. They could not get at me. Then the howling came louder, came
nearer and they turned their attention away from me.
     "Wow !" Random said. "I should charge you something for pulling you out
of a nightmare."
     . . . And I was awake and lying on my bed and there was darkness beyond
my window-and I realized that Random had called me via my Trump and tuned in
on my dream when he'd made contact.
     I yawned and thought him my answer,
     "Thanks."
     "Finish waking up and let's have our talk," he said.
     "Yes. Where are you?"
     "Downstairs.  The  little  sitting room off the main hall to the south.
Drinking coffee. We've got it to ourselves."
     "See you in f ive."
     "Check." Random faded. I sat up, swung my feet over  the  side  of  the
bed, and rose. I crossed the room to the window and flung it wide. I inhaled
the  crisp  evening  air of autumn. Spring on the shadow Earth, fall here in
Amber-my two favorite seasons. I should  be  heartened,  uplifted.  Insteada
trick  of  the night, the tag-end of the dream-it seemed for a moment that I
heard the final note of the howling. I shuddered and closed the window.  Our
dreams are too much with us.
     I  hiked  down  to  the  designated  room and took a seat on one of its
sofas. Random let me get through half a cup of coffee before he said,  "Tell
me about the Ghostwheel."
     "It's a kind of-paraphysical surveillance device and library."
     Random put down his cup and cocked his head to one side.
     "Could you be more specific?" he said.
     "Well,   my  work  with  computers  led  me  to  speculate  that  basic
data-processing principles could: be employed with interesting results in  a
place  where  computer mechanics themselves would not operate," I began. "In
other words, I had to locate a shadow environment where the operations would
remain pretty much invariant but where the physical construct,  all  of  the
peripherals,  the programming techniques and the energy inputs would be of a
different nature."
     "Uh, Merlin," Random said. "You've lost me already."
     "I designed and built a piece of data-processing equipment in a  shadow
where  no  ordinary  computer  could  function,"  I replied, "because I used
different materials, a radically different design, a different power source.
I also chose a place where different physical laws apply, so that  it  could
operate  along  different  lines.  I  was then able to write programs for it
which would not have operated on the shadow Earth where I'd been living.  In
doing  so,  I  believe  that  I  created  a unique artifact. I called it the
Ghostwheel because of certain aspects of its appearance."
     "And it's a surveillance device and a library.  What  do  you  mean  by
that?"
     "It  riffles  through  Shadow  like  the  pages  of a book-or a deck of
cards," I said. "Program it for whatever you want checked out  and  it  will
keep  an eye on it for you. I was planning it as a surprise. You could, say,
use it to determine whether any of our potential enemies are mobilizing,  or
to follow the progress of Shadow-storms, or-"
     "Wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  raising  a  hand. "How? How does it flip
through shadows that way? What makes it work?"
     "In effect," I explained, "it creates the equivalent of  multitudes  of
Trumps in an instant, then-"
     "Stop. Back up. How can you write a program for the creation of Trumps?
I thought  they could only be done by a person who had an initiate of either
the Pattern or the Logrus." .
     "But in this case," I said, "the machine itself is of that  same  class
of  magical  objects as Dad's blade, Grayswandir. I incorporated elements of
the Pattern itself into its design."
     "And you were going to surprise us with this?"
     "Yes, once it's ready."
     "When will that be?"
     "I'm not sure. It had to gather certain critical amounts of data before
its programs could become fully operational. I set it to  do  that  a  while
back, and I haven't had a chance to check on it recently."
     Random poured some more coffee, took a drink.
     "I  don't  see  where  it  would  save that much in the way of time and
effort," he said a little later. "Say I'm curious about something in Shadow.
I go and investigate, or I send someone. Now, say that instead I want to use
this thing to check it out. I still have to spend  the  time  going  to  the
place where you keep it."
     "No," I told him. "You summon a remote terminal."
     "Summon? A terminal?"
     "Right."  I  unearthed my Amber Trumps and dealt myself the one off the
bottom. It showed a silver wheel against a dark background. I passed  it  to
Random and he studied it.
     "How do you use it?" he asked.
     "Same as the others. You want to call it to you?"
     "You do it," he said. "I want to watch."
     "Very  well,"  I  answered.  "But  while  I've set it to gathering data
across the shadows it still won't know a whole lot  that's  useful  at  this
point."
     "I don't want to question it so much as I want to see it."
     I  raised  the  card  and stared, seeing through it with my mind's eye.
After a few moments, there was contact. I called it to me.
     There followed a small crackling sound and a feeling of  ionization  in
the  air as a glowing wheel about eight feet in diameter materialized before
me.
     "Diminish terminal size," I ordered.
     It shrank down to about a third of what it had been and I ordered it to
halt at that point. It looked like a pale picture frame,  occasional  sparks
dancing  within  it,  the  view  across the room constantly rippling as seen
through its center.
     Random began to extend a hand.
     "Don't," I said. "You might get a shock. I still  don't  have  all  the
bugs out."
     "It can transmit energy?"
     "Well, it could. No big deal."
     "If you ordered to transmit energy . . . ?"
     "Oh,  sure.  It  has  to be able to transmit energy here to sustain the
terminal, and through Shadow to operate its scanners."
     "I mean, could it discharge it at this end?"
     "If I told it to it could build up a charge and let it go. Yes."
     "What are its limits in this?"
     "Whatever it has available."
     "And what does it have available?"
     "Well, in theory an entire planet. But-"
     "Supposing you ordered it to appear beside someone  here,  build  up  a
large   charge   and   discharge  it  into  that  person.  Could  it  do  an
electrocution?"
     "I guess so," I said.  "I  don't  see  why  not.  But  that's  not  its
purpose-"
     "Merlin, your surprise is certainly a surprise. But I'm not sure I like
it."
     "It's safe," I explained. "No one knows where it's located. No one goes
there.  This  Trump  I have is the only one. Nobody else can reach it. I was
going to make one more card, just for you, and then show you how to  operate
the thing when it was ready."
     "I'm going to have to think about this . . ."
     "Ghost,  within  five  thousand  Shadow  veils,  this location-how many
Shadow-storms are currently in existence?"
     The words camne as if spoken within the hoop: "Seventeen."
     "Sounds like-"
     "I gave it my voice," I told him. "Ghost, give us some pictures of  the
biggest one."
     A scene of chaotic fury filled the hoop.
     "Another thought just occurred to me," Random stated. "Can it transport
things?"
     "Sure, just like a regular Trump."
     "Was the original size of that circle its maximum size?"
     "No, we could make it a lot larger if you wanted. Or smaller."
     "I don't. But supposing you made it larger-and then told it to transmit
that storm, or as much of it as it could manage?"
     "Wow!  I  don't know. It would try. It would probably be like opening a
giant window onto it."
     "Merlin, shut it down. It's dangerous."
     "Like I said, nobody knows where it is but me, and the only  other  way
to reach it is-"
     "I  know,  I  know.  Tell  me,  could anybody access it with the proper
Trump, or just by finding it?"
     "Well, yes. I didn't bother with any  security  codes  because  of  its
inaccessibility."
     "That thing could be an awesome weapon, kid. Shut it down. Now."
     "I can't."
     "What do you mean?"
     "You  can't dump its memory or kill its power from a remote terminal. I
would actually have to travel to the site itself to do that:"
     "Then I suggest you get going. I want it turned off until there  are  a
lot more safeguards built into it. Even then -well, we'll see. I don't trust
a  power like that. Not when I don't have any defenses against it. It could.
strike almost without warning. What were you thinking of when you built that
thing?"
     "Data-processing. Look, we're the only ones-"
     "There's always a possibility someone will get wise to it  and  find  a
way  to  get  at it. I know, I know-you're in love with your handiwork-and I
appreciate what you had in mind. But it's got to go."
     "I have done nothing to offend you." It was my voice, but it came  from
the wheel.
     Random stared at it, looked at me, looked back at it.
     "Uh-that's  not  the point," he addressed it. "It's your potential that
I'm concerned about. Merlin, turn off the terminal!"
     "End transmission," I said. "Withdraw terminal." It wavered  a  moment,
then was gone.
     "Had you anticipated that comment from the thing?" Random asked me.
     "No. I was surprised."
     "I'm  beginning  to dislike surprises. Maybe that shadow environment is
actually altering the thing in subtle ways. You know my wishes.  Give  it  a
rest."
     I bowed my head. "Whatever you say, sir."
     "Cut it out. Don't be a martyr. Just do it."
     "I  still  think  it's just a matter of installing a few safeguards. No
reason to crash the whole project."
     "If things were quieter," he said, "maybe I' d go along  with  it,  But
there's  too  much  shit coming down right now, with snipers and bombers and
all the things you've been telling me about. I don't need another worry."
     I got to my feet.
     "Okay. Thanks for the coffee," I said. "I'll let  you  know  when  it's
done."
     He nodded.
     "Good night, Merlin."
     "Good night."
     As  I was stalking out through the big entrance hall I saw Julian, in a
green dressing gown, talking with two of his men. On the floor between  them
lay  a  large  dead  animal.  I  halted and stared. It was one of those same
damned dog things I had just dreamed about, like at Julia's.
     I approached.
     "Hi, Julian. What is it?" I asked gesturing.
     He shook his head.
     "Don't know. But the hellhounds just killed three of them in  Arden.  I
trumped  these  guys  up  with  one  of  the  carcasses, to show Random. You
wouldn't know where he is, would you?"
     I stabbed with my thumb back over my shoulder.
     "In the sitting room."
     He walked off in that direction. I went nearer and prodded  the  animal
with my toe. Should I go back and tell Random I'd met one before?
     The  hell  with it, I decided. I couldn't see how the information would
be of any vital use.
     I returned to my rooms and washed up and changed  my  clothes.  Then  I
stopped  by the kitchen and filled my backpack with food. I didn't feel like
saying good-bye to anyone, so I just headed for the back and  took  the  big
rear staircase down into the gardens.
     Dark. Starry. Cool. Walking, I felt a sudden chill as I neared the spot
where,  in  my dream, the dogs had appeared. No howls, no growls. Nothing. I
passed through that
     area and continued on my way to the rear of that well-kept site, to the
place where a number of trails led off through a more natural  landscape.  I
took  the  second  one  from  the  left. It was a slightly longer route than
another I might have chosen-with which it intersected later, anyway-but  was
easier going, a thing I felt I needed in the night. I was still not all that
familiar with the irregularities of the other way.
     I  hiked  the  crest  of Kolvir for the better part of an hour before I
located the downward trail I was seeking. I halted then,  took  a  drink  of
water and rested for a few minutes before I began the descent.
     It  is  very difficult to walk in Shadow on Kolvir. One has to put some
distance between oneself and Amber in order to do  it  properly.  So  all  I
could do at this point was hikewhich was fine with me, because it was a good
night for walking.
     I  was well on my way down before a glow occurred overhead and the moon
crested a shoulder of Kolvir and poured its light upon my twisting trail.  I
increased  my  pace  somewhat  after  that.  I  did  want to make it off the
mountain by morning.
     I was angry with Random for not giving me a chance to justify my  work.
I  hadn't  really  been  ready to tell him about r it. If it hadn't been for
Caine's funeral I would not have
     returned to Amber until I'd had the thing perfected. And I wasn't  even
going  to mention Ghostwheel this time around, except that it had figured in
a small way in the mystery that had engulfed me and  Random  had  wanted  to
know about it
     in  order to have the whole story. Okay. He didn't like what he'd seen,
but the preview had been premature. Now, if I  shut  it  down  as  I'd  been
ordered  I  would ruin a lot of work that had been in progress for some time
now. Ghostwheel
     was still in a Shadow-scanning, self-education phase. I would have been
checking on it about now, anyway, to see how it  was  coming  along  and  to
correct any obvious flaws that had crept into the system.
     I  thought  about  it  as the trail grew steeper and curved on Kolvir's
western face. Random had not exactly ordered me to dump  everything  it  had
accumulated thus far. He' d simply told me to shut it down. Viewed the way I
chose to view it, that meant I could exercise my own judgment as to means. I
decided that gave me leeway to check everything out first, reviewing systems
functions and revising programs until I was satisfied that everything was in
order.  Then  I  could transfer everything to a more permanent status before
shutting it down. Then nothing would be lost; its  memory  would  be  intact
when the time came to restore its functions again.
     Maybe . . .
     What  if I did everything to make it shipshape, including throwing in a
few-as I saw it---unnecessary safeguards  to  make  Random  happy?  Then,  I
mused,  supposing  I got in touch with Random, showed him what I'd done, and
asked him whether he was happy with it that way?  If  he  weren't,  I  could
always  shut  it  down  then.  But  perhaps  he'd reconsider. Worth thinking
about...
     I played over imaginary conversations with Random until  the  moon  had
drifted  off to my left. I was more than halfway down Kolvir by then and the
going was becoming progressively easier. I could already feel the  force  of
the Pattern as somewhat diminished.
     I halted a couple of more times on the way down, for water and once for
a sandwich.  The  more I thought about it, the more I felt that Random would
just get angry if I proceeded along  the  lines  I  had  been  thinking  and
probably  wouldn't  even  give  me  a full hearing. On the other hand, I was
angry myself.
     But it was a long journey with few shortcuts. I'd have plenty  of  time
to mull it over.
     The  sky  was  growing  lighter  when I crossed the last rocky slope to
reach the wide trail at the foot of Kolvir to the northwest.  I  regarded  a
stand of trees across the way, one large one a familiar landmark
     With  a  dazzling  flash that seemed to sizzle and a bomblike report of
thunder the tree was split, not a hundred meters away.  I'd  flung  up  both
hands  at the lightning stroke, but I could still hear cracking wood and the
echo of the blast for several seconds afterward.
     Then a voice cried out, "Go back!"
     I assumed I was the subject of this conversational gambit. "May we talk
this over?" I responded.
     There was no reply.
     I stretched out in a shallow declivity beside the trail,  then  crawled
along  it  for several body lengths to a place where the cover was better. I
was listening and watching the while, hoping that whoever  had  pulled  that
stunt would betray his position in some fashion.
     Nothing happened, but for the next half W mute I surveyed the grove and
a portion  of  the  slope  down  which  I  had  come.  From that angle their
proximity gave me a small inspiration.
     I summoned the image of the Logrus, and two  of  its  lines  became  my
arms.  I reached then, not through Shadow but up the slope to where a fairly
good-sized rock was poised above a mass of others.
     Seizing hold, I drew upon it. It was too heavy to topple easily,  so  I
began  rocking  it. Slowly, at first. Finally, I got it to the tipping point
and it tumbled. It fell among the  others  and  a  small  cascade  began.  I
withdrew further as they struck and sent new ones bouncing. Several big ones
bean  to  roll.  A  fracture line gave way when they fell upon its edge at a
steeper place. An entire sheet of stone groaned and cracked, began to slide.
     I could feel the vibration as I continued  my  withdrawal.  I  had  not
anticipated  setting  off anything this spectacular. The rocks bounced, slid
and flew into the grove. I watched the trees sway, saw some of them go down.
I heard the crunching, the pinging, the breaking.
     I gave it an extra half minute after what seemed  its  end.  There  was
much dust in the air and half of the grove was down. Then I rose to my feet,
Frakir dangling from my left hand, and I advanced upon the grove.
     I  searched  carefully,  but there was no one there. I climbed upon the
trunk of a fallen tree.
     "I repeat, do you care to talk about it?" I called out. No answer.
     "Okay, be that way," I said, and I headed north into Arden.

          x x x

     I heard the sound of  horses  occasionally  as  I  hiked  through  that
ancient  forest.  If  I  was  being followed, though, the horsemen showed no
interest in closing with me. Most likely, I was passing in the  vicinity  of
one of Julian's patrols.
     Not  that  it  mattered.  I  soon  located  a trail and began the small
adjustments that bore me farther and farther from them.
     A lighter shade, from brown to yellow, and slightly shorter trees . . .
Fewer breaks in the leafy canopy . . . Odd bird note, strange mushroom . . .
     Little by little, the character  of  the  wood  was  altered.  And  the
shifting grew easier and easier the farther this took me from Amber.
     I  began  to  pass sunny clearings. The sky grew a paler blue . . . The
trees were all green now, but most of them saplings . . .
     I broke into a jog.
     Masses of clouds came into view, the spongy earth grew firmer, drier  .
. .
     I stepped up my pace, heading downhill. Grasses were more abundant. The
trees  were divided into clusters now, islands in a waving sea of those pale
grasses. My view took in a greater distance. A flapping, beaded curtain  off
to my right: rain.
     Rumbles  of  thunder  came to me, though sunlight continued to light my
way. I breathed deeply of the clean damp air and ran on.
     The grasses fell away, ground fissured, sky  blackened  .  .  .  Waters
rushed  through  canyons and arroyos all about me . . . Torrents poured from
overhead onto the rocking terrain . . .
     I began slipping. I cursed  each  time  I  picked  myself  up,  for  my
overeagerness in the shifting.
     The  clouds  parted like a theater curtain, to where a lemon sun poured
warmth and light from a salmon-colored sky. The thunder halted in mid-rumble
and a wind rose . . .
     I made  my  way  up  a  hillside,  looked  down  upon  a  ruined  gage.
Long-abandoned,  partly  overgrown,  strange  mounds  lined  its broken main
street.
     I passed through it beneath a slate-colored sky, picked my  way  slowly
across  an icy pond, faces of those frozen beneath me staring sightlessly in
all directions . . .
     The sky was soot-streaked, the snow hard-packed, my breath feathery  as
I entered the skeletal wood where frozen birds perched: an etching.
     Slipping  downhill,  rolling,  sliding  into  melting  and spring . . .
Movement again; about me . . . Mucky ground  and  clumps  of  green  .  .  .
Strange cars on distant highway . . .
     A  junkyard,  smelling,  oozing, rusting, smoldering . . . Threading my
way amid acres of heaps . . . Rats scurrying...
     Away . . . Shifting faster, breathing harder . . . Skyline beneath smog
cap . . . Delta bottom . . . Seashore . . . Golden pylons along the road . .
. Countryside with lakes . . . Brown grasses beneath green sky . . .
     Slowing . . . Rolling grassland, river and lake . . .  Slowing  .  .  .
Breeze  and  grass, sealike . . . Mopping my brow on my sleeve . . . Sucking
air . . . Walking now . . .
     I moved through the field at a normal pace, preferring to do my resting
in a congenial spot such as this, where I could see for a good distance. The
wind made soft noises as it passed among the' grasses. The nearest lake  was
a deep lime color. Something in the air smelled sweet.
     I  thought  I  saw  a  brief flash of light off to my right, but when I
looked that way there was nothing unusual to be seen. A little later, I  was
certain that I heard a distant sound of hoofbeats. But again, I saw nothing.
That's  the trouble with shadows-you don't always know what's natural there;
you're never certain what to look for.
     Several minutes passed, and then I smelled it before I saw anything.
     Smoke. The next instant there was a rush of fire. A long line of  flame
cut across my path.
     And again the voice: "I told you to go back!"
     The  wind  was  behind the fire, pushing it toward me. I turned to head
away and saw that it was already flanking me. It takes a while to  build  up
the  proper mental set for shadow-shifting, and I had let mine go. I doubted
I could set it up again in time.
     I began running.
     The line of flame was curving about  me,  as  if  to  describe  a  huge
circle.  I did not pause to admire the precision of the thing, however, as I
could feel the heat by then and the smoke was getting thicker.
     Above the fire's crackling it  seemed  that  I  could  still  hear  the
drumming  of  hoofs. My eyes were beginning to water, though, and streams of
smoke further diminished my vision. And again, I detected  no  sign  of  the
person who had sprung the trap.
     Yet-definitely-the  ground  was  shaking  with  the rapid progress of a
hooved creature headed in my direction.  The  flames  flashed  higher,  drew
nearer as the circle coshed toward closure.
     I was wondering what new menace was approaching, when a horse and rider
burst  into  view through the gap in the fiery wall. The rider drew back the
reins, but the horsea chestnut-was not too happy  at  the  nearness  of  the
flames  it  bared  its  teeth, biting at the bit, and tried several times to
rear.
     "Hurry! Behind me!" the rider cried, and I rushed to mount.
     The rider was a dark-haired woman. I  caught  only  a  glimpse  of  her
features. She managed to turn the horse back in the direction from which she
had  come,  and  she  shook  the  reins.  The  chestnut started forward, and
suddenly it reared. I managed to hang on.
     When its front hooves struck the ground, the beast wheeled and tore off
toward the light. It was almost into the flames when it wheeled again.
     "Damn!" I heard the rider say, as she worked  almost  frantically  with
the reins.
     The  horse  turned  again, neighing loudly. Bloody spittle dripped from
its mouth. And by then the circle was closed, the smoke was  heavy  and  the
flames  very  near. I was in no position to help, beyond giving it a pair of
sharp kicks in the flanks when it began moving in a straight line again.
     It plunged into the flames to our left, almost screaming as it went.  I
had  no  idea  how  wide  the band of fire was at that point. I could feel a
searing along my legs, though, and I smelled burning hair.
     Then the beast was roaring again, the rider was screaming back  at  it,
and  I  found that I could no longer hold on. I felt myself sliding backward
just as we broke through the ring of fire and  into  a  charred,  smoldering
area  where  the  flames  had  already passed. I fell amid hot black clumps;
ashes rose about me. I rolled frantically to my  left,  and  I  coughed  and
squeezed my eyes shut against the cloud of ashes that assailed my face.
     I  heard  the woman scream and I scrambled to my feet, rubbing my eyes.
My vision came clear in time for me to see the chestnut rising from where he
had apparently fallen atop his rider. The horse immediately tore off, to  be
lost  among  clouds  of  smoke. The woman lay very still and I rushed to her
side. Kneeling, I brushed sparks from her clothing and checked for breathing
and a pulse. Her eyes opened while I was doing this.
     "Back's-broken I think," she said, coughing. "Don't feel-much.  .  .  .
Escape-if you can. . . . Leave me. I'll die-anyway."
     "No  way," I said. "But I've got to move you. There's a lake nearby, if
I remember right."
     I removed my cloak where it was tied about my waist and I spread it out
beside her. I inched her onto it as carefully as I could, folded it over her
to protect her against the flames and began dragging her in what I hoped was
the proper direction.
     We made it through a shifting patchwork of fire and  smoke.  My  throat
was raw, my eyes watering steadily and my trousers on fire when I took a big
step backward and felt my heel squish downward into mud. I kept going.
     Finally,  I  was  waist  deep  in the water and supporting her there. I
leaned forward, pushed a flap of the cloak back from her face. Her eyes were
still open, but they looked unfocused and there was no  movement.  Before  I
could  feel for a carotid pulse, however, she made a hissing noise, then she
spoke my name.
     "Merlin," she said hoarsely, "I'm-sorry-"
     "You helped me and I couldn't help you," I said. "I'm sorry."
     "Sorry I didn't last-longer,"  she  continued.  "No  good-with  horses.
They're-following you."
     "Who?" I asked.
     "Called  off  - the dogs, though. But the - fire - is someone - else's.
Don't know - whose."
     "I don't know what you're talking about."
     I splashed a little water onto her cheeks to  cool  them.  Between  the
soot  and  her  singed,  disheveled  hair  it  was  difficult  to  judge her
appearance.
     "Someone-behind-you,"   she   said,   her   voice   growing    fainter.
"Someone-ahead-too. Didn't-know-about that one. Sorry."
     "Who?" I asked again. "And who are you? How do you know me? Why-"
     She smiled faintly. ". . . Sleep with you. Can't now. Going . . ."
     Her eyes closed.
     "No!" I cried.
     Her  face  contorted  and she sucked in a final breath. She expelled it
then, using it to form the whispered words.
     "Just-let me-sink here. G'bye . . ."
     A cloud of smoke blew across her face. I held my  breath  and  shut  my
eyes as a larger billow followed, engulfing us. When the air finally cleared
again,  I  studied  her. Her breathing had ceased and there was no pulse, no
heartbeat. There was no nonburning, nonmarshy area  available  for  even  an
attempt at CPR. She was gone. She'd known she was going.
     I  wrapped my cloak about her carefully, turning it into a shroud. Last
of all, I folded a flap over her face. I fixed everything  into  place  with
the clasp I'd used to close it at my neck when I'd worn it. Then I waded out
into deeper water.
     "Just  let  me  sink  here." Sometimes the dead sink quickly, sometimes
they float . . .
     "Good-bye, lady," I said. "Wish I knew your name. Thanks again."
     I released my hold upon her. The waters swirled. She was gone. After  a
time, I looked away then moved away. Too many questions and no answers.
     Somewhere, a maddened horse was screaming . . .





CHAPTER 9


     Several  hours and many shadows later I rested again, in a place with a
clear sky and not much tinder about.  I  bathed  in  a  shallow  stream  and
afterward  summoned  fresh  clothing  out  of  Shadow. Clean and dry then, I
rested on the bank and made myself a meal.
     It seemed as if every day were  now  an  April  30.  It  seemed  as  if
everyone  I  met  knew  me,  and  as  if  everyone were playing an elaborate
double-game. People were dying all about me and disasters  were  becoming  a
common  occurrence.  I  was beginning to feel like a figure in a video game.
What would be next? I wondered. A meteor shower?
     There had to be a key. The nameless lady who had given her life to pull
me out of the fire had said that someone was following me and that there was
someone ahead of me, also. What did that mean? Should I wait for my  pursuer
to  catch  up  and simply ask him, her, or it what the hell was going on? Or
should I push on fast, hopefully catch the  other  party  and  make  inquiry
there?  Would  either  give  me the same answer? Or were there two different
answers involved? Would a duel satisfy someone's honor? I'd fight it,  then.
Or a bribe.
     I'd  pay  it. All I wanted was an answer followed by a little peace and
quiet. I chuckled. That sounded like a description of death-though I  wasn't
that sure about the answer part.
     "Shit!" I commented, to no one in particular, and I tossed a stone into
the stream.
     I  got  to  my  feet  and crossed the water. Written in the sand on its
opposite shore were the words GO BACK. I stepped on them and  broke  into  a
run.
     The world spun about me as I touched the shadows. Vegetation fell away.
The rocks grew into boulders, lightening, taking on a sparkle . .
     I  ran  through  a valley of prisms beneath an awesome purple sky . . .
Wind among rainbow stones, singing, Aeolian music . . .
     Garments lashed by gales . . . Purple to lavender above  .  .  .  Sharp
cries within the strains of sound . . . Earth cracking...
     Faster.  I am giant. Same landscape; infinitesimal now . . . Cyclopean,
I grind the glowing stones beneath my feet . . . Dust of  rainbows  upon  my
boots, puffs of cloud about my shoutders . . .
     Atmosphere  thickening,  thickening;  almost to liquid, and green . . .
Swirling . . . Slow motion, my best efforts . . .  Swimming  in  it  .  .  .
Castles  fit  for  aquaria  drift by . . . y: Bright missiles like fireflies
assail me . . . I feel nothing . . .
     Green to blue . . . Thinning, thinning . . . Blue smoke  and  air  like
incense  .  .  . The reverberation of a million invisible gongs, incessant .
.-. I clench my teeth.
     Faster. Blue to pink, spark-shot . . . A catlick of fire . . .  Another
.  . . Heatless flames dance like sea plants : . . Higher, rising higher . .
. Walls of fire buckle and crackle . . .
     Footfalls at my back.
     Don't look. Shift.
     Sky split down the middle, by sun a comet streaking . . . Here and gone
. . . Again: Again. Three days in as many heartbeats . . . I breathe the air
spicy . . . Swirl the fires, descend to purple earth . . . Prism in the  sky
. . . I race the course of a glowing river across a field of fungus color of
blood, spongy . . . Spores that turn to jewels, fall like bullets . . .
     Night  on a plain of brass, footfalls echoing to eternity . . . Knobbed
machinelike plants clanking, metal flowers retracting back to metal  stalks,
stalks to consoles . . . Clank, clank, sigh . . . Echoes only, at my back?
     I spin once.
     Was  that  a  dark  figure  ducking behind a windmill tree? Or only the
dance of shadows in my shadow-shifting  eyes?  Forward.  Through  glass  and
sandpaper, orange ice, landscape of pale flesh . . .
     There  is  no  sun,  only pale light . . . There is no earth . . . Only
thin bridges and islands in the air . . . The world is crystal matrix . . .
     Up, down, around . : . Through a hole in the air and down a chute . . .
     Sliding . . . To a cobalt beach  beside  a  still  copper  sea  .  .  .
Twilight  without  stars  .  . . Faint glow everywhere . . . Dead, dead this
place . . . Blue rocks . . . Broken statues of inhuman beings . . .  Nothing
stirring . . .
     Stop.  I  drew a magic circle about me in the sand and invested it with
the forces of Chaos. I spread my new cloak then at its center, stretched out
and went to sleep. I dreamed that the waters rose up to wash away a  portion
of  the  circle,  and  that  a green, scaly being with purple hair and sharp
teeth crept out of the sea and came to me to drink my blood.
     When I awoke, I saw that the circle was broken and a green, scaly being
with purple hair and sharp teeth lay dead upon the beach a half dozen  yards
from  me, Frakir knotted tightly about its throat and the sand disturbed all
around. I must have slept very deeply.
     I  retrieved  my  strangling  cord  and  crossed  another  bridge  over
infinity.
     On the next leg of my journey I was nearly caught up
     in  a  flash  flood  the  first  time I paused to rest. I was no longer
unwary, however, and I kept ahead  of  it  long  enough  to  shift  away.  I
received  another  warning-in  burning  letters  on  the face of an obsidian
mountain-suggesting I withdraw, retire, go home. My shouted invitation to  a
conference was ignored.
     I  traveled  till  it was time to sleep again, and I camped then in the
Blackened Lands-still, gray, musty, and foggy.  I  found  myself  an  easily
defended cleft, warded it against magic and slept.
     Later-how  much  later,  I am uncertain I was awakened from a dreamless
slumber by the pulsing of Frakir
     upon my wrist. y I was instantly awake, and  then  I  wondered  why.  I
heard
     nothing  and  I saw nothing untoward within my limited field of vision.
But Frakir-who is not 100 percent perfect always has a reason when she  does
give  an  alarm. I waited, and I recalled my image of the Logrus while I did
so. When it was fully before me I fitted my hand within it as if it  were  a
glove and I reached . . .
     I  seldom carry a blade above the length of a middle-sized dagger. It's
too damned cumbersome having several feet  of  steel  hanging  at  my  side,
bumping into me, catching onto bushes, and occasionally even tripping me up.
My  father,  and  most  of  the others in Amber and the Courts, swear by the
heavy, awkward things, but they are probably  made  of  sterner  stuff  than
myself. I've nothing against them in principle. I love fencing, and I've had
a  lot of training in their use. I just find carrying one all the time to be
a nuisance. The belt even rubs  a  raw  place  on  my  hip  after  a  while.
Normally, I prefer Frakir and improvisation. However . . .
     This,  I  was willing to admit, might be a good time to be holding one.
For now I heard  bellowslike  hissing  sounds  and  scrambling  noises  from
somewhere outside and to my left.
     I  extended through Shadow, seeking a blade. I extended, I extended . .
.
     Damn. I had come far from any metalworking culture of  the  appropriate
anatomy and at the proper phase in its historical development.
     I  continued  to  reach, sweat suddenly beading my brow. Far, very far.
And the sounds came nearer, louder, faster. There came  rattling,.  stamping
and spitting noises. A roar. Contact!
     I felt the haft of the weapon in my hand. Seize and summon! I called it
to me,  and  I  was  thrown against the wall by the force of its delivery. I
hung there a moment before I could draw it from the sheath in which  it  was
still encased. In that moment, things grew silent outside.
     I waited ten seconds. Fifteen. Half a minute . . . Nothing now.
     I  wiped  my  palms  on  my trousers. I continued to listen. Finally, I
advanced.
     There was nothing immediately before the opening save a light fog,  and
as the peripheral lines of sight opened there was still nothing to behold.
     Another step . . . No.
     Another.  I was right at the threshold now. I leaned forward and darted
a quick glance in either direction.
     Yes. There was something off to  the  left-dark,  low,  unmoving,  half
masked by the fog. Crouched? Ready to spring at me?
     Whatever  it  was, it did not stir and it kept total silence. I did the
same. After a time, I noticed another dark form of the same general  outline
beyond  it-and  possibly  a third even farther away. None of them showed any
inclination to raise the sort of hell I had ' been listening to but  minutes
before.
     I continued my vigil.
     Several  minutes must have passed before I stepped outside. Nothing was
roused by my movement. I took another step and waited. Then another.
     Finally, moving slowly, I approached the first  form.  An  ugly  brute,
covered  with  scales  the color of dried blood. A couple of hundred pounds'
worth of creature, long and sinuous . . . Nasty teeth, too, I noted, when  I
opened its mouth with the point of my weapon. I knew it was safe to do this,
because  its  head was almost completely severed from the rest of it. A very
clean cut. A yellow-orange liquid still flowed from the wound.
     And I could see from where I  stood  that  the  other  two  forms  were
creatures of the same sort. In all ways. They were dead, too. The second one
I  examined  had been run through several times and was missing one leg. The
third had been hacked to pieces. All of them oozed, and they smelled faintly
of cloves.
     I inspected the well-trampled area. Mixed in with  that  strange  blood
and  the  dew  were  what  seemed  to  be the partial impressions of a boot,
human-scale. I sought farther and I came across one intact footprint. It was
pointed back in the direction from which I had come.
     My pursuer? S, perhaps? The one who had called off the dogs? Coming  to
my aid?
     I  shook  my  head. I was tired of looking for sense where there wasn't
any. I continued to search, but there were no more full tracks.  I  returned
to the cleft then and picked up my blade's sheathe. I fitted the weapon into
it and hung it from my belt. I fastened it over my shoulders so that it hung
down  my  back.  The  hilt  would  protrude  just above my backpack once I'd
shouldered that item. I couldn't see how I could jog with it at my side.
     I ate some bread and the rest of the meat. Drank some water, too, and a
mouthful of wine. I resumed my journey.
     I ran much of the next day - though "day" is something  of  a  misnomer
beneath  unchanging  stippled skies, checkered skies, skies lit by perpetual
pinwheels and fountains of light. I ran until I was tired, and I rested  and
ate  and  ran  some  more. I rationed my food, for I'd a feeling I'd have to
send far for more and such an act places its own  energy  demands  upon  the
body.  I  eschewed shortcuts, for flashy shadows spanning hellruns also have
their price and I did not want to be all  whacked  out  when  I  arrived.  I
checked  behind  me  often. Usually, I saw nothing suspicious. Occasionally,
though, I thought that I glimpsed distant pursuit. Other  explanations  were
possible, however; considering some of the tricks the shadows can play.
     I  ran  until  I  knew that.I was finally nearing my destination. There
came no new  disaster  followed  by  an  order  to  turn  back.  I  wondered
fleetingly  whether this was a -good sign, or if the worst were yet to come.
Either way, I knew that one more sleep and a little  more  journeying  would
put  me where I wanted to be. Add a little caution and a few precautions and
there might even be reason for optimism.
     I ran through a vast, forestlike stand of crystalline  shapes.  Whether
they  were  truly living things or represented some geological phenomenon; I
did not know. They  distorted  perspectives  and  made  shifting  difficult.
However, I saw no signs of living things in that glossy, glassy place, which
led me to consider making my final campsite there.
     I  brake off a number of the limbs and drove them into the pink ground,
which had the consistency of partly set  putty.  I  constructed  a  circular
palisade  standing to about shoulder-height, myself at its center. I unwound
Frakir from my wrist then voiced the necessary instructions as I  paced  her
atop my rough and shining wall.
     Frakir  elongated,  stretching  herself as thin as a thread and twining
among the shardlike branches. I felt safe. I did not believe anything  could
cross  that  barrier without Frakir's springing loose and twining herself to
deathly tightness about it.
     I spread my cloak, lay down, and slept. For how long, I am not certain.
And I recall no dreams. There were no disturbances either.
     When I woke I moved my head to reorient it, but the view was the  same.
In  every  direction  but  down  the view was filled with interwoven crystal
branches. I climbed slowly to my feet and pressed against them. Solid.  They
had become a glass cage.
     Although  I  was  able  to  break  off some lesser branches, these were
mainly from overhead, and it did nothing to work my release. Those  which  I
had  planted  initially had thickened considerably, having apparently rooted
themselves solidly. They would not yield to my strongest kicks.
     The damned thing infuriated me. I swung my blade and glassy chips  flew
all  about.  I  muffled  my  face with my cloak then and swung several times
more. Then I noticed that my hand felt wet. When I looked at it, I saw  that
it  was  running  with  blood.  Some  of  those splinters were very sharp. I
desisted with the blade and returned to kicking at my enclosure.  The  walls
creaked occasionally aid made chiming noises, but they held.
     I am not normally claustrophobic and my life was not in imminent peril,
but something  about this shining prison annoyed me out of all proportion to
the situation itself. I raged for perhaps ten minutes before I forced myself
to sufficient calmness that I might think clearly.
     I studied the tangle until I discerned the uniform color and texture of
Frakir running through it. I placed my fingertips  upon  her  and  spoke  an
order.  Her  brightness  increased.  and  she  ran  through the spectrum and
settled into a red glow The first creaking  sound  occurred  a  few  seconds
later.
     I  quickly  withdrew  to the center of the enclosure and wrapped myself
fully in my cloak. If I crouched, I decided; some  of  the  overhead  pieces
would  fall  a  greater  distance,  striking  me with more force. So I stood
upright, protecting my head and neck with my arms and hands as well as  with
the cloak.
     The  creaking  sounds  became  cracking  sounds,  followed by rattling,
snapping, breaking. I  was  suddenly  struck  across  the  shoulder,  but  I
maintained my footing.
     Ringing  and  crunching,  the edifice began to fall about me. I held my
ground, though I was struck several times more.
     When the sounds ceased and I looked again I saw that the roof had  been
removed,  and  I stood calf deep amid fallen branches of the hard, corallike
material. Several of the side members had splintered off at near  to  ground
level.  Others now stood at unnatural angles, and this time a few wellplaced
kicks brought them down.
     My cloak was torn in a number of places, and Frakir coiled now about my
left ankle and began to migrate to my wrist. 'The stuff  crunched  underfoot
as I departed.
     I  shook  out  my  cloak and brushed myself off. I traveled for perhaps
half an hour then, leaving the place far behind me, before I halted and took
my breakfast in a hot, bleak valley smelling faintly of sulfur.
     As I was finishing, I heard a  crashing  noise.  A  horned  and  tusked
purple  thing  went racing along the ridge to my right pursued by a hairless
orange-skinned creature with long claws and a forked tail. Both were wailing
in different keys.
     I nodded. It was just one damned thing after another.
     I made my way through frozen lands and burning lands, under skies  both
wild  and  placid.  Then  at  last, hours later, I saw the low range of dark
hills, and aurora streaming upward from behind them. That was it.  I  needed
but  approach  and  pass through and I would see my goal beyond the last and
most difficult barrier of all.
     I moved ahead. It would be good to finish this job and get on with more
important matters. I would trump back to Amber when I  was  finished  there,
rather  than  retracing  my  steps.  I  could  not  have  trumped  in  to my
destination, though, because the place could not be represented on a card.
     In that I was jogging, I first thought that the vibrations were my own.
I was disabused of this notion when small pebbles began  to  roll  aimlessly
about the ground before me. Why not?
     I'd  been  hit with just about everything else. It was as if my strange
nemesis were working down through a checklist  and  had  just  now  come  to
"Earthquake."  All  right.  At  least there was nothing high near at hand to
fall on me.
     "Enjoy yourself, you son of a bitch!" I called out. "One day real  soon
it won't be so funny!"
     As  if  in response the shaking grew more violent, and I had to halt or
be thrown from my feet. As I watched; the ground began to subside in places,
tilt in still others. I looked about quickly, trying to  decide  whether  to
advance,  retreat,  or stay put. Small fissures had begun to open, and now I
could hear a growling, grinding sound.
     The earth  dropped  abruptly  beneath  me-perhaps  six  inches-and  the
nearest  crevices  widened.  I turned and began sprinting back the way I had
come. The ground seemed less disturbed there.
     A mistake perhaps. A particularly violent tremor followed, knocking  me
from  my  feet.  Before  I could rise a large crack appeared within reaching
distance. It continued to widen even as I watched.  I  sprang  to  my  feet,
leapt   across   it,  stumbled,  rose  again,  and  beheld  another  opening
riftwidening more rapidly than the one I had been fleeing.
     I sprang once more, onto a tilting tabletop of land. The ground  seemed
torn  everywhere  now  with  the  dark  lightning  strokes of rifts, heaving
themselves open widely to the accompaniment of awful groans and screechings.
Big sections of ground slipped from sight into abysses. My small island  was
already going.
     I  leaped  again, and again, trying to make it over to what appeared to
be a more stable area.
     I didn't quite manage it. I missed my footing and fell. But  I  managed
to  catch hold of the edge. I dangled a moment then and began to draw myself
upward. The edge began to crumble. I clawed at it and caught a  fresh  hold.
Then I dangled again, coughing and cursing.
     I  sought  for  footholds in the. clayey wall against which I -hung. It
yielded somewhat beneath the thrusting of my boots and I  dug  in,  blinking
dirt from my eyes, trying for
     a  firmer hold overhead. I could feel Frakir loosening, tightening into
a small loop, one end free and flowing over my knuckles, hopefully to locate
something sufficiently firmset to serve as an anchor.
     But no. My lefthand hold gave way again. I  clung  with  my  right  and
groped  for  another.  Loose  earth fell about me .as I failed, and my right
hand was beginning to slip.
     Dark shadow above me, through dust and swimming eyes.
     My right hand fell loose. I thrust with my legs for another try.
     My right wrist was clasped as it sped upward and forward once again.  A
big  hand  with  a  powerful  grip  held me. Moments later, it was joined by
another and I was drawn upward, quickly, smoothly. I was over the  edge  and
seeking my footing in an instant. My wrist was released. I wiped my eyes.
     "Luke!"
     He  was dressed in green, and blades must not have bothered him the way
they do me, for a good-sized one hung at his right side.  He  seemed  to  be
using a rolled cloak for a backpack, and he wore its clasp like a decoration
upon his left breast-an elaborate thing, a golden bird of some son.
     "This way," he said, turning, and I followed him.
     He  led  me  a  course back and to the left, tangent to the route I had
taken on entering the valley. The footing grew steadier as we  hurried  that
way,  mounting at last a low hill that seemed completely out of range in the
disturbance. Here we paused to look back.
     "Come no farther!" a great voice boomed from that direction.
     "Thanks, Luke," I panted. "I don't know how you're here or why but-"
     He raised a hand.
     "Right now I just want to know one thing," he said, rubbing at a  short
beard  he seemed to have grown in an amazingly brief time, and causing me to
note that he was wearing the ring with the blue stone.
     "Name it," I told him.
     "How come whatever it was that just spoke has your voice?" he asked.
     "Uh-oh. I knew it sounded familiar."
     "Come on!" he said. "You must know. Every time you're threatened and it
warns you back it's your voice that I hear doing it-echolike."
     "How long have you been following me, anyhow?"
     "Quite a distance."
     "Those dead creatures outside the cleft where I' d camped-'
     "I took them out for you. Where are you going, and what is that thing?"
     "Right now I have only suspicions as to exactly what's  going  on,  and
it's  a  long  story.  But  the  answer should lie beyond that next range of
hills."
     I gestured toward the aurora.
     He stared off in that direction, then nodded.
     "Let's get going," he said.
     "There is an earthquake in progress," I observed,. . .
     "It seems pretty much confined to this valley," he stated. "We can  cut
around it and proceed."
     "And quite possibly encounter its continuance."
     He shook his head.
     "It  seems  to  me," he said, "that whatever it is that's trying to bar
your way exhausts itself after each  effort  and  takes  quite  a  while  to
recover sufficiently to make another attempt."
     "But  the  attempts  are  getting  closer together," I noted, "and more
spectacular each time."
     "Is it because we're getting closer to their source?" he asked.
     "Possibly."
     "Then let's hurry."
     We descended the far side of the hill, then went up and  down  another.
The  tremors, by that time, had already subsided to an occasional shuddering
of the ground and shortly these, too, ceased.
     We made our way into and along another valley, which for a while headed
us far to the right of our goal, then  curved  gently  back  in  the  proper
direction,  toward the final range of barren hills, lights flickering beyond
them against the low, unmoving base of a cloudlike line  of  white  under  a
mauve to violet sky. No fresh perils were presented.
     "Luke,"  I  asked  after  a  time, "what happened on the mountain, that
night in New Mexico?"
     "I had to go away - fast," he answered.
     "What about Dan Martinez's body?"
     "Took it with me."
     "Why?"
     "I don't like leaving evidence lying about."
     "That doesn't really explain much."
     "I know," he said, and he broke into a jog. I paced him.
     "And you know who I am," I continued.
     "Yes."
     "How?"
     "Not now," he said. "Not now."
     He increased his pace. I matched it. "And why were you following me?"
     "I saved your ass, didn't I?"
     "Yeah, and I'm grateful. But it still doesn't answer the question."
     "Race you to that leaning stone," he said, and he put  on  a  burst  of
speed.
     I  did,  too,  and  I  caught  him. Try as I could I couldn't pass him,
though. And we were breathing too hard by then to ask or answer questions.
     I pushed myself, ran faster. He did, too, keeping up. The leaning stone
was still a good distance off. We stayed side by side and I saved my reserve
for the final sprint. It was crazy, but I'd run against him too.many  times.
It  was almost a matter of habit by now. That, and the old curiosity. Had he
gotten a little faster? Had I? Or a little slower?
     My arms pumped, my  feet  thudded.  I  got  control  of  my  breathing,
maintained it in an appropriate rhythm. I edged a little ahead of him and he
did nothing about it. The stone was suddenly a lot nearer.
     We  held our distance for perhaps half a minute, and then he cut loose.
He was abreast of me, he was past me. Time to dig in.
     I drove my legs faster. The blood thudded in my ears. I sucked air  and
pushed with everything I had. The distance between us began to narrow again.
The leaning rock was looking bigger and bigger . . .
     I  caught him before we reached it, but try as I might I could not pull
ahead. We raced past it side by side and collapsed together.
     "Photo finish," I gasped.
     "Got to call it a tie," he paused. "You always surprise me-right at the
end."
     I groped out my water bottle and passed it to him. He took a  swig  and
handed it back. We emptied it that way, a little at a time.
     "Damn,"  he  said  then,  getting slowly to his feet. "Let's see what's
over those hills."
     I got up and went along.
     When I finally recovered my breath the first thing  I  said  was,  "You
seem to know a hell of a lot more about me than I do about you."
     "I think so," he said after a long pause, "and I wish I didn't."
     "What does that mean?"
     "Not  now,"  he  replied.  "Later. You don't read War and Peace on your
coffee break."
     "I don't understand."
     "Time," he said. "There's always either too much time  or  not  enough.
Right now there's not enough."
     "You've lost me."
     "Wish I could."
     The hills were nearer and the ground remained firm beneath our feet. We
trudged steadily onward.
     I  thought  of  Bill's guesswork, Random's suspicions, and Meg Devlin's
warning. I also thought of that round of strange  ammunition  I'd  found  in
Luke's jacket.
     "That  thing  we're  heading  toward,"  he said, before I could frame a
fresh question of my own. "That's your Ghostwheel, isn't it?"
     "Yes."
     He laughed. Then: "So you were telling the truth back in Santa Fe  when
you told me it required a peculiar environment. What you didn't say was that
you'd found that environment and built the thing there."
     I nodded. "What about your plans for a company?" I asked him.
     "That was just to get you to talk about it."
     "And  what  about  Dan  Martinez-the  things he said?" "I don't know. I
really didn't know him. I still don't know what he wanted, or why he came at
us shooting."
     "Luke, what is it that you want, anyhow?"
     "Right now I just want  to  see  that  damned  thing,"  he  said.  "Did
building  it  out  here  in  the  boonies endow it with some sort of special
properties?"
     "Yes."
     "Like what?"
     "Like a few I didn't even think of - unfortunately," I answered.
     "Name one."
     "Sorry," I said. "Question and answer is a two-way game."
     "Hey, I'm the guy who just pulled you out of a hole in the ground."
     "I gather you're also the guy who tried to kill me on a bunch of  April
thirtieths."
     "Not recently," he said. "Honest."
     "You mean you really did?"
     "Well . . . yeah. But I had reasons. It's a long story and-"
     "Jesus, Luke! Why? What did I ever do to you?"
     "It's not that simple," he answered.
     We reached the base of the nearest hill and he started climbing it.
     "Don't," I called to him. "You can't go over."
     He halted.
     "Why not?"
     "The atmosphere ends thirty or forty fit up."
     "You're kidding."
     I shook my head.
     "And it's worse on the other side," I added. "We have to find a passage
through. There's one farther to the left."
     I turned and headed in that direction. Shortly, I heard his footfalls.
     "So you gave it your voice," he said.
     "So?"
     "So  I  see  what  you're  up  to and what's been going on. It's become
sentient in that crazy place you built it. It went wild, and you're  heading
to shut it down. It knows it and it's got the power to do something about it
- It's  your  Ghostwheel  that's  been trying to get you to turn back, isn't
it?"
     "Probably "
     "Why didn't you just trump in?"
     "You can't construct a Trump for a place that keeps changing.  What  do
you know about Trumps, anyway?"
     "Enough," he said.
     I saw the passage I was seeking up ahead.
     I approached the place and I halted before I entered it.
     "Luke," I said, "I don't know what you want or why or how you got here,
and you  don't  seem to care to tell me. I will tell you something for free,
though. This could be very dangerous. Maybe you ought to go back to wherever
you came from and let me handle it.  There's  no  reason  to  place  you  in
jeopardy."
     "I think there is," he said. "Besides, I might be useful."
     "How?"
     He shrugged.
     "Let's get on with it, Merlin. I want to see that thing."
     "Okay. Come on."
     I led the way into the narrow place where the stone had been riven.



CHAPTER, 10


     The   passage  was  long  and  dark  and  occasionally  tight,  growing
progressively colder as we advanced, but at length we emerged onto the wide,
rocky shelf that faced the steaming pit. There was an  ammonialike  odor  in
the air, and my feet were cold and my face flushed, as usual. I blinked hard
several times, studying the latest outlines of the maze through the shifting
mist.  A  pearl-gray  pall  hung  over  the entire area. Intermittent orange
flashes penetrated the gloom.
     "Uh-where is it?" Luke inquired.
     I gestured straight ahead, toward the site of the latest flicker.
     "Out there," I told him.
     Just then, the mists were swept away, revealing isle upon isle of dark,
smooth ridges separated by black declivities. The ridges zigged  and  zagged
their  way  out  toward  a fortresslike island, a low wall running about it,
several metallic structures visible beyond.
     "It's a maze," he remarked. "Do we travel it down in the passages or up
on top of the walls?"
     I smiled as he studied it.
     "It varies," I said. "Sometimes up and sometimes down."
     "Well, which way do we go?"
     "I don't know yet. I have to study it each  time.  You  see,  it  keeps
changing, and there's a trick to it."
     "A trick?" ,.
     "Mere than one, actually. The whole damn thing is floating on a lake of
liquid hydrogen and helium. The maze moves around. It's different each time.
And then  there's  a  matter  of the atmosphere. If you were to walk upright
along the ridges you would be above it in most  places.  You  wouldn't  last
long.  And  the temperature ranges from horribly cold to roasting hot over a
range of a few feet in elevation. You have to know when to crawl and when to
climb and when to do other things - as well as which way to go."
     "How do you tell?"
     "Un-uh," I said. "I'll take you in, but I'm not giving you the secret."
     The mists began to rise again from the depths and to collect into small
clouds.
     "I see now why you can't make a Trump for it," he began.
     I continued to study the layout.
     "All right," I said then. "This way."
     "What if it attacks us while we're in the maze?" he asked.
     "You can stay behind if you want."
     "No. Are you really going to shut it down?"
     "I'm not sure. Come on."
     I took several steps ahead and to the right. A faint  circle  of  light
appeared  in  the  air  before me; grew brighter. I felt Luke's hand upon my
shoulder.
     "What-?" he began.
     "No farther!" the voice I now recognized as my own said to me.
     "I think we can work something out," I responded. "I have several ideas
and-"
     "No!" it answered. "I heard what Random said."
     "I am prepared to disregard his order;" I said, "if there is  a  better
alternative."
     "You're trying to trick me. You want to shut me down."
     "You're  making  things  worse  with all these power displays," I said.
"I'm coming in now and-"
     " No!"
     A heavy gust of wind blew out of the circle and struck  against  me:  I
was  staggered  by  it. I saw my sleeve turn brown, then orange. It began to
fray even as I watched.
     "What are you doing? I have to talk to you, explain-"
     "Not here! Not now! Never!"
     I was hurled back against Luke, who caught me, dropping to one knee  as
he  did  so.  An  arctic blast assailed us and icy crystals danced before my
eyes. Bright colors began to flash then, half blinding me.
     "Stop!" I cried, but nothing did.
     The ground seemed to tilt beneath us and suddenly there was no  ground.
It  did  not  feel as if we were falling, however. It seemed rather as if we
hung suspended in the midst of a blizzard of light.
     "Stop!" I called out once again, but the words were swept away.
     The circle of light vanished, as if retreating down a  long  tunnel.  I
realized,  however, through the sensory overload, that it was Luke and I who
were receding from the light, that we  had  already  been  blasted  a  great
enough  distance to drive us halfway through the hill. But there was nothing
solid in any direction about us.
     A faint buzzing sound began. It grew into a humming, then a dull  roar.
In  the  distance,  I  seemed  to  see a tiny steam locomotive negotiating a
mountainside at an  impossible  angle,  then  an  upside-down  waterfall,  a
skyline beneath green waters. A park bench passed us quickly, a blue-skinned
woman seated upon it, clutching at it, a horrified expression on her face.
     I  dug  frantically  within my pocket, knowing we might be destroyed at
any moment.
     "What," Luke screamed into my ear, his grip now almost  dislocating  my
arm, "is it?" .
     "Shadow-storm!" I cried back. "Hang on!" I added unnecessarily.
     A  batlike  creature was blown into my face, was gone an instant later,
leading a wet slash upon my right cheek. Something struck  against  my  left
foot.
     An  inverted  mountain range flowed past us, buckling and rippling. The
roaring increased in volume. The light seemed to pulse by us  now,  in  wide
bands  of color, touching us with a near-physical force. Heat lamps and wind
chimes...
     I heard Luke cry out as if he had been struck, but I was unable to turn
to his aid. We traversed a region of lightninglike  flashes  where  my  hair
stood on end and my skin ringled.
     I gripped the packet of cards within my pocket and withdrew it. At this
point  we were beginning to spin and I was afraid they would be torn from my
hand. I held them tightly, fearing to sort through them, keeping them  close
to  my  body. I drew them upward slowly, carefully. Whichever one lay on top
would have to be our exit.
     Dark bubbles formed and broke about us, discharging noxious fumes.
     I saw, as I raised my hand,  that  my  skin  was  gray  in  appearance,
sparkling   with   fluorescent  swirls.  Luke's  hand  upon  my  arm  looked
cadaverous, and when I glanced back at him a grinning death's  head  met  my
gaze.
     I  looked  away,  turned my attention back to the cards. It was hard to
focus my vision, through the grayness, through a peculiar distancing effect.
But it finally came clear: It was the grassy spit of land  I  had  regarded-
how  long  ago?  - quiet waters about it, the edge of something- crystalline
and bright jutting into view off toward the right.
     I held it within my attention. Sounds from beyond my shoulder indicated
that Luke was trying to address me, but I could not distinguish his words. I
continued to regard the Trump  and  it  grew  clearer.  But  slowly,  slowly
Something  struck  me  hard,  below  the right side of my rib cage. I forced
myself to ignore it and continued to concentrate.
     At last the scene on the card  seemed  to  move  toward.  me,  to  grow
larger.  There  was  a  familiar  sense  of  coldness to it now as the scene
engulfed me and I it. An almost elegiac feeling of stillness hung over  that
little lake.
     I  fell forward into the grass, my heart pounding, my side throbbing. I
was gasping, and the subjective sense of worlds  rushing  by  me  was  still
present, like the afterimages of highways upon closing one's eyes at the end
of a long day's drive.
     Smelling sweet water, I passed out.
     I  was  vaguely aware of being dragged, carried, then helped, stumbling
along. 'There followed a spell of full unconsciousness,  shading  over  into
sleep and dreaming.
     .  .  .I walked the streets of a ruined Amber beneath a lowering sky. A
crippled angel with a fiery sword stalked the heights  above  me,  slashing.
Wherever  its  blade  fell,  smoke, dust, and flame rose up. Its halo was my
Ghostwheel, pouring forth mighty winds ridden by abominations that  streamed
past  the  angel's  face like a dark, living veil, working disorder and ruin
wherever they fell. The palace was half collapsed, and  there  were  gibbets
nearby  where  my  relatives hung, twisting in the gusts. I'd a blade in one
hand and Frakir dangled from the other. I was climbing now, going up to meet
and do battle with the bright-dark nemesis. An awful feeling lay upon me  as
I mounted my rocky way, as if my imminent failure was a thing foregone. Even
so, I decided, the creature was going to leave here with wounds to lick.
     It  took  note  of me as I drew near, turning in my direction. Its face
was still hidden as it raised its weapon. I rushed forward, regretting  only
that  I  had  not  had  time to envenom my blade. I spun twice as I went in,
feinting, to strike somewhere in the vicinity of its left knee.
     There followed a flash of light and I was  falling,  falling,  bits  of
flame  descending  about  me,  like  a  burning blizzard. I fell so for what
seemed an age and a half, coming to
     rest at last upon my back atop a large stone table marked  out  like  a
sundial,  its  stylus barely missing impaling mewhich seemed crazy even in a
dream. There were no sundials
     in the Courts of Chaos, for there is no sun there. I was located at the
edge of a courtyard beside a high, dark tower, and I found myself unable  to
move, let alone rise. Above me, my mother, Dara, stood upon a low balcony in
her natural form, looking down at me in her awful power and beauty.
     "Mother!" I cried. "Free me!"
     "I have sent one to help you," she answered.
     "And what of Amber?"
     "I do not know."
     "And my father?"
     "Speak not to me of the dead."
     The  stylus  turned  slowly; positioned itself above my throat; began a
gradual but steady descent.
     "Help me!" I cried. "Hurry!"
     "Where are you?" she called out, head turning, eyes daring. "Where have
you gone?"
     "I'm still here!" I yelled.
     "Where are you?"
     I felt the stylus touch the side of my neck-
     The vision broke and fell apart.
     My shoulders were propped against something unyielding,  my  legs  were
stretched  out  before  me.  Someone had just squeezed my shoulder, the hand
brushing against my neck.
     "Merle, you okay? Want a drink?" a familiar voice was, asking.
     I took a deep breath and sighed it out. I blinked  several  times.  The
light  was  blue,  the  world a field of lines and angles. A dipper of water
appeared before my mouth.
     "Here." It was Luke's voice.
     I drank it all.
     "Want another?"
     "Yes."
     "Just a minute."
     I felt his weight shift, heard his footsteps  recede.  I  regarded  the
diffusely illuminated wall six or seven feet before me.
     I ran my hand along the floor. It seemed to be of the same material.
     Shortly, Luke returned, smiling, and passed me the dipper. I drained it
and handed it back.
     "Want more?" he asked.
     "No. Where are we?"
     "In a cave - a big, pretty place."
     "Where'd you get the water?"
     "In a side cavern, up that way." He gestured. "Several barrels of it in
there. Also lots of food. Want something to eat?"
     "Not yet. Are you okay?"
     "Kind  of  beat,"  he  replied, "but intact. You don't seem to have any
broken bones, and that cut on your face has stopped bleeding."
     "That's something, anyway," I said.
     I climbed slowly to my feet; the final strands  of  dreams  withdrawing
slowly  as  I  rose. I saw then that Luke had turned and was walking away. I
followed him for several paces before I thought to inquire, "Where  are  you
going?"
     "In there," he answered, pointing with the dipper.
     I  followed  him  through an opening in the wall and into a cold cavern
about the size of my old apartment's living room. Four large wooden  barrels
stood  along the wall to my left, and Luke proceeded to hang the dipper upon
the upper edge of the nearest. Against the far wall  were  great  stacks  of
cartons and piles of sacks.
     "Canned   goods,"   he  announced.  "Fruit;  vegetables,  ham,  salmon,
biscuits, sweets. Several cases of wine. A Coleman stove. Plenty of  Stereo.
Even a bottle or two of cognac."
     He turned and brushed quickly past me, headed on up the hall again.
     "Now where?" I asked.
     But  he  was moving fast and did not reply. I had to hurry to catch up.
We passed several  branches  and  openings  before  he  halted  at  another,
nodding.
     "Latrine  in  there. Just a hole with some boards over it. Good idea to
keep it covered, I'd say."
     "What the hell is this?" I asked.
     He raised his hand. "It will all become clear in a minute. This way."
     He swung around a  sapphire  corner  and  vanished.  Almost  completely
disoriented, I moved in that direction. After several turns and one cutback,
I felt totally lost. Luke was nowhere in sight.
     I halted and listened. Not a sound except for my own breathing.
     "Luke! Where are you?" I called.
     "Up here," he answered.
     The  voice  seemed  to  be coming from overhead and somewhere off to my
right. I ducked beneath a low arch and came into a bright  blue  chamber  of
the  same  crystalline  substance as the rest of the place. I saw a sleeping
bag and a pillow in one comer. Light streamed in from a small opening  about
eight feet overhead.
     "Luke?" I asked again.
     "Here," came his reply.
     I  moved  to  position  myself  beneath the hole, squinting against the
brightness as I stared upward. Finally, I shaded my eyes.  Luke's  head  and
shoulders  was  limned  above  me, his hair a crown of coppery flame in what
could be the light of early morning or of evening. He was smiling again.
     "That, I take it, is the way out," I said.
     "For me," he answered.
     "What do you mean?"
     There followed a grating noise and the view was partly occluded by  the
edge of a large boulder.
     "What are you doing?"
     "Moving  this  stone  into  a  position  where  I can block the opening
quickly," he replied, "and stick in a few wedges afterward."
     "Why?"
     "There are  sufficient  tiny  openings  for  air  so  that  you  shan't
suffocate," he went on.
     "Great. Why am I here, anyway?"
     "Let's not get existential just now," he said. "This isn't a philosophy
seminar."
     "Luke! Damn it! What's going on?"
     "It  should  be  obvious that I'm making you a prisoner," he said. "The
blue crystal, by the way, will block any  Trump  sendings  and  negate  your
magical abilities that rely on things beyond the walls. I need you alive and
fangless for now, in a place where I can get to you in a hurry."
     I studied the opening and the nearby walls.
     "Don't try it," he said. "I have the advantage of position."
     "Don't you think you owe me an explanation?"
     He stared at me for a moment, then nodded.
     "I  have  to  go back," he said finally, "and try to get control of the
Ghostwheel. Any suggestions?"
     I laughed. "It's not on the best of terms with me at  the  moment.  I'm
afraid I can't help you."
     He  nodded  again.  "I'll  just  have to see what I can do. God, what a
weapon! If I can't swing it myself I'll have to  come  back  and  pick  your
brains for some ideas. You be thinking about it, okay?"
     "I'll be thinking about a lot of things, Luke. You're not going to like
some of them."
     "You're not in a position to do much."
     "Not yet," I said.
     He caught hold of the boulder, began to move it.
     "Luke!" I cried.
     He  paused, studied me, his expression changing to one I had never seen
before.
     "That's not really my name," he stated, after a moment.
     "What, then?"
     "I am your cousin Rinaldo," he said slowly. "I killed Caine, and I came
close with Bleys. I missed with the bomb at  the  funeral,  though.  Someone
spotted  me.  I  will  destroy  the  House  of  Amber  with  or without your
Ghostwheel - but it would make things a lot easier if I  had  that  kind  of
power."
     "What's your bitch, Luke? . . . Rinaldo? Why the vendetta?"
     "I  went  after  Caine  first," he continued, "because he's the one who
actually killed my father."
     "I-didn't know." I stared at the flash of the Phoenix  clasp  upon  his
breast. "I didn't know that Brand had a son," I finally said.
     "You  do  now, old buddy. That's another reason why I can't let you go,
and why I have to keep you in a place like this. Don't want you warning  the
others."
     "You're not going to be able to pull this off."
     He was silent for several seconds, then he shrugged.
     "Win or lose, I have to try."
     "Why April 30?" I said suddenly. "Tell me that."
     "It was the day I got the news of my dad's death."
     He  drew upon the boulder and it slid into the hole, blocking it fully.
There followed some brief hammerings.
     "Luke!"
     He did not answer. I could  see  his  shadow  through  the  translucent
stone.  After  a while it straightened, then dropped from sight. I heard his
boots strike the ground outside. "Rinaldo!"
     He did not answer and I heard his retreating footsteps.
     I count the days by the lightening and darkening of  the  blue  crystal
walls.  It has been over a month since my imprisonment, though I do not know
how slowly or rapidly time flows here in relation to other shadows.  I  have
paced  every  hall  and  chamber of this great cave, but I have found no way
out. My Trumps do not work here, not even the Trumps of Doom.  My  magic  is
useless  to  me, limited as it is by walls the color of Luke's ring. I begin
to feel that I might enjoy even the escape of  temporary  insanity,  but  my
reason  refuses  to surrender to it, there being too many puzzles to trouble
me: Dan Martinez, Meg Devlin, my Lady of the Lake . . . Why? And why did  he
spend  all  of  that  time in my company, Luke, Rinaldo, my enemy? I have to
find a way to warn the others. If he succeeds  in  turning  Ghostwheel  upon
them  then  Brand's  dream-my nightmare of vengeance-will be realized. I see
now that I have made many mistakes . . . Forgive me, Julia . . . I will pace
the measure of my confinement yet again. Somewhere there must be  a  gap  in
the  icy  blue  logic  that  surrounds  me, against which I hurl my mind, my
cries, my bitter laughter. Up this  hall,  down  the  tunnel.  The  blue  is
everywhere.  The  shadows  will  not  bear me away, for there are no shadows
here. I am Merlin the pent, son of Corwin the lost, and my  dream  of  light
has  been  turned  against me. I stalk my prison like my own ghost. I cannot
let it end this way. Perhaps the next tunnel, or the next...


