Extracts from the Journal of

Chapter VI
Amber, 113 PPF

Tacitum vivit sub pectore vulnus (A wound festers silently within his breast)

- Virgil

ord Mortlake? Are you awake? How do you feel?" "For the Unicorn's sake don't tell him he was babbling about his mother." "Round of golf, anyone?" I opened my eyes. It was another day in the Castle Infirmary. Or was it? I decided to check. "What day is it?" I enquired. "The same day as it was when you came in here," said the blonde vision with the stethoscope. She really did have amazing eyes. I looked around. No fairground, no graveyard, no Bleys. However, I had most definitely been sewn up and put to bed, my stomach wrapped in pristine new bandages. Things still looked a little strange, with implausible shapes moving in the corners of my vision, and I was sure that I could still hear carousel music somewhere, but from past experience the effects of the opiates should fade in another few hours. I also didn't hurt so much, but most importantly, the nightmare had returned to whatever part of my brain had originally spawned it. I sat up, grabbed the doctor by the shoulders and kissed her. "You got me out just in time," I said gratefully, "I don't think they were planning on stopping at the catgut and the eiderdown." She blinked, seemingly at a loss for words. I don't think Amber's medical staff get an awful lot of thanks for their job. "You'll tear your stitches," she eventually said. "Oh," I said, "Yes." I'd wondered why the pain had returned all of a sudden. I lay back, then sat up again. She rolled her eyes. Amberites make the worst patients, beating even doctors themselves for that distinction. "I can't stay here," I told her, "There's a war on." "Lord Mortlake," she said firmly, "It's going to be at least another three days before you're going to be up and about again. We've done all we can - the rest depends on you taking it easy." "Sorry," I said, fumbling for my clothes, "I'd love to stay, but perhaps I can take you out to dinner some time instead?" She blushed slightly. "It was Dr Aldari who did most of the work," she protested halfheartedly. "Ah," I said, finding my Trumps, "but you were the one who brought me through. And in any case ..." "I look lovely in rubber?" she suggested archly, and then gave up trying not to smile. It was like the sun coming out, only considerably less painful to look at. Also, the Council for Victory weren't firing things at her pearly white teeth, so maybe the simile could use a little more work. I was still a trifle weak from loss of blood, but I still managed to get through to Tamarind. "I need to go somewhere fast and magickal for an hour," I told him as he rejoined me. Fortunately he had just the thing, and I didn't have to bribe him with dinner as well. He concentrated on the Trump. I turned to my ministering angel. "I regret I cannot at this stage nominate a specific evening," I apologised, "Doctor ...?" "Mesmer," she said, "Antonia Mesmer." No wonder her eyes kept drawing my gaze. I suddenly felt very sleepy, although that might have more to do with the fact that I was still metabolising a large quantity of narcotics. "I think I once met your brother," I remarked, thinking back to Shadow Medmenham. She looked puzzled. "In a purely metaphysical manner of speaking," I added quickly, "Anyway, my eternal gratitude. I shall be in touch when the weather improves, if not before." I bent to kiss her hand, and she winced in sympathy as I straightened up again rather more slowly. "Try not to come back on a stretcher," she said dryly. Trump link established, Tamarind passed me through. "Make yourself at home," he said. Generous fellow. However, the entire point of the exercise was to get myself back into the fray as soon as possible, rather than to wait for Nature to get round to doing it for me. "Thank you," I said, "I'll Trump you as soon as I'm finished." He let go, and I found myself alone in an airy, spacious room furnished with the kind of rarefied tastefulness one expects of Tamarind, that stops just short of the effete. Myself, I tend towards something more formal and ornate, with an artfully applied dash of decadence, but this would do quite nicely. The fact that the place really was quite magickal helped, of course. A set of French windows opened onto a verandah, and beyond that lay a lake surrounded by gently rolling grassland dotted with carefully spaced groves of an arboreal nature. To achieve this kind of landscape you really do need a Pattern imprint; everyone else has to make do with Capability Brown and a lot of men with wheelbarrows. I made a brief tour of the dwelling - more of a villa, really - and found it uninhabited, apart from one or two lingering opium visions. "What do you want me to say?" I whispered, but she was gone again. I needed a drink. I cracked open a bottle of something that looked like port, but discovered it was more akin to a dry Bordeaux with an odd syrupy quality that left the aftertaste clinging to your tongue until it finally evaporated through your nostrils. Odd, but highly potable. I returned to the room in which I had arrived, seated myself in an armchair with a glass by my side, and began to weave myself a healing spell. An hour later I was tired but largely whole again. I finished the bottle, and then went in search of a pair of tweezers whilst pondering an improved healing spell that also expelled the stitches at the same time. While I was at it, I also borrowed a shirt from mine host, my previous one being at the laundry. I gave thanks, as I surveyed his wardrobe, for Beltaine's civilising influence. Once properly attired again, I cast The Gentleman's Toilette, removing the remaining traces of blood and soil, and finally getting rid of all the creases inflicted by those imbeciles in the hospital in Shadow. Then, and only then, did I Trump Tamarind. Tamarind, when I reached him, was in Arden. The clouds were low, thick and dark as I stepped through, although a faint but distinct white disc still glowered overhead. I can wait, it seemed to say. It was after noon, but it would still be a few hours before it set. Beneath the cloud cover, the air was warm and sultry like the promise of a monsoon. Arden was turning tropical. "Uncle Julian," I said brightly, turning to Tamarind's companion, "and how are you this fine sunny day?" I tried to picture him with a parrot on his arm instead of the omnipresent hawk. "Pieces of flesh," it would say. Hmm. The beauteous Antonia really had erred on the side of pharmaceutical generosity. "Damien," said Julian, in a tone usually reserved for elderly gentlemen donning a black cap on top of their wigs. He looked as if he was wondering how he could arrange for me to fall down a flight of hell hounds. "So," I said, much cheered by this encounter, "What have I missed?" I listened. Tamarind did the talking, since Julian had used up all the syllables he intended to waste on me this week. Tristan and Gerard were dealing with various parts of the blockading fleet, which had been staffed by fanatics who worshipped the Council for Victory as gods. There were also signs of a land blockade that Julian was currently investigating. Evander was now safely locked up, and the Castle defences were being reordered even as we spoke. Benedict had refused to assist, although Tristan was circulating "He is coming" messages in the hope that this would demoralise the opposition's forces more than it would subsequently demoralise our own when they found out he wasn't. Margot and Caleb were still unreachable, and now Esmée had been added to the list of the missing. My good mood evaporated. One would normally expect Margot to be able to look after herself, but against that she was a creature of duty like her father, and I found it hard to imagine her shirking a call to arms, or even putting herself in a position where she might do so inadvertently. Not unless she was in genuine trouble. On the other hand Caleb, the only man who can wear a rear-admiral's uniform as if he was going to a beach party, was perfectly capable of steering his entire flotilla out of Trump range just because someone had mentioned in passing that they'd heard of quite a good point break in the next Shadow but one. But it seemed a little odd that he should do so now. The timing was a little off, sufficiently so to warrant the application of Mortlake's Law of Happenstance: If it's convenient, then it's luck; if it's neutral, then it's coincidence; if it's inconvenient, then someone is going to be sorry. I came up with number three. Especially if they'd done something to Esmée. I elected to return to Amber to try and locate our missing cousins, starting with Esmée herself. Given that Caleb would have been in Shadow and Margot in Arden, it made sense to begin with the person normally resident in Amber itself, and who would thus be easiest to track. Which was just as well, since I would have begun with her anyway. "While I'm at it," I added, bringing out my Trump of the Amber Courtyard, "I'll try and find out what we've been doing for the past two days." If anybody had any sense, then every sighting and every movement of Tristan, Ibrahim and the rest of us since we disappeared should have been catalogued, cross-referenced and indexed by now. But sometimes one has to temper hope with reason, the better to avoid disappointment. "And I owe you a bottle of wine," I informed Tamarind as I disappeared. The guards in the courtyard looked at me suspiciously as I materialised. I indicated my apparel. "You expect me to wear a red armband with this?" I demanded. They relaxed. This was proof enough that I was who I appeared to be. I headed for Esmée's rooms via the armoury, where I helped myself to a heavy, compact repeating crossbow that could put a bolt through six inches of oak at two hundred paces and at short range would also go through the man in plate armour standing on the other side. The action on the lever was agreeably smooth as well. Next I needed some ammunition. The armourer listened as I laid out my requirements. "Try these, your lordship," he said, proffering a stubby quarrel with an oddly grooved point, "Prince Julian uses them for big game." They were, literally, hollow-point crossbow bolts. The grooves were lines of weakness along which the steel would fracture as the point imploded, the energy of the impact causing the fragments to radiate out into the surrounding flesh, whilst leaving a jagged remnant that would act like a barb if any attempt was made to remove it. If I was a manticore, I'd definitely want to call in sick after being shot by one of these things. I took a dozen. Now all I had to do was find something with which to fill up the hollow bits. So I Trumped Caine. He was sitting in a tavern when I reached him. All this watching the unfolding of contingency plans must be thirsty work. "The anti-shapeshifting poison," I said without preamble, "I need some." Caine patted his pockets theatrically. I tried not to roll my eyes. There is a difference between maintaining a polite fiction and simply being too smug for words. "Haven't needed this in ten years," he said, just to rub it in a little further as he handed over a small phial containing something yellow and viscous. I examined it carefully. "How long does it remain potent after exposure to air?" I enquired. "Half an hour or so," said Caine idly, as if he hadn't systematically tested it down to the very second, "Which shapeshifter are you planning on assassinating?" "The ones who look like me, Tristan, Tamarind and Ibrahim," I informed him, "Obliged to you." He raised his flagon in salute, and the Trump link went down before I could break the contact myself. I acquired a cloth from the armourer and carefully wrapped my prize in it. The last thing I wanted to do was sit on the damn thing. While I was at it, I got something to wrap Brand's stone in as well. Pockets bulging and with a crossbow that left exit wounds slung over my shoulder, I hurried on up to Esmée's quarters. Please, please, please let her be at the hairdresser's. She wasn't, although that was about as much as her staff could tell me. They hadn't seen her in two days. "And you didn't think to tell anyone?" I demanded, disbelievingly. Esmée's lady-in-waiting, stylist and occasional shopping trolley glanced nervously at the crossbow sitting on the table. "She's always going away without telling us," she offered defensively. I was in no mood for people who hadn't read Hume on the fallacy of induction. "Fetch me her appointments diary." I snapped. Esmée acted as her own appointments secretary, and kept a moderately exact record of her social engagements, punctuated by annotations such as "Bah", "Yawn", "Cool" and "Nice buns, yum yum", depending on how they had gone. As I expected, she was being swept off her feet with preparations for the jubilee. Inbetween visits to the theatre, shopping trips, a picnic on Cabra, an aerobics class, and a dinner date with ... Who? No, she'd cancelled that one. My faith in my cousin's taste and intelligence remained intact. I pointed to another entry. "She had an appointment with Princess Florimel yesterday afternoon," I said, "So what happened when she didn't turn up?" The assembled retainers shuffled their feet. "We, um, got a note from Princess Florimel," admitted the lady-in-waiting, who looked as if she'd rather not be waiting at all, least of all here. "And?" I asked. "She wanted to know why Princess Esmée didn't turn up," was the reply. "And you still didn't tell anyone she was missing," I declared flatly. The lady-in-waiting - Amanda, I think her name was - looked round helplessly, while the others looked anywhere except at me. Either they were all shapeshifting impostors, or else Esmée was running a preferential employment programme for the willfully obtuse. And she was the one who used to tease me about the quality of my domestic employees. I handed Amanda a handkerchief. "Just tell me where she was and what she was doing when you saw her last," I said, forcing as much patience into my voice as I could. "She went down to the wine cellars to choose the wine list for the feast," said Amanda miserably, blowing her nose. The wine cellars. She went down to the wine cellars and never came back. There was nothing wrong with this picture that tearing it up and starting from scratch wouldn't fix. I looked around for something breakable that Esmée wouldn't miss, and couldn't see anything. I made a mental note to buy her something hideous that I could break it at a later date. I grabbed the crossbow, causing the cook to faint, and headed for the door. "Lord Mortlake," called Amanda, running after me, "She's going to be all right, isn't she?" I stopped and stared at the wallpaper. Pastels. That had to be it. No human can live amongst pastels for any length of time and hope to remain in compos mentis. I turned round. Amanda looked at me wanly. "Yes," I said gently, "She's going to be all right." Of course she was. I was going to find her. I left Esmée's household to brush up their résumés, and stalked back downstairs to the cellars. It is true that like most of the rest of us, Esmée is somewhat cavalier when it comes to keeping people apprised of her comings and goings. The slightest gap in her appointments book can be prised apart to take in a fashion show, a film festival, a party or a holiday, wherever the whim takes her. But never, ever does she just throw the diary aside and ignore it. Not even for me. "I only let Flora think that she runs the Castle," she once confided, with only a moderate amount of exaggeration. Not that I would ever dare suggest this to her face, but in one sense Esmée truly does take after her father. She takes her responsibilities very, very seriously. Well, fairly seriously. Most of the time, anyway. But no matter how I added it up, there was no conceivable way that she would jeopardise her central role in organising Amber's most important festival in centuries. Wild Morgensterns couldn't have dragged her away. Ergo, something worse than wild Morgensterns had happened to her. "You," I said, accosting the guards outside the cellars, "Did Princess Esmée come down here two days ago?" She had. I entered the cellars proper and repeated the question to the first attendant I came across. "Yes, your Lordship," he said, "She came in and went down to the deeper cellars, where we keep all the old and rare vintages. Yes sir, of course you know that, sir. No, I didn't see her leave again. I went off duty just after that." "Find everyone who was on duty that day," I said, "I want to know if and when she left, and who else arrived or left before or after she did. Then show me the last place you saw her." Five minutes later, I was standing in front of a hundred rows of a hundred wine racks, stretching away into the vaulted darkness. She'd come in here, and shortly afterwards so had Ibrahim. The time frame involved seemed to correspond roughly with our own disappearance or slightly before, but not so much that there seemed much likelihood of it having been the real Ibrahim. The attendants were running about trying to find out if anyone had seen either of them leave again. I adjusted the lantern and set off, looking for tracks. It didn't take me long to discover the tell-tale signs of Esmée's passing this way. An imprint in the dust like a lop-sided triangle, followed by a much smaller, horseshoe-shaped mark. Another similar print, and then another. Size five, four inch heel, length of stride indicating someone about five foot six inches tall, in no particular hurry. And who had been down here no more than forty-eight hours ago. I followed whence they led. Every so often the tracks would pause, and I could see where wine bottles had been dusted off and examined. I picked one at random for Tamarind, since I doubted that I'd have another opportunity to repay my debt in the immediate future, and then plunged on. There were also a few other, older tracks, probably left by the attendants themselves, and then a larger tread cut in from between two wine racks - male, tall, size ten, again about two days old. They were following Esmée's. My chest felt tight, and my recently healed wound started aching again. I was running now, trying to banish the image from my mind, of Esmée wandering through the darkness humming to herself, unaware of the thing that wore Ibrahim's face drifting along behind her, waiting for the moment to ... There was a smashed bottle at my feet, a puddle of dried wine, a swathe of disturbance in the dust where someone had fallen. And drag marks leading off round a corner. For a moment I couldn't move. The darkness ahead of me could hide anything, even things at which my worst opium-fueled nightmares would baulk. I didn't know what I'd do if the next thing the lantern revealed to me was her body. I forced myself forwards. The pool of light spilling before me uncovered more scuff marks, receding around the massive bulk of one of the supporting pillars. These were the depths of the cellars, where a corpse could lie undiscovered for weeks. The dust could be already settling on her; small scuttling things could be marching across her cold, stiff face. I took another step, and then another, each time expecting to be greeted by a limp, outstretched hand, a fan of blonde hair, a pair of violet eyes, glassy and unseeing. But the drag marks just led on, on round, and round ... and stopped. On the far side of the pillar, they just vanished. There were no further tracks of any kind. I don't think I've prayed since I was about eight. I was an atheist long before I moved in circles where it was fashionable. Even in Amber, with an apparently genuine object of veneration, I saw precious little reason to change my way of thinking - the Unicorn, whatever else it may be, is more of a mascot than a proper deity. But now, as I pounded back up towards the cellar entrance, I found myself running a simple, urgent litany through my head over and over again. Let her be alive, let her be all right, let me get her back. I hadn't noticed any blood, which meant that they had probably taken her alive. And she hadn't been in the Land of the Dead with the rest of us - her Trump would have given her presence away. I tried not to think why they might have wanted her. Just let her be alive, let her be all right, let me get her back. "No-one saw Princess Esmée or Prince Ibrahim leave," reported the attendants, and nor had anyone else come and gone for several hours subsequently. So the shapeshifter, having Trumped or otherwise spirited his captive away, had probably returned by some other route. The trail here was broken, and if I was ever going to piece it together again then I needed to know what Ibrahim's stand-in had been doing. I Trumped up to the arrival courtyard. The guards stiffened and then relaxed again. I wasn't wearing a red armband to distinguish myself from an impostor, therefore I was the real thing. I probably wasn't helping Tristan's security measures much, but then they hadn't exactly been fool-proof to begin with. The rainbow glimmer was barely fading around me when I felt the beginnings of an incoming Trump call. I opened up immediately. Esmée wasn't without her resources; she might well have escaped by now ... Tamarind seemed a little uncertain of how to proceed. "There's something I need to tell you," he said, "but not over a Trump link." My heart lurched, but then I realised that his demeanour was mainly one of concern. Not relief, not anguish. Just concern. Hence it could wait. Behind Tamarind I could see Tristan lighting a fire arrow, with the air of a conjurer limbering up as the drums rolled in the orchestra pit. "Likewise," I said shortly, "but I have things I need to find out. I'll call you back." He nodded and dropped the contact, just as Tristan loosed his missile into the air. I interrogated the captain in charge of Amber's first line of defence against people who stared too intently at a certain bit of coloured card. He did not recall Ibrahim putting in an appearance in the arrival courtyard within the period in question, although Tristan had turned up at one stage, some eight hours after Esmée had been taken. This was less than helpful. The possibility briefly occurred to me that our visitors could quite easily have kept themselves amused by swapping faces and identities throughout their two day sojourn. Certainly I would have been clamouring to be Ibrahim for a while if faced with Tristan's paperwork. Then I realised that no, they would have stuck to the identities they had initially assumed. No point in making the bluff any harder to maintain than it already was. So the faux Ibrahim had returned by other means. I wondered if it was too much to hope that he'd Trumped Esmée away and then returned on foot. That way I might be able to backtrack his route. The real Ibrahim was not in his office when I arrived there, but at least he had been making himself useful. Known Movements of Hostiles Recently Impersonating Princes Ibrahim and Tristan - Preliminary Findings, read the title of a report on his desk. I grabbed it and settled into Ibrahim's chair, ignoring the scowl of his aide. I noted, as I scoured the pages for the information I wanted, that contrary to initial reports, neither myself nor Tamarind had been seen in Amber during our absence. Only Tristan and Ibrahim had been deemed worthy of impersonation. I shrugged this off. Those in positions most relevant to the enemy's plans had been targeted; had they been planning an art theft, on the other hand, things might have been different. Ah, there it was. Ibrahim had been seen to return to the castle via the main gate some five hours after Esmée had been abducted, and the previous sighting to that had been prior to his arrival in the cellars. I had been right. There was, potentially, a physical trail to follow. I shuffled out my Trumps preparatory to rounding people up for a conference, but then Tamarind beat me to it. I brought him through along with Tristan and Ibrahim, all of them sporting the red armbands that shapeshifters were somehow supposed to be unable to mimic. Tristan seemed somewhat pleased with himself. "You seem to have abducted Esmée," I informed Ibrahim. "I abducted ... what?" he managed. I briskly set out my findings, and gave them a summary of the report. "I want your doppelganger's movements backtracked," I said, "I want to know where he returned from after he took her. And we need people tracing Margot's and Caleb's last movements as well." Ibrahim took my pre-emptory tone in good stead, and immediately set about dispatching people to make the requisite enquiries. "By the way," said Tamarind, "Bleys has been in contact with Random." I almost fell out of the chair. He explained that he had noted simultaneous activity in both Bleys' and Random's Trumps, and that Tristan, upon Trumping Random himself, had been able to confirm that such a conversation had indeed taken place. No wonder Tristan had practically skipped through the Trump link. I didn't need this. I really didn't need this. "Is Random all right?" I asked instinctively. I suppose I could have meant any number of things by that. "Of course," said Tristan, responding to at least one of the possible interpretations, although which one I couldn't be sure. I wanted to break something again. Not only was Esmée in danger, but now Bleys had got wind of our weakness and was trying to get his foot in the door. Tackling both these threats was going to stretch my talents to the limit. Tamarind wanted to play with Brand's stone again, to see if anything could be done in the short term about Beltaine and Owen. I handed it over. "Ask Brand if Esmée, Margot and Caleb are with him," I suggested, "and if they are, get him to send them back." Despite my initial panic, I found myself almost hoping that they'd fallen victim to the same fate as ourselves, because at the moment, perversely, dead meant safe. Tamarind nodded, pocketed the stone, and headed off. "Now," I said, "I want to see Random." And see what he has to say for himself, I didn't add. En route to the royal study, the other two brought me up to date regarding recent developments. Tristan and Gerard had tracked the enemy fleet to a Shadow out on the fringes of the Golden Circle, and Gerard was still there, investigating. A brigade of disreputables had been lurking alongside one of the land trade routes to ambush passing caravans, but had erred in setting up camp on a petroleum field, hence Tristan's fire arrow trick. That was largely it so far; the blockade might not be entirely broken, since there were numerous other routes by both land and sea that remained to be checked, but large holes had been punched in it, and there was no sign of any moves on the Council's part to plug the gaps. A small ray of sunshine, so to speak, amidst a world awash with gloom. The antechamber to Random's office seemed to have shrunk, but it was only the magickal barricade, pushed to one side and allowed to resume its wall-sized dimensions until such time as someone got round to disposing of it. Flora was with the King when we entered. "Esmée's been kidnapped," I said, without preamble. Flora's hand went to her mouth. Random looked grim, but then he'd looked grim to start with as we'd come in. I gave another precis of what I had discovered. Ibrahim adjusted his armband, as if to remind himself that he had an alibi. Neither Random or Flora had any information that might have aided a rescue, so I moved on to the next order of business, the better to get it over with. "What did Bleys want?" I demanded. Then, remembering who I was talking to, "Your Majesty." Random took note of my tone. "He was pleased to receive the message," he said neutrally, thereby delivering a message of his own, "and he's looking forward to coming back for the centenary. He has also offered to help." That wretched manuscript had been designed to reach the bastard no matter what I did. Random could have folded it into a paper aeroplane and thrown it out the window for all the difference it would have made, instead of wasting my time with it. "And the price of this help?" I sneered, too angry now to care how I sounded. Random shrugged. "He didn't specify any," he said, "He says he just wants to come back." Amber is under siege and suddenly Bleys is homesick. I didn't think so. "You have of course considered the not at all unlikely possibility that he is involved in our current difficulties?" I enquired caustically, "Or at the very least that he will seek to take advantage of the situation?" "I have," said Random tersely. The conversation was doing little more for his temper than it was doing for mine. Tristan sensed a need to move on. "What's happening to the sun?" he interrupted. Random shook his head. "Something real has been added to it," he said, "and that's about all I've been able to tell." Tristan frowned, concentrating, emanation of the Pattern starting to flare invisibly around him. "Yes," he said, "I see what you mean. It's a bit like the Agrazal, or Beltaine's Soulstones." He could not, however, sense a way of turning it off, whatever it was. The others discussed our adversaries' tactics as I poured myself a drink. With no sign of an actual assault, it seemed clear that they were intending a long haul. Their blockade had been hasty and was already falling apart, which didn't say an awful lot for their battle-readiness. The only real threat was the fact that our sun was currently running a temperature, although that in itself might well be enough. Someone was mentioning plans for evacuation. I poured myself a second glass, having barely been aware of downing the first. The only thing I could focus on was Esmée, with a slightly blurred Bleys looming in the background. I wanted her back and him dead, or at least so far away that he might as well be. And at the moment, I possessed few if any means at my disposal to effect either outcome. A long time ago someone - I think it may have been Beltaine - asked me if I was still in love with Esmée. At the time, we had officially broken up some three years previously, although some people seemed unable to tell the difference. The truth was that we had simply become so comfortable with each other that we kept on forgetting to indulge the carnal side of our relationship, and so we had reached a mutual decision to go our separate but parallel ways. "Of course," I had said, "I'd have to be mad or dead not to be." Even meeting Nitocris hadn't changed that, although honesty would then have obliged me to add the rider that I would also have to be mad or dead not to be still in love with Nitocris as well. Well, I'd tried being dead, and it hadn't made any difference to the way I felt. If something didn't turn up soon then I was going to go and join the backtracking party. Sitting here while the others talked strategy wasn't helping. "We should Trump Gerard to see if he's found anything yet," suggested Tristan. Gerard. Of course. He might have found their base by now. I jumped up and shouldered my way into the Trump contact as it began to form. Gerard was standing on the bridge of his flagship, and beyond him we could see the remains of a vast military camp stretching inland from a barren shore. The ship seemed to be riding at anchor in a large harbour. "There must have been millions of them here," Gerard commented. Tristan muttered something about penal colonies, and suddenly I thought of Sebek, munching his way through the entrails of that non-indigenous desperado in 19th century Venice. "An experiment that went wrong," Tristan had mumbled at the time. "How close an eye have you been keeping on your own penal colonies?" I asked. "Er ..." said Tristan guiltily, and then admitted: "A few people went missing." He turned back to Gerard. "Are there any signs of Martian War Machines, velociraptors or plagues anywhere in the camp?" he asked. "Funny you should ask that," said Gerard. "Then some of them were escapees," Tristan confirmed glumly. I rolled my eyes as I worked out what had happened. Not only had his transportation policy created an ideal recruiting base for Amber's enemies, but his response to the escapes had been causing havoc throughout Shadow. Those machines outside the hospital hadn't been after me; they had been after my captors. Doctors and nurses, the old and infirm, the sick and the newborn, hundreds of them dead just because Tristan couldn't be bothered to keep track of his bounty hunters. I made a mental note to take the idiot back there sometime just to show him precisely where his enlightened penal reforms had led. I tuned back into the conversation. Gerard's prisoners claimed to come from a Shadow called Chever - not this one, apparently, which was just a staging post for the blockade - where they worshipped a triad of deities who with stunning originality had styled themselves the Gods of Victory. "One of them's called Hania," Gerard noted, "who is apparently male, and the other two are called Prava and Aximia, both of whom are female." He added that this unprepossessing pantheon had called for a holy war against Amber, and that on an individual basis, the Cheverians seemed to be as powerful as those Golden Circle inhabitants who dwelt nearest to Amber. Gods and holy wars. Now who did that remind me of? Bleys, of course. "Why don't you go through and check for Shadow paths?" I asked Tristan, "There must be some disturbance left if they were bringing people in on a regular basis." "Hmm," said Tristan, "Good idea." He stepped through to join Gerard, and of course, since he had been the one who had initiated the Trump contact, we lost the link. Once we had re-established it, we noted that Tristan and Gerard had been joined by an unhappy looking midshipwoman who was the spitting image of the late Princess Dara. A disembodied hand beckoned in my dreams. "What was all that about?" demanded Random as we brought Tristan back through, leaving Gerard to complete the search. "I thought the best way to get Benedict to involved might be to shake him up a bit," said Tristan, "but Gerard didn't like the idea." Frankly, to me it sounded stupid enough to work. The only question would be which side he would choose to come in on. "I don't think provoking Benedict would be a good idea," said Random firmly. My patience with our progress was starting to run out again. "Of course," I snapped in exasperation, "Who needs Benedict? Bleys is on his way." "That's very true, Damien," said Tristan, in all seriousness. I ground my teeth. None of this was getting us any nearer to finding Esmée or the others. Tristan made his report: Pattern initiates had been active in the Shadow, making it more real by their presence, and magick had been used there as well. So this was a Family affair. I couldn't help but notice that our missing Family members were of the same genders as our enemies - two female, one male. Not that I imagined for an instant that Esmée, Margot and Caleb were secretly behind it all; for a start, Esmée would have come up with a much better name for their sinister alliance. I wondered, feeling vaguely ill, if shapeshifters ever had a need for spare parts. Random wanted to expand the strategy session, so Tristan and Ibrahim Trumped in Caine and Tamarind respectively. Random also tried to persuade Llewella out of her coral grottoes, but without success. "Affairs of state," he muttered as he put his Trumps away, looking unimpressed. Well, maybe we could try her again when the sea started to boil and her subjects began floating to the surface belly up. "Did Bleys mention Fiona?" Tristan suddenly asked. Random shook his head. "It would be useful to have her back," observed Tamarind. "Then why don't we try a group Trump contact?" I suggested. The others looked thoughtful. I closed my eyes and resisted the urge to bang my head against the nearest wall. How could I have been so unforgivably stupid? "Better still," I said, "Why don't we ..." The same idea had simultaneously occurred to Tristan, Ibrahim and Tamarind. "... try a group contact with Esmée?" we chorused.

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