Chapter I
Amber Castle, 106 PPF

Res angusta domi (Straitened circumstances at home)

- Juvenal

mber was enjoying a warm, red-tinged autumn dusk as I stepped through the Trump link and into the Arrival Courtyard. The officer on duty saluted. I inquired of him the current residential status of the Family. The King and Queen were present, as were Princesses Florimel and Esmée, and Princes Caine, Tamarind and Ibrahim. Prince Evander had returned that very morning, apparently to walk the Pattern again. And of course ... I waved him to silence. I hadn't expected any change. Nevertheless, I performed the pilgrimage to Beltaine's chambers. There were two guards outside the door, not so much to prohibit egress as to alert the King of any new developments, and to afford the occupants a degree of privacy which they were currently unable to appreciate. I ordered the door opened, took a deep breath, and stepped up to the threshold. The translucent tableau had changed a little from my previous visit. Owen had been seated the last time; now he was standing by the fireplace, a wine glass in his hand. He seemed to be explaining something. Beltaine was laughing, her long hair a slow cascade of silver. I missed her. While I'd never been quite as close to her as had Tamarind, or Tristan, I'd always felt that we'd possessed slightly more in common with each other than with the majority of our other relatives. We were both redheads, by descent if not by colouring. We were both children of traitors, officially accepted but still subject to residual suspicions from certain quarters. We were both students of the social arts, and indeed she was the only person to whose judgement I have ever been prepared to bow in matters of taste. I got out her Trump and began concentrating on it. As ever, it failed even to grow cold. I tried the Trump of Owen that I had borrowed from Tamarind. Owen was only twenty feet away, yet for all the response I got he might as well have been dead. Poor old Owen, so admirable in his determination to maintain his independence from Amber, now a permanent fixture of the Castle. And at long last, he'd finally found a problem that he couldn't run away from. I prodded at the translucent barrier. It gave slightly, very slightly, with the faintest of silvery shimmers. I didn't try any harder. Not even Gerard had been able to force his way through. They had been like this for nearly two years now. Beltaine's illness had progressively worsened, leaving her more pale and ghostlike than ever. Practically bed-ridden, she had been the recipient of a string of as many visitors as Lucian would allow, and it had been Owen's misfortune to have been paying his respects when the event occurred. No-one saw what happened at the precise moment of transition, but a servant had knocked on the door and heard no response, whereupon the chamberlin had been fetched with the keys. What they found resembled a vision from the Ghost City, the interior suffused with a patina of moonlight. Beltaine and Owen could be seen drifting slow and silent, like spectres, oblivious to anything beyond the confines of the rooms, separated from the larger world by an impenetrable barrier - the "Bubble", as the others called it. It seemed that the part of Beltaine that was forever linked to Tir-na Nog'th had finally claimed her, drawing in those around her at the fateful moment. We tried everything. We tried Trumping them. Random tried to breach the barrier using the Jewel of Judgement. I tried walking the Pattern and projecting myself into the chamber, but I ended up in the corridor outside. Tamarind tried the same experiment independently, with matching results. Random later told me that we'd both been bloody lucky that it hadn't worked, otherwise he might well have been faced with the challenge of extricating four of us rather than just two. I considered this rather touching. And of course Tristan brought all his expertise with the Pattern to bear, yet again without success. Monthly expeditions were mounted to Tir-na Nog'th, where many things were seen, none of them relevant or revelatory. At one point, drunk on frustration and the Medmenham Club's claret, I ventured up alone, and abused the ghosts with demands that Beltaine and Owen be returned. I ended up waving Dashwood at the apparition of a cigar-smoking Bleys, interrogating a haggard, chained Brand. I ran Bleys' spectre through a few times as he blew ghostly smoke rings, and felt somewhat better for it. I could recognise a manifestation of subconscious guilt when I saw one. So I stopped blaming myself for not having been there when it happened, and Trumped back to Amber ten seconds before the moon was suddenly occluded and Tir-na Nog'th faded into the clouds. That was when I came to my senses. I don't know what revelations or realisations prompted the others, but by some unspoken agreement we stopped banging our heads against the pellucid palisade on Beltaine's threshold. We didn't give up. We just took a longer view. Random and Gerard recalled a similar, if fleeting, incident in Amber's throne room, just prior to the Battle of the Abyss. The metal arm worn by Benedict had been reclaimed in a re-enactment of a vision witnessed by Corwin in the Sky City, while an unseen barrier had prevented others from entering the room. This I found encouraging, since it held out a hope that the phenomenon might yet run its course without need for outside intervention. A means of hastening its end was never, I think, far from any of our thoughts, but the desperation of our earlier efforts was gone. Aufgeschoben ist nicht aufgehoben, as I'm sure they say in the Ahnenerbe. In the meantime, Beltaine and Owen continued to measure out their silent, unearthly sarabande. Sometimes I convinced myself that their movements and poses were redolent of some strange symbolism, like the haunted visions of Beltaine's birthplace, and I would hurry to my books to try and decipher whatever cryptic message lay therein. At other times, as I gazed upon them, my mood turned sour, and I thought how much the sight resembled a panorama exhibited in a carnival for the amusement of the curious, and I would turn away and order the door closed. I recall, on one of our incognito excursions to the watering holes of the city, solemnly explaining to Random that only trusted members of the Royal Guard should be allowed to guard the door. I think I'd convinced myself that ordinary guardsmen might be tempted to charge admittance to see the Amazing and Uncanny Living Ghosts of Amber Castle. I keep coming back, of course. If I've been away from Amber for any length of time, the first thing I do on my return is climb the stairs, test the Trumps, test the barrier. They don't know I'm there, but that isn't the point. The ritual of observance complete, I left for my own quarters. I collared a servant and sent a message to their Majesties, informing them of my return. I spent the next half-hour in the bath, and then dressed for dinner. A vague melancholy accompanied me down to the West Dining Room, where the last rays of sunset suffused the diamond-paned windows with an orange glow. My spirits quickly lifted, however, when I saw that Esmée was present. She had adopted a new hairstyle, an asymmetric shoulder-length cut, and from her attire, she had recently been visiting Flora's Shadow Earth. Low cut, clinging, very fetching all round. "Damien!" she cried, swaying over to me on high, pencil-thin stilettos, presenting her cheek to be kissed, "Darling, it's been ages!" I had already worked out that I had been journeying in fast-time Shadows for no more than a fortnight or so as these things are measured here in the Eternal City, but Esmée, much as I love her dearly, is not always noted for the consistency of her attention span. I complimented her on her dress, adding "A single hour in Shadow is an age away from you." "So that's why you're never in Amber," she said tartly. I offered her my arm, which she grabbed immediately, intertwining her fingers about my own. I wondered what it was that she wanted. I escorted her to the table. Random was presiding, and I gave him a half-bow. He waved, giving me an oddly conspiratorial grin. Maybe Vialle had issued him with another pass to the city. I noticed that Vialle's place was set, but unusually she did not seem to have arrived with her husband. Flora was there, so I complimented her on her dress as well. It was a sweeping, full-skirted, corseted affair, modeled on the colonial antebellum style. Flora smiled sweetly. Esmée sighed and took the hint. I was quite happy for her to carry on as if we were still lovers, but if she wanted a favour, she would have to be prepared for some hard bargaining. She still owed me for scaring off the unspeakable Lord Kaylis, saving her the embarrassment of belying her delicate facade and ripping his head off herself. I greeted Tamarind and Ibrahim as I seated Esmée. Tamarind looked as if he had something he wanted to tell me later. Vialle was obviously still expected, so I remained standing. Evander arrived before she did, looking tired but pleased with himself. Well, he evidently hadn't wanted to walk the Pattern in order to go anywhere. Maybe he'd mislaid something and wanted to remember where he put it. Or possibly he was trying to start a new trend for Pattern-walking as an endurance sport. A man should be able to take his pleasures where he will, I suppose. Having said that, I still hadn't decided how much I trusted him, if at all. Tristan's Trump reading suggested that he was more likely a distant relative of Benedict's than a son of Brand's, which would tend to connect him with the late Princess Dara, a less than confidence-inspiring eventuality. Of course, the true meaning of a Trump reading is often elusive, but Tamarind's subsequent Trump scrying seemed fairly unambiguous, that Brand had no male children. Evander seemed to have taken the revelation rather well, but then his manner had always been of a somewhat diffident nature. In the end, I suppose that the issue of trust revolved primarily around the question of why Chaos brought him here in the first place. Random of course had never been one to judge people solely on the basis of their parentage, but I imagined that Evander was a subject of great interest to Caine. There were two more places set as well as Vialle's, presumably for Caine and one other person. As it was, Tristan turned up, looking harried. It was a fairly open secret that he had recently been given the task of revising the kingdom's penal policies. I'd offered to design him a Panopticon, which for some reason had encouraged him to look more closely at the merits of transportation. A proposed visit to Tyburn was also rejected. I wondered idly if I should reiterate the suggestion. There are few things quite as cheering as a good hanging. This line of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Vialle, escorted by a fair-haired gentleman with a moustache so ferociously waxed you could have sparked flints off it. He was attired in a gaudy, high-collared cavalry officer's uniform, obscured by a tasteless profusion of gold braid and sundry decorations which clanked as he walked. He had at least spared us the spurs. I understood Random's welcoming grin now. I recognised the uniform, and I recognised him. And he recognised me, checking noticeably as he did so. We hadn't met in over thirty years, but I think I'd probably given him sufficient cause to remember me. Duke Runcival FitzSimmons of Urthe had commanded a division of troops for Shadow Roynova during the Bellus Draconis. He had been leading them through the foothills of the Shadows that border on Garnath, ostensibly to put pressure on Julian's thinly stretched Rangers, although captured officers later revealed that he had been toying with a much simpler plan of marching straight up to the gates of Amber and covering himself with glory. As if, as Esmée would say. I'd been out exercising a couple of battalions of archers that I had offered in a moment of idleness to train in British infantry techniques. We happened to meet. Naturally, I rode forwards to offer the enemy commander the opportunity to settle the matter like gentlemen. The good Duke declined. He seemed to be possessed of the notion that the thin green line I had ranked on the hill crest would be swept away by his shiny new division. So he sent them forward in column. We sent them back as a rabble. The mathematics of platoon volley fire does tend towards that solution. In the end he ran out of foot regiments willing to face us, so he sent in his cavalry, the famous Roynovan Light Dragoons. I don't think anyone but Duke Runcival still wears their uniform any more. The survivors are too embarrassed, although to be fair they are now even more famous than ever. All in all, the only logistical problem presented during the course of the entire battle was trying to make provision for the three thousand odd prisoners I suddenly had on my hands after Runcival teleported off to safety with his staff officers. There's a story that just before he left he rallied his last infantry battalion with the cry "The Old Guard dies, it does not surrender." As it was, the Old Guard did neither, but ran the moment he turned his back on them. There's also another story about his last words prior to his departure, which I think I prefer. Sensing his hesitation, Vialle turned towards the Duke with a quizzical half-smile. Runcival harrumphed and quickly escorted the Queen to the table. Once Vialle was seated, I assumed my own chair, while Random introduced our guest as the new Ambassador from Shadow Roynova. This suggested either that Runcival's party, hitherto in some disgrace after the war, was now once more in the ascendant, or, more feasibly, they just wanted to get rid of him. People murmured greetings. I just smiled at him beatifically. "Mortlake," he grunted. Presumably he'd heard that I preferred not to be addressed by my royal title. "FitzSimmons," I replied, returning the compliment. Flora looked at me warningly, so I turned the serene smile on her. As usual, she didn't exactly melt, but at least defrosted sufficiently to favour me with a slight twitch of her gorgeous lips before turning her attention back to our guest. Dinner proceeded amidst polite conversation, for the most part anyway. Runcival, sandwiched between Flora and Vialle, had a lot to say for himself. A military expert, he was keen to proffer to their Majesties his sagest advice. "... monstrously slack," I overheard, "Never be tolerated in Roynova. If I caught one of my men slouching like that, I'd have the bounder flogged to within an inch of his life. And dock the wear and tear on the lash from his pay, too." He abruptly proceeded to emit a staccato barking sound, not unlike a seal, momentarily causing Flora to turn and look at him in disbelief. Tristan nearly dropped his soup spoon. They'd obviously never heard a Roynovan laughing before. Neither had I, in all honesty, but they made a similar sound when running away. Random smiled thinly. "Those men," he said, "are members of the Royal Bodyguard. They guard things. Me and Vialle, mainly. We find it counter-productive to have them staring in the one direction all the time. They end up not noticing things. So I've given them special dispensation to slouch." "A good flogging," snorted Runcival, evidently more practiced a talker than a listener, "Nothing better for the spleen than a good flogging." A few surreptitious glances were exchanged up and down the table. "Anyone's spleen in particular?" murmured Esmée. Tristan shrugged at her. "Prince Benedict once told me that flogging reduces morale," interjected Vialle. "Nonsense, your Majesty," trumpeted the Duke, "You can't run an army without the lash. Prince Benedict could have rooted out those Johnny Chaos daemons in a thrice if he'd disciplined his men properly. Flogging's what makes a good soldier. Flogging and fornication. Man can't fornicate, then he can't fight, what?" The passing serving girl's shocked squeak may or may not have been in agreement. The assembled Family were now staring at him in appalled fascination. Tristan looked as if he was reviewing the departure date for his next convict ship. Flora's smile was brittle as spun glass. Evander seemed to be trying to work out whether "Johnny Chaos daemon" was meant to be a term of endearment, and was edging towards a negative conclusion. Even Vialle's boundless patience looked tried. Random just looked fed up. He'd presumably already had to endure such pleasantries at some considerable length during the earlier presenting of credentials, which I assumed was why he'd been prepared to risk divorce by turning the man over to Vialle afterwards. "Damien," he said loudly, "tell us what makes a good soldier." "The ability to fire fifteen flights a minute in any weather," I said promptly. The barb, as it were, struck home. Random sat back looking smug. Runcival coloured, but refused to cut his losses. "Don't know what makes your peasant foot levies tick, Mortlake," he retorted, "but a cavalryman's a real soldier - he needs the lash to give him the backbone for a battle, and a battle to give him the bone for a good rutting afterwards. That's what makes a good cavalryman, eh, Prince Ibrahim?" he added, appealing to a fellow horseman. "And the ability to spot a ditch before falling into it," replied Ibrahim agreeably. He had seen the Roynovan Light Brigade in action as well. "And the ability to spot a flanking manoeuvre," I added quickly, sensing a winning hand in the making. "And the ability to stop charging," concurred Ibrahim. "And the presence of mind not to mislay their colours," I concluded, fanning out a metaphorical Royal Flush, "Would you like to see them sometime?" Runcival squirmed. He couldn't say yes without acknowledging the extent of his military humiliation, and he couldn't say no without seeming to repudiate the regiment whose uniform he wore. Flora waited until his discomfort was visibly approaching the limit that he could bear. "Duke Runcival," she interposed sweetly, "You will of course attend the Ball to mark the Merchants' Carnival? It's one of our major festivals." The Duke clutched at this lifeline with some eagerness. "Delighted, yes," he said, "Should be most interesting." "I gather they don't have Balls in Roynova," I commented politely. Random busied himself with something intensely fascinating lurking amidst his vegetables. Vialle pursed her lips, very slightly. Flora scowled at me for undermining her attempts to restore order to our discourse, and then glanced expectantly at Esmée. Esmée obligingly kicked my ankle under the table, before giving me an apologetic shrug. I could see her biting the insides of her cheeks. Conversations resumed, the obnoxious Runcival now much subdued. The Roynovan Light Dragoons had once again been mired in a trench without their colours. Tamarind took the opportunity to address the subject he had evidently been intending on broaching earlier. "I was thinking of another trip to Chaos," he said. Evander's ears pricked up. So did mine, only less literally. "It occurred to me," Tamarind continued, "that even if I can't scry anything with my Trumps, Evander might be able to get somewhere with his." Evander looked interested. He had never evinced any great upset over the demolition of the Citadel of Chaos, other than a vague melancholy. I took it that he believed, as I did, that the denizens of his former home had chosen merely to seal themselves into their labyrinthine ways, to cut themselves off from commerce with their old enemy. He gave the impression that he didn't expect to be able to go back, but nor did he carry himself like a man who believed his native land destroyed in a self-induced holocaust. Tamarind seemed to concur with this position. "Any reason to suppose this might work?" I asked him. "None," he said frankly, "Every Trump reading I do regarding the fate of the Courts comes up the same: The Tower. Destruction. But when I asked the same question about the major Houses, the families, rather than the place itself, I kept on getting jumbled, meaningless readings. I don't mean ambiguous, I mean meaningless. Just like all the people from Amber who have gone missing: Corwin, Merlin, Martin, not to mention Beltaine and Owen. And Fiona and Bleys," he added. "I wouldn't know," I said shortly, "But that does seem consistent with the denizens of Chaos being alive somewhere. So, what do you propose, and when do you want to leave?" A trip to Chaos would give me a chance to mull over my casket-chasing strategy, and, as long as we weren't shifting Shadow all the way, would not impose that much of a delay on whatever plans I formulated. "We go to Chaos," said Tamarind, "and Evander tries some of his Trumps, the ones he still has from Chaos. Maybe you could try a reading with them?" He glanced at Evander questioningly. Evander nodded eagerly. "If you can give me a few pointers," he said. Tristan volunteered the use of Castle Corvallin as transport. This would be slower than the Trumps, but much faster than normal Shadow shifting, especially with Tristan manning the helm. Or the battlements, as the case may be. "We could leave the day after tomorrow," he added. Ibrahim volunteered his presence as well. A major expedition seemed to be in the offing. That it followed so soon on the heels of the arrival of the dreadful Runcival was presumably only a coincidence. I glanced over to see how the elders were bearing up under the onslaught that was the company of our dinner guest. Runcival was leaning over towards Flora, presumably to get a better view of her cleavage, and was saying something in a low voice that I couldn't quite make out. Flora suddenly looked up from her dessert, an expression of incredulity on her face. From their respective postures, I guessed that she'd just discovered his hand on her knee. I watched as my aunt shifted her position slightly, and Runcival went cross-eyed with pain. Flora smiled faintly, and attacked her confection with renewed vigour. Another triumph for Stiletto Heel Diplomacy. Dinner came to an end, and people drifted off for coffee and apéritifs to what Beltaine had once dubbed "The Aquamarine-With-Clashing-Gilt-And-Hideous-Sea-Nymphs Room". Officially, it was the Rebman Drawing Room, but I tended to concur with Beltaine's assessment of the decor. What it did have, however, was a magnificent view of the harbour and the sea beyond. The Colossus of Oberon was currently a black silhouette against the eastern sky, and the lights of the harbour and the lower parts of the city were strung out against the darkening land like constellations. Esmée joined me by the window. "What do you think of the gallant Duke?" she asked. "If they wanted to declare war again," I replied, "why didn't they just send a note?" Esmée lowered her voice. "The Archduchess of Roynova is his niece," she confided, "and he fancies himself the power behind the throne. So she sent him here so that she could get on with ruling the Archduchy in peace. There's also a rumour that he's looking for a wife." "Whose?" I asked. She punched me on the shoulder, although not very hard. "He wants to contract a marriage with someone important," she said. "Well go and talk to him," I said cheerfully, "This could be your lucky day." Esmée punched me again, harder. "That's not funny," she said, "I had to make small talk with him for five whole minutes earlier today. He called me a horse." I raised an eyebrow. "Well, what he actually said when we met was: 'Who's this fine filly?'," she amended, "but then he didn't even apologise when I told him who I was." "Introduce him to Margot then," I suggested. Esmée sniggered. "She'll kill him," she said gleefully. Then she frowned at me. "Why haven't you killed him yet, Damien?" she asked, "You've been back for hours now, and he's still alive." I grinned. "I don't need to kill him," I said, "A beaten enemy is always so much more satisfying than a dead one." "But he doesn't realise that he's beaten," Esmée pointed out, "Couldn't you at least beat him a little more until he does?" "Was this the favour you were going to ask me?" I inquired. She made a face. "I wish," she said, "but no. It was about Margot. It's her birthday in a few weeks, as you doubtless remember, and I want you to organise a party for her." I pursed my lips. Beltaine had once bet me that I couldn't tempt Margot into bed, a wager that I had accepted with no little enthusiasm. Now that Beltaine was hors concours, Esmée had taken up her part of the challenge. She had decided that her elder sister needed to get out more, and that I was the ideal escort. The fact that it would annoy their father may conceivably have entered into her deliberations as well. I was entirely agreed on the desirability of both these objectives. The problem was that Margot didn't like me any more than Julian did, and my attentions were about as welcome as those of a manticore. And I had seen what she did with manticores. "If she thinks I have anything to do with it, then she won't turn up," I said, "I mean, she hasn't even thanked me for the horses yet." I had engaged Ibrahim's sister Jaheira to breed her best mare and stallion, the offspring of which I had intended as a present for Margot. In fact, two foals had issued from the union, and now that they were fully grown, both resided in Margot's stables. "That's because she doesn't know they're from you, silly," retorted Esmée, "Really Damien, you're such a wallflower." "She must have guessed by now," I argued, "I left enough clues." "Yes dear," she said, "but they were subtle clues." "I was planning on getting her a couple of saddles for her birthday," I told her, "You can't get much less subtle than that." Esmée just looked at me. "Actually," I allowed, "Organising a party for her sounds like a good idea. Unfortunately, I'm in the middle of something big. And it's not really something I can afford to take much time away from." "Apart from gallivanting off to Chaos with the boys," snorted Esmée, who I knew was stuck helping prepare for the Merchants' Carnival celebrations. "Apart from important things like that," I acknowledged, po-faced. "All right," said Esmée, "What's so important that you feel you can neglect your sacred duty to awaken the fiery passions that lurk in the ice maiden's breast?" I glanced around. Vialle was excusing herself, and Tamarind was offering to escort her back to the Royal Apartments. Evander was also claiming tiredness, and Tristan and Ibrahim had already left. Random and Flora were rapidly being abandoned to the tender mercies of Duke Runcival, and I could see that Random was about to pull rank and leave the ambassador in the capable hands of Amber's Mistress of Ceremonies. Flora, naturally, was starting to look desperate. I turned back to Esmée. "Why don't you join me for a drink down at the Museum?" I asked, guiding her to the door before Flora could dragoon us into the Diplomatic Corps, "Then I can tell you all about it."

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