[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
who, now I thought of it, was also my uncle-who'd made off with Luke for points and purposes unknown
after kicking Luke's ass in Arden with two armies watching. He had nasty designs on Amber but lacked
the military muscle to provide more than occasional guerrilla-style annoyance. And then there was
Ghostwheel, my cybernetic Trump dealer and minor-league mechanical demigod, who seemed to have
evolved from rash and manic to rational and paranoid-and I wasn't at all sure where he was headed from
here, but at least he was showing some filial respect mixed in with the current cowardice.
And that had been pretty much it.
But these latest manifestations seemed evidence that there was something else at play here also,
something that wanted to drag me off in yet another direction. I had Ghost's testimony that it was strong.
I had no idea what it really represented. And I had no desire to trust it. This made for an awkward
relationship.
"Hey, kid!" came a familiar voice from down the slope. "You're a hard man to find. You don't stay
put."
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
I turned quickly, moved forward, stared downward.
A lone figure was toiling up the slope. A big man. Something flashed in the vicinity of his throat. It
was too dark to make out his features.
I retreated several paces, commencing the spell which would restore my blasted wards.
"Hey! Don't run off!" he called. "I've got to talk to you.
The wards fell into place, and I drew my blade and held it, point lowered, at my tight, entirely out of
sight from the cave mouth when I turned my body. I ordered Frakir to hang invisible from my left hand
also. The second figure had been stronger than the first, to make it past my wards. If this third one should
prove stronger than the second, I was going to need everything I could muster.
"Yeah?" I called out. "Who are you and what do you want?"
"Hell!" I heard it say "I'm no one in particular. Just your old man. I need some help, and I like to
keep things in the family."
I had to admit, when it reached the area of firelight, that it was a very good imitation of Prince
Corwin of Amber, my father, complete with black cloak, boots, and trousers, gray shirt, silver studs, and
buckle-and even a silver rose-and he was smiling that same quirky sort of smile the real Corwin had
sometimes worn on telling me his story, long ago. . . . I felt a kind of wrenching in my guts at the sight. I'd
wanted to get to know him better, but he'd disappeared, and I'd never been able to find him again. Now,
for this thing-whatever it was-to pull this impersonation . . . I was more than a little irritated at such a
patent attempt to manipulate my feelings.
"The first fake was Dworkin," I said, "and the second was Oberon. You're climbing right down the
family tree, aren't you?"
He squinted and cocked his head in puzzlement as he advanced, another realistic mannerism.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Merlin," he responded. "I-"
Then it entered the warded area and jerked as if touching a hot wire.
"Holy shit!" it said. "You don't trust anybody, do you?"
"Family tradition," I replied, "backed up by recent experience."
I was puzzled, though, that the encounter had not involved more pyrotechnics. Also, I wondered
why the thing's transformation into scrollwork had not yet commenced.
With another oath, it swirled its cloak to the left, wrapping it abut its arm; its right hand crossed
toward an excellent facsimile of my father's scabbard. A silverchased blade sighed as it arced upward,
then fell toward the eye of the ward. When they met, the sparks rose in a foot-high splash and the blade
hissed as if it had been heated and were now being quenched in water. The design on the blade flared,
and the sparks leaped again this time as high as a man-and in that instant I felt the ward break.
Then it entered, and I fumed my body, swinging my blade. But the blade that looked like
Grayswandir fell and rose again, in a tightening circle, drawing my own weapon's point to the right and
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
sliding straight in toward my breast. I did a simple parry in quarte, but he slipped under it and was still
coming in from the outside. I parried sixte, but he wasn't there. His movement had been only a feint. He
was back inside and coming in low now. I reversed myself and parried again as he slid his entire body in
to my right, dropping his blade's point, reversing his grip, fanning my face with his left hand.
Too late I saw the right hand rising as the left slid behind my head. Grayswandir's pommel was
headed straight for my jaw.
"You're really. . ." I began, and then it connected. The last thing I remember seeing was the silver
rose.
That's life: Trust and you're betrayed; don't trust and you betray yourself. Like most moral
paradoxes, it places you in an untenable position. And it was too late for my normal solution. I couldn't [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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who, now I thought of it, was also my uncle-who'd made off with Luke for points and purposes unknown
after kicking Luke's ass in Arden with two armies watching. He had nasty designs on Amber but lacked
the military muscle to provide more than occasional guerrilla-style annoyance. And then there was
Ghostwheel, my cybernetic Trump dealer and minor-league mechanical demigod, who seemed to have
evolved from rash and manic to rational and paranoid-and I wasn't at all sure where he was headed from
here, but at least he was showing some filial respect mixed in with the current cowardice.
And that had been pretty much it.
But these latest manifestations seemed evidence that there was something else at play here also,
something that wanted to drag me off in yet another direction. I had Ghost's testimony that it was strong.
I had no idea what it really represented. And I had no desire to trust it. This made for an awkward
relationship.
"Hey, kid!" came a familiar voice from down the slope. "You're a hard man to find. You don't stay
put."
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
I turned quickly, moved forward, stared downward.
A lone figure was toiling up the slope. A big man. Something flashed in the vicinity of his throat. It
was too dark to make out his features.
I retreated several paces, commencing the spell which would restore my blasted wards.
"Hey! Don't run off!" he called. "I've got to talk to you.
The wards fell into place, and I drew my blade and held it, point lowered, at my tight, entirely out of
sight from the cave mouth when I turned my body. I ordered Frakir to hang invisible from my left hand
also. The second figure had been stronger than the first, to make it past my wards. If this third one should
prove stronger than the second, I was going to need everything I could muster.
"Yeah?" I called out. "Who are you and what do you want?"
"Hell!" I heard it say "I'm no one in particular. Just your old man. I need some help, and I like to
keep things in the family."
I had to admit, when it reached the area of firelight, that it was a very good imitation of Prince
Corwin of Amber, my father, complete with black cloak, boots, and trousers, gray shirt, silver studs, and
buckle-and even a silver rose-and he was smiling that same quirky sort of smile the real Corwin had
sometimes worn on telling me his story, long ago. . . . I felt a kind of wrenching in my guts at the sight. I'd
wanted to get to know him better, but he'd disappeared, and I'd never been able to find him again. Now,
for this thing-whatever it was-to pull this impersonation . . . I was more than a little irritated at such a
patent attempt to manipulate my feelings.
"The first fake was Dworkin," I said, "and the second was Oberon. You're climbing right down the
family tree, aren't you?"
He squinted and cocked his head in puzzlement as he advanced, another realistic mannerism.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Merlin," he responded. "I-"
Then it entered the warded area and jerked as if touching a hot wire.
"Holy shit!" it said. "You don't trust anybody, do you?"
"Family tradition," I replied, "backed up by recent experience."
I was puzzled, though, that the encounter had not involved more pyrotechnics. Also, I wondered
why the thing's transformation into scrollwork had not yet commenced.
With another oath, it swirled its cloak to the left, wrapping it abut its arm; its right hand crossed
toward an excellent facsimile of my father's scabbard. A silverchased blade sighed as it arced upward,
then fell toward the eye of the ward. When they met, the sparks rose in a foot-high splash and the blade
hissed as if it had been heated and were now being quenched in water. The design on the blade flared,
and the sparks leaped again this time as high as a man-and in that instant I felt the ward break.
Then it entered, and I fumed my body, swinging my blade. But the blade that looked like
Grayswandir fell and rose again, in a tightening circle, drawing my own weapon's point to the right and
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
sliding straight in toward my breast. I did a simple parry in quarte, but he slipped under it and was still
coming in from the outside. I parried sixte, but he wasn't there. His movement had been only a feint. He
was back inside and coming in low now. I reversed myself and parried again as he slid his entire body in
to my right, dropping his blade's point, reversing his grip, fanning my face with his left hand.
Too late I saw the right hand rising as the left slid behind my head. Grayswandir's pommel was
headed straight for my jaw.
"You're really. . ." I began, and then it connected. The last thing I remember seeing was the silver
rose.
That's life: Trust and you're betrayed; don't trust and you betray yourself. Like most moral
paradoxes, it places you in an untenable position. And it was too late for my normal solution. I couldn't [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]