Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“No publishing this material.”

“No.”

“No prying into Alice’s life.”

“Very well.”

“And if you must consult with a colleague, you will do so with utmost discretion.”

“I have no problem with that.”

Ambry relaxed slightly. He reached out and took Lydia’s hand.

“I am the Piper.”

Sid started.

“Sir?”

“I am the Phantom Piper who once played for the legions of Skyga. He has reawakened my regiment and seeks to draw me to them again.”

Sid’s brown eyes were wide. He looked as if he would kneel, shout, run about the room. He settled for juggling his notebook from hand to hand.

“The Piper! The Phantom Piper! By all the gods on Highest Meru, that explains it! I had wondered when you mentioned the machine, but…”

Lydia and Ambry stared at him.

“Would you please explain to us?” Lydia said dryly. “Apparently you are privy to knowledge that neither of us share.”

“You mock me!”

“No,” Ambry said. “As far as I know, I am Wolfer Martin D’Ambry, the Phantom Piper of the fabled Regiment of Skyga. That is all—I thought it was quite enough.”

Sid calmed himself with visible effort.

“Although it is little known beyond ourselves, there is a theological tradition held by many of the aions.”

“I have heard something of that,” Ambry said, “but never cared to pursue it.”

Sid shook his head in disbelief. “In that tradition, the Piper is one of the incarnations of a Veritean scientist named Warren Bansa.”

“Bansa,” Lydia said. “I read about him. He was the one who jumped from a plane claiming to be performing a skydiving act. He vanished and was never seen again.”

“Yes. That’s the man. To us, however, his more important role was as the primal mover in the creation of the Genesis Scramble. Tradition says that he is the one who overloaded the World Net so that it crashed.”

Ambry spoke softly. “And when it awoke, all was changed and Virtu was born. I remember nothing of that.”

“I cannot say why,” Sid continued, “but our traditions hold that Bansa—alone among the three sanctified Veriteans—has multiple forms. One is the Phantom Piper, one is the Master, and the last is the One Who Waits.

“The Master was recalled to me when you mentioned coming to yourself over a strange piece of equipment—for our traditions say that the Master is the geometrician who had a major role in the creation of the universe. In our iconography, he is often portrayed carrying a strange machine. The One Who Waits has a scar that runs from the top of his head to the sole of his left foot. Legend says that he will figure in the closing—or perhaps only the change—of Virtu.”

“It is almost too much,” Ambry said, and Lydia squeezed his hand in agreement. “I thought I was one legend—now you tell me I am three—or is it four? I resisted Skyga rather than join his battles again, but now you tell me that I have a fate that seems to insist on even greater things.”

Sid nodded. “This is more than an overwritten psyche proge—let me tell you that. Still, I believe you when you say who you are and, if our theology is correct, then the rest follows.”

“Oh.”

Lydia frowned. “And what happened to Warren Bansa?”

“I have no idea,” Sid confessed. “Our legends never dealt with that. His vanishing seemed just a part of the legend—like Arthur going to Avalon and promising to return someday.”

“And what can we do for Ambry?”

“Can you stay with him?”

“I will need to contact Alice, but I believe so. The clinic will function without me.”

“We can even arrange some extra medical help through the Donnerjack Institute,” Sid offered. “I think the best thing that can be done for Ambry right now is for him to keep to the wild lands and for you to stay with him. If he begins to change, you will need to protect him—to keep him from doing anything crazy—and, if you don’t mind, to contact me.”

“You?”

“I would gladly put myself at the service of one of the sanctified Veriteans. And if I am with you, I may be able to deduce what is causing the alterations.”

Ambry released Lydia’s hand, rubbed his eyes.

“Skyga’s pursuit may be the proximate cause, but you believe that there is something more—do you not?”

Sid folded his hands prayerfully.

“Legends say that the One Who Waits will figure in the closing or change of Virtu. You speak of rumblings among the Great Gods. I think that the waiting is ended—be it closing or change, I would play a part.”

“Lydia?”

“He has a good point. I can work with him.”

“Then it is agreed. If the need comes, we will call on you.”

“Thanks. Ill give Lydia my beeper number.”

“And nothing of this to anyone.”

“Nothing. I swear, unless…”

“Yes?”

“Would you let me confide in Paracelsus? He is the coordinating aion for the Donnerjack Institute—and my closest friend. He has a deep interest in the cult of the Sanctified Three.”

“Does he?”

“John D’Arcy Donnerjack is one of that number—we call him the Engineer, the counterpart to the Master, and the Guide.”

Lydia touched Ambry’s hand. “I have a feeling we should.”

“Ayradyss?”

“It does seem like fate.”

“Very well,” Ambry said. “Tell Paracelsus, but keep your counsel close or those changes may happen sooner and less fruitfully than they should.”

“Very wise.”

Without further leave-taking (Sid was too shaken, Ambry and Lydia too thoughtful), all departed the consulting room. Lydia left Alice a note saying that she had been called away for an undefined emergency. Then she used the virt transfer facility at one of the Hazzard family ski resorts (closed for the season) to join Ambry.

Returning to the land behind the North Wind, Ambry perched on a high crag and played the salute he had composed for the birth of John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior to amuse the genius loci . When Lydia walked up the path and seated herself near enough to listen in comfort, he finished his piece and let the mouthpiece drop.

“I wonder what happened to that child, to Ayradyss, to John?”

“So do I. I had the strangest impression that even the Donnerjack Institute does not see them often. Sid didn’t seem to twig when I mentioned Ayradyss’s name.”

“He is with them only part-time.”

“True.”

“I wonder what happened to Warren Bansa?”

“So do I. And how much of him is you.”

“An odd thought, that.”

Setting aside his bagpipes, Ambry took Lydia in his arms; she rested her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t suppose it matters.”

The wind wailed through the clefts and declivities. It played the same tune as Ambry had on his pipes, adding verses that answered their questions without words and thus were incomprehensible.

When Link Crain came home from shopping and slipped into her research database, a small blue finch fluttered up with a rolled spill of white paper bound in a pink ribbon in its beak. Link took the paper, gave the finch a sunflower seed, and unrolled the paper. The note was dated earlier that day and written in her mother’s favorite evergreen ink:

Alice,

I’ve been catted away on business. If you need anything, contact Gwen at the clinic or your grandparents. I hope to be back within a week or so and, of course, I’ll be in touch.

Love, Mom

Handing the finch another seed, Link said, “There will be no reply.” It chirped and departed.

Link frowned. It wasn’t as if Dr. Hazzard never traveled, but the suddenness was not typical. She turned to her research, to banish the uneasiness she felt. Soon she was absorbed in tracking down copyrights and cross-referencing through various manufacturers.