Roger Zelazny - The Chronicles of Amber

Balance in the universe? Entropy? Pawns? Sighing, I shook my head. More craziness. He could prattle on as long as he liked, but I knew the truth.

We were out of luck.

Dad said, “Carry on with the game, my boy.” He stood and clasped my shoulder. Then, chuckling to himself, still carrying his goblet of wine, he teetered out into the hall and headed back for his workshop.

“He's crazy,” I said to Freda. “Completely crazy!”

“Perhaps he is the only sane one,” she said, arching her thin eyebrows. She held out her cup. “Pour me some more tea, like a good boy. It's going to be a long night.”

Two days had passed since our disastrous expedition to join King Uthor's forces. Conner managed to return with most of the troops, though he fought a running battle for several miles. We had only lost four hundred of the men from Ceyoldar. In the meantime, we had heard nothing from Aber. Freda had tried to reach him a number of times through his Trump. As long as he believed me still to be charmed, we might be able to persuade him to return.

“Is there anyone you can contact in Chaos who might have news for us?” I asked Freda over breakfast. “I'd like to know more of what's happening there. I think it might prove valuable.”

“Someone in Chaos…” She thought for a minute. “Perhaps…”

Raising her hands, she drew a small white chest from somewhere else using the Logrus. I had never seen it before. It had been carved from a single piece of bone or perhaps ivory, and delicate scrimshaw showing strange horned beasts covered the top and sides. Flipping back the hinged top, she drew out the contents—a stack of perhaps thirty Trumps.

I leaned forward, watching with mingled interest and revulsion as she slowly flipped through the cards. I had never seen this deck before. The portraits showed people—and things that might once have been people—in various poses. Women with fangs and yellow-green scales instead of skin… men with horns or wolf-heads or an insect's antennae… even a puke-green blob of jelly with dozens of floating eyes… and so many others with such strange and horrible appearances that I could only shudder helplessly. It seemed more a freak-show than a family album. And yet she smiled down at each one fondly.

“Did you make these Trumps yourself?” I asked. The figures and brushstrokes seemed cruder than those on the cards which Aber and Dad had painted. And yet I could still feel power radiating from them: crudely done though they were, they worked .

“No,” she said. “I have no talent for making them. Aber painted these many years ago. I have little call to use them, so I never asked him to make nicer ones.”

I nodded. These Trumps definitely looked like apprentice-level work.

“Is it safe to contact these… people?”

She nodded slightly. “They are relatives. More than that, they are… were… friends. Most are so far removed from Dad and court politics that they should be safe from Swayvil's wrath.”

“You're sure they won't turn you in?” I asked.

She smiled. “How can they, if we only talk? I have no intention of visiting the Courts again. The rest of my days will be spent in Amber… I am resigned to a life in exile.”

“Not exile,” I said quickly. That sounded too depressing. “We are colonists.”

“I suppose,” she said wistfully.

She did have a point, though. If her relatives feared contact with anyone in Amber, they could always refuse to talk to us. And if they willingly chose to talk, they could hardly betray our confidence without incriminating themselves. We could not lose.

“This is the one I wanted.” Freda pulled out a Trump showing a round, almost-human woman, only she had two mouths, one on each side of her face where a normal person's cheeks would have been.

“Who is she?” I asked. Despite the extra mouth, she had an almost grandmotherly quality. I could easily imagine liking her.

“Great Aunt Eddarg. She hears everything that goes on in the palace. If anyone in our family knows what happened to Aber, it is she.”

“How would she know?”

“She has been head chef at the palace for two hundred years.”

“Ah.” I'd always found that palace servants had all the best gossip. “Perhaps she has news of our other missing siblings as well.”

“I will ask.”

Freda raised the Trump, concentrated, and soon got a flickering, uncertain contact with her great aunt. After making sure they could both talk freely, Freda introduced me, then got down to swapping family news. I listened with interest.

“Have you heard anything about our brothers and sisters?” Freda asked. “The ones King Uthor arrested? We don't know if they're alive or dead.”

“There are but two of them here.”

“Who?”

“Syara, poor thing, and Pella.”

“What of Isadora?” I asked. “Or Leona?”

“I don't know where they are.”

Neither did we. It was a puzzle. What could have become of them? Hiding, somewhere?

“Is Pella well?” Freda said.

“Yes, dearie,” said Eddarg, smiling that horribly toothy smile. “Except for Mattus and Titus, whom the old king executed, all of the prisoners here are well, but thin. I feed them as often as I can. King Swayvil is taking good care of them.”

“Is Swayvil torturing them?” I asked.

“Goodness, no! Why should he? They are no threat to Chaos. Now, if he ever gets his hands on that lunatic father of yours, that would be another story!”

Freda sighed with relief. “And Uthor… he didn't harm them? They are whole?”

“Yes, yes—just thin, the poor dears.” She smiled with one mouth and bobbed her head, saying with the other mouth: “They are strong, yes, like their mothers.”

“Why hasn't Swayvil tortured them?” I wondering aloud.

“Goodness,” said Great Aunt Eddarg, “why should he torture them? It was King Uthor who hated your father, after all. He's the one who banished that idiot Dworkin and the rest of you poor innocent dearies. The new king is much kinder.” Her other mouth echoed: “Kinder, yes, much.”

“They also do not know anything of any real value,” Freda said to me. “Swayvil must know that. Why waste his time on them?”

“True,” I said.

Great Aunt Eddarg cackled a bit. “And the king is more than busy with his own enemies,” said one mouth. The other added: “All of King Uthor's immediate family—wives, children, grandchildren, down through a dozen generations, poor dearies—have been arrested.” And the other mouth continued, “Those who waive all claim to the throne and swear fealty to King Swayvil are allowed to live. Any who hesitate receive summary execution.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Most are swearing fealty?”

The left mouth said, “Of course! Wouldn't you, knowing King Uthor is gone and you have no longer have any hope of ascending the throne?”

“Probably.” With King Uthor dead, few would dare stand openly against Swayvil.

“The good news,” said Great Aunt Eddarg's right mouth, “is that the lai she'one are no longer hunting Dworkin”—(“That idiot!” chimed in the other mouth.)—“or the rest of you. That must come as a relief.”

I nodded. “Good news, indeed.”

Freda said, “But he has not released any of our family, nor lifted the death sentences on us?”

“No, no,” said the right mouth. The left said, “Not yet. Except for your brother, of course.” And the first mouth added: “He is a dearie, but thin. We must get him fattened up.”

“Do you mean Aber?” I asked.

“Yes,” said both mouths at once. “A hero,” said one.

“How is he faring?” Freda asked.