Read The Chronicles of Amber for Free Online
Authors: Roger Zelazny
calling here. I wondered then concerning his question as to whether Flora was dead, just because I happened to be present here. Was she really that strongly allied with the brother I knew I hated that it was common knowledge in the family that I’d do her in, too, given the chance? It seemed strange, but then he’d asked the question.
And what was it in which they were allied? What was the source of this tension, this opposition? Why was it that Random was running?
Amber.
That was the answer.
Amber. Somehow, the key to everything lay in Amber, I knew. The secret of the entire mess was in Amber, in some event that had transpired in that place, and fairly recently, I’d judge. I’d have to be on my toes. I’d have to pretend to the knowledge I didn’t possess, while piece by piece I mined it from those who had it. I felt confident that I could do it. There was enough distrust circulating for everyone to be cagey. I’d play on that. I’d get what I needed and take what I wanted, and I’d remember those who helped me and step on the rest. For this, I knew, was the law by which our family lived, and I was a true son of my father....
My headache came on again suddenly, throbbing to crack my skull.
Something about my father I thought, guessed, felt—was what had served to set it off. But I wasn’t sure why or how.
After a time, it subsided and I slept, there in the chair. After a much longer time, the door opened and Flora entered. It was night outside, once more.
She was dressed in a green silk blouse and a long woolen skirt that was gray. She had on walking shoes and heavy stockings. Her hair was pulled back behind her head and she looked slightly pale. She still wore her hound whistle.
“Good evening,” I said, rising.
But she did not reply. Instead, she walked across the room to the bar, poured herself a shot of Jack Daniels, and tossed it off like a man. Then she poured another and took it with her to the big chair.
I lit a cigarette and handed it to her.
She nodded, then said, “The Road to Amber—is difficult.”
“Why?”
She gave me a very puzzled look.
“When is the last time you tried it?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t remember.”
“Be that way then,” she said. “I just wondered how much of it was your doing.
I didn’t reply because I didn’t know what she was talking about. But then I recalled that there was an easier way than the Road to get to the place called Amber. Obviously, she lacked it.
“You’re missing some Trumps,” I said then suddenly, in a voice which was almost mine.
She sprang to her feet, half her drink spilling over the back of her hand.
“Give them back!” she cried, reaching for the whistle.
I moved forward and seized her shoulders,
“I don’t have them,” I said. “I was just making an observation.”
She relaxed a bit, then began to cry, and I pushed her back down, gently, into the chair.
“I thought you meant you’d taken the ones I had left,” she said. “Rather than just making a nasty and obvious comment.”
I didn’t apologize. It didn’t seem right that I should have to.
“How far did you get?”
“Not far at all.” Then she laughed and regarded me with a new light in her eyes.
“I see what you’ve done now, Corwin,” she said, and I lit a cigarette in order to cover any sort of need for a reply.
“Some of those things were yours, weren’t they? You blocked my way to Amber before you came here, didn’t you? You knew I’d go to Eric. But I can’t now. I’ll have to wait till he comes to me. Clever. You want to draw him here, don’t you? He’ll send a messenger, though. He won’t come himself.”
There was a strange tone of admiration in the voice of this woman who was admitting she’d just tried to sell me out to my enemy. and still would—given half a chance—as she talked about something she thought I’d done which had thrown a monkey wrench into her plans. How could anyone be so admittedly Machiavellian in
And what was it in which they were allied? What was the source of this tension, this opposition? Why was it that Random was running?
Amber.
That was the answer.
Amber. Somehow, the key to everything lay in Amber, I knew. The secret of the entire mess was in Amber, in some event that had transpired in that place, and fairly recently, I’d judge. I’d have to be on my toes. I’d have to pretend to the knowledge I didn’t possess, while piece by piece I mined it from those who had it. I felt confident that I could do it. There was enough distrust circulating for everyone to be cagey. I’d play on that. I’d get what I needed and take what I wanted, and I’d remember those who helped me and step on the rest. For this, I knew, was the law by which our family lived, and I was a true son of my father....
My headache came on again suddenly, throbbing to crack my skull.
Something about my father I thought, guessed, felt—was what had served to set it off. But I wasn’t sure why or how.
After a time, it subsided and I slept, there in the chair. After a much longer time, the door opened and Flora entered. It was night outside, once more.
She was dressed in a green silk blouse and a long woolen skirt that was gray. She had on walking shoes and heavy stockings. Her hair was pulled back behind her head and she looked slightly pale. She still wore her hound whistle.
“Good evening,” I said, rising.
But she did not reply. Instead, she walked across the room to the bar, poured herself a shot of Jack Daniels, and tossed it off like a man. Then she poured another and took it with her to the big chair.
I lit a cigarette and handed it to her.
She nodded, then said, “The Road to Amber—is difficult.”
“Why?”
She gave me a very puzzled look.
“When is the last time you tried it?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t remember.”
“Be that way then,” she said. “I just wondered how much of it was your doing.
I didn’t reply because I didn’t know what she was talking about. But then I recalled that there was an easier way than the Road to get to the place called Amber. Obviously, she lacked it.
“You’re missing some Trumps,” I said then suddenly, in a voice which was almost mine.
She sprang to her feet, half her drink spilling over the back of her hand.
“Give them back!” she cried, reaching for the whistle.
I moved forward and seized her shoulders,
“I don’t have them,” I said. “I was just making an observation.”
She relaxed a bit, then began to cry, and I pushed her back down, gently, into the chair.
“I thought you meant you’d taken the ones I had left,” she said. “Rather than just making a nasty and obvious comment.”
I didn’t apologize. It didn’t seem right that I should have to.
“How far did you get?”
“Not far at all.” Then she laughed and regarded me with a new light in her eyes.
“I see what you’ve done now, Corwin,” she said, and I lit a cigarette in order to cover any sort of need for a reply.
“Some of those things were yours, weren’t they? You blocked my way to Amber before you came here, didn’t you? You knew I’d go to Eric. But I can’t now. I’ll have to wait till he comes to me. Clever. You want to draw him here, don’t you? He’ll send a messenger, though. He won’t come himself.”
There was a strange tone of admiration in the voice of this woman who was admitting she’d just tried to sell me out to my enemy. and still would—given half a chance—as she talked about something she thought I’d done which had thrown a monkey wrench into her plans. How could anyone be so admittedly Machiavellian in