After the meeting was over,
Arathorn made his way slowly to his own nest of rooms, high in the tower.
He was a little surprised it was still daylight; somehow the meeting had
seemed so very much longer ... He blinked a little in the late winter
sunlight.
It was cold in the court as he crossed it. There were still drifts of
snow against the northern wall, streaked with dirt where it was been vigorously
swept out of people's way ...
His feet sounded weary even to himself as he slowly trod the stone steps,
worn into curved shallowness by centuries of use. His father's steps ...
and those of his officers, generals ... heavy booted feet, men in mail
marching century after century ... coming to this tower for their orders
...
He paused on his own level ... looking for a moment up the curve of the
stairs that led to his father's rooms. He had seen them ... the first
time when he was seventeen, new come to Amber. And since then - in quiet
moments. At moments when, for one or another reason, he had wanted to
feel close to his father. He smiled suddenly. It seemed a fitting irony
that the physical presence of the man he had sought for so long actually
denied him this old familiar resource ...
But he didn't need to visit the rooms to envisage their austere appearance.
He doubted whether his father's return had changed that very much ...
He turned and pushed open the heavy door to his own cluttered quarters
...
In his sitting room there was a mellow, glowing warmth. Wallace had banked
up the fire against his return ... The temptation was to collapse into
an armchair with a heavy crystal glass of malt at his side, to smoke a
pipe and brood on what had happened. But no ... there were things that
had to be done.
He walked to the great snowy owl on its perch near the window and absently
lifted a small scrap of meat from the box he kept close by ... He would
have to ask the falconer to watch over the bird; no-one else in Amber
was as skilled ...
He felt the beak on his calloused fingers, even as he heard a quiet cough
from the doorway.
"Wallace," he said, without turning his head. "We're leaving
on a journey. It will take us to my cousin Christophe's Shadow ... where
you will accompany me. I will need ... the usual appointments for such
a journey ... including formal wear ... "
The details he could safely leave with Wallace, he knew ... they had acted
out all the variants on the theme over the years. Callow youth and wise
manservant, young Lord and independent old retainer, brilliant aristocrat
and loyal, dependable batman - even careless idle sot and grieving family
retainer on a few particularly bad occasions ...
An hour later, he was crossing the stable yard, Wallace left behind to
deal with the luggage. He was showered and changed - he felt almost as
fresh as if he had rested. Amberite powers of recovery were not to be
under-estimated ...
He walked into the stable where his own horses were stalled ... and now
too, an addition. He walked over to Martin's horse, reaching into his
pocket for a sugar lump and offered it on an out-stretched palm.
"Well," he said, "if I kept you as a warning not to offer
to ride off into Shadow with some of my ... ah ... less transparent cousins
... then you've failed in your purpose, old boy."
He stroked along the superb muscled neck ... there was no doubt that Martin
had ridden a magnificent horse ... and one that had not been perturbed
by whoever .... whatever ... Martin had become.
He hesitated. This quest was planned to be but a day in Shadow ... a prelude
to the main task ahead ... really, any saddle horse would do ... and he
would probably ride in that damn carriage of Christophe's most of the
time ...
He called a groom over.
"Saddle this horse for me," he said.
The stableboy tugged on his forelock. "Aye, sir. I'll fetch yer saddle
from the master."
The groom was halfway across the courtyard when he slowed, then stopped,
to stare at something just beyond the great gate; the echoing clatter
of horses and grind of six great wheels grew in volume until it filled
the air, a disturbed cacophony of sound that set the horses to whinnying
in their stalls.
Arathorn stepped out onto the cobbles of the courtyard in time to see
a great black carriage, perhaps thirty feet long and nearly twenty feet
tall from the base of its huge wheels to its crest, drawn by a team of
eight huge black horses. It was festooned with baroque ornaments, its
fine lines trimmed with old brass. Small vertical eyelets appeared along
the side, each covered with a shutter of iron. And blazoned on its side
was the great crest of House Barimen with a unicorn, rampant dexter, outlined
in pale silver, its crest surrounded by green and gold leaves.
The stableboy took two steps backward, stumbled, fell down, then awkwardly
scrambled to his feet and ran back to the stables, passing Arathorn as
he vanished into the darkness of the stables.
Wallace came into the yard, a large leather bag in either hand, and frankly
stared. Arathorn smiled. So, Wallace had decided on the role of country
yokel? So be it.
He strolled forward till he stood next to his manservant, looking up at the behemoth in amused appraisal.
"This, I gather, is our transport."
From the top of the carriage
a loud slamming sound resonated, and then the torso of Christophe appeared,
waving down to Arathorn.
"Come, my good man, there is little time to spare. We must away for
Anglia before the fall of night, lest we arrive too late for dinner!"
With this the carriage ground to a halt; Arathorn saw two black liveried
groomsmen seated in a glass-enclosed booth on the front of the carriage
peering out as a narrow door opened near the center of the carriage. From
this open door a slab of wood descended, then snapped out at an angle
with the crunch of levers to form a stair.
"Will you have tea?" called Christophe from twenty feet above.
The eight horses nickered and shifted in their traces, straining against
them impatiently.
Arathorn moved forward unhurriedly, his eyes moving over the horses in
cool assessment.
"Your left wheeler seems a little skittish," he said - although
as all eight were on the fret, it was surprising he could tell ... Nevertheless,
he moved forward with easy certainty, and ran his hand over the straining
beast, lightly at first ... then with growing confidence as he lifted
its left foreleg with an accustomed ease ...
Then he was lowering the great hoof to the ground and patting the horse's
neck.
"A thorn," he called up to Christophe. "Insignificant ...
but with the power to be a considerable irritant ... "
His lips twitched ... and he turned away to speak to Wallace.
"I think we'll ride inside. Oh, and don't overdo it. Try to keep
your jaw closed some at least of the time ... "
Still unhurried, the large Prince moved to the narrow stair and looked
up to where Christophe awaited him.
"I think I should warn you," he said, setting his foot on the
first step, "that if you don't have green gunpowder, I'm not coming."
Thomas, in his turn, emerged into the courtyard from the opposite end,
nearest the palace proper. With a valet behind him carrying a pair of
modestly-sized valises, Thomas crossed the courtyard towards the carriage
at a deliberate pace, coming to the base of the stair just as Arathorn
completed his work with Christophe's horses.
Looking up at the gigantic, baroque carriage with a neutral expression -- an almost comic counterpoint to the valet's poorly-concealed astonishment -- Thomas let out a tiny sigh, probably audible only to Arathorn.
"What troubles me," he said quietly, "is a dreadful apprehension that in Anglia, this vehicle is probably not considered particularly unusual."
With that, he gestured for Arathorn to be the first aboard, following his cousin up the staircase and into the bowels of the tremendous vehicle.
Arathorn gave a low chuckle.
"Ah, there I think you may be underestimating Christophe," he said, as he climbed the staircase. "My own suspicion is that although vehicles of a similar type may be commonplace, this model is superior in taste and refinement in a hundred subtle and ineffable ways that may well pass you and I by entirely - but which are guaranteed to cause paroxysms of jealous rage among the cognoscenti of Anglia."
"Christophe!" he said in a slightly louder tone as he reaches the top of the steps, and his accent was suddenly a little clipped as he unconsciously echoed the speech patterns of his own Shadow. "A sound notion of yours, old chap!"
"The idea that such a vehicle can in any way be described as 'subtle,'" Thomas murmured as he ascended the stairs behind Arathorn, "leaves me feeling mildly ill."
For all his muttered complaints,
though, Thomas did bear a slight smile as he approached Christophe and
the entrance to the tremendous carriage.
Arathorn and Thomas climbed the narrow mechanical stair and stepped through
into the cool darkness of the huge carriage. It took a moment for their
eyes to adjust, then they found themselves facing a smiling Christophe,
dressed in what could only be described as a travelling outfit.
He wore grey woollen pants, flared at the thigh, tucked into leather boots
that reached up to his knee. A long yellow and green striped scarf dangled
from his shoulders, draped elegantly over a dark green jacket fashioned
of some smooth-textured animal hide. The jacket was loose at his neck,
where a pair of what could only be described as goggles hung around his
neck.
Hands on his hips, he smiled expansively.
"Well, my good men, let us be off! Arathorn, Assam for you? Thomas,
a refreshment? Mr. Zhou will stow your gear down below in your cabins
... the stair is in the corner."
"Thank you," said Arathorn. "My man will take my gear.
Wallace?"
He looked at the grizzled retainer who had been his companion since he was seventeen. Wallace nodded, a little grimly.
"Tea would be delightful," Thomas said. He was dressed in an auburn jacket made of what might be suede, over a grey vest (complete with golden watch-chain) and a white undershirt. His grey woolen pants, which looked as though they might have come from Christophe's own closet, are tucked into well-polished boots of a deep mahogany color. His only accessory was a short mahogany walking-stick, knobbed and tipped in gold.
As Christophe moved to the
front of the cabin to speak through a brass funnel attached to the wall,
his travelling companions had just begun to take in the details of their
surroundings when the cabin lurched slightly, filling the air with the
distant sound of crunching gravel.
The cabin of the carriage was the size of a small room, perhaps fifteen
feet on a side. A number of comfortable leather chairs were arrayed in
a loose circle in the center of the room, low end-tables bearing ornate
brass lamps that appeared to be bolted down with shining metal bolts.
The walls were covered with glass-fronted bookcases, each containing volumes
of many sizes and colors; one case contained what appeared to be a complete
set of volumes bound in a dark purple binding, and another was completely
bound with dull copper, sealed with locks and fresh wax seals.
The room smelt of old smoke and leather, and the hint of exotic spices,
sandalwood and vespasia. Light came from high windows that were not visible
from outside, narrow affairs perhaps ten inches tall but quite long. On
each wall between bookcases were iron shudders, hinges suggesting that
they swung down.
Along the front of the cabin, next to the brass funnel Christophe employed,
was an inclined table arranged with charts and maps. A sextant and telescope
rested in cases nearby, as did bone-colored tubes set horizontally on
the wall in rows. Yet another iron shudder appeared
above the table at eye-level, five feet across and one foot tall.
The back wall featured a spiral staircase that extends both down and up;
a narrow doorway leads to what appears to be some sort of galley, where
Christophe appeared holding two steaming mugs with thick, metallic bottoms.
"The bottoms are suffused with magnetospheres, so you can put them
down on the tables without fear of their being disturbed by sudden motions
of the ship," Christophe added as he handed one to Arathorn. "Tassel
Assam, I trust it will suffice."
"Thank you," said Arathorn again. He took the mug and moved
to one of the leather seats where he sat himself easily, taking a sip
of the steaming, richly malted brew.
Turning to Thomas, Christophe straightened his scarf and smoothed it down
with his palms. "The crew will take us south of the city, giving
us most of an hour before we must consult the charts and effect the appropriate
changes to our route. Anglia is three pervolutions spinward of the Farrelli
Archipelago, normally quite a journey for any traveller. . .but we enjoy
the benefit of a special road, one you will find most pleasant."
Mr. Zhou appeared from down below and glided to stand next to Christophe.
He was a short man, dressed from head to toe in purple silk, his long
robe embroidered with fine gold thread. On his right breast a fine stylized
sigil of some sinuous golden dragon glinted.
"Come now, Mr. Zhou, that is no way to go into Anglia!" pronounced
Christophe tartly. "Change into your travelling ensemble and prepare
something to renew our guests."
"Yes, saah," bowed Mr. Zhou, gliding off to descend once again
down the stairs.
"And so, welcome," sighed Christophe, extending his hand to
the chairs even as he moves to take his seat in one of them. "I pray
that you find my humble means of conveyance to your satisfaction?"
"Oh, indubitably," returned Arathorn with a slight smile. "You
seem to have chanced upon a luxurious form of conveyance ... although
I suspect it was scarcely chance ... "
"A most impressive construct,"
Thomas replied. "I find it somewhat reminiscent of the carriages of my
own Shadow, albeit on a somewhat grander scale."
Arathorn stretched his long legs out before him and removed the pipe from
his jacket, glancing at Christophe. "You don't object?" he said
politely.
"So ... while we travel in luxury, I have a proposal. Things were
said at that meeting ... and indeed, beforehand, that intrigue me. By
both of you. And while we have a little leisure, I propose we indulge
in the past-time of old, and tell each other stories ...
"You can ask me for mine, if you will ... or any particular questions
that occur to you ... and I have some questions I would like to pose to
both of you ... "
"When last I saw you, Christophe, you promised to tell me of a mysterious
cousin ... I noted - with some interest - that neither you or your father
mentioned him at the meeting. Are you keeping him in reserve still, or
has he proved a sad disappointment?"
"And Thomas ... " He looked across at his new-found cousin.
"Some very ... odd things were said of you at the meeting. It's not
so much that I have questions to ask you ... more that I feel ... well,
rather baffled. "
He took a long sip of tea and glanced up.
"To start with the fundamentals ... are you, in fact, my cousin at
all? Or merely the shell for a powerful entity that has, for some reason,
dropped in amongst us?"
"Not that I have objections either way," he added politely.
"Only, if possible, one does like to know these things."
End of Chapter 1
The chapters in this story represent an episode in the Amber PBEM game
