«The duke, her husband - Larsus… What happened to him?»
«He died at Patternfall. I believe Prince Julian of Amber slew him.»
«And Borel was their son?»
«Yes.»
«Ouch. Two of them. I didn't realize.»
«Borel had two brothers, a half brother and a half sister, many uncles, aunts, cousins. Yes, it's a big House. And the women of Hendrake are as doughty as the men.»
«Yes, of course. There are songs, such as `Never Wed a Hendrake Lass. ' Any way of finding out whether Corwin had any doings with Hendrake while he was here?»
«One could ask about a bit, though it's been a long while. Memories fade, trails grow cold. Not easy.»
He shook his head.
«How long till bluesky?» I asked him.
«Fairly soon,» he said.
«I'd better be heading for Mandorways then. I promised my brother I'd breakfast with him.»
«I'll see you later,» he said. «At the funeral, if not before.»
«Yes,» I said. «I guess I'd better clean up and change clothes.»
I headed back through the way to my room, where I summoned a basin of water, soap, toothbrush, razor; also, gray trousers, black boots and belt, purple shirt and gloves, charcoal cloak, fresh blade and scabbard. When I had made myself presentable, I took a way through a forested glade to the receiving room. From there, I exited onto a thruway. A quarter mile of mountain trail later, ending abruptly at a chasm, I summoned a filmy and crossed upon it. Then I bore right to Mandorways, traveling a blue beach beneath a double sun for perhaps a hundred yards. I turned right, passing through a remembered archway of stone, moving briefly past a bubbling lava field and through a black obsidian wall, which took me to a pleasant cavern, over a small bridge, through a corner of a graveyard, a few steps along the Rim and into the receiving area of his Ways.
The entire wall to my left was composed of slow flame; that to my right, a non-returnable way, save for light, giving sight of some sea-bottom trench where bright things moved about and ate one another. Mandor was seated humanformed before a bookcase directly ahead, wearing black and white, feet propped on a black ottoman, a copy of Robert Hass's Praise, which I had given him, in his hand.
He smiled as he looked up.
«`Death's hounds feared me,'» he said. «Nice line, that. How are you this cycle?»
«Rested, finally,» I said. «Yourself?»
He placed the book upon a small, legless table that floated near just then, and rose to his feet. The fact that he had obviously been reading it because I was coming in no way detracted from the compliment. He had always been that way.
«Quite well, thank you,» he replied. «Come, let me feed you.»
He took my arm and steered me toward the wall of fire. It fell away as we drew near and our footsteps sounded in a place of momentary darkness, succeeded almost immediately by a small lane, sunlight filtered through arching branches overhead, violets blooming at either hand. The lane took us to a flagged patio, a green and white gazebo at its farther end. We mounted a few stairs to a well-set table within, frosted pitchers of juice and baskets of warm rolls near at hand. He gestured and I seated myself. At his gesture a carafe of coffee appeared beside my setting.
«I see you recall my morning predilection,» I said, «from the Shadow Earth. Thank you.»
He smiled faintly as he nodded, seating himself across from me. Birdsongs I could not identify sounded from the trees. A gentle breeze caused leaves to rustle.
«What are you up to these days?» I asked him as I poured a cup of coffee and broke a roll.
«Observing the scene, mainly,» he replied.
«Political scene?»
«As always. Though my recent experience in Amber has led me to regard it as part of an even larger picture.»
I nodded.
«And your investigations with Fiona?»
«Those, too,» he answered. «These are shaping up into very unusual times.»
«I've noticed.»
«It seems almost as if the Pattern-Logrus conflict were making itself manifest in mundane affairs, as well as on the cosmic scale.»
«I feel that way, too. But then I'm prejudiced. I got caught up in the cosmic part early, and without a scorecard. I've been run all over the place and manipulated every which way recently - to the point where all of my affairs seemed part of their bigger picture. I don't like it a bit, and if I had some way to make them back off I'd use it.»
«Hm,» he said. «And what if your whole life were a study in manipulation?»
«I wouldn't feel good about it,» I said. «I guess I'd feel just the way I do now, only perhaps more intensely.»
He gestured and an amazing omelet appeared before me, followed, moments later, by a side dish of fried potatoes, mixed with what appeared to be green chilies and onions.
«All of this is hypothetical,» I said as I began eating, «isn't it?»
There followed a long pause as he took his first mouthful, then, «I think not,» he said.
«I think the Powers have been moving madly for a long while now,» he went on, «and we're finally nearing endgame.»
«What makes you privy to these matters?»
«It began with a careful consideration of events,» he said. «Then followed the formulation and testing of hypotheses.»
«Spare me a lecture on the use of the scientific method in theology and human politics,» I said.
«You asked.»
«True. Go ahead.»
«Do you not feel it somewhat odd that Swayvill expired just when he did, when so many things are coming to fruition simultaneously, after having hung on for so long?»
«He had to go sometime,» I said, «and all the recent stresses probably proved too much.»
«Timing,» Mandor said. «Strategic placement. Timing.»
«For what?»
«To place you on the throne of Chaos, of course,» he replied.
Chapter 4
Sometimes you hear an unlikely thing and that's all it is. Other times, you hear something improbable and it strikes an echo. There is an immediate feeling of having known it, or known something very like it, all along, and just not having bothered to pick it up and examine it. By rights, I should have choked at Mandor's pronouncement, then snorted something such as «Preposterous!» Yet, I'd a peculiar feeling about this businesswhether his conclusion was right or wrong - as if there were something more than injecture involved, as if there just might be some overall plan moving me toward the circle of power in the Courts.
I took a long, slow drink of coffee. Then, «Really?» I said.
I felt myself smiling as he sought my eyes, studied my face.
«Are you consciously party to the effort?»
I raised my coffee cup again. I had been about to say,
«No, of course not. This is the first I've heard of the notion.» Then I recalled my father's telling me how he had duped Aunt Flora into giving him vital information his amnesia had washed away. It was not the cleverness with which he had done it that had impressed me so much as the fact that his mistrust of relatives transcended
