The Chronicles of Amber

Silently, I gave thanks to Freda’s thoughtfulness for sending Ivinius. The closest thing to a real barber I’d seen in the last year of campaigning against the hell-creatures had been my own orderly, who had more thumbs than fingers. He managed to trim my hair with a minimum of blood loss, but after his first stab—and that was the word—at shaving my face, I told him to get out and reclaimed my razor. My instincts for self-preservation demanded it.

In a near monotone, Ivinius kept up a steady murmur about his years in the service of Lord Dworkin. He mentioned his wife of sixty-two years, a cook in the kitchens; his five boys, who all served as valets in the castle; and his twenty-six grandchildren and great-grandchildren, one of whom would soon be of age to join the army. I made appropriate noises whenever he paused—“uh-huh,” “yes,” “go on”—but really I heard only every second or third sentence.

When I turned my head slightly, I could see us both in the looking glass. At that moment I knew why Freda had sent him: my hair was a wild tangle that not even a dunking in bathwater could tame. Dark circles lined my eyes, and I looked ten years older than my actual age. Everyone had been too polite to tell me I was a mess… certainly unsuitable to bring to dinner without being cleaned up.

Ivinius finished working on his razor and turned to me once more. Gently touching the bridge of my nose with two fingers, he tilted my head to the side. He didn’t realize I could see our reflection, and with sudden alarm I noticed how he shifted his grip on the razor’s handle. Now he held it like a butcher’s knife poised to joint a leg of lamb.

With my right hand I caught his wrist barely an inch from my throat.

“That’s not how you hold a razor,” I said, voice hard, turning to look at him.

“Lord,” he said in the calm tones one uses to gentle a spooked horse, “I am a barber. I know my job. Let me do it.”

“I’d rather shave myself, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” he snarled.

I pushed back the hand holding the razor. Or tried to—for he suddenly bore down on me with all his weight and strength. Much, much more strength than an old man deserved.

Chapter 7

I am a strong man—stronger than any human I’ve ever fought. It should have been an easy thing for me to push an old man’s arm away from my throat.

But it wasn’t.

Ivinius, despite his age, was at least as strong as me—certainly stronger than any seventy-year-old servant ought to be.

It became a struggle of wills and brute force. I felt my bones start to creak; the muscles in my arm stood out like bands of iron. Grunting from the strain, I gave my every effort to throw him off.

It wasn’t enough. Standing, he had the better position. He threw not only his strength but his full weight against me, and steadily the razor drew closer to my throat. I gulped, suddenly realizing I couldn’t win.

Out of desperation, I kicked off against the floor with both feet, throwing my shoulders back as hard as I could and rolling. The chair tipped and went over backwards. Instead of pushing, I tightened my grip on Ivinius’s hand and pulled to the side. The razor’s blade sliced air just beyond the tip of my nose, then went past my right ear. I heard the dry snap of a bone.

Ivinius howled with pain and dropped the razor, clutching his wrist. I released him and continued my backwards roll. Coming up on my feet, legs spread, arms and fists ready, I began to back away, looking for a weapon—anything. Unfortunately, my sword lay on the other side of the room, still draped across the back of the chair where I had left it.

“Get out,” I said to him, stalling for time, “Run. You might make it out alive. I’ll give you fifteen seconds before I raise the alarm.”

Glaring, Ivinius bent and scooped the razor up with his good left hand.

“It would have been an easy death for you,” he said in a low growl. Then he rushed at me.

I bumped into the writing desk. It would have to do, I thought.

Seizing it, muscles straining, I lifted it and threw it at him. Paper, blotter, inkpot, and quills went flying in all directions. Ivinius couldn’t quite duck in time, and one of the legs struck him across the forehead and sent him sprawling. Luckily he lost his grip on the razor, which clattered on the floor.

I threw myself on him, fingers closing around his throat, and noticed that the blood gushing from his forehead wasn’t red. It was a sickly yellow, the color of a squashed bug, the color of vomit. He wasn’t human, despite his appearance. That explained his extraordinary strength.

“Hell-creature!” I snarled.

I saw no human emotion in his eyes, no regret, no wish for mercy. Just a cold hatred.

I felt no desire for mercy, either. His kind had killed Helda. His kind has destroyed Ilerium with a year of war and terror.

“Die!” I said.

I squeezed his throat shut. His eyes began to bulge; he made a desperate gurgle. Still I tightened my grip, pouring a year’s worth of hate and anger toward the hell-creatures against this assassin sent to murder me in my own room.

Then he began to struggle desperately, trying to buck me off, but with a broken wrist he could do nothing to stop me. Finally, with a sudden wrenching motion, I broke his neck.

His body seemed to sag, like a wineskin whose contents had suddenly run out. His skin changed, turning a mottled yellow-gray. In a few heartbeats, he was a man no more, but something else… something hideous and distorted, with solid black eyes that continued to sink deep into sharp, bony cheeks. Talons had replaced those age-spotted fingers, and two rows of narrow, slivered teeth suddenly lined a tiny round mouth at the end of a pointed jaw.

Magic.

Whatever he was, this thing who had looked so much like a man, he had been cleverly disguised. And he had known enough about life in Juniper Castle to get to my rooms and nearly kill me.

Of course, I was a stranger here, but nothing he had said in all that old-man prattle had put me on my guard. If it hadn’t been for the looking glass, I felt certain, I would now be dead. I swallowed and touched my throat.

Still his transformation continued, as whatever sorcery had disguised him unraveled. His prominent nose dwindled to mere nostril slits. His skin shimmered with faint iridescent scales. And then his transformation seemed to be complete.

I beheld a monster like none I had ever seen before. Clearly this wasn’t one of the hell-creatures I had fought in Ilerium… so what was it? And why would it want me dead enough to risk murdering me in my own rooms?

My battle-rage had begun to fade, and I took a deep cleansing breath, muscles suddenly weak. I felt like I’d lost control of my life, and I didn’t like the sensation.

So, yet another mystery faced me. What had this creature been doing here, inside Dworkin’s castle? How had he slipped past all those guards—past an entire army on the lookout? And most of all, how had he known to come to me posing as a barber?

I frowned. Clearly he must have had help. Someone had sent him—and set me up to be killed. Much as I hated the thought, I knew what it meant: Dworkin had a spy in his castle, someone in a fairly high position who knew our family’s comings and goings. Someone who could smuggle a hell-creature into the castle, get him the clothes and tools of a barber, and give him enough information to get him safely into my rooms and make me lower my guard.

Rising, I paced for a second, trying to work through the problem, trying to decide what to do next. Should I