The Journal of Edward of Amber
[27 April 1998 - Session 31]
Three years.
It had been three years for Edward, in the prison of Utumno. Even after that time, he remembered, as clearly as he ever would, the night they came for him. A chime at the door, a handshake -- had the drug been passed then? -- a conversation on the couch, smiles, smiles, smiles -- and darkness.
Two weeks the journey had taken, as far as Edward could tell. He doubted, at the time, any of his senses, so strange was that travel. The Macinow agents had kept him bound, gagged, drugged -- but conscious. Indeed, aside from security precautions, they had seemed quite concerned for his safety and health, even as they grinned their grins and laughed their laughs.
Darkness, when he arrived -- an image of starry skies, a great mountain, a lighted door, a tingling that flushed through his body. A figure -- tall, powerful, obviously in charge or important -- face and body masked by cloak and hood, reached out and patted him on the forehead, as one would a child. A man, Edward thought, though he often wondered whether that, too, had been an hallucination.
He had plenty of time to wonder that. Three years.
Utumno. A moment, then, to describe it as Edward described it to me:
The perfect prison. A great mountain, hollowed out within by the prisoners. There are guards, but only to keep some modicum of order. Nobody escapes. Nobody.
Downward, ever downward spirals the Grand Concourse. The further down you go -- the further down you go. At the bottom, the lowest of the low, the dregs, those whose existence is merely burrowing further down, in exchange for a ration of food. Anyone who can, rises upwards.
How? By dominating others, and using them to dominate still more. It is a perfect paradigm for society. As one rises, one encounters more important people, with their hangers-on and attendants, dominating those below by power and the distribution of rations, dominated in turn by those above.
One can, of course, opt out of the system. Simply sit in one's cell. And starve to death. Nobody will stop you. Always can use the extra space.
At the topmost levels, even above the highest prisoner, are quarters for the guards, and the administration offices, and, above even those, at the very top -- the Exit.
Nobody ever escapes Utumno. Nobody ever leaves.
There were rumors, of course. We knew the guards passed to and fro. They were not eternal captives, like we. But nobody knew how and why. All we knew was that any prisoner who tried it, died a horrible, painful, permanent death. Somehow the guards were marked, known, immune to whatever force it was that dealt so harshly and permanently with the prisoners. Or perhaps the prisoners were the marked ones. On occasion, someone would try to -- convince a guard to give up the secret. They did not know it. Or, some speculated, there was no secret to give up.
In either case, the one thing that was known for certain. was that nobody ever left Utumno. Nobody ever escaped.
Beyond this rather daunting prospect, Edward faced some other difficulties. Though his homeworld had dabbled some with space travel, never had they encountered other sentients. Edward was, thus, the first. It was not a matter he relished greatly, at least to begin with.
The prisoners -- and the guards, for that matter -- were not all human. Some were easily labeled from fairy tales of his youth. Ogres and orcs abounded, particularly on the lower levels. Higher up, one often encountered more exotics -- creatures with distorted features, odd powers and abilities. One common race were the rakshasa -- powerful, warlike felinoids. Edward found the entire conglomeration initially distasteful, but, ultimately, useful.
Another difference was magic. It was not an unknown talent in Edward's homeworld, but those there were mere dabblers. Edward himself knew some minor cantrips. He found the theory dreary, but the applications intriguing.
Now, upon his arrival, Edward found himself in a position not altogether unpleasant -- aside from the fact of his imprisonment. His quarters were, though spartan by his usual standards, not uncomfortable. He would still have to work for a living -- literally -- but his station was, perhaps, midway up the literal social pyramid.
Some would have accepted this. Edward did, for one month, as he learned the lay of the land. Patience is a virtue.
Subsequent to one month, he saw three courses of action he might take.
Firstly, he could continue as he was. That was ruled out as unacceptable. He was too far from any chance of escape, stuck where he was, and since escape was the sine qua non of his existence at that point, this course must be rejected.
Second, he could move up the social and physical ladder by gathering about him a coterie of thugs, and exercising what power he could gather to move upwards. This was how most people advanced, and it did have some attractions. Ultimately, Edward chose not to take this course. He was usually a lone wolf when it came to operations, and in his eye, lieutenants were as much a threat to a captain as they were to those the captain sent them against. His eye might have been jaundiced in this, as that was how he, himself, thought, but there it was.
But that did suggest the third course: piggybacking on the power and influence of others, by becoming such a lieutenant. As he was eminently skilled in many of the talents that were valued in such an environment, he was certainly a valuable commodity to its inhabitants. Associating himself with someone put him under that person's protection -- until he decided to move up the next rung. He usually did this by demonstrating himself as indispensable, and so becoming of apparent value to a higher-up.
Occasionally, that value was demonstrated by the elimination of the person he was ostensibly associated with, though Edward tried to minimize such occasions -- in such close confine, people talked, and having a reputation for being a traitor was a risky game. Such risks were unavoidable at times, but so be it.
It had taken him over two years to get to where he was -- the top rung, so to speak. He was, when this chronicle opens once again, the button man for a wizard named Lanton, who was the top dog in the prison. Lanton retained this title by being utterly ruthless in dealing with anyone who got in his way, but not having ways that crossed many other folks. While a wizard, Lanton's interest was in theory, in studying how such things worked. He became the top dog largely because that made it most convenient for him to engage in such studies. So long as nobody interfered with his work, made demands on him, and so forth, he left the rest of the world more or less alone. Those immediately below him, while they might have been able to take him on themselves, realized that their position would not be significantly altered, since they pretty much ran all the lower ranks anyway -- something that Lanton had no interest in -- and did so without the risks associated with crossing Lanton.
Indeed, it was this disinterest in more worldly things that had landed Lanton there in the first place. He was from a prominent family, from a realm of many prominent families. He'd been heir, but had little interest in the position. Someone who did had arranged for him to be sent here. Lanton honestly didn't mind so much, save that he was blocked from studying some of the things he wanted to study.
Edward was never altogether certain how he had come to Lanton's attention, but he appreciated the man's taste in operatives. He had no more and no fewer than he needed for running things. Edward's job requirements involved running various errands -- sometimes as messenger boy, sometimes as something a bit more pointed -- and seeing to it that Lanton was not disturbed. While it peeved Edward to be a functionary at his employer's beck and call, it did give him plenty of time to see how the prison actually functioned, and to watch for an opportunity to escape.
He had been working for Lanton for some four months. He was prepared to give it another two months of passive observation before he started taking the risk of a more active pursuit of his goal.
One side benefit was that Lanton had taught him some rather interesting words of power, to enhance his own collection of cantrips. They had come in handy already.
One person he often had to deal with, directly or indirectly, was the next dog down the list, a gent named Delwin. Edward had considered working for him, rather than Lanton, as he'd eyed matters on the way up, but Delwin employed solely Rakshasa as agents -- fighters and mages alike. Though Edward could assume the form of a Rakshasa, if he wished, he didn't want to risk actually passing for one, even if he could have held the form indefinitely.
Once he came in contact with Delwin, there was a further irritation. The man always came across as though harboring some sort of private joke about Edward -- or, rather, at Edward's expense. He never said anything, mind you, but there was always a twinkle in the eye, a slight upturn at the lip -- all most annoying.
There were to other things worth noting about Delwin. Firstly, he had evidently known Lanton before both were incarcerated. Secondly, he had come to Utumno himself, voluntarily.
If it has not yet been made clear, Utumno was less of a prison than a place where people could arrange for other people to be permanently removed from circulation without actually killing them. Edward was unclear whether payment was made up front or on installment, but one interesting twist was that some people actually came there of their own free will. In some cases, Edward suspected, it was a matter of having a pathological need for structure in their lives. In other cases, though, it was a form of protection: very few assassins would willing take a job from which there was no escape, and so someone within Utumno was safe from the vast majority of outsiders, save only those fanatics who were the easiest to protect against.
Delwin was one of the handful who was there voluntarily, and it was clearly because he had powerful enemies. He still, despite his situation, was forced to defend against assassination, but he had evidently done so, quite handily, for some two or three hundred years.
On the particular morning in question, Edward had seen Delwin pass by -- with a glance and a smirk -- with five of his rakshasa in the van, three males and two females. They were going "upcountry," to the administrative levels, which meant they had to pass Lanton's territory.
Some short time later, they returned, though the two females were not with them. Interesting. But this time, rather than just passing by, Delwin stopped, whispered something to the rakshasa beside him -- a particularly vicious black-haired brute -- and sent him over.
"Lord Delwin," the rakshasa rasped to Edward, "wants you for dinner."
Edward raised an eyebrow.
The rakshasa shook his head. "Nay. He -- to dinner, he invites you, to join with him in dining." It nodded.
"Ah." An invitation to dinner with Delwin was not to be tossed off lightly. If taken as an affront, Delwin might decide that Edward, if not his master, was dispensable. Further, Lanton's idea of eating was opening up a can of bean rations and, if it occurred to him, heating it. Delwin used magic to help prepare -- and enhance, if only through illusion -- the meals he set for guests.
Edward nodded. "I accept, and will be with you anon."
The rakshasa bared its teeth, then trotted back on to Delwin, who had proceeded down the hallway. Delwin glanced back at him and smiled.
* * *
Dinner was superb. What mattered if it were part illusion? It was sustenance, and the rest was an illusion of chemicals anyway.
A rakshasa -- a tiger-striped one -- cleared away the entree plates. Now came time to find out what the deal was.
Delwin came right to the point. He knew of a way out. Probably. He had been assisting two people to whom he owed some sort of obligation, aiding them. They had perhaps a 50-50 chance. With Edward, and with what he would tell Edward, the chances would climb to 70 or 80 percent.
The secret, Delwin explained, was that a powerful mage at the top of the mountain placed a magical tattoo -- using specially prepared materials and processes -- on each guard in an inconspicuous place. This tattoo would let someone bypass the wards around the mountain with safety.
Edward was, to say the least, suspicious, especially since Delwin had apparently now given him the answer to escape without having exacted a price. "Why," Edward asked, "me?"
Delwin indicated that he knew something of Edward's heritage, and that these two, and perhaps others involved, were his relatives. That would help Edward get in with them. Edward shrugged. It was a fine approach, certainly, though holding a key to their survival would definitely be of more help.
Of more importance, Delwin said, Edward had certain skills, and the disposition to use them, which Delwin could use on the outside. He would provide Edward a list of people, and of activities to engage with concerning these people. Edward would not have to hunt them down -- he would encounter them, if he followed his blood. In return for doing these things, Delwin would give Edward the information he needed.
Edward would have likely taken even a more slender chance. The prospect of knowing more about his bloodline was of mild curiosity, but hardly of burning interest. But this was the first, and no doubt best, opportunity to get out of Utumno that he had found thus far.
Edward nodded. "We have an understanding, then," Delwin stated. Edward nodded, then the room got rather hazy. He snapped back to attention, as Delwin handed him a bowl of dessert. Damnably sloppy, drifting off under such circumstances, Edward thought.
Delwin waved his hand, as though brushing aside an insect before his face.
Of a sudden, a bright green light, in the center of which danced a small white unicorn, flashed in front of Edward's eyes. "Gah!" Edward said, somewhat perturbed by the suddenness of this apparition, which said to him, "Hi, I'm Quinn. Who are you?"
Edward picked himself up from the floor, righting his cheap chrome-and-plastic chair. He looked over at Delwin, who was motioning to him. Delwin stage whispered, "The folks I was speaking of."
"H-hello?" Edward said. "This is Edward."
Quinn, who seemed to be behind this projection, appeared surprised to have encountered Edward, as his spell had been designed to contact only those of his blood.
Edward dove into the role with gusto. "Are -- are you a relative of mine?"
"Who are your parents?"
"I -- I don't know! My mother died when I was but a child, and I never knew my father." The pathos leaked out of him in great rivulets.
Quinn then asked, "Are you a mage, or do you know one who wants to get out?"
Edward thought of the mage Delwin had told him of, and started to speak -- then considered that Lanton also qualified for the description. Indeed, he might allow them to bypass unpleasantness with an unknown wizard altogether. And having someone like Lanton owe him a favor, once outside, would be of great value. "Why, yes, I believe I do."
Quinn then asked, "Is there someone else there in the room with you?"
"Yes," answered Edward, looking over at Delwin, who was smiling at him. "But he seems a suspicious sort of fellow."
The apparition paused, then provided him with a mental map of where all the people he was contacting were. Edward saw that they were mostly, though not all, in the level above his -- where the medical facilities and the torture rooms were kept. Quinn seemed to be in the former. "My, you do look like you're not in a very nice place."
Quinn indicated he was signing off, that he would be back in touch. "Wait!" cried Edward. "Don't go!" But the light and unicorn faded away.
Edward smiled at Delwin. "Thank you for a most entertaining dinner."
* * *
Lanton had agreed almost instantly, though Edward did not go into details, yet, of the plan. He had reached about as far as his researches could take him here, and was faced with a remaining-lifetime of boredom.
Lanton was able to arrange for the two of them, plus one of his grunts, to get up to the medical level, and Edward had just about tracked down where Quinn was when two things happened:
First, the keypad on the door beside them shot out sparks and smoke, and the door was yanked open by a tall, powerfully built, unpleasant-looking chap in black, with a great scar that ran across his right eye. Behind him, levered up on the bed, was a lean young man, blond, exotically cast, and suffering from a terrible case of sunburn. Edward knew, doubtless from the contact earlier, that this latter was Quinn.
Second, pounding down the hall was powerfully built woman, a dark blond, with blood in her eyes, and beside her what was obviously a close relative, only dark of hair. They were accompanied by a tall, athletic young man with dark hair, somewhat wobbly on his feet; a young, dark-haired woman of the same general features; and a small boy, also probably related. There was also a man in a military-style uniform. All, save the small boy, were armed, and the arms clearly belonged to guards who could no longer use them.
The blond in the advancing crowd took one look at Edward and company and, clearly, thought they were guards, for she uttered some sort of dire threat, doubtless with every intent of following up on it. Edward looked around, locked eyes with Quinn, and shouted, "Cousin!" Quinn stared, and Edward said, "Brother! Uncle! My long-lost relative!"
Quinn assured the blond woman, Breann, that Edward was of their joint blood -- an interestingly extended family. She suggested, and Edward concurred, that they step into the hospital room being shared by Quinn and the scarred gent, Kethos, to be out of sight of any patrols.
Once within, Edward introduced Lanton. The thug Lanton had brought watched the door.
Quinn immediately launched into a detailed discussion of things arcane with Lanton, regarding what he had found out about the wards around the prison. Edward delicately interrupted, suggesting that they procure a guard. Breann demurred, noting that the guards knew nothing. Quinn made it clear that, not being a mage, Edward was in no way qualified to speak on the subject.
Edward was quite gratified when Lanton stuck up for him. "If Edward suggests a way to get certain things done, trust him."
Breann and Kethos trotted off to fetch a guard or two. "Intact!" Edward suggested. Breann was back a few minutes later with hers, who was gasping for air. Breann landed a flurry of blows upon him and he collapsed. Kethos followed with another one, although it seemed to be broken in several places.
Edward stripped off the first guard's clothes, rolled him over, and proudly pointed out the tattoo at the base of his spine. He resisted the urge to make a comment to Breann, and instead let Quinn and Lanton study it. They concurred that it was doubtless what Delwin's information had said (though Edward did not mention Delwin's name to them), a means of bypassing the wards. The problem was that it would be difficult to replicate it on each of them, or to modify the wards knowing what was now being looked for; difficult, but, worse, time-consuming.
Edward noted that the mage who created these tattoos was installed at the top of the prison. The main question was whether to wait for the alarm to be raised and the mage summoned to take them, or take the initiative up to the mage. While Edward had no desire to be ferreted out like a rat in a hole, he also wasn't sure about assaulting him on his home ground. The deciding factor was that both Kethos and Breann had items up in the property room that they would not leave without. Edward considered this foolish, but chose not to speak up.
And so they decided to assault their way up to the top. Edward noted, "I so abhor violence," which drew an odd look from Lanton.
And violence there was, of a type to let Edward truly draw the measure of these new relatives. In the point of their flying wedge was the older, dark-haired woman, Deirdre, evidently someone of some import back home in "Amber." She was fabulously strong, and what foes she did not bother to dispatch in a single blow, she tossed back to the no-longer-wobbly young man, Ander, her son, whose hands were well trained in dealing pain and death. To Deirdre's left was Kethos, a cousin, who had a makeshift sword and great strength of his own; to her right was Breann, her daughter, whose moves were nearly a blur.
In the next tier, to Ander's left was Vic, who wielded a baton with suitable ferocity, if with no other discernable skill. To Ander's right, Lora, his young daughter, used various fire magicks with delight and effect. The three of them formed the front and sides of a diamond, in which were clustered Lanton, who was saving the bulk of his spells for the mage atop the prison, Quinn, who was doing likewise, and who seemed to be still recovering from some mishap, and the small boy, Daven, who seemed merely insufferably cute.
Edward wisely took the rear of that diamond. Though occasionally annoyed by guards who were trying to outflank them, he managed to discreetly dispose of them.
It was not a terribly pleasant experience, as they ploughed through the opposition. But it did give Edward an idea of who not to torque off. Which seemed to be most of his relatives. A pity.
At length, they were near the top. Kethos had been able to detect where his personal sword was, and so their course was directed. Edward reassessed the wisdom of this, once they broke into the property room, as the possessions they picked up seemed worth some small risk, particularly with what lay ahead. Kethos, as mentioned, recovered his sword, a smoking giant of a thing, with a near-pleasurable sigh. Breann got duded up in glimmering mail, nicely crafted belt, rapier, dagger, and a pair of pistols -- ebon of butt, with one displaying a white unicorn, the other showing the scars of some removed symbol.
Deirdre picked up a giant axe that Edward would have avoided trying to even lift, let alone wield.
He considered ransacking the place for any gewgaws that might be useful, but it was pointed out to him that many of the items there were liable to be booby-trapped. He had picked up a sword on the way up there, from one of the hapless guards, and, with the dagger he had made for himself shortly after his arrival, he was as armed as he needed to be.
In the end, though, it was a bit anticlimactic. The mage was recalcitrant for all of three seconds, before he realized the error of his ways. He agreed to put tattoos on each of them, which Edward found unduly painful, and voiced his displeasure over.
The mage was queried as to who had arranged for them to be imprisoned. Breann, Deirdre, Ander and his cronies had been brought in by a third party. Edward and Lanton had been there longer than the mage had. Kethos and Quinn turned out to be new arrivals, having failed in an attempt to break out Breann et al.
Breann wanted to go back down to talk with Delwin. Everybody else, Edward was pleased to note, demurred. Edward had no desire to have them learn any more about his ties to Delwin, for one thing. For another, he thought it was plain stupid -- even though none of the guards had, thus far, been a match for them, it was foolish to keep trusting that to be the case.
As Edward pointed out, "Look! An EXIT sign! With big green letters!"
In the end, Breann acquiesced.
And then they were free.
* * *
Or at least outside the mountain, and thus outside the prison. While Quinn scanned their surroundings, Lanton, too, breathed in the free air. Edward expressed his pleasure at having known him, and indicated that he would be in touch some day. Lanton gave him a largish card with his picture painted upon it, indicating that it was some sort of communication device. Intriguing.
Lanton having departed, Quinn brought the rest of them through some sort of arcane method to a realm with a large tree planted in the center, which they referred to as Ygg. The others started trying to use similar cards, or Trumps, to contact people, with little success.
Quinn began relating to Deirdre some problem he had cause back in Amber. Deirdre stopped him, wanting the bad news to wait until they got home.
Home. Edward pondered the word. He could, he guessed, hitch a ride somehow back to his own homeworld. But why? The Macinow, though they surely had to suffer for his treatment at their hands, would wait. While there were no great affections or desire for familial closeness that afflicted him, Edward realized the benefits there were in sticking with his blood kin, at least for the time being. They seemed to wield interesting powers, and there might be some advantage for him in that.
Once Kethos, who had managed a contact with someone named "Finndo," had finished talking about killing people, everyone seemed ready to use these self-same Trumps to transport back to Amber. It was -- an interesting experience.
* * *
Edward has written elsewhere of Castle Amber, in detail, and so I shall not. His first impressions, to recap, were mixed. There was great luxury, great finery, but a certain crudeness, and distinct limitations on the apparent technology that he later learned were quite intentional and magically ordained.
They had arrived outside the infirmary, and while it was not the crude butcher shop that the medieval nature of the place seemed to suggest, he saw little of the equipment that he associated with such places. There were, within, three people of note.
Sitting up in one bed was a very large, very powerfully built woman, with blazing red hair. Everyone seemed astonished to see this Megan -- if for no other reason than it seemed that everyone had forgotten her for some months, which seemed hardly an endorsement of the closeness of this family.
Wheeling about in a wheelchair was an even more powerful man, named Gerard. Edward had the impression that he was Deirdre's brother. He also had the impression that the man's strength was such as to make the feats he'd seen thus far seem paltry in compare.
Upon another bed was a second man, lying quietly asleep, sedated perhaps. Not much to look at, it seemed -- all skin and bones, more like a scarecrow in appearance. And missing one eye, rather bloodily, whilst the other seemed to glow in an eerie blue-green light. Or was that his eye at all?
Deirdre, when she spotted this, seemed nonplussed. Edward, though not being certain what was going on, was more than clever enough to emulate the others in staying out of the line between Deirdre and Quinn, who was stammering apologetically. Gerard was saying something about the second man, Benedict being okay, and something as well about the weather. Deirdre cut off Quinn's bleated explanations, and indicated she was going to go take a shower, which seemed to Edward to be a marvelous idea.
But before that could happen, he had to be introduced to Gerard, who had about him an air of solemnity that his facial lines did not echo. Being a cripple, Edward noted to himself, will do that to one. He also was introduced to Megan, and to a swarthy sailor type he'd not spotted in the room, named Caine. The skinny gent about which all the fuss was being made was named Benedict, and the guards indicated, helpfully, that it was unwise getting anywhere near him. Edward noted the injunction.
At the end, he was accosted by the chamberlain, a bear-like individual named Scudamore, who was busy assigning guest rooms to the sudden influx. Edward's greeting was met by a rather rude, "Who are you?" Edward decided then that Scudamore would have to come to some sort of unpleasant end.
Pain births freedom. It is a truism, but something oft forgotten by too many.
Having undergone the pain of the application of the magical tattoo back in the prison, Edward faced still more pain, this time in its removal by Fiona, clearly acknowledged as the preeminent sorceress of this newfound realm of Amber. There was little choice in the matter -- clearly, such magicks were too easily traceable, something Edward would lief as not have carried about his body.
The primary choice remaining was how and whether to mitigate the pain. Kethos and Breann decided to allow Fiona to remove the tattoo sans anaesthetic. Clearly seeing that both were far too enamored of their public machismo, it was further clear to Edward that anything that could make Breann whimper and Kethos grunt in discomfort was not an experience worth pursuing.
Thus, Edward had no hesitation about taking an anaesthetic. A local, of course, for it was far too early for Edward to trust these folks to let himself be rendered fully insensate. And if he vocalized his own pain nonetheless, it was an honesty that spoke truer than the others' faux stoicism -- and, perchance, made the others underestimate him further.
It is worth noting that the tattoo was invisible to those who bore it, something not realized until their return to Amber. Once removed, those remaining on the others could see it. Hence the guards' unfortunate lack of knowledge regarding how they passed through the wards.
It was clear that the site would hurt for some days, as well as being lividly discolored by the suction action of whatever infernal machine Fiona used. So be it. Pain focuses, too.
The bright side was watching the removal from Breann, since, sitting at the base of the spine, she ended up displaying a bit more flesh than usual, in an interesting locale. That and she had clearly taken a dislike to him, so it was a pleasure watching her discomfort.
As the various members of his ostensible family broke up into chatting groups, or went to their rooms to recover, Edward was ushered out by the castellan, Scudamore, who offered services such as a room, clothing, a bath, food, and a tour. First things first -- though a tour was of a high priority, it was best to be well-groomed for such. "First impressions," he told the castellan, "are always the most important." The castellan made no comment on this pearl of wisdom.
So, on to the baths which, despite the lack of technical advancement in Amber, were cunningly crafted, and of various sorts -- a progression of differently temperatured pools, a bath with water jets, a sauna, and showers. Edward chose the latter, seeking expediency rather than comfort at this point. The pressure was mediocre, but Edward had endured worse, even in his home shadow.
He was then led back to his room, where racks of clothing were hung. He selected a number of outfits in his traditional colors, and found a set that fit him passably well -- the rest would be taken out for alterations.
Fully dressed, Scudamore gave a sketchy tour of the third floor of the castle, where they stood. The room was shared with a fully furnished gymnasium, the infirmary which he had already visited, and upstairs access to a large library. Though most of the family was housed on the second floor (and just as well, Edward considered), a Princess Florimel had a large suite, adjoined by rooms belonging to her son, Vaughn.
There was also another room, being occupied by someone clearly under a cloud, just a few doors down from Edward. Scudamore made it clear that it was best not to visit this individual -- that he was Family, but not taking visitors. Intrigued, Edward made a note to find a way in there at the first opportunity.
Scudamore showed him how to ring for servants, with a primitive but efficient bell-pull system, and then had food ordered up. Edward's sole request was, "No canned beans, please." It was a relief to be out of the prison.
The food was superbly prepared. Large, crusty loaves of bread, rich butter, sliced meats, fruit, some casseroles, some sweetmeats. Edward realized how long it had been since he'd had a decent meal, and realized as well that there was a difference between the illusion of fine food and fine food itself.
The only disappointment was the wine, a rather mediocre white with a dog on the label.
Upon having fed, and checking out his room (comfortable enough, though the furniture was an odd blend, as though moved in from several other locations over time), Edward decided to reconnoiter the premises. A number of reasons came to mind. It was a motto of his to always have an idea (or two) of how to depart any given locale. Further, it was clear that there was more to this supposed Family of his than met the eye. And, beyond that, it would give him a better idea of the security measures, both in general and specific to him.
As to the latter, it quickly became clear either that the castle as a whole was held in a constant state of high security, or that he was under more than a modicum of suspicion. Everywhere he went, there were helpful guards passing by, or popping out of cubbyholes or around doors or from behind screens, asking if they could be of service. This was useful, beyond the previously mentioned reasons, to identify particularly sensitive places.
He did not probe the security much beyond his casual wandering. It was too early for that, too early by far, and there was no overt threat or goal worth pressing his luck.
The proportion of guards on the third floor, in the area of the Infirmary, was high, probably to respond to further problems with the mysterious Benedict situation. The guard proportion was low in the Great Hall, which took up most of the first floor. It was grand and opulent, though the inclusion of a grandfather's clock against one wall was an odd interior design note.
Another locale with a limited guard count the Library, which began on the second floor, but was open to the third. One guard, on a third floor balcony, watched him with studied disinterest as he perused the extensive, if oddly organized, collection.
It was there that he met the first personage of note he had run across, a young woman named Miriel. Lacking a better opening off the top of his head, he inquired as to whether this was the library, and followed up with questions as to the check-out policy. She seemed amused, but also could curtsey with fine grace, so Edward regarded her with some favor.
She inquired as to his Familial status, which seemed to be the standard operating procedure in that locale. Interesting. He was forced to confess that he did not know his particular lineage, though he had been assured he was of the blood.
She, in turn, turned out to be a distant descendent of Quinn, the sorcerous type who had contacted him first in the prison. That raised some interesting issues of longevity of life around here. She seemed pleased that Quinn was returned, and Edward, remembering the snub to his knowledge of how to escape by Quinn, assured her that Quinn was fine, and would be more than happy to tell of their escape together, though he might gloss over some of the incidents where Edward had rescued him from certain doom. It was unclear whether she believed him or not, but he felt his honor -- or what passed for it -- was restored.
Miriel seemed as well to be of an artistic bent, and had been looking over various art books. The Family, she indicated, had a number of artists in it.
He inquired about the packages of "Trumps" that were stored to one side of the Library, in a locked display case. He had spotted them coming in, and realized that they were of a kind both to the placard that Lanten had given him, as well as the ones he had seen used for communication by the other folks subsequent to their escape. Clearly these were items worth having.
Miriel was somewhat coy about them, referring to the three decks as family "heirlooms," though, when he mentioned that he had seen them being carried around by others, she admitted that they were fairly durable.
She left shortly thereafter, and Edward continued to prowl about the Library, taking care to cross past the display case several times -- noting the three rather fine-looking locks, as well as the lack of any obvious alarm system. Those facts were filed away for future reference and possible application, should events warrant.
The rest of his wandering was somewhat dull. There seemed to be quite a number of children playing around, though Edward was hard-pressed to be sure whether they were just the group that had been in the prison or not. Children were not a matter that interested him, only provided annoyance.
At length, he went in search of Deirdre. Clearly she was in charge, and so, as clearly, she needed to be made into an ally, at least for the moment. He encountered her up on the third floor, as she was busy striding from one important matter to another. He was a bit concerned, as she had been in a foul humor earlier, what with the escape and learning from Quinn about Benedict's condition, but she seemed mellow enough when he found her.
He turned on the "Ah, to find myself amongst Family, what a rare and wonderful experience" routine, counting on what was clearly an interest in lineage and familial ties to ingratiate himself to her. She seemed unimpressed, leaning against the wall in a very mannish sort of pose. She did tell him that Fiona was running some tests -- clearly there had been the opportunity for blood extraction and the like when she was removing the tattoo -- and would have some results in a few hours.
Since love of Family seemed fruitless for the moment, utility might prove otherwise. He made it clear to her that he was at loose ends, that he wanted to feel useful. Was there anything he could do?
As noted, his point was to prove his worth to them, which was always a key to his success. Affection was fickle. Usefulness was far more objective. And, beside, any task he was set to could only increase his knowledge about the place.
Deirdre clearly was of a martial bent, for her questions as to what talents he possessed had to do with his military experience. Not being certain how such things might be taken here, but sensing that she felt comfortable with oblique conversation, he indicated that he had experience related to that of the military, as a trouble-shooter, a doer of odd jobs, that his focus was usually on, ah, smaller units.
She responded by taking him downstairs and outside, to a training area, for testing. His test was to be administered by a Commander Morgan, of the castle guard. A grizzled, scarred veteran, a tad shorter than Edward, but nearly as wide as tall. Edward mistrusted his apparent slowness of movement, creaking of joints and the like. Anyone who had survived to his age, with so many scars, and was in such a position, would not be a pushover.
Edward took a rapier from a rack of weapons. Interestingly, there were no wooden weapons, no "practice" items. Real, if perhaps slightly blunted, steel would be in use. Edward nodded in approval. He would use, as a secondary weapon, a poniard he had fashioned for himself in the last year of his incarceration. It occurred to him that he would need to pick up some better weaponry, in such a locale.
Morgan was armed with a shield and broadsword -- archaic weapons by Edward's standards, but nothing to be sniffed at. They would be slower than his arms, but harder to ward off, and the shield would easily protect from the rapier, reducing the reachable target considerably.
Once Deirdre had left, Morgan began what were clearly a set of standard moves against him -- and, just as clearly, a complex enough set of moves that predicting them would be not an easy task. He was startlingly strong, and Edward, who rarely exercised his full strength, was pressed to do so to stop the swing of the broadsword with both his own blades.
At first, Morgan was largely chopping at him, and Edward adopted a primarily defensive stance -- parrying when necessary, dodging when possible. The crosspiece of the poniard, not designed for this sort of punishment, began to press back into his hand.
Edward became aware of a certain pattern in Morgan's moves, but before being able to exploit it, the other man began a new set of maneuvers, thrusting the broadsword as though it were a foil.
His initial plan had been to analyze the opponent, and then use just enough of his assumed advantage to defeat Morgan -- no point in displaying all his tricks. It became clear that he would need to do much more than that. His mood was further worsened by the monotonous chitchat that Morgan kept up -- and knowing that it was meant to infuriate and distract did not make it any the less infuriating or distracting.
Edward decided to try a more conventional attack, believing he once again had the pattern of Morgan's moves down. If that failed, he might try a parry, locking the other's blade, then using a sweeping kick to knock Morgan off-balance -- though it looked like he might have as much luck kicking an oak stump. Another alternative was to use one of the Power Words he had learned -- dirty pool, perhaps, but, well, this was hardly a collegiate athletics match.
But first, the straightforward. Edward had his blade in his left hand, so it was matched to the broadsword in Morgan's right. As Morgan thrust the next time, he brought his rapier over, and (barely) batted it out enough to have it only catch the fabric of his new shirt. He used as little strength as necessary, in order to cut back over and strike at Morgan's weapon arm, scoring it perceptibly, if not dramatically. Though Morgan riposted by slamming the shield painfully, into Edward, first blood was his (unless one counted the fractured finger he suspected he had on his poniard hand).
And last blood, it seemed, for Deirdre returned just at that moment. Morgan stepped back -- wisely, for Edward would have taken advantage of any distraction -- and pulled gauze and ointment from a large kit hanging from his belt. Morgan wrapped the gauze around his own forearm, holding it tight in his mouth as he tied it off. At Deirdre's inquiring glance, Morgan grunted, "He'll be all right. He'll be fine," clearly to be taken as a compliment, if an ineloquent one. He started to march off. Edward gave him a salute with his blade, but such was apparently not the local custom, for Morgan ignored it.
Deirdre went on to inform him of the assignment she had for him. There was a conflict in the forest of Arden, which adjoined the Castle and its lands. Breann and Kethos were already there, and Deirdre was sending Edward to aid them, and the armed forces on station. One Julian, one of Deirdre's half-brothers, commanded Arden. "Do what he tells you to do, and stay away from his horse, and you'll be fine."
Roughing it in the forest was not Edward's idea of an ideal time, though it was not unknown territory for him -- he recalled a nighttime climb up a rock face to reach a resort atop a mountain, but by the gods, the client had paid a pretty fee for such. Still, this was clearly a further test, and another way to demonstrate his indispensability.
Deirdre pulled out a set of Trumps, flipping through them. She pulled out one of the castle itself. "This will take you to the Great Hall. All you'll need to talk to here of importance is myself or Gerard, so you can just use this one." She pulled out a couple more, then, looking at her deck, then back at me, pulled out yet one more. She stacked them together, then handed them to me, saying, as she did, "Your father is in there, too. If you want to talk to him before you leave, go ahead, though I'd talk to him in person rather than by Trump."
His father. Edward hesitated, unsure quite what he felt. He had long since stopped idealizing the vanished father he'd never known, and he had thought himself outgrown from the petty revenge fantasies that followed that idealization. And yet, clearly, he felt something at the prospect. Interesting.
Equally interesting, of course, was of what use his father could be to him. Though he had a suspicion already, based on what Deirdre had said, and how she had said it.
He looked at the trump of a handsome, ruddy-haired gent. Elegant, even foppish in appearance, dressed in lurid reds and oranges. But there was intelligence in those glinting eyes, and Edward knew that smile as his own.
"Bleys -- has a history." Bleys, Deirdre continued, had attempted a military coup against the previous regent, Eric. That it had failed did not forgive all sins, for he was still considered a traitor. He was the one locked in the room upstairs. "And that is where he's going to stay." She said that with firmness, and Edward realized that any action he took to the contrary would meet with serious unpleasantness from Deirdre. Not that that would stop him, if need be, but it was something to factor in.
She was going on, listing off other relations. "That would make Fiona your full aunt, and Megan your first cousin." The rest of the Family he'd encountered, it seemed, were half-siblings of Bleys and Fiona, or children thereof.
Deirdre explained a bit about how to use these magical Trump cards -- for communication and transportation alike. Edward nodded. He'd had glimmers of the process watching the others, but it was good to know the precise procedure for such useful trinkets.
Still, for the moment, his eyes were captured by the Trump of his father. And so he barely heard Deirdre say, "Approach with caution. And, I suppose, welcome to the family."
And then she turned and was gone, leaving Edward with much to think about.
The Chronicles of Edward
[Episode 39 -- 13 July 1998]
"Deeper and Deeper"
"Gaahhh!!"
The Valkauri who had just leapt in front of Edward growled. Menacingly, of course.
A voice emanated from the ground all about Edward, pummeling him with sound. "A-and a pleasant good evening to you, too," he stammered out.
He felt a hand on his head and neck, forcing his gaze downward. It dragged him off to the side. It was the Commander. "We’ve go rules around here, damn it. You know that. Rule Number One, we don’t look at the Sleeping One. Do I have to tell you again?"
"No, sir!" Indeed not.
"We don’t look at the Valkauri, either. Clear?"
"Clear, sir!"
"Go get packed up before they ... well, you remember what happened the last time." Edward did not, but could hazard some guesses, none of which was reassuring. He hustled.
Once he got his gear packed up, he listened around. From the others, he gathered that the Gates opened, for a limited time, every twelve hours. He looked up into the sky. It was still dark, though the moon in the sky had moved substantially. Was it ever daylight here?
He caught the shape of the Sleeping One out of the corner of his eye. Stupid question.
* * *
It was daylight back in the keep, though, as the horses -- blinkered and hooded -- pulled their now-empty carts back through. Noon, in fact. Their unit was dismissed to their normal duties.
Edward considered. He was probably capable of breaking out. He just didn’t dare yet. After all, what could he tell Deirdre. The most significant item was --
No. We don’t talk about that.
He looked up the duty watch for "Tinder," his current identity. Ah. Post 3. And wasn't that helpful. After looking a bit more, he saw that Chuck was also posted there. That would make things easier.
He saw Chuck looking at the posting board, and punched the youth in the arm in a gruff camaraderie, then let him lead the way to Post 3. Which was located along the outermost wall, a bit to the left of the gate. The post was atop the wall, and they were issued cross-bows.
Ten hours that watch lasted. Edward was disgruntled. In the interim, various groups had gone through the gates There were three or four Valkauri wandering around, making folks uncomfortable. Edward spotted more than one making signs to ward off evil.
A chill passed across Edward’s heart. And eyes. A Valkauri flying overhead. Big -- so big.
As the sun started to set, three or four more Valkauri flew off in separate directions: across the sea, along the route Edward had taken to this realm, high up into the air.
The guard shift over, Edward made his way back to the mess hall. He chatted with the cook, wondering if folks ever took leave down in the city. The cook pooh-poohed the idea. "Eh, down city-ways, they got no good food like here. No trade these days, no ships. Here, the castle, we get what we need. Why you want go down dere, boy?" Edward had to admit that the food was passable. He’d certainly had worse in other military setting. An arctic early warning station came to mind.
He walked through the courtyard, aimlessly. The walls were about twenty feet high. He wandered past the Gate -- the magical one -- and overheard someone mentioning that a visitor was arriving in a few hours, and that orders were going out for a full revue, in full dress.
Now Edward worried. He probably had a dress uniform -- but it was probably in his chest. He made his way to the barrack, but there was nothing posted as to names anywhere. He could ask Chuck, of course, to get him something. But, after a time, watching the others hustle about, he saw the gap and, when nobody raised the alarm as he started going through the chest there, he assumed he was correct.
* * *
Fully spiffed, he and his troop were standing at attention. The Commander showed up, all black with gold piping. Three other units were there, around the other sides of the Gate.
And then he was there. The Baron. It had to be him. Cold, cold, cold ... rolling off his body, emanating through the air under the sun. Immaculate, pristine, pure and unalloyed. Don’t let his sword touch the ground, came Deirdre’s voice in Edward’s head.
Inspection, two full circuits. The Baron’s presence was -- cowing. Edward found his own spirit quailing before it, as those precise eyes scanned past him, through him, seeming to penetrate to his very soul ....
The Gate seemed to be staying up longer than usual. The Commander talked with the Baron for a minute or two. Edward could hear the Baron’s exact, clipped tones, though he couldn’t make out the words. Then the latter stepped back into the Gate and vanished.
The Commander explained what the foofoorah was all about. Two new ships were being manned. The assembled units were privileged in being selected, as a reward for their performance in gathering up Valkauri. They would, the Commander said, bring Amber to its knees, bring the Golden Circle to its knees, in the service of --
Edward could not grasp the name that was spoken. But he saw the energies of the Gate pulse in sympathy to it.
The ships would be dispatched on the morrow. As the assembly broke up, Chuck punched Edward in the arm. "Isn’t this great? I love the sea! I’m a fisherman, you know! Isn’t this great?"
"Of course. Great," said Edward, dryly. "At least we’ll be safe, once we're away from those horrid Valkauri."
What neither realized is that both of them would all too soon be changing their minds.