The Chronicles of Edward

Session 63

Edward lit out of Amber.  He was not terribly happy.

Not terribly happy with anything.  He was not happy with himself, nor with the situations he was finding himself in.  Out of control.  Others mastering his destiny, dictating his actions, mucking about with his head ...

Gads.  That other Edward, the place where his soul had been trapped, or where he had been reprogrammed, or however that bit of dark magic had been done.   Edward shuddered, even as he ordered another delicate liqueur from the Shadow he had hied himself off to.  Insipid.  Mooning.  Heroic.

Nice.

And, worst of all, it had felt ... good.  That other Edward, for all his unrequited romanticism and stoic heroics, had been happy, had felt he was doing the right thing.  He'd have been appalled at Edward's -- the real Edward's -- rather more pragmatic view on loyalty and morality and the like.

He had been miserable.  But he had been good.

And Breann ...

Edward shuddered again, and shot back the liqueur.  What in Heaven's name had that been all about?  He had the vague idea that he was playing the role of someone else, one of the Elders in his own reality.  Julian, perhaps, which was rather interesting.   More interesting, though, was that there were still wretched echoes of those feelings reverberating through his brain.

And that would definitely not do.

Edward headed into Shadow.  He found a Breann look-alike.  Wooed her with success.

And felt nothing.

He repeated the experiment several times.  They all looked like Bree, and all sounded like Bree, but it just wasn't ... the same.

That avenue of catharsis turning out to be a failure, he took the opposite tack.   While his current Breann conquest lay lovingly in bed beside him, he rolled over and strangled her with his bare hands.  He sought out others, killing them in various fashions, personally and, in the last instance, somewhat bloody.

He twirled the dagger in his hand, looking down at the body, death having taken the face in a rictus of horror, pain, disbelief.

Nothing.

This was all taking too long.  As much as he would very much like to have written off Amber as a bad investment, there was too much at stake, and he suspected that it was dangerous to be out of touch for too long.  And there was his father to look after.   And Breann to ...

Well.  Enough of that for now.

He possessed a Trump of the Great Hall, and made use of it, returning home again.

*     *     *

He made his way up to the Regent's office.  She was out, for a change.  Upon exiting, though, Scudamore informed him that Deirdre was looking for him.  How coincidental. 

He made his way to the Infirmary, and was surprised and mildly alarmed to find out that Bleys was not there.  Deirdre explained that there were concerns about security in the castle, and that he and some of the other wounded had been sent off to Arisha, which had better security. 

"I assume I'll be able to visit him."  He had encountered such cases before, where a family member was kept "secure" -- and, thus, hostage.

"Of course," Deirdre said, looking at him oddly.  "Quinn will be able to get you there."

She continued in explaining what she wanted of her.  "We've had a suspicious occurrence."

"I was nowhere near here."

She smiled, and assured him that he was not a suspect, but potentially of aid.   There had been a gruesome ritual murder in an inn down by the docks.  She failed to explain why this was of concern to the royal family, but she did say that Quinn was investigating it from a magical standpoint, while Victor, Ander's friend, was checking things out from a law enforcement point of view.

"And me?"

"I think you might have a -- unique perspective on matters.  If you would take a look --?"

He bowed, and exited.

*     *     *

The inn was a rather disreputable place on the waterfront.  The killing had taken place on an upper floor room.  The victim had started the ball rolling by putting his own eyeballs out with his thumbs.

Why had it been considered a murder, not a suicide.  Well, for one thing, the victim had pushed so hard with his thumbs that he'd dislocated both of them.  Which, among other things, would have rendered him unable to do the intricate cabalistic carvings on his chest afterwards.  Charming.

Edward shook his head.  Bloody amateurs.  Ritual killings were the sign of superstitious hogwash, and were unprofessional to boot.  Do the job, do it right, and get out.  Unless, of course, it was meant to look like some whacko was responsible.  Edward had been roped into such assignments before, usually under protest and with a hefty increase in remuneration.

Quinn determined that the room had been "wiped" magically, afterwards.   No psychic impressions left at all.  And, of course, the door and windows were found locked from the inside, where there was nobody left but the body.

Victor had had no luck with leads.  Theseus, also on the case, and in the room when Edward arrived (though skulking about in the closet) was speculating that it was tied to the strange, angelic figure that everyone -- Edward included -- had seen over the city.

Victor went off with the murder weapon, a letter opener or pen knife.  Cute.   This world didn't have serious forensic medicine or procedures, but Victor knew where to go to get fingerprints taken.

The victim was known as a black marketer and fence.  His contact, who had found the body, had known he was there, though it was evidently unheard of for him to actually rent a room where whatever transaction was to take place did.  The barkeeper, too, knew both fellows, by reputation at least, but did not know anything more.  Or so it was said.

While Edward was updated by Theseus, the latter received a Trump contact from Lysander, who brought him through with an admonition, "Don't touch anything!"

Lysander and Edward looked at each other.  Edward had never met him -- here.   He had met him in that alternate reality, though, fighting jointly against Lysander's father, Gerard.  And, the more Edward thought about it, the more he realized that Lysander had been intentionally blocking his attacks against Gerard -- which called into question his loyalty to Amber, perhaps, and served as a personal affront to Edward even moreso.

Still, no point in starting off rudely, though it was an intrusion into the "professional" mindset Edward was trying to adopt in looking into the investigation.  "So," Edward asked Lysander, "how's your father?"

Lysander shrugged it off, non-committally.  "Tell me about Ys."

Little alarm bells went off in Edward's head.  Why would this fellow want to know about Ys?  And who had suggested that he talk to Edward.  Was this a possible security breach in the making?

"Well, the weather is something frightful.  And you won't want to trust the public facilities -- horribly filthy."

Lysander did not seem to appreciate the wit, and pressed for further information.   Edward noted that Theseus didn't seem to consider anything odd about this, which brought to mind to Edward that perhaps this was some sort of infantile test on Deirdre's part.  Certainly Lysander hadn't even mentioned the Regent's name, and Edward was certainly not going to blab sensitive intel about their foremost enemy's homeland just on a whim.  For gold, perhaps, but not on a whim.

Edward continued to fend off the questioning, growing increasingly irritated by both the presumption and the interruption.  Lysander appeared to be growing impatient, too, and Edward half-hoped he would attack. 

At the end, Edward sighed impatiently.  "Excuse me, I do have a crime scene here to investigate on behalf of the Regent.  Unless you'd care to participate in a reenactment ...?"

Lysander made a disgusted noise.  He turned to Theseus. "Let's go," he said, and the two of them departed, leaving Edward behind with a dead body.

It wasn't the first time.

Journal #68 - 10 May 99

"Nice mystical glowing horsy thing"

Edward was following Deirdre.  It seemed safer than being on his own, and he might be of some service.

They made their way through the mad crowds.  Edward showed no mercy toward those who got in his way -- though no particular malice, either.  If a disabling kick was all that was necessary, then fine.  If stiffened fingers crushing the windpipe left behind a dying lunatic, that was hardly a matter of concern, either.

To one side, with a loud roar, a building exploded and collapsed.

"Hmmm -- what happened over there?" said Deirdre, heading that way.

"There are buildings collapsing over there, what do you think?" said Edward, reluctantly following her --

-- and his vision faded back in again, and he realized he had lost some seconds, and he was closing the gap with Deirdre --

-- and his vision faded back in again, and it reminded him of 'Uncle Stromboli' and he was holding his dagger, and much closer to Deirdre's back -- 

He tossed the blade to the side, and tried to croak out a warning --

-- and his vision snapped back in again.  He was looking up from the ground, and his jaw was abominably sore.  Deirdre was looking down at him, looking concerned, and rubbing one hand as though it were sore.

"We have to talk," was all she said, as she offered him the other hand to get him to his feet.

He described for her, quickly, his previous encounter with 'Uncle Stromboli'.

She frowned, looking somewhat suspicious.  "How long were you having that conversation."  She was obviously putting two and two together and coming up with Edward and a bloody dagger.

"Er ... it's hard to say --"

*     *     *

Martial law had been imposed upon the city.  Edward, sitting back in a booth in a deserted tavern, a mug of red ale liberated from behind the counter resting on the table before him, considered what to do next.

At length, he decided to try Trumping Uncle Delwin.   Why, he had no idea.  Perhaps seeking some clarity, an outsider's perspective, on the matter.

The contract took a very long time to come through, as the card slowly cooled.  Dim --

He was looking at a scene of trees, and a circle of stone.  Mossy rocks scattered here and there.  His perspective panned around ... to Lora's crypt.   And then he was looking down at Uncle Delwin, who was lying on the ground, a big, sucking hole in his torso.

He tried to reach through, to pull Delwin to him.  That failed, so he tried to do the only thing he could do -- at least, the only thing that the sudden imperatives in his head demanded he do -- Trump through.

Which failed, too.

Blindly, he ran back to the Castle.  He dashed into the Infirmary -- fortunately, not part of the Castle that was destroyed -- and grabbed a First Aid pack.   Then he picked his way down the crumbling stair into the depths -- to the Pattern -- walked it --

And bade it take him to Delwin.

The darkness of the chamber was abruptly changed to the cool green of the grove about Lora's crypt.  No sign of Delwin, annoyingly enough.

But there, on the ground, were some heel marks, as though Delwin had been dragged away.  He followed them, pushing through brush and bushes until he found himself in a clearing.  And there was Delwin.  Being pulled by glowing ropes.   Which were draped around the neck of a -- the? -- Unicorn.

The creature spun about as he entered the clearing.  Mist and light wreathed it, and its eyes glowed as it watched Edward's sudden pause.

"Nice mystical glowing horsy thing ... good mystical glowing horsy thing ... I fear I've no sugar cubes on me, but I do have this nice bottle of wine..."

The ropes parted, and the unicorn moved back.

Edward moved to Delwin.  That was quite a wound in his gut.   Something long and hard had poked into him there.  A spike of some sort.   A lance, perhaps.  A ... horn?

Edward looked up at the unicorn.  The unicorn looked back at him.

"Would you happen to know anything about --"

The unicorn pawed the ground, in a not terribly pleasant fashion.

"Er, there was this other gent here the last time --"

Paw.  Snort.

"As soon as I have him patched up, I'll --"

Paw, paw, snort, snort.

Edward fumbled for his Trumps.  Who --?

He was a long way out.  Nobody back in Amber would be able to help him, any more than he had been able to help Delwin from there.  Who else did he have a Trump of --

Of course.  And who better to Trump when Delwin was in trouble?

He concentrated, and, after a few moments, was looking into the eyes of ... Sand.

Journal #69, 24 May 99

"Hell Yes, A Good Time"

She was one of those women whose pictures do not do them justice.  On the Trump, she seemed vaguely pretty, rather non-descript.  In the flesh -- or in a psychic contact, at least -- Sand was a powerful presence, neither beautiful nor ugly, but strong ...

She looked at Edward, and extended her hand.  He carried Delwin through over his shoulders.  As he lowered Delwin to the floor in what looked like a room made for costume balls, she clapped her hands.

Immediately, a dozen servants appeared.  Edward held off killing any of them long enough to realize that they were there to care for Delwin.  He disliked being startled so.

As they bundled Delwin off on a gurney, Sand regarded Edward again.  "Interesting.  Your work?"

He was flattered.  Also wary.  He presumed some level of amity between brother and sister -- at least from what he remembered of Quinn's tale of them.  Still ...  "No, I can't take credit.  It was, I believe, a unicorn."

She raised an eyebrow.  "A unicorn?  Interesting choice of the indefinite article."

"I've not had a direct encounter with the other one to be able to say.  Though it would be quite the coincidence if not so."

She nodded, thoughtfully.  "Would you care to oversee the ministrations to him?"  I.e., do you trust that he is being cared for adequately?

Edward shook his head. "That won't be necessary, but thank you.."

"Then would you care to eat?  Drink?  Come, join me for dinner."

He nodded, and followed her into a small study, wherein were two chairs and a table.  Food and drink were brought to them -- small tidbits, finger food.  He bravely tried some, and found it most tasty.  The wine, in turn, was quite good.  Though --

"Where are my manners?" he suddenly said.  "I brought a hostess gift." He pulled a bottle of wine from his coat pocket. 

Sand was impressed -- and, he sensed, oddly moved.  "It has been many years since I drank of this wine," she said.  "Thank you."

They ate a little more, and drank much more.  At some point, a Victrola kicked in.  They tangoed across the hardwood floor, and she was whispering in his hear --

-- her lips were on his ears --

-- he confessed he was just a bit more than curious --

-- and was swept away in a river of Sand.

Journal #70, 7 Jun 99

He woke up in a lovely, sun-filled room.  Gorgeously appointed furniture. Wood paneling of exquisite delicacy in its filigree inlay.  Heavy leaded crystal decanter on the nightstand, shattering the sunlight into a thousand scintillating colors.

He had the vaguest of recollections of it the night before.  Ye gods -- if all Amberites were like that in bed, it was a wonder any of them ever got out of it ...

(Images flashed through his head of Breann ... he angrily shoved them aside.)

He tried to remember the details of the night before, but it was all just a blur, a cacophony of flesh.  He hadn't let go of himself in that fashion for -- well, it had been some years, certain narcotics were involved, and he'd had to kill the woman the next morning.

He looked around.  No sign of Sand.

Languor filled his limbs, but he felt oddly tense, as though under observation.  A brief reach demonstrated to him that he had a dagger under the pillow.  At least I'm not getting senile as well as lust-crazed.  Although Sand would have nothing to complain about.  He was sure he'd given as well as he'd gotten.  Which was quite well indeed, thank you.

A brief knock on the door, and the butler entered, pushing a tray with various savory-smelling goodies upon it.

The butler also had a message.  Sand was gone, "for a while," unavoidably called away.  She assured him that Delwin was someplace safe, where he could be cared for.  She sent her best regards, etc., etc., etc.  It was a very nice brush-off, from one perspective.  Or it could mean any of a dozen other things.  Insufficient data.

Edward nodded, dismissed the butler, then ate, bathed and clothed, in that order.  Then he got up to look around.

The staff was nowhere to be seen, but that was no indication that he was unwatched.  Indeed, he presumed he was.  He wandered about the place, taking it in.  A number of doors were locked -- he chose not to press his luck, and instead focused on the public areas. 

There was little, however, that was of more than casual interest.  He did find one bookcase filled with books on body piercing.  He abruptly gave himself an impromptu search, as though concerned.  Nothing, thank heavens.  Although that would explain that rhythmic jingling he'd kept hearing the night before...

He finally decided he'd seen enough.  Daylight was burning, and he had no intention of staying the night here.  Especially if she isn't here any longer.  He pushed that thought aside.  Though it occurred to him that being able to return here might be of value in the future. 

He committed the bathroom to his suite to memory.  He might be able to get a Trump drawn of it, or use the Pattern to take him here again, or something of that sort. 

He returned to the main hall, aglitter with crystal chandeliers and wood-paneled walls.  He sat in a chair to one side and pulled out his Trump deck.  Who to try.  Delwin ... his father ... Breann ... Deirdre, failing that ... Quinn ....