Monkey Business

The personal diary of Sorashi, daughter of Deirdre, pt 13

I have got used to the almost clockwork receipt of invitations at breakfast, but was not really expecting one to a duel between Constance and Julian for ‘the insult to Constance’s person’.

I have to re-read it to ensure I had not misread it the first time. Mother enquires what the duel is about, but I have no idea apart from the obvious. I know there was tension between them, but had no idea it was this bad – it sounds like Constance’s idea if I’m honest, but I’m not sure what she hopes to achieve.

We are also invited to the ‘unveiling’ of the Sawall candidate for the throne of Chaos – an expected event, given the events at the Ball. I would hope for an event without the threat of violence, but this is Chaos and no doubt assassins will be hiding in every shadow.

I really need to speak to Mother about Amber – and other things. It has been many years since I last saw her, notwithstanding the battle, and it must be said I feel we do not really know each other well. I doubt we ever had, but I am different now, I do not succumb to the role of inelegant daughter desperately seeking her Mother’s approval, so often withheld or qualified (why do I think of Constance now? Is it that I see my possible future in her perennial pursuit of the unobtainable?) and I think we need to re-evaluate our relationship.

Karma has an impish sense of timing – just as I look up at Mother to request a talk, she says “I think we need to have a chat about things” – things being our future, amongst others it transpires. I agree, but then a note comes from Rama, requesting a meeting after the duel.

Mother smirks at this – though it’s hidden almost immediately – and proceeds to twit me mildly about Rama, enquiring if there is ‘anything happening’. Well, yes, there is, but not in the way she implies. I smile benignly and reply in the negative.

I am sure she will not believe me, but romance is no use to either of us. I wonder what she would make of Lord Zuby and his offer of providing progeny?

Mother has lost interest in this for the time being, and proceeds to do a reading about Corwin. The cards show The Emperor, Fiona, then Corwin.

It seems Corwin is about to join our happy little band in Chaos. Mother is happy about this, I am ambivalent.

On the subject of cards, she shows me her new Havelock-drawn trump – she wears a black dress embellished with silver-thread, and stands on a formal lawn, her left hand cradles a white rose on an equally manicured bush whilst her right holds a knife. In the distance, a tiger cub and a panther are playing with a silver orb. It is beautiful, and I remember Father mentioning that Mother’s soul animal was a panther. I pass it back, and remark on its beauty and aptness.

Tajal is at her studies, so I wash and change ready for this Family duel. I suppose I should ask Mother about Julian, he seems distant and stand-offish even by the standards of the Elders, but that will have to wait.

The Garden of Delights – that popular venue for duels locally, apparently – is as unsettling as ever, mist trickling around its edges, hiding who-knows-what. The exploded cockroach has gone – was that the Phantom, last seen at the Ball ushering Augustus’ spirit into wherever Chaos spirits go? – And in its stead is a pair of eyeballs, floating in mid-air.

Not worrying at all – not even when I walk up to them and find they are only slightly higher than my own – about the height they would be in the head of, for example, Melvyn. They are the right colour, as well.

Chaos is not for those with sensitive natures, it would seem. As I back away, I notice there is a very faint shimmer around the piece – so faint as to be almost a trick of the light, if the light here were that of a sun.

I walk away to a gathering of the audience, who are milling around in smallish groups. Mainly family, though a smattering of Chaosites – and Melvyn is there, talking to Hector. I am hesitant at approaching him, but at least he is fully-formed so I approach and smile, and greet him.

And do not step back, aghast, as he turns towards me. His eye-sockets are filled, though not with eyes. A blackish substance describes an orb in each, but it ripples like half-set pitch when he moves – it is horrifically fascinating so I endeavour not to stare at them. He seems hesitant in greeting me – he can see, but perhaps not as he was used to before the Logrus – and we chat awkwardly and stiltedly, his manner is more grave and less hesitant than before. I thank him for saving me, and he says I am welcome, but I cannot help noticing his eyes are fixed at a point slightly behind where I am stood.

It is a relief when Havelock, Darig and Margrath come up to speak to him and I can leave the conversation.

The audience moves up to the vantage point in the giant’s torso, where we get a good view of the final preparations for this duel – Caine and a female with jewelled eyes (from House Ophir, I am informed) are talking to (or possibly at) Julian, whose face wears its usual impassive and faintly bored expression, whilst Constance is attended by William (of course, the two are almost joined at the hip) and a figure I remember as Ariel from the House she is hosted with. Constance looks slightly nervous, flexing her wrists as she talks to William.

Then the seconds meet – I had forgotten how good the acoustics are. Ariel asks for an apology for the insult offered to Constance, this is obviously denied. Neither side react as though this is a surprise, so the terms of the duel are fixed as no armour, no magic, and to first blood.

I expected the duel to start, but apparently the granting of favours is obligatory, even when the duel involves only the two combatants. Cymnea is obviously enjoying herself hugely as she ties a length of silk round Julian’s arm. I cannot fault her choice, I am not expecting Constance to win either.

Julian and Constance salute each other and thus the fighting starts. Well, Constance dances around athletically and gracefully whilst Julian blocks her blows, ignores her feints and stands almost tauntingly still as she tries to draw him out. It is rather like watching a ratting-dog attack a wooden post and I assume that the bar on magic is telling on Constance.

As is her lack of a quick win – after 10 minutes she is visibly tiring and Julian hardly seems to have worked up a sweat. Her fighting style is energy-sapping and I’m not sure her endurance is up to a long fight, though she lasts another 10 minutes before Julian stops fighting defensively and wins with a blade to her throat. The obligatory first blood is drawn by a scratch on her cheek, and the duel ends. Julian indicates he is satisfied, and walks off with Caine whilst a cluster of women attends on Constance.

I mislike crowds so wander vaguely around to find someone to talk to. I pass Julian and the male family members in time to hear a snatch of conversation between him and Caine – Caine says something about making someone ‘eat their own entrails’ but Julian responds that revenge must occasionally be tempered with mercy. And I suppose skewering your offspring after having assaulted them might be looked at askance even in the Amber royal family.

My musings are cut short when I am called over to Constance’s crowd by Mother, where I am introduced to Fiona, who seems to have just finished sewing up Constance’s cheek. I do my best curtsey with my best look of polite detachment to her, which she acknowledges in the usual friendly Elder-to-youngster manner of polite and patronising disinterest. But Mother seems happy with my showing, at least.

Cymnea now bustles forward with a goblet for Constance, then turns her towards Julian. Constance curtseys and Julian raises his goblet in salute. My respect for Cymnea increases at this subtle display of political savvy. Karma, never one to let an opportunity for balance pass by, now displays a lesson on a complete lack of both subtlety and political savvy. I notice Melvyn approach William – as the two chat, William suddenly punches Melvyn hard in the stomach.

After a second or two of shock, and another second of restraint in not marching over to the pair in Melvyn’s defence (and, to be honest, I have no desire to be punched by William either), I walk over to enquire if Melvyn is alright. He assures me he is fine, and it is a ‘private matter’ so I withdraw – I do not look at William for confirmation, I can tell a social fiction when I hear one. Melvyn does not need me to fight his battles for him.

The jollities having effectively ended, I go back to the Alhambra with Mother, whose accommodation is adequate, I am informed.

I wear the coronet to meet Rama – not through any desire to impress, but a habit I must get into as mistress of this place.

We meet in one of the endless side-rooms, where after an acceptable amount of social conversation, I meet the latest addition to the Alhambra staff. Her name is Surpanakha, blue-skinned with fangs and multiple arms, and she is a rakshasa. I must admit to a thrill of horror, ages of childhood stories made flesh, but although looking a little truculent, she is not as threatening as imagination would expect. On my orders, the arms are reduced to 2, and she is taken off to Asfar’s tender care.

Rama now escorts me to the third courtyard, where a squad of a dozen green-skinned demons wait. Their leader, larger than the rest, is Madhu, apparently. They all look – utilitarian, built for fighting and nothing else, but disciplined. These will be kept at House Indra, for use in Alhambra’s defence at my call.

And, once more, the chariot of assumption hits the pothole of practicality – I am no Chaos lord, certainly no sorcerer. Rama is almost comically apologetic as he had forgotten, or possibly had just not thought about it. We agree to work on a method of communication between the Houses.

Before he leaves, he asks to speak to Mother – he does not volunteer why, and I do not ask. On an indication from me, he is taken up to her rooms by Asfar.

I go to change for the unveiling, and find myself staring into space, missing Tajal and worrying that she will think I have abandoned her. I sent my love to her through Rama, but it is not the same.

Motherhood is not a bed of magnolias, as they say.

We arrive at the Sawall residence where little groups dot the hall – I exchange nods with Belissa and Hector, and Mother, with a glad cry, makes her way to a group including a figure I have seen only as a painting – this must be Corwin. I follow Mother but the group seems disinclined to accept another member, so I fail to be introduced to the latest familial arrival.

He looks rumpled, and travel-stained, and I hear him complain about the lack of food as I pass. As Mother gestures in my direction, I hear him exclaim that he was unaware of her having a daughter.

Unaware no longer, his conversation returns to his discomforts and I wander away. A group of women stand or lounge near an alcove, one of whom is Sand. I attach myself to this group, who are in the middle of an anecdote – I laugh when they do, though I have no idea at what.

The makeup of this group seems less than coincidental as Darig is waved away when he approaches – as is made clear, this is a group for females only. Amberite politics surfaces again, even if one of the women is Whone of Sawall.

Fiona is then asked (by Llewella, I think) for her story – in essence, Fiona stayed with Corwin, Random and Merlin after the battle, when most of the army departed for the Courts. She left before that group to ride a ‘filmy’ to the Thelbane but during her journey she realised some sort of magical effect was preventing her from reaching her goal. In her opinion, this magic was aimed at Merlin and Corwin rather than her but this didn’t help her situation.

Realising that using the Pattern was bordering on suicide, the only option was a spell. This took hours and, ironically, by the time she cast the spell whatever was stopping her was gone. Shortly after that Havelock trumped her and brought her through to the Grand Ball.

She was convinced that they’d left the battlefield only a few hours before.

She tells it well, and I am reminded of the children’s tales of travellers passing through mysterious caves to find their grandchildren are white-haired and wrinkled.

The conversation turns to less interesting matters and I feel the need to circulate so I wander away, leaving Flora to chat about complementing colours or something.

There are a couple of groups nearby I could join but I decide (in a fit of masochism) to stretch my social talents and join a group with people in it I didn’t know.

Seeing Darig wander off from one with unfamiliar faces, I choose to approach – William is in there but, in compensation, so is Rachael. I smile and introduce myself to the others, including Rikard of Karm, to whom so much is owed by our family. I congratulate Rachael on her upcoming nuptials, even including William in this – Rachael smiles like a spring morning and William makes a noncommittal grunt (or possibly suppresses a cough, it is difficult to tell). Havelock joins us but chit-chat is put to one side as he warns us that House Chanicut and another unnamed House plan to attack the proceedings.

I am glad I brought my hunting knives.

And, in true temple-festival style, there is a hush as Gauri walks to the top of the staircase with Merlin – so Merlin is to be the Sawall candidate for High King. He doesn’t look very happy about it.

I think I mentioned karma earlier? As Merlin stands amid the polite air of expectation, there comes a sudden yet familiar sharp pain behind my left ear. On pure instinct, I turn to William and say sharply “William! Danger!”

As the doors to the hall shatter inwards.

I have no idea if my advance warning helped, but in the remains of the door frame are four metal beings, looking less than amiable. I wisely choose to move out of their way, behind those with large weapons and the skills to use them. I start to shift, losing my sari in a practiced move once enough fur covers my important areas, but it still seems to take forever as I see the fight start.

The metal beings have one arm with varied jagged metal implements, the other arm sparks and fizzes and hums with some sorcerous energy – I see one of these hit Rikard, and he falls to the floor, convulsing like a drinker of hemlock, unconscious thereafter apart from fitful twitches as the thing advances.

And still I change, my shape-changing like the eon-slow march of mountains. I can smell the acrid scent from the metal being, and still I will be dead of old age before I change, it seems.

This really wasn’t a good idea, I think as I watch William move to engage the being, as a flash of light and a smell I cannot describe on my peripheral vision tell of a Pattern weapon being used. I am at the foot of the stairs, straining to finish, when Cymnea leans over and aims a spell at me.

And suddenly I am in tiger form – I do not know what the spell was, but suddenly it is like being released from a cage, and I can fight properly. After this is over, I will thank Cymnea properly and, more importantly, find out what that spell is and how to do it. But first I have a fight to engage in.

There is a gap in the line between William and Rikard’s prone form, as William engages two of the metallics – I gallop forward and leap at the one which attacked Rikard. The impact knocks it over, and I see the light on its face blink briefly then disappear.

I presume it is at best blind, and avoid the crackle of its sorcerous limb to bite at its throat. As I do so, I smell something like a diseased toad just before two columns of bipedal toad-like things move through the door.

Other have seen this and move to cordon them into the door entrance – the remaining metallics are putting up a spirited fight and one hits Benedict with the crackling enspelled limb – Benedict falls immediately, and no-one is near enough to help him though several start to move in his direction.

No-one near him. Apart from me.

I gather myself into a hunting leap and land on its back, knocking it to the ground – unfortunately onto Benedict but no plan is perfect – and again go for what would be its spine if it were flesh and blood. In the strange way one does, I notice the gold trim to its carapace. It didn’t make it taste any better.

I hear rather than see Mother step up and endeavour to get out of the way as she brings down an axe onto the metallic, ending its existence. I almost succeed, a shallow cut along my flanks is the cost.

It’s little more than a scratch, it stings a little as I move off the metallic. Benedict pushes it off him and stands up, only slightly shaky – I notice Rikard is also on his feet – as the toad which had been advancing on him stops, looks round and then drops his trident in a gesture of surrender as Benedict, Mother and Corwin move towards him.

I can see no other metallics still standing, a couple of smoking metal corpses showing the use of Pattern weapons. Comparatively, there are several – well 4 – of the toads still standing, though they seem less enthusiastic about continuing the fight.

There are two others away in front of my left flank. They attempt to sidle away, but stop when I advance, growling.

In their sidling, however, one of them moves quite close to the door leading to the demon area. This proves to be a bad idea when suddenly an insectoid limb shoots out of the doorway and slits the toad’s throat. Its companion takes a sudden hop sideways, away from the door, and surrenders to the nearest Amberite not wearing fur – I think it’s Havelock, though I am unsure.

The fight ends.

There is a smell by the doorway, almost unnoticeably faint, of … I do not know, almost like the memory of a bad smell, a minuscule trace of something subtle and unclean.

I do not think that this attack was the inspiration of these two houses alone. Mandor, the vizier’s vizier, seems to have been thinking along similar lines and asks the obvious question “Who let them in?”

Jurt jumps up immediately, face contorted as he screeches responsibility, but all Sawall (and several Amberite) eyes turn to his rather more silent companion, Archduke Gramble, who says nothing – in fact, he looks grumpily oblivious until he looks up at his son.

Mandor’s face is studiedly calm, he silences Jurt with a sharp retort and asks us all, oh so politely, to excuse him whilst he sorts out ‘a family matter’. We take the hint and prepare to leave but Mandor’s attention is caught by the corpse near the demon quarters and he demands to know why it had died in that spot, so near the demons.

I cannot answer – possibly for the best, in the circumstances, as I was going to assure him that no demon had actually entered the Hall, just leaned in a little – and no-one else seems willing to do so, though I do notice DeLambre looking somewhat uncomfortable.

I also notice William noticing his discomfort, and then looking determined.

“Does it really matter, Mandor? There was a lot of fighting, it died.” He shrugs, and the other family members nod or murmur their assent. Mandor seems willing to argue the matter, then looks at the increasingly truculent guests and sighs in exasperation, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture as we are invited to go to the dining room for refreshments. Corwin certainly doesn’t need a second invitation – possibly the magic word ‘refreshment’.

I, still in tiger form, am taken off by Gauri to her rooms to change back. The blouse is ruined, but I borrow a scarf which will serve, and go down to the dining room to find I am actually quite hungry.

The buffet is good, and plentiful – Corwin has the manner of one who has not seen food for a monsoon month – and we do not stint ourselves, talking amongst ourselves whilst waiting for Mandor and family to return.

I had no idea Merlin was Corwin’s son, and have no idea what he’s doing in Chaos. However, he is insistent that he does not want to be High King – the river of fate seems to be flowing uphill for Mandor tonight, I doubt he will be accepting of this.

When he returns from burying Gramble in the foundation of the harem, or the Chaos equivalent, the Mandor suaveness has returned – that is, until Merlin refuses point-blank to co-operate at all.

Once again, Mandor has to accept that he will not win – twice in one night. To his credit, he bows to the inevitable, rhetorically asking the room what was to be done now?

I’m not sure he was actually expecting a response, but Constance casually suggests Melvyn as a candidate. Mandor’s first reaction is disbelief – Melvyn is a walking jelly, no character at all!

But the cousins present the facts to neutralise all Mandor’s objections – Melvyn has assayed the Logrus and changed substantially, he has the touch of yellow required to be High King and, most importantly, he is being tutored by both Dworkin and Suhuy in sorcery. In the end, Mandor’s sole objection is that he has never been to Brứ-na-Bóinne, and even he is aware of how thin this sounds.

He finally concedes that he will think about it.

So, querulous, jumpy little cousin(ish) Melvyn – possibly High King? I doubt Mandor will let his second candidate wriggle out of his machinations so it may happen.

Strange events indeed, even in this, the strangest of places.