The Fool on the Hill

The personal diary of Sorashi, daughter of Deirdre, pt 16

So we are at last where we all wanted to be – our last day in Chaos, before we leave for Amber peacefully and in good array.

Even though this is a day we have strived and laboured for, in a way I am saddened to leave.

I have friends here, almost a family – but, the wheel turns and nothing stays forever, not even the gods as they say. There is also the matter of Surpanakha – do I leave her here or take her with me? Tajal, obviously, comes with us but I am not sure about a Rakshasa with a dark sense of humour. Thinking about it clearly and calmly, however, I decide to include her – there is not much for her to do in the Alhambra, she is bound to me and she will be company (and protection) for Tajal on the journey and in Amber – I assume I will be required to earn my keep in the army, and will not be by her side as much as I would like.

She takes the news calmly, as well as the order to remain in her humanoid form as much as possible whilst within the army.

The Chaos gossip is related to me by Asfar – House Unman have removed Laird Tobias from their number and are now Ixtramurini, as are House Flense, who had lost their Chaos Lady.

Taking their place are House Anura and House Dragonfly – of whom I know little. I catch myself thinking this no longer matters, but it does if we wish to establish and maintain diplomatic ties. The intricate dance of politics needs to be followed closely – lest it trip the unprepared.

There is also news that Melvin seeks to extend the extent of the Thelbane by including more Houses but details are sketchy – a good move, those Houses will owe him. He is also to marry Fuchsia of House Groan – a name I recognised from previous discussions. I feel she will be good for him (well, I hope she will be good for him) – even more hopeful is the fact he is making his own decisions.

Mother advises me that I will be in charge of the axe-men. She has a higher rank and broader responsibilities than me, so it makes sense.

And so we get to the goodbyes – I notice how casually I accept the journeying, hardly noticing the changes.

Firstly – House Indra, where we are greeted warmly, like old friends, and declarations of everlasting friendship are made on both sides (subject to future politics but this is tactfully not alluded to) and Mother, Tajal and I are all given saris of beautiful hue and exquisite decoration. In addition to these 'trifling' gifts of friendship, I am given the official presents – a steed 'suitable for my station' – a large, white elephant with 4 tusks (which can shift into a serpent), along with a howdah of ivory. The beast – named Airavata – is a meat-eater, I am informed.

There is also a sealed scroll case which holds my official title of Calipha of Alhambra, in case my right to the property are ever disputed.

I thank them cordially – and hand over gifts of my own – an official title of Vizier and Major Domo Extrordinaire to Rama. His eyes speak volumes as he accepts gracefully.

There is also a poem – one from my homeland, an epic poem of friendship, strife and heroism involving gods and mortals. I recite the first verse, mentally I am back under the banyan trees, the smell of warm red earth and the chirping of crickets. They seem pleased at this, and I'm not sure Krishna didn't sneak a quick look at the second verse.

Next is House Hendrake, where we say goodbye to Lady Belissa and Lacertin. Tajal gives Lacertin a hunting knife from me and in turn receives a mace named Sharur – apparently a mystic weapon historically wielded by the Counts of Minobee, and rather over-enthusiastically now by its young Countess. I 'help' her carry it to avoid injury.

When we come back to the Alhambra, a familiar gawky figure waits for us – Mr Saturday. In repayment of his end of the bargain, he gives me a stoppered jar with what he says is a loah inside. Its name is Mahmee, and it is mine. I give him a bottle of rum which he accepts with a hungry smile – as we part ways, he calls out that we will meet again. I incline my head and smile politely.

Strangely, Mother doesn't quiz me on Mr Saturday, just looks at me sideways and remarks that I keep very strange company. I smile and shrug minutely – strange is a relative concept, especially here.

And lastly, we leave the Alhambra. It is a bigger wrench than I had thought, saying goodbye to the first home I owned, and its staff.

I tell Asfar that Surpanakha is coming with us – as is Mahabali – and he nods, calmly. He asks about the Coronet – I think about it and tell him it is to remain. Much as I would like to take it with me, I would not like to lose it on the way to Amber and I feel it belongs here.

As I take my leave of him, he presents me with a mace (apparently a popular choice in Chaos). This is not an ordinary weapon, however – it is formed from the boss of the shield in the courtyard, and has a link to Kirgiz. Not only can I communicate with the Alhambra, but at need, it could transport me safely (probably) back to the Alhambra.

I do not attempt to use it now – I really don't want to start the journey with a migraine.

We gather, form into ranks to leave – Hector and his household march with us, as do a selection of gods and other fellow travellers – I spot Ibemo, head and shoulders above the soldiers who surround him.

Before we leave, we have a (mercifully concise) speech from Melvin – most of which I cannot hear, but he seems to be making the expected points of friendship and so on. Bleys makes a far-more audible response (again, short) and we move off from the Great Hall, most of the Houses of Chaos seem to have turned out to bid us farewell (or to make sure we actually left, depending on opinion).

From the Great Hall, a short traverse to the Whispering Bridge. Ludmilla, in her niche, watches us go – I raise my hand in salute to her, and she responds with a slow closing of her eyes.

The bridge seems wider and longer than before, at its end a filmy, like a trail left by a snail in the morning sun, refracting light like a ribbon of spilled oil. We cross this with some trepidation, it is as insubstantial as a cobweb and flexes at our passing as the Abyss yawns under our feet and the multi-coloured sky wheels above. We lose a few when the blustery wind strengthens and the fragile path turns upside down – Surpanakha grabs an infantry soldier as he plummets upwards past the howdah, though his weapons continue the journey without him. Happily, a shore awaits us, one of more solid construction, though the stars break upon it like waves.

The area has changed – unsurprisingly – and rolling hills replace the high cliffs which gave us such a good vantage point. The Black Path is now an earthen trail.

We march for what seems like hours until we reach what we recognise as the actual battle site – lumpy terrain now, with sinister-looking black pools. There is a brief hiatus waiting for the scouts to come back, so we set up temporary camps and hand out food – we dare not light fires, so food is dried rations.

Taking advantage of the stop, a family conclave is called. In essence, we could not go back the way we came (via the Trump Gate) as Amber is not sufficiently similar to contact via Trump. It has been a very long time – the fallen of Amber are now fossils in the (thin) bedrock (leading to speculation that this has caused the area to still be here) and it is unknown how this has translated into time in Amber.

Constance and Dirk are in command of the scouts, the vanguard is under Darig, and the rest of the army is divided into two divisions and a rearguard under Corwin. I lead mother’s axemen in the second division mounted on Airavata (in William's muttered aside a 'bloody big target').

There is talk of aerial reconnaissance, and Benedict's eyes rest on William – presumably, Rachael is being volunteered for this.

Lastly, Fiona stands up to remind us to be extremely wary of wielding Pattern here (I do not look at Constance at this point) as the land is very fragile and the Abyss is not friendly – and it is a long way to Ygg.

We break camp and continue through a bewildering array of landscapes – those of us with experience of Chaos find it bewildering enough, I have no idea what is going through the minds of the soldiers. Landscapes that change even as we move through them, the sky becomes the land and the land has the sun shining palely down on us, the trail becomes a ruined causeway passing through a colossal statue, its chest glowing a baleful red – then we walk across human bones, where trees draped with shaggy-leaved vines grow through giant skulls.

In a less surreal landscape of grey hills and grey sky, we stop to rest. A few small fires are trialled, the world does not collapse so a few more appear – not many and not large, there is nothing to burn here to replace what we use. But the fires are good for morale and hot drinks even better – I pass mine to a poor soul who arrived just as the hot water ran out. He looked scared and in need of a morale boost, and I had work to do.

I saw to my steed, and the axe-men, and helped our small band of Chaots with setting up their tents. When this work was finished, I went to tuck Tajal in. She is too old for bedtime stories now, but our chats before she goes to sleep help me feel better about dragging her along. She treats this as an adventure, regaling me with tales of her weapons practice and gossip she has picked up from listening to her elders. She asks me, sleepily, if Amber is a long way away. I tell her it is, but we will get there eventually.

There is talk of problems with scouting parties – some arrive almost as soon as they set out, although they swear they have been away for hours. Others talk of distances changing wildly as they traverse, scouts standing next to each other walking for miles to reach the other. Some parties have yet to come back. Nobody is certain they ever will.

In the morning, the terrain has reordered itself so closely-packed tents are now spread far and wide. I tend to Airavata whilst drinking a mug of chai. Darig approaches me and after innocuous remarks about my steed, informs me in confidence that Elektra has joined us – from the carefully neutral expression of face and voice, I take it this is not joyous news, but I do not press him – I assume she did not come with the blessing of House Petrus. This information is confidential – I do not waste time assuring him of my silence, if he hadn't trusted me I wouldn't have been told.

The march continues, this place is eerily quiet apart from us.

I get a Trump from Fiona when we stop to eat – her tone radiates doubt but she will 'try me out'. She is attempting to strengthen the land with Pattern, but very, very gently. Constance passes me, looking exhausted.

I am instructed to make a tiny change, and to stop the instance she drops her arm. Looking around for inspiration, I see a small patch of lichen upon a grey rock. A splash of colour would not go amiss in this monochrome world, so I bend my will to change the colour from grey to olive-green. It changes easily, even to my inexpert exertions, but I obediently stop as the arm drops almost immediately.

Fiona asks if I am tired, which I am not. I look at her with interest – this is Aunt Fiona, arch-manipulator supreme (if that is not tautological) though she looks more weary than I would have expected. We chat a little, Fiona starting with the Putting Me At My Ease routine – she even smiles reasonably convincingly – before mentioning my shape-shifting and whether it was from my maternal line. I smile and tell her as much as the others will know.

I go back to my tent to eat with the other Chaots. And another day ends.

Early then next morning, William arrives with a mission. Do I have a flying form? On being told I do, then I am asked to accompany Rachael on her aerial reconnaissance as backup. This I am happy to do, we are close enough to my tent for me to shed my clothes in private and change.

We are to be joined by DeLambre, in the guise of a 6' long dragonfly and after a (less than elegant on my part) take-off, Rachael and I spiral to a good vantage height. DeLambre is some way underneath us, he is not built for height.

Rachael swoops and wheels like a bird freed from a cage, I take a more professional approach and just fly a surveillance pattern. Eventually, she remembers that we actually have a job to do and mirrors my pattern.

There are a series of low hills to our right, and I see a body of troops. About 12 miles away, roughly regiment-sized, camped, not moving.

To our left, 2 larger bodies of troops, battalions, again stationary. Rachael moves in for a closer look, then reverses quickly – Undead, she says, looking concerned. As I wheel round to go back, I notice a black tower in the far distance.

We get back down and Rachael reports our findings whilst I change back – I see Constance and Dirk ride out towards the left, presumably to get more information. But there are chores to be done and animals to feed – I have just finished feeding Airavata when I am again recalled to William's presence.

We are required to scout a large tower which has appeared in our path – the Tower of Telegon, it is called (I have no idea how we came by that information) – I wonder if it is the same as I saw yesterday. Havelock does a trump reading which confirms the need to go to the Tower, so we go. Darig remains with a small body of troops at a ruined stone hut – just in case.

Dirk and I scout ahead, but not too far ahead.

The landscape starts to react, distances flex, directions stretch and the way sinks below high cliffs. I change and fly up, but the cliffs match my height with indifferent ease. The air is too thin and I am achieving nothing, so I return, retrieve my clothes and report.

We continue down a narrowing ravine, which becomes a dark tunnel. We leave the horses picketed and go on foot. The path, once yellowish, turns silvery then a dull grey – this is not a welcoming place.

The tunnel ends at the foot of a flight of stone steps – uneven, but seeming reasonably sound – leading up to a grim-looking tower with fog curling around it.

There is nothing for it but to press on – we traipse up the steps, which do not sound or feel like stone, rather like leaden flags. This is Chaos.

As if to underline this point, a flanged mace attached to a chain lies by the side of huge wooden doors – a mace being Chaos' favourite weapon, as I have mentioned before. William picks it up – as he does, there is a clattering sound and a horn blows tunelessly and mournfully from the battlements.

A footman answers the door and enquires if we are here for the Suitors Competition. We look at him blankly for a few seconds then Dirk says 'Yes' – we shrug and enter.

The room we enter is gloomy, but tastefully understated in its decoration. On a seat sits a lady with blue skin and iron-grey hair, who we are introduced to as 'Lady Penelope' – obviously not the earlier acquaintance of that name. She explains that she is over-run by suitors for her hand, but to gain it there would be nine tests.

She leans forward and tells us in confidential tones that she is unwilling to marry any of her suitors. I take no offence – none of us want to marry her, either.

The first test is disappointingly conventional – wrestling. William volunteers and wins easily. Then Margrath is turned into a small glowing ball and beats the other small glowing balls. Havelock wins a succession of fencing bouts.

As we are led through shadowy corridors, Margrath observes that, oddly, we do not meet any of the other suitors being led as we are – as though they are merely waiting for us to turn up.

Not so much a competition, then, as a trial. For us.

For an unknown goal.

Not reassuring.

But, we have no choice but to go forward.

The temperature drops considerably as we near the door to the next challenge – a challenge of endurance involving freezing water. Though, for modesty, I am given a strange garment which covered my full torso.

I walk to the large pool of water, move aside a chunk of ice the size of a bear, and get in. My fellow competitors look at me with a range of reactions – from contempt to surprise. I am definitely the smallest there, a couple are effectively spheres of blubber – I am an eel in a pool of hippos.

But it must be said, once the initial shock has worn off, my main problem is that of boredom. I keep moving, swimming a little – not easy through the flotilla of ice chunks – or wading up and down the pool, which has a similar problem but slightly more bruises. I notice that my fellow competitors give up, one by one until, at last, only I am left.

The servant offers an arm but, to prove a point, I hoist myself up out of the pool onto the side and ask for a towel. I rub briskly – mainly to restore feeling to my limbs. The warmth is welcome, but the reminder of bruises where the ice knocked into me is not.

We all have our chance to undergo a trial – apart from an engineer, Sergeant Glade, who demurs. He is there to assess the area for the purposes of trying to get an army through it, not participating in trials (that's what Royalty is for, is the unspoken coda).

Well, Dirk arm-wrestles a machine, Margrath out-stares all comers through a mystical lens and Constance wins a game of something a little like Carrom and dances with Lady Penelope – with a great deal of natural talent, it must be said.

And finally, archery. Eight lit candles, each a yard apart, in front of an iron shield. A bow and 1 arrow stand in front of the targets – it looks ridiculously unyielding, like the Krishna bows used as siege-machines and drawn by oxen. There are nine competitors, of course, and William goes last. A number fail to even draw the string back, their muscles quivering like a guru in the midst of a sacred vision. A few manage the draw, but the shot goes wild and nowhere near the candles. And then the competitor before William – in stature like a wind-blown oak – manages to snuff out seven of the eight candles before the bolt clangs off the shield. The look on his face says as clearly as words 'You will never beat that'.

William tests the bow and nods to himself. He positions himself, checks the trajectory, draws the string and shoots. Eight wicks snuff out, and the shield leaps from its stand with a loud crash.

William has won, it seems – I look to see how the previous competitor feels about it, but we are alone.

We are taken to a room with seven arches, and the Lady tells us that we have won her hand. Proffering it to William, she leaves, but the hand remains.

None of us were expecting that, but we collect ourselves and go through an archway – only to return to the same room. Again, we try, a different archway.

Same result.

I notice the Sergeant look at the hand – which William is still carrying – with a quizzical expression. An idea?

'Maybe the hand can point the way' I suggest. Not an everyday remark, but this is Chaos – who knows?

With a bit of experimentation, the hand is dangled on a thong provided by the Sergeant. It points steadily at an archway to our left so we enter and climb a steep staircase. And climb. And climb.

We find ourselves very high up, the wind audible and eerie, like the souls of the lost.

I concentrate on less disconcerting details.

There is a young man in the room at the top of the stairs, sickly looking with huge eyes in a thin, pale face. A large telescope is on a stand near the window.

He asks if we have seen his father. We ask for a description – dark of hair, pale of face, with one eye green and the other blue. He is 'trouble' and is 'returning'. We need to leave before he gets here.

The young man is Telegon, it seems – some of the others seem to recognise this name, though I do not. Apparently, having assayed the trials, we are entitled to ask a question if we have won, though he adds that 'nobody listens'.

Odd thing to say.

Havelock whips out a deck and does a reading, though I do not know if it is of any help.

He asks 'How fares Amber'. The answer does not bode well – Telegon sees a castle on a mountain. One wing has fallen. Of the city it belongs to, the road is broken and part of it has fallen into the harbour.

William asks of this is the only path to Ygg? He is told it isn't, but it is the best.

(After conference with Sergeant Glade) I ask how can we get the army through this narrow gap? He answers 'March, ride, drive and have faith'.

Constance asks of the perils which lie ahead – the response is that the ‘Head’ has left the Slough of Despond (the feeling we are not making any progress?), the Valley of the Shadow of Death (some form of serious threat?) and the distance of the journey (fairly self-explanatory).

Dirk asks of any shortcuts to Ygg and how to find them. We are advised to 'vault the distance by other means'.

Finally Margrath asks after Corillaine, to be told it is 'safe but different'.

I hope we can rest meaning from these answers (apart from the last) – I hate seer-type cryptic answers.

However, the young man is tired and bids us leave. We do, returning the hand to the footman as we depart. Nobody seems in a mood to chat as we walk down the long, dark tunnel.

As we mount, Havelock points and says 'Look!'

The tunnel has disappeared as though it was never there and the tower is an ancient ruin.