A Knight at the Opera pt 3

The ongoing tale of William, Son of Ophelia of House Rebma, and of the Line of Barimen in the Courts of Chaos.

A Knight at the Opera Part 3 – the curtain rises

Another opening, another show. Breakfast with grandmother is pleasant compared to the previous morning. Cymnea is in a good mood for two reasons. Firstly, she says, the world is spared either of us having to sing at the opera and, secondly, Seraph have been enthusiastic about me taking Rachael to the Opera as my guest. Scanning through the scripts we have been sent, Cymnea describes some of our interchanges as ‘schmaltzy’, a word I have to confess to not understanding but upon her explanation I find I have to agree. The thought of Cymnea shedding a tear over me is frankly hilarious. I can readily accept her destroying a world to avenge me, but crying? I really do wonder who the author of this piece is.

Caine arrives and Grandmother leaves us ‘to prepare her lines’. As she departs Caine turns to me and confides “Your Grandmother and I are coming to respect each other – even after what went before when she was in Amber. But it’s to be expected. After all, history is history.”

At this I half expect DeLambre to kick my ankle, despite him not being in the room. But Caine does not react so I must have suppressed the thought that flitted across my mind from my face. ‘History is history’? Could he really be that unaware?

Perhaps something of my thoughts showed through as Caine changed the subject to a potential attack on Karm to rescue Julian – Constance’s half thought out plan he ripped apart casually and dismissively. We were obviously not ready to take on Karm, nor would we have the allies to carry through an assault. As I answered noncommittally, not willing to betray the confidence Rickard of Karm showed in me, he sat, regarding me carefully as if deciding like a surgeon where next to stick the knife. For my own good, of course.

Obviously coming to some conclusion, he rolled up his right sleeve and gestured to me to sit opposite him and do likewise. Grasping my hand in his he began to apply pressure; a contest of strength as old as time. I regarded him carefully; matching his pressure precisely and waiting to get the measure of him in some slight way. He started increasing the pressure, his eyes narrowing slightly as I matched again, my arm immobile and my face steady and as inscrutable as I knew how. Before too long, I started to feel the slightest tremor in his hand. He had strength still in reserve, while I was near my limit, but the fatigue poisons were starting to wend their treacherous way through his arm, while mine remained unsullied. He grimaced, knowing that he had to end this quickly. “You are strong”, he grunted. “But not as strong as me. And Benedict says you are fast. Not as fast as Darig, but as fast as Bleys, maybe even as fast as Corwin.”

He grabbed his moment then, forcing my arm to the tabletop, my knuckles slamming hard into the surface. His eyes met mine, and then widened slightly as I bared my left arm and put it in place. He shook his head then, acknowledging that while he had the strength to beat me once, he was not certain he had the wind to beat me twice, and unwilling to risk the defeat. 

Rising, he delivered a Parthian shot. “Benedict will not order Darig to the task. And I cannot order you. But you should consider carefully if you can and will assay it. For all our benefits.”

With time to kill and frustrations to burn off, I headed for the duelling pits of Ascaris, but found no one willing to face me. Perhaps my frustrations with Caine were writ large upon my face? Eventually DeLambre found me and offered to be my sparing partner. I nodded, ungraciously, and he set to with sword and buckler. I forget, far too often, how well DeLambre knows me, and how often he has been the sword at my side and the shield for my back. He pressed me hard, aware of my rhythms and patterns until he brushed past Claideb and scored a touch on my shoulder. I laughed, all tension punctured by the touch, and raised a hand for him to give me a moment. I replayed the exchange, step by step, and then grinned. “Good. Very good. I was tensing my left hand too much and that pulled my point off centre. Well spotted. Again. Be creative!”

We sparred again, and this time despite his best efforts I closed all his angles of attack off. We paused, and I gestured for him to switch weapons. After a moment’s deliberation he chose the net and trident; a pairing that I had not seen him use before. After a couple of passes for him to adjust his stance, he pressed hard again, pushing me from offence to defence, the tines of the trident jabbing at my eyeline and forcing my head back. And then I stopped, the net wrapped around my left foot and the ground unsure beneath me. He pulled and I tensed, letting him gather his strength and then just as the pressure became almost too much, I jumped forwards, a headlong charge that overwhelmed him. We fell to the floor and I dropped Claideb and reached for his throat. This time he was the one to cry ‘halt’ and to smile.

We continued sparring until all tensions were gone. As we returned to the baths De Lambre expressed concern that I was taking part in the Opera, and that he would be unable to protect me while I was on stage. I agreed, but noted that any attack on me during the Opera would either be scripted, or would have to look like an accident. His countenance took on a look that I knew only too well; “My Lord, you are wrong and I will have to be the one to pull your fat out of the fire. Again”. I grinned, as not a word passed his lips and he smiled, knowing I knew.

“I will polish Der Ruckenshild and lay out your clothes for the Opera” he said, “while you bathe and make yourself ready.”

While I washed I considered the essential difference between Amber and Chaos – that the strength of Chaos is the acceptance of and planning for change to occur. And contrariwise, the strength of Amber lies in their willingness to resist change. 

As I finished dressing, a servant announced that Constance had come to Ascaris. Somewhat amused at the pun, I arranged to meet her in one of Grandmother’s parlours. Abrupt as usual, Constance came quickly to the point. It appeared that she and Dirk had conversed upon Mandor’s offer, and Dirk, surprisingly like his father, counselled against a direct assault; suggesting that we should gather more intelligence first. I countered that doing such would loose us any hope of surprise, and guarantee that Karm was ready for our assault. Before we can converse for much longer, Rachael of Seraph was announced and I went to meet her.

Rachael was both charming and attractive (as much as either mean anything in Chaos). We spoke of Amber, and she was interested in what my plans are and if I intended to return – she hinted that her interest is in what her role might be in such a situation and I wondered quite what Cymnea had said to Seraph. Retreating into pleasantries, we travelled to Woodstock and I introduced Rachael to the rest of my cousins. Packing the tremendous amount of supplies that Mandor has provided, we head for the Opera House.

As we travelled I talked with Havelock; it appears that during some altercation with his Knightly Order, he summoned Pattern and left one of the Order Pattern-scarred. While he appeared well aware of what summoning might have done to the realm, I pointed out that he had almost certainly robbed that Chaot of the ability to completely change, the scar remaining however he shifted. I do not think Havelock understood the impact of that.

I spoke further to Rachael upon our arrival at the Opera; she and Mandor had marshalled our journey, giving us a much shorter and more comfortable route than the Demons could take us by – proof of their greater mastery of Chaos, I assumed. Once we were settled into Mandor’s box, Rachael told me of the great reputation I had in Chaos. No other single individual had ever destroyed a whole house. I countered that destruction was easy; far easier than creation. Destruction took time, whereas creation was much harder work. That didn’t make destruction more powerful. Just easier. Her eyes widened and I realised that she was reappraising me – something I had said had caused her to reconsider who I might be.

Music sounded, and the Opera started. We each took our seats and watched as the dawn of Amber and the first assault by Chaos upon the neophyte Realm were shown. Despite there being no conjuring or other effects save those that could be created by machinery, the story drew me in. As I looked up as the first Act drew to a close, I saw King Swayvil asleep in his box, surrounded by representatives from those houses that most closely supported him.

Before I could draw this to anyone else’s attention, there was an imperious knock at the door to Mandor’s box. Magdalen of House Karm was admitted and she strode into the centre of the limited space, and began to posture. A careless move. Unstrategic. And I made that point to her by closing her line of escape and leaning against it, Claideb in my arms. As she saw me move, I made sure to meet her eye and smile.

She looked around then at the scions of Amber and realised that capitulation was her best chance of escape. Constance pushed the point, pressing our advantage and won from Magdalen the right to speak to her Father, Julian, who was seemingly present in Karm’s box. Batting aside Magdalen’s promise to consider the issue, and to let us speak to him later, Constance simply announced “we will return with you now; William will accompany me”, and I nodded, happy to back her play.

Havelock whispered to me that he could ride along in my head, to prepare a path for me and Constance to return through Trump, and I assented. He stared at the portrait of me that he had painted and, after several hundred years, I felt the light touch of another Amberite in my mind. It felt uncomfortably like someone stepping inside my guard behind me and I tensed. Havelock felt this and, as much as he was able to, he retreated, keeping as light a touch as possible. I knew I was still vulnerable to him, but this would have to do.

We approach Karm and bullied our way to them. The looks that Magdalen received from her housemates assures me that she will not get off lightly for this, but they allow that we have outplayed them and let Constance speak to Julian. She cast a spell at him to no effect and then tested his memories. He answered her questions but she is not sure that it is him. After some more pleasantries we withdraw and Havelock reaches out his hand and we return to our family, and the next Act.

A new High King, Juan of Peron, and a promise not to attack Amber. Cymnea of Ascaris is promised to Oberon of Amber and history starts to unfold as she returns with her grandson in tow. Negotiations and treachery moved back and forth across the stage, with an unholy triumvirate of Sawall, Ascaris and Magnus of Diptera moving chess pieces on the board. Diptera destroyed and Magnus’s mother killed, unavenged by her son with his hands too full of the High King’s crown to wield a blade.

Another pause, and drinks and food were handed out. I had a brief while to talk to Rachael and asked her if Seraph were a Martial House. She said that they were, in a way, but that fighting is not their primary aim. Hugo knocked on the door then and summoned Sorashi and myself to the stage, and Rachael kissed me on the cheek as I left.

As we made our way to the understage, I was hailed. A Chaos knight in armour declaimed himself to be Bo of Shang, Avenger of the Deniable Moth, and demands that I duel him. I size him up and grin, then point out that I must attend the stage under the High King’s orders. He refuses to accept and presses the attack.

From his stance and bearing, I know that I can take him. Not easily, but he is not a strong enough fighter to do much to me, and I should be able to disarm him without shedding too much of his blood.

At that point, as DeLambre would have said had he been there, hubris quite rightly turned my world upside down.

Biding her time like the maggot in the wound that she was, the Psychomorpha struck. She clouded my vision and turned my perception of the hallway into fractal hieroglyphs. I have faced similar in Diptera during the years of my training there, but never alone. So I struck out almost blindly, turning some of Bo of Shang’s attacks but letting the tip of his blade rip into my forearm. At that, Psychomorpha’s attack on my senses strengthened and I became unable to perceive anything outside my head despite knowing that Bo was there, seeking his moment to drive his blade into my heart.

So I laughed. What else could I do? And with a ‘Remember this?’ aimed at Psychomorpha, I began to draw Pattern to mind. If I was to fall, then let Chaos fall with me.

A sound stopped me.

A simple sound.

Well. Two sounds, really.

The first, the merest whisper of steel being drawn from leather.

The second, the disappointed sigh of someone who, thinking they have the victory, has just found that a substantial length of steel had just been inserted into their lung from someone that shouldn’t have been there.

And then a loud thump. But to be honest, after the two previous sounds that one wasn’t a real surprise.

My vision cleared quickly, Psychomorpha retreating when her gallant knight died. Facing me with a bloody dagger in his hand and a popinjay at his feet was DeLambre. He grinned. I grinned and promised to fill him in later.

He disappeared back down to the Pit and I looked down at Bo. It was obvious from the size of the wound that Claideb had not slain him, and hearing footsteps approach and wanting to shield DeLambre from any trouble, I attempted to make the wound bigger. Claideb was its usual recalcitrant self when it came to mutilating corpses, so I had to make do with attempting to mask the thin wound by giving him a good kicking with my sabatons. I won’t pretend that I thought that it might be effective, but as a method of relieving tension, it did the job.

My cousins were the first to arrive. It appears that Sorashi had got Hugo to safety and then fetched help. Darig bound my arm and then Hugo took us both, now quite late, to prepare for our grand entrance.

Sorashi was to play the Psychomorpha. I mutter something about timing, but luckily no-one heard me. Cymnea was backstage and I filled her in as quickly as I could while Hugo fussed around trying to get me to take Der Ruckenshild off as I hadn’t had it when I was fostered to Diptera. He soon backed down when I refused.

And then my moment of glory. Or rather, the reliving of my moment of glory. I strutted on stage as my younger self, and swore (but this time listening to the words) my oath to Diptera again. Then Rikard took the role of Tybalt and started baiting me in the Halls of Diptera, forcing me into a fight. Back and forth we went, enjoying the duel, until the time came for Tybalt to unleash the forces of Chaos upon me and I was to respond by calling Pattern to mind. To save the destruction of the Opera house we signified this by removing the covers from our shields and the stage faded to black.

A final break and I had time to return to Mandor’s Box. The Coronation of Magnus Matricide was the last set piece of the Opera and instead of a King on stage, the players were arrayed to make Swavill the focus. Darig took his part as the Portent Phantom and, hung from wires from the ceiling, declaimed a version of the three verses of poetry that his fetch spoke at Swayvil’s actual coronation, finishing with a promise that the High King will die with Darig’s dagger in his eye.

At this, Swayvil rose, screeching that Darig lied, and calling for his tongue. We all started towards the stage, wondering how we might reach Darig before a flying Chaos Lord got to him, when a misshapen black figure dropped from the ceiling to Darig’s side, ripped him out of his harness and disappeared into the darkness.