Peter’s Diary part 16: The Return of the King

In The Doom that Came to Amber

4^th Snake 3658

Waiting for Rupert: that was the plan, anyway. A shame it didn’t work. That’s always the problem with magic; it can be made to do so many wonderful things, but in this case? A flight of 2 or 3 dragons was the best that I felt I could manage. In part it is the complexity of the city; one patch of sky is much like another, whereas each alley, street and corner needs to be encompassed for a large scale illusion. In part the Pattern, a source of power so large that it now makes me slightly jumpy to perform my small magics near it. And in part the twist of fate.

So I waited, the Garnath Horse in place and the Docks under our control. Waited for Rupert, the traitor son of she who I believed was one of my only friends at Court. Waited to find out what he wanted.

A wise man once said “when there is nothing in your hand except low cards; that’s when you play for the pot.” I needed that explained in terms of a game I understood, but there is a truth there. When you have little choice, what else can you do but try for it all?

When Rupert appeared, I attacked him. My motives were simple. If I could capture him, our side would be strengthened. If I lost, his would gain little. Though I am a member of the Blood, I hold no real rank here; the position of Sheriff gives me little authority in this time of chaos. The forces I would have to call my own are largely on one side of the insurrection or the other and I am too new here for the nobles of Amber to mourn my loss, or for me to call on any personal loyalties. So I attacked. I could not prevail, but then neither was he willing to press his advantage, and when I tried to lock eyes with him, he watched the floor instead. I delivered an empty ultimatum then and he left, leaving me to make my way to the Palace for a Council of War with the King.

We sat and I broke my fast, as I would not with Rupert. She would not meet my gaze. Is she ashamed? Or is this a game of a depth I have yet to assay? The Council talked of the troubles, and the King asked if any of us felt the need to state a religious preference? Few were willing to claim anything but neutrality or cautious Unicorn worship. There was a minor stir when Llewella brought Terisa of Mordent through a trump, and another when reports of a thick sea fog, probably controlled by Martin using the Pearl of Wisdom, started coming in.

Bathsheba and I headed for the docks; she to secure the area and I to scout for the presence of enemy troops in the city. With me was Mountfort, one of Aylwin’s friends, and some of the palace guard who I had noted were competent with the bow.

We skulked, it must be said, and the fog made that easy. Mountfort proved his worth as more than a Trump relay as we scouted the city with an encoded map, reporting the presence and disposition of the Mirans we could find to Bathsheba. The fog weaved like a drunkard on his way home, following lines of puissant magic as they searched step by wavering step through the city, though I know not for what they search.

The news for Bathsheba was not good. As best we could ascertain, Rupert holds everything south of the Guildhall, making it easy for him to cut our post at the Docks off from the castle. In all, he has between four and five thousand troops in the city; far more than we do even with the presence of the Arden Rangers that Julian had summoned.

Realising that we needed to know more, I took Mountfort and the others as close as I could to the Guildhall and then left them with instructions to wait for me. Then with the Gift of Titania wrapped around me, and with faerie magics obscuring my chenged form, I padded towards the square where the Guild House is to find out what I may.

Fog is a creature that men hate, because both sound and vision become untrustworthy, the ghosts that haunt us all becoming half visible, hovering at the edges of our eyes and stopping us from relaxing. To the wolf, fog is no worse than any other weather. Smells remain, sound hides as much as it confuses, and the dark is always the friend of the hunter. For those predisposed to be prey, fear the fog. The rest of us will use it to our advantage.

And use it I did. With the blanket of water wrapped around me I made my way to the very door of the Guildhall, where I could hear a meeting taking place inside without the guards 2 paces from me knowing of my presence. There I heard the domineering tone of Rupert, casually cruel, as he promised those who fear what it took to bring them into line. He promised the Mayor and half of the Guild leaders that he would bring order to the city, and in return they promised him their support.

It is ironic, I think, that his methods and mine are both so similar, and yet so different. In this place, the city counts for so much, and yet so little. The players of Amber seem to have forgotten that the pawns can be the most important pieces on the board, if played correctly. I saw this within hours of getting here. Rupert has seen this, or she who stands behind him, and he now controls the board. I would applaud him.

At his funeral, of course, but I would applaud. ‘Friends, Amberites, Countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Rupert, and then to praise him.’

Their concerns answered, the Mayor and Guild leaders left, and Rupert and his commanders stood on the steps to watch the fog which even in the time they had been speaking had thickened significantly. They grumbled, as all military men do, complaining that the mist might interfere with the Sabbath or the Sabbat, whatever that might be. Some secret weapon of theirs? A plan that comes to pass at a certain time, a certain place? Something they walk towards, their path clear while we seek to follow, befogged and becalmed by our lack of knowledge and unity? This fight is one where they have had much time to prepare, where it seems that we have only been able to react.

We must, if I can see how, take the fight to them.

Once Rupert had moved away, I climbed to the roof of the Guild House, seeking entry to within that I might search for papers or plans. I encountered three guards and was slow in silencing the one with the crossbow – he shot me and raised the alarm. Bandaging the wound quickly, I summoned the spirits of an old battle to appear in the mists; their faerie torches and conjoured battle cries sufficed to distract the troops in the Square as I made my escape to Mountfort and the others.

With little more to accomplish beyond drooping the spirits of our forces even further, I ordered the retreat to the Docks, that we might regroup with Bathsheba and plan our next move. The journey back was not without incident, however; looters taking it upon themselves to liberate a libation; the front door of the vintners broken and the first casks laden on the cart already. One ran. The other died. Executed by order of the Sheriff of Amber with a placard around his neck to let the world know of his crimes.

Was it a fit of pique? A meaningless gesture that did little to stop the greater crimes that were being carried out in this city all the time? The greatest crime of all, perhaps – to treat people as if they are playing pieces on a board?

Sometimes, even a gesture must suffice. Sailors spit into the wind not to lessen its force, but so that they can say at least they opposed it.

The fog wound around us, the malevolent entity controlling it more obvious now. The lines of power that directed its search more obvious to the trained eye.

I returned to the Docks with my men.

There was little more we could do for the City.