My double noted it after a time, moved faster, began to gain. I pushed harder, held my lead. What the hell were we racing for anyway?
I looked ahead. In the distance I could see an area where the trail widened. There appeared to be a tape stretched across it at that point. Okay. Whatever the significance, I decided to go for it.
I held my lead for perhaps a hundred meters before my shadow began to gain on me again. I leaned into it and was able to hold that shortened distance for a time. Then it moved again, coming up on me at a pace I suspected might be hard to hold the rest of the way to the tape. Still, it was not the sort of thing one waited around to find out. I poured it on. I ran all out.
The son of a bitch gained on me, kept gaining, caught me, drew ahead, faltered for an instant. I was back beside it in that instant. But the thing did not flag again. It held the terrible pace at which we were now moving, and I had no intention of stopping unless my heart exploded.
We ran on, damn near side by side. I didn’t know whether I had a finishing spurt in me or not. I couldn’t tell whether I was slightly ahead, just abreast, or slightly to the rear of the other. We pounded our parallel gleaming trails toward the line of brightness when abruptly the sensation of a glass interface vanished. The two narrowseeming trails became one wide one. The other’s arms and legs were moving differently from my own.
We drew closer and closer together as we entered the final stretch — close enough, finally, for recognition. It was not an image of myself that I was running against, for its hair streamed back and I saw that its left ear was missing.
I found a final burst of speed. So did the other. We were awfully close together when we came to the tape. I think that I hit it first, but I could not be certain.
We went on through and collapsed, gasping. I rolled quickly, to keep him under surveillance, but he just lay there, panting. I rested my right hand on the hilt of my weapon and listened to the sound of my blood in my ears.
When I’d caught my breath somewhat, I remarked, “Didn’t know you could run a race like that, Jurt.”
He gave a brief laugh.
“There’re a lot of things you don’t know about me, brother.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
Then he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and I noted that the finger he’d lost in the caves of Kolvir was back in place. Either this was the Jurt of a different time line or —
“So how’s Julia?” I asked him. “Is she going to be all right?”
“Julia?” he said. “Who’s that?”
“Sorry,” I said. “You’re the wrong Jurt.”
“Now what else does that mean?” he asked, propping himself on an elbow and glaring at me with his good eye.
“The real Jurt was never anywhere near the Pattern of Amber — ”
“I am the real Jurt!”
“You’ve got all your fingers. He lost one very recently. I was there.”
He looked away suddenly.
“You must be a Logrus-ghost,” I continued. “It must pull the same stunt the Pattern does — recording those who make it through it.”
“Is that… what happened?” he asked. “I couldn’t quite recall… why I was here — except to race with you.”
“I’ll bet your most recent memories before this place involve negotiating the Logrus.”
He looked back. He nodded.
“You’re right. What does it all mean?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’ve got some ideas about it. This place is a kind of eternal underside to Shadow. It’s damn near off limits for both the Pattern and the Logrus. But both can apparently penetrate here by means of their ghosts — artificial constructs from the recordings they made of us back when we passed through them — ”
“You mean that all I am is some sort of recording?” He looked as if he were about to cry. “Everything seemed so glorious just a little while ago. I’d made it through the Logrus. All of Shadow lay at my feet.” He massaged his temples. Then, “You!” he spat. “I was somehow brought here because of you — to compete with you, to show you up in this race.”
“You did a pretty good job, too. I didn’t know you could run like that.”
“I started practicing when I learned you were doing it in college. Wanted to get good enough to take you on.”
“You got good,” I acknowledged.
“But I wouldn’t be in this damned place if it weren’t for you. Or —” He gnawed his lip. “That’s not exactly right, is it?” he asked. “I wouldn’t be anywhere. I’m just a recording…” Then he stared directly at me. “How long do we last?” he said. “How long is a Logrus-ghost good for?”
“I’ve no idea,” I said, “what goes into creating one or how it’s maintained. But I’ve met a number of Pattern-ghosts, and they gave me the impression that my blood would somehow sustain them, give them some sort of autonomy, some independence of the Pattern. Only one of them — Brand — got the fire instead of the blood, and it dissolved. Deirdre got the blood but was taken away then. I don’t know whether she got enough.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve a feeling — I don’t know where it comes from — that something like that would work for me, too, and that it’s blood for the Pattern, fire for the Logrus.”
“I don’t know how to tell in what regions my blood is volatile,” I said.
“It’d flame here,” he answered. “Depends on who’s is control. I just seem to know it. I don’t know how.”
“Then why did Brand show up in Logrus territory?” He grinned.
“Maybe the Pattern sought to use a traitor for some sort of subversion. Or maybe Brand was trying to pull something on his own — like double-crossing the Pattern.”
“That would be in character,” I agreed, my breath finally slowing.
I whipped the Chaos blade out of my boot, slashed my left forearm, saw that it spouted fire, and held it toward him.
“Quick! Take it if you can!” I cried. “Before the Logrus calls you back!”
He seized my arm and seemed almost to inhale the fire that fountained from me. Looking down, I saw his feet become transparent, then his legs. The Logrus seemed anxious to reclaim him, just as the Pattern had Deirdre. I saw the fiery swirls begin within the haze that had been his legs. Then, suddenly, they flickered out, and the outline of those limbs became visible once again. He continued to draw my volatile blood from me, though I could no longer see flames as he was drinking now as Deirdre had, directly from the wound. His legs began to solidify.
“You seem to be stabilizing,” I said. “Take more.”
Something struck me in the right kidney, and I jerked away, turning as I fell. A tall dark man stood beside me, withdrawing his boot from having kicked me. He had on green trousers and a black shirt, a green bandanna tied about his head.
“Now what perverse carrying-on is this?” he asked. “And in a sacred spot?”
I rolled to my knees and continued on up to my feet, my right arm bending, its wrist turning over, coming in to hold the dagger beside my hip. I raised my left arm, extended it before me. Blood rather than fire now fell from my latest wound.
“None of your damn business,” I said, then added his name, having grown certain on the way up, “Caine.”
He smiled and bowed, and his hands crossed and came apart. They’d been empty going in, but the right one held a dagger coming out. It must have come from a sheath strapped to his left forearm, inside the billowy sleeve. He had to have practiced the move a lot, too, to be that fast at it. I tried to remember things I’d heard about Caine and knives, and then I did and wished I hadn’t. He was supposed to have been a master knife fighter. Shit.