Until I recalled a magical word.
Amber.
I had been greatly upset by the word on the previous evening. I had been sufficiently upset so that I had avoided thinking of it since then. But now I courted it. Now I rolled it around my mind and examined all the associations that sprang up when it struck.
The word was charged with a mighty longing and a massive nostalgia. It had, wrapped up inside it, a sense of forsaken beauty, grand achievement. and a feeling of power that was terrible and almost ultimate. Somehow, the word belonged in my vocabulary. Somehow, I was part of it and it was a part of me. It was a place name, I knew then. It was the name of a place I once had known. There came no pictures, though, only emotions.
How long I sat so, I do not know. Time had somehow divorced itself from my reveries.
I realized then, from the center of my thoughts, that there had come a gentle rapping upon the door. Then the handle slowly turned and the maid, whose name was Carmella, entered and asked me if I was interested in lunch.
It seemed like a good idea, so I followed her back to the kitchen and ate half a chicken and drank a quart of milk.
I took a pot of coffee back to the library with me, avoiding the dogs as I went. I was into the second cup when the telephone rang.
I longed to pick it up, but I figured there must be extensions all over the house and Carmella would probably get it from somewhere.
I was wrong. It kept ringing.
Finally, I couldn't resist it any longer.
"Hello," I said, "this is the Flaumel residence."
"May I speak with Mrs. Flaumel please?"
It was a man's voice, rapid and slightly nervous. He sounded out of breath and his words were masked and surrounded by the faint ringing and the ghost voices that indicate long distance.
"I'm sorry." I told him. "She's not here right now. May I take a message or have her call you back?"
"Who am I talking to?" he demanded.
I hesitated, then, "Corwin's the name," I told him.
"My God!" he said, and a long silence followed.
I was beginning to think he'd hung up. I said, "Hello?" again, just as he started talking.
"Is she still alive?" he asked.
"Of course she's still alive. Who the hell am I talking to?"
"Don't you recognize the voice, Corwin? This is Random. Listen. I'm in California and I'm in trouble. I was calling to ask Flora for sanctuary. Are you with her?"
"Temporarily," I said.
"I see. Will you give me your protection, Corwin?" Pause, then, "Please?"
"As much as I can," I said, "but I can't commit Flora to anything without consulting her."
"Will you protect me against her?"
"Yes."
"Then you're good enough for me, man. I'm going to try to make it to New York now. I'll be coming by a rather circuitous route, so I don't know how long it will take me. If I can avoid the wrong shadows, I'll he seeing you whenever. Wish me luck."
"Luck," I said.
Then there was a click and I was listening to a distant ringing and the voices of the ghosts.
So cocky little Random was in trouble! I had a feeling it shouldn't have bothered me especially. But now, he was one of the keys to my past, and quite possibly my future also. So I would try to help him, in any way I could, until I'd learned all I wanted from him. I knew that there wasn't much brotherly love lost between the two of us. But I knew that on the one hand he was nobody's fool; he was resourceful, shrewd, strangely sentimental over the damnedest things; and on the other hand, his word wasn't worth the spit behind it, and he'd probably sell my corpse to the medical school of his choice if he could get much for it. I remembered the little fink all right, with only a touch of affection, perhaps for a few pleasant times it seemed we had spent together. But trust him? Never. I decided I wouldn't tell Flora he was coming until the last possible moment. He might be made to serve as an ace, or at least a knave, in the hole.
So I added some hot coffee to what remained in my cup and sipped it slowly.
Who was he running from?
Not Eric, certainly, or he wouldn't have been calling here. I wondered then concerning his question as to whether Flora was dead, just because I happened to be present here. Was she really that strongly allied with the brother I knew I hated that it was common knowledge in the family that I'd do her in, too, given the chance? It seemed strange, but then he'd asked the question.
And what was it in which they were allied? What was the source of this tension, this opposition? Why was it that Random was running?
Amber.
That was the answer.
Amber. Somehow, the key to everything lay in Amber, I knew. The secret of the entire mess was in Amber, in some event that had transpired in that place, and fairly recently, I'd judge. I'd have to be on my toes. I'd have to pretend to the knowledge I didn't possess, while piece by piece I mined it from those who had it. I felt confident that I could do it. There was enough distrust circulating for everyone to be cagey. I'd play on that. I'd get what I needed and take what I wanted, and I'd remember those who helped me and step on the rest. For this, I knew, was the law by which our family lived, and I was a true son of my father....
My headache came on again suddenly, throbbing to crack my skull.
Something about my father I thought, guessed, felt—was what had served to set it off. But I wasn't sure why or how.
After a time, it subsided and I slept, there in the chair. After a much longer time, the door opened and Flora entered. It was night outside, once more.
She was dressed in a green silk blouse and a long woolen skirt that was gray. She had on walking shoes and heavy stockings. Her hair was pulled back behind her head and she looked slightly pale. She still wore her hound whistle.
"Good evening," I said, rising.
But she did not reply. Instead, she walked across the room to the bar, poured herself a shot of Jack Daniels, and tossed it off like a man. Then she poured another and took it with her to the big chair.
I lit a cigarette and handed it to her.
She nodded, then said, "The Road to Amber—is difficult."
"Why?"
She gave me a very puzzled look.
"When is the last time you tried it?"
I shrugged.
"I don't remember."
"Be that way then," she said. "I just wondered how much of it was your doing.
I didn't reply because I didn't know what she was talking about. But then I recalled that there was an easier way than the Road to get to the place called Amber. Obviously, she lacked it.
"You're missing some Trumps," I said then suddenly, in a voice which was almost mine.
She sprang to her feet, half her drink spilling over the back of her hand.
"Give them back!" she cried, reaching for the whistle.
I moved forward and seized her shoulders,
"I don't have them," I said. "I was just making an observation."
She relaxed a bit, then began to cry, and I pushed her back down, gently, into the chair.
"I thought you meant you'd taken the ones I had left," she said. "Rather than just making a nasty and obvious comment."
I didn't apologize. It didn't seem right that I should have to.
"How far did you get?"
"Not far at all." Then she laughed and regarded me with a new light in her eyes.
"I see what you've done now, Corwin," she said, and I lit a cigarette in order to cover any sort of need for a reply.
"Some of those things were yours, weren't they? You blocked my way to Amber before you came here, didn't you? You knew I'd go to Eric. But I can't now. I'll have to wait till he comes to me. Clever. You want to draw him here, don't you? He'll send a messenger, though. He won't come himself."
There was a strange tone of admiration in the voice of this woman who was admitting she'd just tried to sell me out to my enemy. and still would—given half a chance—as she talked about something she thought I'd done which had thrown a monkey wrench into her plans. How could anyone be so admittedly Machiavellian in the presence of a proposed victim? The answer rang back immediately from the depths of my mind. it is the way of our kind. We don't have to be subtle with each other. Though I thought she lacked somewhat the finesse of a true professional.