“Any clues?”
He shook his head and tasted the wine.
“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he said then, “before any of the others got to you. There are two things I’d like you to know.”
I sipped the wine and waited.
“The first is that this really scares me. With the attempt on Bleys it no longer appears to have been simply a personal thing directed at Caine. Somebody seems to have it in for us — or at least some of us. Now you say there’s someone after you, too.”
“I don’t know whether there’s any connection — ”
“Well, neither do I. But I don’t like the possible pattern I see developing. My worst fear is that it may be one or more of us behind it.”
“Why?” He glowered into his goblet.
“For centuries the personal vendetta has been our way of settling disagreements, not necessarily proceeding inevitably to death — though that was always a possibility — but certainly characterized by intrigues, to the end of embarrassing, disadvantaging, maiming, or exiling the other and enhancing one’s own position. This reached its latest peak in the scramble for the succession. I thought everything was pretty much settled, though, when I wound up with the job, which I certainly wasn’t looking for. I had no real axes to grind, and I’ve tried to be fair. I know how touchy everyone here is. I don’t think it’s me, though, and I don’t think it’s the succession. I haven’t had any bad vibes from any of the others. I’d gotten the impression they had decided I was the lesser of all possible evils and were actually cooperating to make it work. No, I don’t believe any of the others is rash enough to want my crown. There was actually amity, goodwill, after the succession was settled. But what I’m wondering now is whether the old pattern might be recurring — that some of the others might have taken up the old game again to settle personal grievances. I really don’t want to see that happen — all the suspicion, precautions, innuendoes, mistrust, double dealings. It weakens us, and there’s always some possible threat or other against which we should be strong. Now, I’ve spoken with everyone privately, and of course they all deny any knowledge of current cabals, intrigues, and vendettas, but I could see that they’re getting suspicious of each other. It’s become a habit of thought. And it wasn’t at all difficult for them to dig up some of grudge each of the others might still have had against Caine despite the fact that he saved all our asses by taking out Brand. And the same with Bleys — everyone could find motives for everyone else.”
“So you want the killer fast, because of what he’s done to morals.”
“Certainly. I don’t need all this backbiting and grudgehunting. It’s all still so close to the surface that we’re likely to have real cabals, intrigues, and vendettas before long, if we don’t already, and some little misunderstanding could lead to violence again.”
“Do you think it’s one of the others?”
“Shit! I’m the same as they are. I get suspicious by reflex. It well may be, but I haven’t really seen a bit of evidence.”
“Who else could it be?”
He uncrossed and recrossed his legs. He took another drink of wine.
“Hell! Our enemies are legion. But most of them wouldn’t have the guts. They all know the kind of reprisal they could expect once we found them out.”
He clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the rows of books.
“I don’t know how to say this,” he began after a time, “but I have to.”
I waited again. Then he said quickly, “There’s talk it’s Corwin, but I don’t believe it.”
“No,” I said softly.
“I told you I don’t believe it. Your father means a lot to me.”
“Why would anybody believe it?”
“There’s a rumor he’s gone crazy. You’ve heard it. What if he’s reverted to some past state of mind, from the days when his relations with Came and Bleys were a lot less than cordial — or with any of us, for that matter? That’s what they’re saying.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I just wanted you to be aware that it’s being kicked around.”
“Nobody’d better kick it in my direction.”
He sigh. “Don’t you start. Please. They’re upset. Don’t look for trouble.”
I took a drink of wine. “Yes, you’re right,” I said.
“Now I have to listen to your story. Go ahead, complicate my life some more.”
“Okay. At least I’m fresh on it,” I told him.
So I ran through it again. It took a long while, and it was getting dark by the time I finished. He had interrupted me only for occasional clarifications and had not indulged in the exploration of contingencies the way Bill had when he’d heard it.
When I had finished, he rose and lit a few oil lamps. I could almost hear him thinking.
Finally he said, “No, you’ve got me on Luke. He doesn’t ring any bells at all. The lady with the sting bothers me a bit, though. It seems I might have heard something about people like that, but I can’t recall the circumstances. It’ll come to me. I want to know more about this Ghostwheel project of yours, though. Something about it troubles me.”
“Sure,” I said. “But there is something else I am reminded to tell you first.”
“What’s that?”
“I covered everything for you pretty much the way I did when I was talking to Bill. In fact, my just having been through it recently made me almost use it like a rehearsal. But there was something I didn’t mention to Bill because it didn’t seem important at the time. I might even have forgotten it entirely in the light of everything else, till this business about the sniper came up — and then you reminded me that Corwin once developed a substitute for gunpowder that will work here.”
“Everybody remembered it, believe me.”
“I forgot about two rounds of ammunition I have in my pocket that came from the ruins of that warehouse where Melman had his studio.”
“So — ”
“They don’t contain gunpowder. There’s some kind of pink stuff in them instead — and it won’t even burn. At least back on that shadow Earth…”
I dug one out.
“Looks like a .30,” he said.
“I guess so.”
Random rose and drew upon a braided cord that hung beside one of the bookshelves.
By the time he’d returned to his seat there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he called.
A liveried servant entered, a young blond fellow.
“That was quick,” Random said.
The man looked puzzled.
“Your Majesty, I do not understand…”
“What’s to understand? I rang. You came.”
“Sire, I was not on duty in the quarters. I was sent to tell you that dinner is ready to be served, awaiting your pleasure.”
“Oh. Tell them I’ll be along shortly. As soon as I’ve spoken with the person I’ve called.”
“Very good, Sire.”
The man departed backward with a quick bow.
“I thought that was too good to be true,” Random muttered.
A little later another guy appeared, older and less elegantly garbed.
“Rolf, would you run down to the armory and talk to whoever’s on duty?” Random said. “Ask him to go through that collection of rifles we have from the time Corwin came to Kolvir with them, the day Eric died. See if he can dig up a 30-30 for me, in good shape. Have him clean it and send it up. We’re going down to dinner now. You can just leave the weapon in the corner over there.”
“30-30, Sire?”
“Right.”
Rolf departed, Random rose and stretched. He pocketed the round I’d given him and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go eat.”
“Good idea.”
There were eight of us at dinner: Random, Gerard, Flora, Bill, Martin — who had been called back a little earlier in the day, Julian — who had just arrived from Arden, Fiona — who had also just come in, from some distant locale, and myself. Benedict was due in the morning, and Llewella later this evening.