Roger Zelazny. Trumps of Doom
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...t?""Why destroy the magic by talking about it? Let's go eat."
She questioned me a lot in the days that followed, but I was adamant in
refusing to talk about it. Stupid, the whole thing was stupid. I should
never have taken her on that walls. It contributed to that final argument
that set us permanently apart.
And now, driving, as I thought about it, I realized something more than
my stupidity. I realized that I had been in love with her, that I still
loved her. Had I not taken her on that walk, or had I acknowledged her later
accusation that I was a sorcerer, she, would not have taken the route that
she took, seeking power of her own-probably for self protection. She would
be alive.
I bit my lip and cried out. I cut around the braking car in front of me
and crashed a light. If I had killed the thing I loved, I was certain that
the opposite was not going to be true.
CHAPTER 3
Grief and anger shrink my world, and I resent this. They seem to
paralyze my memory of happier times, of friends, places, things; options.
Squeezed by the grip of intense, unsettling emotion, I grow smaller in my
single-mindedness. I suppose it is partly because I have discarded a range
of choices, impairing in some measure my freedom of will. I don't like this,
but after a point I have small control over it. It makes me feel that I
.have surrendered to a kind of determinism, which imitates me even more.
Then, vicious cycle, this feeds back into the emotion that drives me and
intensifies it. The simple way of ending this situation is the headlong rush
to remove its object. The difficult way is more philosophical, a drawing
back, the reestablishment of control. As usual, the difficult way is
preferable. A headlong rush may also result in a broken neck.
I parked in the first place that I saw, opened the window, lit my pipe.
I vowed not to depart until I had grown calm. All of my life I have had a
tendency to overreact to things. It seems to run in my family. But I did not
want to be like the others . They made a lot of trouble for themselves that
way. The full-scale, all-or-nothing reaction may be all right if you always
win, but that way also lies high tragedy or at least opera if you happen to
be up against something extraordinary. And I did have indications that this
was the case. Therefore, I was a fool. I told myself this till I believed
it.
Then I listened to my caliper self as it agreed that I was indeed a
fool-for not having seen my own feelings when I could have done something
about them, for having displayed a power and denied its consequences, for
not having at least guessed at the strange nature of my enemy in all these
years, for my present simplification of the coming encounter. It would not
do to seize Victor Melman on sight and try to beat the truth out of him. I
resolved to proceed carefully, covering myself at all times. Life is never
simple, I told myself. Sit still and gather, regroup.
Slowly, I felt the tension go out of me: Slowly, too, my world grew
again, and I saw within it the possibility that S really knew me, knew me
well, and may even have arranged events so that I would dispense with
thinking and surrender to the moment. No, I would not be like the others . .
.
I sat there and thought for a long while before I started the engine
again and drove on slowly.
It was a grimy brick building situated on a corner. It was four stories
in height, with occasional spray-painted obscenities on the alley side and
on the wall facing the narrower street. I discovered the graffiti, a few
broken windows and the fire escape as I strolled slowly about the place,
looking it over. By then a light rain was just beginning to fall. The lower
two stories were occupied by the Brutus Storage Company, according to a sign
beside the stairs in a small hallway I entered. The place smelled of urine,
and there was an empty Jack Daniels bottle lying on the dusty windowsill to
my right. Two mailboxes hung upon the flaking wall. One said "Brutus
Storage," the other bore the legend "V M." Both were empty.
I mounted the stair, expecting it to creak. It did not. There were four
knobless doors letting upon the second floor hallway, all of them closed.
The outlines of what might be cartons were visible through several of the
frosted panes in their upper sections. There were no sounds from within.
I surprised a black cat dozing on the next stairway. She arched her
back, showed me her teeth, made a hissing noise, then turned and bounded up
the stairs and out of sight.
The next landing also had four doors-three of them apparently
nonfunctional, the fourth dark-stained and shellacked shiny. It bore a small
brass plate that read "Melman." I knocked.
There was no answer. I tried again several times, with the same result.
No sounds from within either. It seemed likely that these were his living
quarters and that the fourth floor, with the possibility of a skylight, held
his studio. So I turned away and took the final flight.
I reached the top and saw that one of the four doors there was slightly
ajar. I halted and listened for a moment. From beyond it came faint sounds
of movement. I advanced and gave it a few knocks. I heard a sudden intake of
breath from somewhere inside. I pushed on the door.
He stood about twenty feet away beneath a large skylight and he had
turned to face me-a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark beard and eyes. He
held a brush in his left hand and a palette in his right. He wore a
paint-smeared apron over his Levi's and had on a plaid sport shirt. The
easel at his back held the outlines of what could be a madonna and child.
There were a great many other canvases about, all of them facing the walls
or covered.
"Hello," I said. "You are Victor Melman?"
He nodded, neither smiling nor frowning, placed his palette on a nearby
table, his brush into a jar of solvent. He picked up a damp-looking cloth
then and wiped his hands with it.
"And yourself ?" he asked, tossing the cloth aside and facing me again.
"Merle Corey. You knew Julia Barnes."
"I don't deny it," he said. "Your use of the past tense would seem to
indicate-"
"She's dead all right. I want to talk to you about it."
"All right," he said, untying his apron. "Let's go downstairs then. No
place to sit up here."
He hung the apron upon a nail near the door and stepped outside. I
followed him. He turned back and locked the studio before proceeding down
the stairs. His movements were smooth, almost graceful. I could hear the
rain on the roof.
He used the same key to unlock the dark door on the third floor. He
drew the door open and stood aside, gesturing for me to enter. I did,
traversing a hallway that led past a kitchen, its counters covered with
empty bottles, stacks of dishes, pizza cartons. Bursting bags of trash
leaned against cupboards; the floor looked sticky here and there and the
place smelled like a spice factory next door to a slaughterhouse.
The living room, which I came to next, .was large, with a
comfortable-looking pair of black sofas, facing each other across a
battlefield of Oriental carpets and miscellaneous tables, each of which bore
several overflowing ashtrays. There was a beautiful concert-sized piano in
the far corner, before a wall covered with heavy red drapery. There were
numerous low bookcases filled with occult materials, stacks of magazines
beside them, atop them, and alongside a few easy chairs. What could be the
corner of a pentacle protruded slightly from beneath the largest rug. The
stale smells of incense and pot lingered in patches. To my right, there was
an archway leading to another room, a closed door to my left. Paintings of a
semireligious nature-which I took to be his work-were hung on several of the
walls. There was a Chagall-like quality to them. Quite good.
"Have a seat."
He gestured toward an easy chair and I took it. "Care for a beer?"
"Thank you, no."
He seated himself on the nearer sofa, clasped his hands, and stared at
me.
"What happened?" he asked.
I stared back at him.
"Julia Barnes got interested in occult systems," I said. "She came to
you to learn more about them. She died this morning under very unusual
circumstances."
The left corner of his mouth twitched slightly. He made no other
movement.
"Yes, she was interested in such matters," he said. "She came to me for
instruction and I provided it."
"I want to know why she died." He continued to stare.
"Her time was up," he said. "It happens to everybody, in the long run."
"She was killed by an animal that should not exist here. Do you know
anything about it?"
"The universe is a stranger place than most of us can imagine."
"Do you know or don't you?"
"I know you," he said, smiling for the first time. "She spoke of you,
of course."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he answered, "that I know you are more than a little aware
of such matters yourself."
"And so?"
"The Arts have a way of bringing the right people together at the
proper moment when there is work in progress."
"And that's what you think this is all about?"
"I know it."
"How?"
"It was promised."
"So you were expecting me?"
"Yes."
"Interesting. Would you care to tell me more about it?"
"I'd rather show you."
"You say that something was promised. How? By whom?"
"All of that will become clear shortly."
"And Julia's death?"
"That, too, I'd say."
"How do you propose rendering me this enlightenment?"
He smiled. "I just want you to take a look at something," he said.
"All right. I'm willing. Show me."
He nodded and rose.
"It's in here," he explained, turning and heading toward the closed
door.
I got to my feet and followed him across the room.
He reached into his shirtfront and drew up a chain. He lifted it over
his head and I could see that it bore a key. He used it to unlock the door.
"Go in," he said, pushing it open and stepping aside.
I entered. It was not a large room, and it was dark. He flipped a
switch and a blue light of small wattage came on within a plain fixture
overhead. I saw then that there was one window, directly across from me, and
that all of its panes had been painted black. There were no furnishings .
save for a few cushions scattered here and there across the floor. A portion
of the wall to my right was covered with black drapery. The other walls were
unadorned.
"I'm looking," I said.
He chuckled.
"A moment, a moment," he advised me. "Have you any idea of my major
concern in the occult arts?"
"You're a cabalist," I stated.
"Yes," he admitted. "How could you tell?"
"People in Eastern disciplines tend to run a tight ship," I stated.
"But cabalists always seem to be slobs."
He snorted.
"It is all a matter of what is really important to you," he said then.
"Exactly." He kicked a cushion into the middle of the floor. "Have a
seat," he said.
"I'll stand." He shrugged.
"Okay," he said, and he began muttering softly.
I waited. After a time, still speaking quietly, he moved to the black
curtain. He opened it with a single quick movement and I stared.
A painting of the cabalistic Tree of Life was revealed, showing the ten
sephira in some of their qlipphotic aspects. It was beautifully executed,
and the sense of recognition that struck me as I regarded it was unsettling.
It was no standard item from some head shop, but rather an original
painting. It was not, however, in the style of any of the works hanging in
the other room. Still, it was familiar to me.
As I studied it I had no doubt whatsoever that it had been painted by
the same person who had done the Trumps I had found in Julia's apartment.
Melman continued his incantation as I regarded the painting.
"Is this your work?" I asked him.
He did not answer me. Instead, he advanced and pointed, indicating the
third sephiroth, the one called Binah. I studied it. It seemed to represent
a wizard before a dark altar, and
No! I couldn't believe it. It shouldn't
I felt a contact with that figure. It was not just symbolic. He was
real, and he was summoning me. He loomed larger, grew three-dimensional. The
room began to fade about me. I was almost
There. It was a place of twilight, a small glade in a twisted wood. An
almost bloody light illuminated the slab before me. The wizard, his face
hidden by cowl and shadov, manipulated objects upon the stone, his hands
moving too rapidly for me to follow. From somewhere, I still seems to hear
the chanting, faintly.
Finally, he raised a single object in his right hand and held it
steady. It was a black, obsidian dagger. He laid his left arm upon the altar
and brushed it across the surface, sweeping everything else to the ground.
He looked at me for the first time. "Come here," he said then.
I began to smile at the stupid simplicity of the request.
But then I felt my feet move without my willing them to do so, and I
knew that a spell lay upon me in this dark shadow.
I thanked another uncle, who dwelled in the most distant place
imaginable, as I began to speak in Thari, a spell of my own.
A piercing cry, as of some swooping night bird, rent the air. . The
wizard was not distracted, nor my feet freed, but I was able to raise my
arms before me. I kept them at the proper level, and when they reached the
forward edge of the altar I cooperated with the summoning spell, increasing
the force of each automatonlike step that I took. I let my elbows bend.
The wizard was already swinging the blade toward my fingers, but it
didn't matter. I put all of my weight behind it and heaved at the stone.
The altar toppled backward. The wizard scurried to avoid it, but it
struck one-perhaps both-of his legs. Immediately, as he fell to the ground,
I felt the spell depart from me. I could move properly again and my mind was
clear.
He drew his knees up to his chest and began to roll even as I leaped
over the wrecked altar. and reached toward him. I moved to follow as he
somersaults down a small slope and passed between two standing stones and
into the darkened wood.
As soon as I reached the clearing's edge I saw eyes, hundreds of feral
eyes blazing from the darkness at many levels. The incanting grew louder,
seemed nearer, seemed to be coming from behind me.
I turned quickly.
The altar was still in wreckage. Another cowled figure stood behind it,
much larger than the first. This one was doing the chanting, in a familiar
masculine voice. Frakir pulsed upon my wrist. I felt a spell building about
me, but this time I was not unprepared. The opposite of my walk, a summons,
brought an icy wind that swept the spell away like so much smoke. My
garments were lashed about me, changing shape and color. Purple, gray . . .
light the trousers and dark the cloak, the shirtfront. Black my boots and
wide belt, my gauntlets tucked behind, my silver Frakir woven into a
bracelet about my left wrist, visible now and shining. I raised my left hand
and shielded my eyes with my right, as I summoned a flash of light.
"Be silent," I said then. "You offend me." The chanting ceased.
The cowl was blown back from his head and I regarded Melman's
frightened face.
"All right. You wanted me,," I stated, "and now you have me, heaven
help you. You said that everything would become clear to me. It hasn't. Make
it clear."
I took a step forward.
"Talk!" I said. "It can be easy or it can be hard. But you will talk.
The choice is yours."
He threw back his head and bellowed: "Master!"
"Summon your master then, by any means," I said. "I will wait. For he,
too, must answer."
He called out again, but there was no answer. He bolted then, but I was
ready for this with a major summoning. The woods decayed and fell before he
could reach them, and then they moved, were swept up in a mighty wind where
there should be stillness. It circled the glade, gray and red, building an
impenetrable wall to infinites above and below. We inhabited a circular
island in the night, several hundred meters across, its edges slowly
crumbling.
"He is not coming," I said, "and you are not going. He cannot help you.
No one will help you. This is a place of high magic and you profane it with
your presence. Do you know what lies beyond the advancing winds? Chaos. I
will give you to it now, unless you tell me about Julia and your master and
why you dared to bring me here."
He drew back from the Chaos and turned to face me. "Take me back to my
apartment and I will tell you everything," he said.
I shook my head.
"Kill me and you will never know."
I shrugged.
"In that case, you will tell me in order to stop the pain. Then I will
give you to the Chaos."
I moved toward him.
"Wait!" He raised his hand. "Give me my life for what I am about to
tell you."
"No bargain. Talk."
The winds swirled around us and our island shrank. Half heard, half
intelligible voices babbled within the wind and fragments of forms swam
there. Melman drew back from the crumbling edge of things.
"All right," he said, speaking loudly. "Yes, Julia came to me, as I had
been told she would, and I taught her some things-not the things I would
have taught her even a year ago, but pieces of some new things I had only
learned myself more recently. I had been told to teach her in this manner,
also."
"By whom? Name your master." He grimaced.
"He was not so foolish as to give me his name," he said, "that I might
seek some control over him. Like yourself, he is not human, but a being from
some other plane."
"He gave you the painting of the Tree?" Melman nodded.
"Yes, and it actually transported me to each sephiroth. Magic worked in
those places. I gained powers."
"And the Trumps? He did those, too? He gave them to you to give to
her?"
"I don't know anything about any Trumps," he answered.
"These!" I cried, drawing them from beneath my cloak, spreading them
like a conjurer's fan and advancing toward him. I thrust them at him and let
him stare for a few moments, withdrawing them before he got the idea that
they might represent a means of escape.
"I never saw them before," he said.
The ground continued its steady erosion toward us. We withdrew to a
point nearer the center.
"And you sent the creature that slew her?"
He shook his head vehemently.
"I did not. I knew that she was going to die, for he had told me that
that was what would bring you to me. He told me, too, that it would be a
beast from Netzach that would slay her-but I never saw it and I had no part
in its summoning."
"And why did he want you to meet me, to bring me here?"
He laughed wildly.
"Why?" he repeated. "To kill you, of course. He told me that if I could
sacrifice you in this place I would gain your powers. He said that you are
Merlin, son of Hell and Chaos, and that I would become the greatest mage of
all could I slay you here."
Our world was at best a hundred meters across now, and the rate of its
shrinkage was accelerating.
"Was it true?" he asked. "Would I have gained had I succeeded?"
"Power is like money," I said. "You can usually get it if you're
competent and it's the only thing you want in life. Would you have gained by
it, though? I don't think so."
"I'm talking about the meaning of life. YouЇknow that."
I shook my head.
"Only a fool believes that life has but one meaning," I said. "Enough
of this! Describe your master."
"I never saw him."
"What?"
"I mean, I saw him but I don't know what he looks like. He always wore
a hood and a black trench coat. Gloves, too. I don't even know his race."
"How did you meet?"
"He appeared one day in my studio. I just turned around and he was
standing there. He offered me power, said that he would teach me things in
return for my service."
"How did you know he could deliver?"
"He took me on a journey through places not of this world."
"I see."
Our island of existence was now about the size of a large living room.
The voices of the wind were mocking, then compassionate, frightened, sad and
angry, too. Our wraparound vision shifted constantly. The ground trembled
without letup. The light was still baleful. A part of me wanted to kill
Melman right then, but if he had not really been the one who had hurt Julia
. . .
"Did your master tell you why he wanted me dead?" I asked him.
He licked his lips and glanced back at the advancing Chaos.
"He said that you were his enemy," he explained, "but he never told me
why. And he said that it was going to happen today, that he wanted it to
happen today."
"Why today?"
He smiled briefly.
"I suppose because it's Walpurgisnacht," he replied, "though he never
actually said that."
"That's all?" I said. "He never mentioned where he was from?"
"He once referred to something called the Keep of the Four Worlds as if
it were important to him."
"And you never felt that he was simply using you?"
He smiled.
"Of course he was using me," he replied. "We all use somebody. That is
the way of the world. But he paid for this use with knowledge and power. And
I think his promise may yet be fulfilled."
He seemed to be glancing at something behind me. It was the oldest
trick in the world, but I turned. There was no one there. Immediately, I
spun back to face him.
He held the black dagger. It must have been up his sleeve. He lunged at
me, thrusting, mouthing fresh incantations.
I stepped back and swirled my cloak at him. He disengaged himself,
sidestepping and slashing, turned and advanced again. This time he came in
low, trying to circle me, his lips still moving. I kicked at the knifehand,
but he snapped it back. I caught up the left edge of my cloak then, wrapped
it about my arm. When he struck again, I blocked the thrust and seized his
biceps. Dropping lower as I drew him forward, I caught hold of his left
thigh with my right hand, then straightened, raising him high in the air,
and threw him.
As I turned my body, completing the throw, I realized what I had done.
Too late. With my attention focused on my adversary I had not kept track of
the rapid, grinding advance of the destroying winds. The edge of Chaos was
much nearer than I had thought, and Melman had time for only the most
abbreviated of curses before death took him where he would incant no more.
I cursed, too, because I was certain there was still more information
that I could have gotten from him; and I shook my head, there at the center
of my diminishing world. The day was not yet over and it was already my most
memorable Walpurgisnacht ever.
CHAPTER 4
It was a long walk back. I changed my clothes on the way. My exit from
the labyrinth took the form of a narrow alleyway between a pair of dirty
brick buildings. It was still raining and the day had made its way into
evening. I saw my parked car across the street at the edge of a pool of
light cast by one of the unbroken streetlamps. I thought wistfully for a
moment of my dry garments in the trunk, then I headed back toward the Brutus
Storage sign.
A small light burned within the first-floor office, spilling a little
illumination into the otherwise dark entranceway. I trudged on up the
stairs, terminally moist and reasonably alert. The apartment door opened
when I turned the knob and pushed. I switched on the light and entered,
bolting the door behind me.
A quick prowl showed me that the place was deserted, and I changed out
of my wet shirt into one from Melman's closet. His trousers were too big in
the waist and a bit long for me, though. I transferred my Trumps to a breast
pocket to keep them dry.
Step two. I began a systematic ransacking of the place.
After a few minutes, I came across his occult diary in a locked drawer
in his bedside table. It was as messy as the rest of the place, with
misspellings, crossed-out words, and a few beer and coffee stains. It seemed
to contain a lot of derivative stuff mixed with the usual subjective
businessdreams and meditations. I flipped farther along in it, looking for
the place where he'd met his master. I came to it and skimmed along. It was
lengthy; and seemed mostly comprised of enthusiastic ejaculations over the
workings of the Tree he had been given. I decided to save it for later and
was about to stow it when a final riffling of the pages brought a brief poem
into view. Swinburnian, overly allusive and full of rapture, the lines that
first caught my eye were, "-the infinite shadows of Amber, touched with her
treacherous taint." Too much alliteration, but it was the thought that
counted. It revived my earlier feeling of vulnerability and caused me to
ransack faster. I suddenly wanted only to get out, get far away and think.
The room held no further surprises. I departed it, gathered an armload
of strewn newspapers, carried them to the john, tossed them into the
bathtub, and set fire to them, opening the window on the way out. I visited
the sanctum then, fetched out the Tree of Life painting, brought it back and
added it to the blaze. I switched aff the bathroom light and closed the door
as I left. I'm one hell of an art critic.
I headed for the stacks of miscellaneous papers on the bookshelves then
and began a disappointing search among them. I was halfway through my second
heap when the telephone rang.
The world seemed to freeze as my thoughts sprinted. Of course. Today
was the day when I was supposed to find my way here and be killed. Chances
seemed decent that if it were going to happen it would -have happened by
now. So this could well be S, calling to learn whether my obituary had been
posted. I turned and located the phone, back on the shadowy wall near the
bedroom. I had known immediately that I was going to answer it. Moving
toward it, I was allowing two to three rings-twelve to eighteen seconds-in
which to decide whether my response was to consist of a wisecrack, an insult
and a threat, or whether I was going to try to fake it and see what I might
learn. As satisfying as the former could be, spoilsport prudence dictated
the latter course and also suggested I confine myself to low monosyllables
and pretend to be injured and out of breath. I raised the receiver, ready to
hear S's voice at last and find out whether I knew him.
"Yes?" I said.
"Well? Is it done?" came the response.
Damn pronoun. It was a woman. Wrong gender but a rightsounding
question. One out of two isn't bad, though. I exhaled heavily, then: "Yeah."
"What's the matter?"
"I'm hurt," I croaked.
"Is it serious?"
"Think so. Got something-here-though. Better come-see."
"What is it? Something of his?"
"Yeah. Can't talk. Getting dizzy. Come."
I cradled the phone and smiled. I thought it very well played. I'd a
feeling I'd taken her in completely.
I crossed the living room to the same chair I had occupied earlier,
drew up one of the small tables bearing a large ashtray, seated myself, and
reached for my pipe: Time to rest, cultivate patience, think a bit.
Moments later I felt a familiar, almost electrical tingling. I was on
my feet in an instant, snatching up the ashtray, butts flying like bullets
about me, cursing my stupidity yet again as I looked frantically about the
room.
There! Before the red drapes, beside the piano. Taking form . . .
I waited for the full outline, then hurled the ashtray as hard as I
could.
An instant later she was there-tall, russet-haired, darkeyed, holding
what looked like a .38 automatic.
The ashtray hit her in the stomach and she doubled forward with a gasp.
I was there before she could straighten.
I jerked the gun out of her hand and threw it across the room. Then I
seized both her wrists, spun her around and seated her hard in the nearest
chair. In her left hand she still held a Trump. I snatched ~ it away. It was
a representation of this apartment, and it was done in the same style as the
Tree and the cards in my pocket.
"Who are you?" I snarled.
"Jasra," she spat back, "dead man!"
She opened her mouth wide and her head fell forward. I felt the moist
touch of her lips upon the back of my left forearm, which still held her own
right wrist against the chair's arm. Seconds later I felt an excruciating
pain there. It was not a bite, but rather felt as if a fiery nail had been
driven into my flesh.
I let go her wrist and jerked my arm away. The movement was strangely
slow, weakened. A cold, tingling sensation moved down into the hand and up
along the arm. My hand dropped to my side and seemed to go away. She
extricated herself easily from my grip, smiled, placed her fingertips
lightly upon my chest and pushed.
I fell backward. I was ridiculously weak and I couldn't control my
movements. I felt no pain when I struck the floor, and it was a real effort
to turn my head to regard her as she rose to her feet.
"Enjoy it," she stated. "After you awaken, the remainder of your brief
existence will be painful."
She passed out of my line of sight, and moments later I heard her raise
the telephone receiver.
I was certain she was phoning S, and I believed what she had just said.
At least, I would get to meet the mysterious artist . . .
Artist! I twitched the forgers of my right hand. They still functioned,
albeit slowly. Straining every bit of will and anatomy that remained under
my control, I tried then to raise the hand to my chest. The movement that
followed was a jerky, slow-motion thing. At least I had fallen upon my left
side, and my back masked this feeble activity from the woman who had done me
in.
My hand was trembling and seemed to be slowing even more when it came
to the breast pocket. For ages after, I seemed to pick at the edges of
pieces of pasteboard. Finally, one came free and I was able to twitch it
high enough to view it. By then I was very dizzy and my vision was beginning
to blur. I wasn't certain I could manage the transfer. From across a vast
distance I could hear Jasra's voice as she conversed with someone, but I was
unable to distinguish the words.
I focused what remained of my attention upon the card. It was a sphinx,
crouched upon a blue, rocky ledge. I reached for it. Nothing. My mind felt
as if it were embedded in cotton. I possessed barely enough consciousness
for one more attempt.
I felt a certain coldness and seemed to see the sphinx move slightly
upon its stony shelf. I felt as if I were falling forward into a black wave
that was rushing upward.
And that was all.
I was a long time coming around. My consciousness dribbled back, but my
limbs were still leaden and my vision clouded. The lady's sting seemed to
have delivered a neurotropic toxin. I tried flexing my fingers arid toes and
could not be certain whether I'd succeeded. I tried to speed up and deepen
my breathing. That worked, anyway.
After a time, I heard what seemed a roaring sound. It stepped itself
down a little later, and I realized it was my own rushing blood in my ears.
A while after that I felt my heartbeat, and my vision began to clear. Light
and dark and shapelessness resolved into sand and rocks. I felt little areas
of chill, all over. Then I began to shiver, and this passed and I realized
that I could move. But I felt very weak, so I didn't. Not for a while.
I heard noises-rustlings, stirrings-coming from somewhere above and
before me. I also became aware of a peculiar odor.
"I say, are you awake?" This from the same direction as the sounds of
movement.
I decided that I was not entirely ready to qualify for that state, so I
did not answer. I waited for more life to flow back into my limbs.
"I really wish you'd let me know whether you can hear me," the voice
came again. "I'd like to get on with it."
My curiosity finally overcame my judgment and I raised my head.
"There! I knew it!"
On the blue-gray ledge above me was crouched a sphinx, also blue-lion
body, large feathered wings folded tight against it, a genderless face
looking down upon me. It licked its lips and revealed a formidable set of
teeth.
"Get on with what?" I asked, raising myself slowly into a sitting
position and drawing several deep breaths.
"The riddling," it answered, "the thing I do best."
"I'll take a rain check," I said, waiting for the cramps in my arms and
legs to pass.
"Sorry. I must insist."
I rubbed my punctured forearm and glared at the creature. Most of the
stories I recalled about sphinxes involved their devouring people who
couldn't answer riddles. I shook my head.
"I won't play your game," I said.
"In that case, you lose by forfeit," it replied, shoulder muscles
beginning to tighten.
"Hold on," I said, raising my hand. "Give me a minute or two to recover
and I'll probably feel differently:"
It settled back and said, "Okay. That, would make it more official.
Take five. Let me know when you're ready."
I climbed to my feet and began swinging my arms and stretching. While I
was about it, I surveyed the area quickly. We occupied a sandy arroyo,
punctuated here and there with orange, gray, and blue rocks. The stony wall
whose ledge the sphinx occupied rose steeply before me to a height of
perhaps twenty-five feet; another wall of the same height lay at about that
distance to my rear. The wash rose steeply to my right, ran off in a more
level fashion to my left. A few spiky green shrubs inhabited rifts and
crevices. The hour seemed verging upon dusk. The sky was a weak yellow with
no sun in sight. I heard a distant wind but did not feel it. The place was
cool but not chill.
I spotted a rock the size of a small dumbbell on the ground nearby. Two
ambling paces-as I continued swinging my arms and stretching-and it lay
beside my right foot.
The sphinx cleared its throat. "Are you ready?" it asked.
"No," I said. "But I'm sure that won't stop you."
"You're right."
I felt an uncontrollable desire to yawn and did so.
"You seem to lack something of the proper spirit," it observed. "But
here it is: I rise in flame from the earth. The wind assails me and waters
lash me. Soon I will oversee all things."
I waited. Perhaps a minute passed.
"Well?" the sphinx finally said.
"Well what?"
"Have you the answer?"
"To what?"
"The riddle, of course!"
"I was waiting. There was no question, only a series of statements. I
can't answer a question if I don't know what it is."
"It's a time-honored format. The interrogative is implied by the
context. Obviously, the question is, `What am I?"'
"It could just as easily be, `Who is buried in Grant's tomb?' But okay.
What is it? The phoenix, of coursenested upon the earth; rising in flames
above it, passing through the air, the clouds, to a great height-"
"Wrong."
It smiled and began to slit.
"Hold on," I said. "It is not wrong. It fits. It may not be the answer
you want, but it is an answer that meets the requirements."
It shook its head.
"I am the final authority on these answers. I do the defining."
"Then you cheat."
"I do not!"
"I drink off half the contents of a flask. Does that make it half full
or half empty?"
"Either. Both."
"Exactly. Same thing. If more than one answer fits, you have to buy
them all. It's like waves and particles."
"I don't like that approach," it stated. "It would open all sorts of
doors to ambiguity. It could spoil the riddling business."
"Not my fault," I said, clenching and unclenching my hands.
"But you do raise an interesting point."
I nodded vigorously.
"But there should only be one correct answer."
I shrugged.
"We inhabit a less than ideal world," I suggested.
"Hm."
"We could just call it a tie," I offered. "Nobody wins, nobody loses."
"I find that esthetically displeasing."
"It works okay in lots of other games."
"Also, I've grown a bit hungry."
"The truth surfaces."
"But I am not unfair. I serve the truth, in my fashion. Your mention of
a tie raises the possibility of a solution."
"Good. I'm glad you see things-'
"That being a tie breaker. Ask me your riddle."
"This is silly," I said. "I don't have any riddles."
"Then you'd better come up with one fast. Because it's the only way out
of our deadlock-that, or I judge you the loser."
I swung my arms and did a few deep kneebends. My body felt as if it
were afire. It also felt stronger.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. Just a second."
What the hell . . .
"What's green and red and goes round and round and round?"
The sphinx blinked twice, then fiurrowed its brow. I used the time that
followed for some more deep breathing and some running in place. The fires
subsided, my head grew clearer, my pulse steadied . . .
"Well?" I said some minutes later.
"I'm thinking."
"Take your time."
I did a little shadowboxing. Did some isometrics, too. The sky had
darkened a bit more and a few stars were now visible off to my right.
"Uh, I hate to rush you," I said, "but-"
The sphinx snorted. "I'm still thinking." "Maybe we should set a time
limit."
"It shouldn't be much longer."
"Mind if I rest?"
"Go ahead."
I stretched out on the sand and closed my eyes, muttering a guard word
to Frakir before I slept.
I woke with a shiver, light in my eyes and a breeze upon my face. It
took me several moments to realize that it was morning. The sky was
brightening to my left, stars were fading to my right. I was thirsty.
Hungry, too.
I rubbed my eyes. I got to my feet. I located my comb and ran it
through my hair. I regarded the sphinx.
". . . and goes round and round and round," it muttered.
I cleared my throat. No reaction. The beast was staring past me. I
wondered whether I might simply be able to slip off...
No. The gaze shifted to me.
"Good morning," I said cheerfully. There was a brief gnashing of teeth.
"AlI right," I said, "you've taken a lot longer than I did. If you
haven't got it by now I don't care to play any longer."
"I don't like your riddle," it said at last.
"Sorry."
"What is the answer?"
"You're giving up?"
"I must: What is the answer?" I raised a hand.
"Hold on," I said. "These things should be done in proper order. I
should have the preferred answer to yours before I tell you mine."
It nodded.
"There is some justice in that. All right-the Keep of the Four Worlds."
"What?"
"That is the answer. The Keep of the Four Worlds ."
I thought of Melman's words: "Why?" I asked.
"It lies at the crossroads of the worlds of the four elements, where it
rises from the earth in flames, assailed by the winds and waters."
"What about the business of overseeing all things?"
"It could refer to the view, or to its master's imperialistic designs.
Or both."
"Who is its master?"
"I don't know. That information is not essential to the answer."
"Where'd you pick up this riddle, anyhow?"
"From a traveler, a few months back."
"Why'd you choose this one, of all the riddles you must know, to ask
me?"
"It stopped me, so it had to be good."
"What became of the traveler?"
"He went on his way, uneaten. He'd answered my riddle."
"He had a name?"
"He wouldn't say."
"Describe him, please."
"I can't. He was well muffled."
"And he said nothing more about the Keep of the Four Worlds?"
"No."
"Well," I said. "I believe I'll follow his example and take a walk
myself."
I turned and faced the slope to my right.
"Waitl"
"What?" I asked.
"Your riddle," it stated. "I've given you the answer to mine. You must
now tell me what it is that is green and red and goes round and round and
round."
I glanced downward, scanned the ground. Oh, yes, there it was-my
dumbbell-shaped stone. I took several steps and stood beside it.
"A frog in a Cuisinart," I said.
"What?"
Its shoulder muscles bunched, its eyes narrowed and its many teeth
became very apparent. I spoke a few words to Frakir and felt her stir as I
squatted and caught hold of the stone with my right hand.
"That's it," I said, rising. "It's one of those visual things-
"That's a rotten riddle!" the sphinx announced.
With my left index finger I made two quick movements in the air before
me.
"What are you doing?" it asked.
"Drawing lines from your ears to your eyes," I said. Frakir became
visible at about that moment, sliding from my left wrist to my hand, twining
among my fingers. The sphinx's eyes darted in that direction. I raised the
stone level with my right shoulder. One end of Frakir fell free and hung
writhing from my extended hand. She began to brighten, then glowed like a
hot silver wire.
"I believe the contest is a draw," I stated. "What do you think?"
The sphinx licked its lips.
"Yes," it finally said, sighing. "I suppose you are right."
"Then I will bid you good day," I said.
"Yes. Pity. Very well. Good day. But before you go may I have your
name-for the record?"
"Why not?" I said. "I am Merlin, of Chaos."
"Ah," it said, "then someone would have come to avenge you."
"It's possible."
"Then a draw is indeed best. Go."
I backed farther off before turning and proceeding up the slope to my
right. I remained on guard until I was out of that place, but there was no
pursuit.
I began jogging. I was thirsty and hungry, but I wasn't likely to turn
up breakfast in this desolate, rocky place under a lemon sky. Frakir
recoiled and faded. I began drawing deep breaths as I headed away from the
risen sun.
Wind in my hair, dust in my eyes . : : I bore toward a cluster of
boulders, passed among them. Seen from amid their shadows the sky grew
greenish above me. Emerging, I came upon a softer plain, glitters in the
distance, a few clouds rising to my left.
I maintained a steady pace, reaching a small rise, mounting it,
descending its farther side where sparse grasses waved. A grove of
mop-topped trees in the distance . . . I headed for them, startling a small
orange-furred creature that sprang across my path and tore away to the left.
Moments later, a dark bird flashed by, uttering a wailing note, headed in
the same direction. I ran on, and the sky continued to darken.
Green the sky and thicker the grasses, green the grasses, too . . .
Heavy gusts of wind at irregular intervals . . . Nearer the trees . . . A
singing sound emerges from their branches . . . The clouds sweep onward . .
.
A tightness goes out of my muscles and a familiar fluidity enters . . .
I pass the first tree, treading upon long, fallen leaves . . . I pass among
hairy-barked boles . . . The way I follow is hard-packed, becomes a trail,
strange foot marks cast within it . . . It drops, curves, widens, narrows
again . . . The ground rises at either hand . . . the trees sound bass viol
notes . . . Patches of sky amid the leaves are the color of Morinci
turquoise . . . Streamers of cloud snake forward like silver rivers . . .
Small clusters of blue flowers appear on the trail walls . . . The walls
rise higher, passing above my head . . . The way grows rocky . . . I run
on...
My path widens, widens, descending steadily . . . Even before I see or
hear it, I smell the water . . . Carefully now, among the stones . . . A bit
slower here . . . I turn and see the stream, high, rocky banks at either
hand, a meter or two of shoreline before the rise . . .
Slower still, beside the gurgling, sparkling flow . . . To follow its
meandering . . . Bends, curves, trees high overhead, exposed roots in the
wall to my right, gray and yellow talus-fall along the flaky base . . .
My shelf widens, the walls lower . . . More sand and fewer rocks
beneath my feet . . . Lowering, lowering . . . Headheight, shoulder-height .
. . Another bending of the way, slope descending . . . Waist high . . .
Green-leafed trees all about me, blue sky overhead, off to the right a
hard-packed trail . . . I mount the slope, I follow it . . .
Trees and shrubs, bird notes and cool breeze . . . I suck the air, I
lengthen my stride . . . I cross a wooden bridge, footfalls echoing, creek
flowing to the now-masked stream, moss-grown boulders beside its cool . . .
Low stone wall to my right now . . . Wagon ruts ahead . .
Wildflowers at either hand . . . A sound of distant laughter, echoing .
. . The neigh of a horse . . . Creak of a cart . . . Turn left . . :
Widening of the way . . . Shadow and sunlight, shadow and sunlight . . .
Dapple, dapple . . . River to the left, wider now, sparkling . . . Haze of
smoke above the next hill . . .
I slow as I near the summit. I reach it walking, dusting my garments,
brushing my hair into place, limbs tingling, lungs pumping, bands of
perspiration cooling me. I spit grit. Below me and to the right lies a
country inn, some tables on its wide, rough-hewn porch, facing the river, a
few in a garden nearby Bye-bye, present tense. I am arrived.
I walked on down and located a pump at the far side of ' the building,
where I washed my face, hands and arms, my left forearm still sore and
slightly inflamed where Jasra had attacked me. I made my way to the porch
then and took a small table, after waving to a serving woman I saw within.
After a time, she brought me porridge and sausages and eggs and bread and
butter and strawberry preserves and tea.
I finished it all quickly and ordered another round of the same. The
second time through a feeling of returning normalcy occurred, and I slowed
and enjoyed it and watched the river go by.
It was a strange way to wind up the job. I had been looking forward to
some leisurely travel, to a long lazy vacation, now my work had been done.
The small matter of S had been all that stood in my way-a thing I had been
certain I could settle quickly. Now I was in the middle of something I did
not understand, something dangerous and bizarre. Sipping my tea and feeling
the day warm about me, I could be lulled into a momentary sense of peace.
But I knew it for a fleeting thing. There could be no tree rest, no safety
for me, until this matter was settled. Looking back over events, I saw that
I could no longer trust my reactions alone for my deliverance, for a
resolution of this affair. It was time to formulate a plan.
The identity of S and S's removal were high on my list of things that
needed knowing and doing. Higher still was the determination of S's motive.
My notion that I was dealing with a simple-minded psycho had dissolved. S
was too well organized and possessed some very unusual abilities. I began
searching my past for possible candidates. But though I could think of quite
a few capable of managing what had occurred thus far, none of these were
particularly ill-disposed toward me. However, Amber had been mentioned in
that strange diary of Melman's. Theoretically, this made the whole thing a
family matter and I suppose put me under some obligation to call it to the
attention of the others. But to do so would be like asking for help, giving
up, saying that I couldn't manage my own affairs. And threats on my life
were my own affair. Julia was my affair. The vengeance on this one was to be
mine. I had to think about it some more...
Ghostwheel? I mulled it over, dismissed it, thought about it again.
Ghostwheel . . . No. Untried. Still developing. The only reason it had
occurred to me at all was because it was my pet, my major accomplishment in
life, my surprise for the others.
I was just looking for an easy way out. I would need a lot more data to
submit, which meant I had to go after it, of course.
Ghostwheel . . .
Right now I needed more information. I had the cards and the diary. I
didn't want to fool with the Trumps any more at this point, since the first
one had seemed something of a trap. I would go through the diary soon,
though my initial impression had been that it was too subjective to be of
much help. I ought to go back to Melman's for a final look around, though,
in case there was anything I had missed. Then I ought to look up Luke and
see whether he could tell me anything more-even some small remark-that might
be of value. Yes . . .
I sighed and stretched. I watched the river a little longer and
finished my tea. I ran Frakir over a fistful of money and selected
sufficient transformed coinage to pay for my meal. Then I returned to the
road. Time to run on back.
CHAPTER 5
I came jogging up the street in the light of late afternoon and halted
when I was abreast of my car. I'd almost failed to recognize it. It was
covered with dust, ashes, and water stains. How long had I been away,
anyhow? I hadn't tried to reckon the time differential between here and
where I'd been, but my car looked as if it had been standing exposed for
over a month. It seemed intact, though. It had not been vandalized and
My gaze had drifted past the hood and on ahead. The building that had
housed the Brutus Storage Company and the late Victor Melman no longer
stood. A burnt-out, collapsed skeleton of the place occupied the comer,
parts of two walls standing. I headed toward it.
Walking about it, I studied what was left. The c...
