Trumps of Doom (20 page)

“Good,” Random answered, as Martin raised the piece to his shoulder.
 
“A little realistic drill every now and then never hurts.” ,

The rifle roared and the armor rang a second time.
 
Martin looked startled and quickly passed the weapon back to Random.
 
Random glanced at the shell in his hand, said, “What the hell!”, loaded the final round and fired without sighting.

There was a third report, followed by sounds of a ricochet, just as the guard reached the top of the stair.

“I guess I just don’t live right,” Random remarked.
 
After Random had thanked the guard for their prompt response to a training exercise and I overheard a mutter about the king being in his cups, we returned to the library and he asked me the question.

“I found the third one in the pocket of Luke’s field jacket,” I answered, and I proceeded to explain the circumstances.

“I can no longer afford not to know about Luke Raynard,” he finally said.
 
“Tell me how you read what just happened.”

“The building that burned down,” I began.
 
“Upstairs was Melman who wanted to sacrifice me.
 
Downstairs was the Brutes Storage Company.
 
Brutus apparently was storing ammo of this sort.
 
Luke admitted that he knew Melman.
 
I had no idea that there might be some connection with Brutes and the ammunition, also.
 
The fact that they were located in the same building is too much, though.”

“If they’re turning it out in such quantities that it requires warehousing, then we’re in big trouble,” Random said.
 
“I want to know who owned that building-and who owned the company, if it’s a different person.”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult to check.”

“Who should I send to do it?” he mused.
 
Then he snapped his forgers and smiled.
 
“Flora is about to undertake an important mission for the Crown.”

“Inspired,” I said.

Martin smiled at that and then shook his head.
 
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what’s going on,” he told us, “and I want to.”

“Tell you what,” Random said.
 
“You fill him in while I go give Flora her assignment.
 
She can leave right after the funeral.”

“Yes,” I said as he departed, and I began telling my tale once again, editing for brevity.

Martin had no fresh insights and no new information, not that I had expected any of him.
 
He had spent the past few years off in a more pastoral setting, I learned.
 
I got the impression that he was more fond of the countryside than of cities.

“Merlin,” he said.
 
“You should have brought this whole mess home to Amber sooner.
 
We’re all affected.”

And what of the Courts of Chaos? I wondered.
 
Would rifle have fired there? Still, it had been Caine and Bleys who had been targets.
 
No one had summoned me back to the Courts to brief me on any incidents.
 
Still .
 
.
 
.
 
perhaps I ought to bring my other relatives aboard at some point.

“But up until a few days ago matters were a lot simpler,” I told Martin, “and then when things began developing fast I was too caught up in them.”

“But all those years .
 
.
 
.
 
those attempts on your life .
 
: .”

I said, “I don’t call home whenever I stub my toe.
 
Nobody else does either.
 
I couldn’t see any connection, all that time.”

But I knew that he was right and I was wrong.
 
Fortunately, Random returned about then.

“I couldn’t quite get her to believe it was an honor,” he said, “but she’ll do it.”

We talked for a while then about more general matters, mostly what we had been doing for the past several years.
 
I recalled Random’s curiosity about Ghostwheel and mentioned the project to him.
 
He changed the subject immediately, giving the impression he wanted to save it for a fully private conversation.
 
After a time, Martin began to yawn and it was contagious.
 
Random decided to bid us good night and rang for a servant to show me to my room.

I asked Dik, who had led me to my quarters, to find me some drawing materials.
 
It took him about ten minutes to turn up everything that I needed.

It would have been a long, difficult walk back and I was tired.
 
So I seated myself beside a table and commenced the construction of a Trump for the bar at the country club Bill had taken me to the previous evening.
 
I worked for perhaps twenty minutes before I was satisfied.

Now it was just a matter of time differential, a thing that was subject to variation, the 2.5-to-1 ratio being only a rule of thumb between Amber and the shadow I had recently inhabited.
 
It was quite possible that I had missed my rendezvous with the nameless housebreaker.

I set everything aside except for the Trump.
 
I rose to my feet.

There came a knock on my door.
 
I was tempted not to answer it, but my curiosity won out.
 
I crossed the room, unbolted the door, and opened it.

Fiona stood there, her hair down for a change.
 
She had on an attractive green evening dress and a small jeweled pin that matched her hair perfectly.

“Hello, Fi,” I said.
 
“What brings you around?”

“I felt you working with certain forces,” she answered, “and I didn’t want anything happening to you before we had our talk.
 
May I come in?”

“Of course,” I said, stepping aside.
 
“But I am in a hurry.”

“I know, but perhaps I can be of help.”

“How?” I asked, closing the door.

She looked about the room and spotted the Trump I’d just finished.
 
She shot the bolt on the door and crossed to the table.

“Very nice,” she observed, studying my handiwork.
 
“So that’s where you’re headed? Where is it?”

“The bar at a country club in the place I just came from,” I replied.
 
“I’m supposed to meet an unknown party there at ten, local time.
 
Hopefully, I will obtain information as to who has been trying to kill me, and why, and possibly even learn something of other matters that have been troubling me.”

“Go,” she said, “and leave the Trump behind.
 
That way, I can use it to spy, and if you should suddenly need help I will be in a position to provide it.”

I reached out and squeezed her hand.
 
Then I took up a position beside the table and focused my attention.

After several moments, the scene took on depth and color.
 
I sank into the emerging textures, and everything advanced toward me, growing larger, crowding out my immediate surroundings.
 
My gaze sought the wall cloak I remembered; to the right of the bar...

9:48.

I couldn’t have cut things much closer.

I could see the patrons now, hear the sounds of their voices.
 
I looked for the best point of arrival.
 
Actually, there was no one at the right end of the bar, near that clock.
 
Okay...

I was there.
 
Trying to look as if I had been, all along.
 
Three of the patrons snapped glances in my direction.
 
I smiled and nodded.
 
Bill had introduced me to one of the men the previous evening.
 
The other I had seen, but not spoken with at that time.
 
Both of them returned my nod, which seemed to satisfy the third that I was real, as he immediately turned his attention back to the woman he was with.

Shortly, the bartender came up to me.
 
He recalled me from last night, also, because he asked whether Bill was around.

I had a beer from him and retired with it to the most secluded table, where I sat and nursed it, my back to the wall, glancing occasionally at the clock, watching the room’s two entrances between times.
 
If I tried I could feel Fiona’s presence.

Ten o’clock came and went.
 
So did a few patrons, new and old.
 
None of them seemed particularly interested in me, though my own attention was drawn to an unescorted young lady with pale hair and a cameolike profile, which ends the resemblance because cameos don’t smile much and she did the second time she glanced at me, right before she looked away.
 
Damn, I thought, why did I have to be wrapped up in a life-and-death situation? Under almost any other circumstances I would have finished the beer, walked over for another, passed a few pleasantries, then asked her whether she’d care to join me.
 
In fact...

I glanced at the clock.

10:20.

How much longer should I give the mystery voice? Should I just assume it had been George Hensen, and that he’d given up on tonight when he’d seen me fade? How much longer might the lady hang around?

I growled softly.
 
Stick to business.
 
I studied the narrowness of her waist, the swell of her hips, the tension of her shoulders .
 
.
 
.

10:25.

I noticed that my mug was empty.
 
I took it over for a refill.

Dutifully, I watched the progress of the mug.

“I saw you sitting there,” I heard her say.
 
“Waiting for someone?”

She smelled strongly of a strange perfume.

“Yes,” I said.
 
“But I’m beginning to think it’s too late.”

“I’ve a similar problem,” she said, and I turned toward her.
 
She was smiling again.
 
“We could wait together,” she concluded.

“Please join me,” I said.
 
“I’d much rather pass the time with you.”

She picked up her drink and followed me back to the table.

“My name’s Merle Corey,” I told her, as soon as we were seated:

“I’m Meg Devlin.
 
I haven’t seen you around before.”

“I’m just visiting.
 
You, I take it, are not?” She shook her head slightly.

“Afraid not.
 
I live in the new apartment complex a couple of miles up the road.”

I nodded as if I knew where it was located.

“Where are you from?” she wanted to know.

“The center of the universe,” I said, then hastily added, “San Francisco.”

“Oh, I’ve spent a lot of time there.
 
What do you do?” I resisted a sudden impulse to tell her that I was a sorcerer, and instead described my recent employment at Grand Design.
 
She, I learned in turn, had been a model, a buyer for a large store, and later manager of a boutique.
 
I glanced at the clock.

It was 10:45.
 
She caught the look.

“I think we’ve both been stood up,” she said.

“Probably,” I agreed, “but we ought to give them till eleven to be decent about it.”

“I suppose.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Earlier.”

“Hungry?”

“Some.
 
Yes.
 
Are you?”

“Uh-huh, and I noticed some people had food in here earlier.
 
I’ll check.”

I learned we could get sandwiches, so we got two, with some salad on the side.

“I hope your date didn’t include a late supper,” I said suddenly.

“It wasn’t mentioned, and I don’t care,” she replied, taking a bite.

Eleven o’clock came and went.
 
I’d finished my drink and the food, and I didn’t really want another.

“At least the evening wasn’t a total loss,” she said, crumpling her napkin and setting it aside.

I watched her eyelashes because it was a pleasant thing to do.
 
She wore very little or very pale makeup.
 
It didn’t matter at all.
 
I was about to reach out and cover her hand with my own, but she beat me.

“What were you going to do tonight?” I asked her.

“Oh, dance a bit, have a few drinks, maybe take a walk in the moonlight.
 
Silly things like that.”

“I hear music in the next room.
 
We could stroll on over.”

“Yes, we could,” she said.
 
“Why don’t we?”

As we were leaving the bar, I heard Fiona, like a whisper:

“Merlin! If you leave the scene on the Trump you will be out of range to me.”