Trumps of Doom (9 page)

“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 .
 
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Nearer the trees .
 
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.
 
A singing sound emerges from their branches .
 
.
 
.
 
The clouds sweep onward .
 
.

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A tightness goes out of my muscles and a familiar fluidity enters .
 
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.
 
I pass the first tree, treading upon long, fallen leaves .
 
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I pass among hairy-barked boles .
 
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The way I follow is hard-packed, becomes a trail, strange foot marks cast within it .
 
.
 
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It drops, curves, widens, narrows again .
 
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The ground rises at either hand .
 
.
 
.
 
the trees sound bass viol notes .
 
.
 
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Patches of sky amid the leaves are the color of Morinci turquoise .
 
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Streamers of cloud snake forward like silver rivers .
 
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Small clusters of blue flowers appear on the trail walls .
 
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The walls rise higher, passing above my head .
 
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The way grows rocky .
 
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.
 
I run on...

My path widens, widens, descending steadily .
 
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.
 
Even before I see or hear it, I smell the water .
 
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Carefully now, among the stones .
 
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A bit slower here .
 
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.
 
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 .
 
.
 
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To follow its meandering .
 
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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 .
 
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.
 
More sand and fewer rocks beneath my feet .
 
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.
 
Lowering, lowering .
 
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Headheight, shoulder-height .
 
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Another bending of the way, slope descending .
 
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Waist high .
 
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Green-leafed trees all about me, blue sky overhead, off to the right a hard-packed trail .
 
.
 
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I mount the slope, I follow it .
 
.
 
.

Trees and shrubs, bird notes and cool breeze .
 
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.
 
I suck the air, I lengthen my stride .
 
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I cross a wooden bridge, footfalls echoing, creek flowing to the now-masked stream, moss-grown boulders beside its cool .
 
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Low stone wall to my right now .
 
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Wagon ruts ahead .
 
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Wildflowers at either hand .
 
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A sound of distant laughter, echoing .

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The neigh of a horse .
 
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Creak of a cart .
 
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Turn left .
 
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:

Widening of the way .
 
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Shadow and sunlight, shadow and sunlight .
 
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Dapple, dapple .
 
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River to the left, wider now, sparkling .
 
.
 
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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.

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 charred remains of the place were cold and settled.
 
Gray streaks and sooty fairy circles indicated that water had been pumped into it had since evaporated.
 
The ashy smell was not particularly strong.

Had I started it, with that fire in the bathtub? I wandered.
 
I didn’t think so.
 
Mine had been a small enough blaze, and well confined, with no indication of its spreading while I was waiting.

A boy on a green bicycle pedaled past while I was studying tie ruin.
 
Several minutes later he returned and halted about ten feet from me.
 
He looked to be about ten years old.

“I saw it,” he announced.
 
“I saw it burn.”

“When was that?” I asked him.