Lyre, Lyre

Robin arrives at the castle gate with Silhouette, who is turned over to Random's medical personnel. She isn't quite out of sight when one of Random's functionaries comes around a corner.

Robin frowns slightly. She wanted to take care of her dark sorceress of a cousin herself, but has to grant that Random's medical team probably has the right priorities and safety training in place So, reluctantly, she hands Silhouette over.

"Lady Robin, the King will see you now." He turns, expecting her to follow.

"Oh, good!" Robin chirps, immediately perking up. Maybe she can get out of this place and back to Arden sooner rather than later. So off she goes, bouncing eagerly after the functionary, completely oblivious to the blood smears on both her pant legs and the delicate crimson fingerprint on her cheek.

The functionary leads Robin straight to the kitchen, where Random is filling a large tray with plenty of food from the larder. The kitchen staff is trying and failing to be helpful, or perhaps to protect their domain from the unusual intruder.

"Hi, Robin, grab a platter if you're hungry." Hr slices off a significant chunk of something related to ham and balances it on the other food.

"Thanks, sire." The girl responds cheerfully. While grabbing the platter, Robin manages a thank you smile to the functionary and a blushing head-bob to the kitchen staff. Here she is, bothering them again.

As quickly as feasible, Robin gathers up a largish bowl of raw stew-bits meat, a dozen or so fresh rolls and several seeping slabs of something red-blooded and hearty to create her own balancing act.

"So, did you go looking for specific trouble, general trouble, or did you just win the trouble lottery tonight?"

Hmmmm. Robin tilts her head as she considers. Interesting building blocks. But can she construct an answer out of them?

"Iiiiiii was looking for general trouble that woooouulldd specifically not harm the citizenry or the architecture too much." Robin rolls her words as she builds but finishes with a smile. She thinks that worked.

"And Ash and Viper were great at keeping the 'too much' to a bare minimum." Her head bobs in a satisfied nod.

Random nods. "Ash is a special case. He's a royalist because he believes that it maximizes freedom for everyone but the King, and he's willing to throw me under the bus, for the good of everyone."

Robin's lips quirk in a wry appreciate smile.

The King picks up his king-sized sandwich and take an enormous bite. It disappears quickly. "You're a sub-set of that. You can't get arrested in this town, but my son could murder you in the city square in broad daylight wearing a nametag that said 'Hi, My name is Garrett' and I'd get a request to ask him not to get blood on the fountains.

"I'm a little sad that you mashed their investigation, but not enough to mention it to you or anything. Once they messed with you, even if you started it, they were yours to kill or spare." Another quarter of the sandwich disappears. The man may be half fire-lizard, the way he eats.

"That's part of your oath, more or less. You remember that, right?"

Robin looks at Random, her face growing pale with shock and horror. As her heart sinks, so to does her form, until she ends up on one knee before the King. "M-majesty." Robin licks her lips and tries again. "Sire. I will not seek trouble within your city again. And should your son murder me in the city square, I shall endeavor not to bleed on the fountains. I... Sire, I am sure to be one of your most... difficult subjects. But I do remember my oath and hold it very strongly within me. If I have said or done anything that would give you doubt..." Robin winces, she can think of a lot that would do just that, "then I beg you, tell me what I can do to... fix it."

She finishes with a befuddled, hapless fluttering of her hands and expression. Shit! And she was trying so hard!

Random waves his hand. "This isn't about Venesch. Don't forget, he was my jailor for about five years, and he had my brother in the basement, with his eyes burned out. Not that it was his choice, or he had any ability to do anything about it, but still, not a way to become the King's best pal..." The King grabs his sandwich again, and almost gets it to his mouth.

"Venesch is loyal to Eric, then Jerod, Amber because of them, then me. He won't break his oath, but he's a relic of the past. I'm just sorry he didn't tender his resignation to me."

He shakes his head. "That's politics. It's also politics when you don't show up for mandatory fun. Now, you weren't the only one, but I knew where Paige and Hannah and Lilly were and Solange is still banished. You, on the other hand, didn't so much as say yes, no, or 'kiss my butt', and that put Julian in a bad spot. Not that he's not up to it, but he had to decide to either pretend you were not a full adult who could come to our counsels or else that you were rebellious.

"That's between you and him, but don't be surprised if he's not real happy with you. As it is, you missed the part of the conference proceedings where we talked through what threats we were facing the collective realms. And the part where we got to pick which assignment we were most interested in pursuing.

"But there's plenty to do, so don't worry that you'll miss out going forward. Are you ready to accept an assignment of a task dealing with the family's long-term problems?"

As Random waves his hand, Robin regains her feet. Giving the King her full attention, she listens carefully to what he has to say. When he finishes, she nods, relief and solemn sincerity in her expression. "Yes, sire. Gladly. Thank you."

"Good. Now sit down, you're not done eating. You'd've thought I'd've planned this out for 'what if she say yes, sire,' but maybe not. I'm not so plannerly as all that."

Robin nods in understanding; she's not that plannerly herself. Seating herself on her stool once more, Robin dutifully whips out her eatin' knife, splits a roll and plops a slab of meat into it. The first bite may be perfunctory, but the second is not as the Ranger's instincts kick in and she starts to tank up while she can.

"Let me think," he says, eating another third of his sandwich. "OK, so have you heard about Marius? There's a shadow, and they held Marius in a cell and let Huon do dark magics on him. That needs to be answered. I need to send an ... aggressive embassy to it. If things go badly, it will involve burning the city to the ground and salting the earth upon which it was built."

At the King's question, Robin shakes her head, her mouth full with her second roll-slab. As the description continues, Robin's expression gets darker and darker, affront and anger being the primary components. Shadow doesn't get to do that to Scions of Amber. It's obvious that while Robin considers the King the King, she also completely agrees with him on this front. She nods as she swallows.

"But it shouldn't come to that. Can you let them know the extreme unwisdom of capturing my kinfolk for purposes of using their blood to unmake the realm of Rebma?"

A bark of surprised laughter erupts from the girl. Really!?! She really is going to be an ambassador to places Random doesn't like? Funny.

Then her expression shifts over to respect for the acumen of the man sitting across from her. What do you do with Scions too... unruly for the house? You send them on missions far away, where they can be useful without harming the Family. And are not exiled or made to feel like bad dogs. Verde, she's been kicked out of Arden often enough to recognize the practice by now. And to have outgrown any resentment at it.

At the thought of Arden, Robin's expression saddens. Her land is dying, her friends are disbanding and she won't be there to help. Again. But if she and her Father are being tense with each other right now, maybe it's best to not try and work too closely with him for a while. Besides, her Father brought her to King. So now she's a King's man, a Scion of Amber and no longer, first and foremost, a Ranger of Arden. She's just going to have to deal with that.

And her talents other than Rangering? Eyes of dark green flick back to the King's. Even in places she likes, Robin's destructive. In Shadows that have caged and bled a cousin to carve away a bit of Reality? Weeeellll... a corner of Robin's mouth ticks briefly upward in a dark smile and in the back corners of her mind, the Thunderbird stirs.

"It would be my pleasure, Sire. Thank you."

Random raises his eyebrows. "It won't be a stroll in the park. Every one of them is some sort of magician, and they know he got away. Also, you're sort of an insult to them, since I'm not sending a son or a brother. I know you can't leave yet because you have to defend your honor, so figure out what you need to do this. Oh, and Caine has one of their people prisoner. She's definitely the one who helped Marius escape and may be the one who captured him. You can talk to her in Amber."

He pushes back his chair. "I've got an idea who to send with you, but that can wait until things clarify."

"Okay." Robin nods her understanding. Don't just fly in there. Have some sort of an idea. Do some planning for the time before it all goes cluster as usual. Yep, Robin nods again. She can do this. "Can I talk to Marius, too?

"Oh, and..." Robin shifts in her seat as she realizes the interview is coming to a close. "Sire? I realize this may not be the best time, but may I ask three questions before I'm dismissed?"

Random nods. "Probably. I suppose it depends on the questions. If the first one is 'Why don't you die when I stab you repeatedly?', then I'm not gonna stick around for the next two..."

Robin raises her own eyebrows, not really sure how to respond to that. After a heartbeat, she decides on, "Weeeellll, since I'm not usually talking in those kinds of situations, I think you're safe from that one," she finishes with a wry smile.

"Okay, number one. May I please have your permission to marry Vere once he's ready?" Despite her own uncertainty, Robin is suddenly soaring with lightness at the very thought and has to fight the impulse to blush and giggle. Gaaaahh! You'd think it'd get easier by the fourth time, but noooooo. Ferociously, she fights to stay serious and earnest.

"Number two," Robin glances around at the kitchen staff and obfuscates for all she's worth, "Iiiiiii have heard rumors of aaaa... permanent collection of... small family portraits, but don't know if such of a thing exists. In case it did, may I have your permission to... view it on occasion?

"Number three," she looks around again. And sighs. Even harder. She casts her eyes upward, trying to herd her thoughts into words. But even as she's thinking, a fond smile drifts across her face. "Siiillllhouette." She hums the name. "Uh, she's named me her friend. And I have named her mine. And she seems to have nooooo idea of what she is. Bbbuuuutttt, I also can't quite shake the impression she gives me of... well, a certain red-headed cousin of Uncle Corwin's particular acquaintance. Majesty? I ask your advice. How much should I explain to her?"

"Hmm. OK, let's try them in reverse order. Third, Hmm. It depends. If she reminds you of Paige, explain to her not to try sleeping with Martin. If she reminds you of Brita, explain to her to use fewer capital letters, because it excites people. If she reminds you of Edan, explain to her not to burn things down. Ditto, Ossian. No volcanos. Conner, tell her to be careful who she dates. And If she reminds you of Brennan ... Nope, I can't imagine it, so no idea. You'll have to field that one on your own."

Robin tilts her head and blinks. Sounds like she might have obfuscated herself right off the trail with one.

Ooorrrr maybe she didn't. She is on her own with this one and all of the King's advice tends to the lessening of destruction and excitement. Okay. Though coming from her? Robin snorts softly. Ah well, she has to try.

"Second, yes, you all already have that."

"Thank you, Sire." Robin nods and continues to listen intently.

"First, you're asking me to lift the ban on inter-family marriages. While I haven't spoken to either of your fathers, the ban is ancient and I left it in place on purpose. You'll have to live in sin." He smiles. "I always liked shadows with sins in them. Makes transgressing so much more exciting."

Robin freezes as her world goes white with shock. Green eyes stare blindly and it feels as though her heart has stopped along with her breath. At length, a deep shuddering racks the girl and she drops eyes filling with tears to the food piled up before like so much ash.

"I... I will abide by your word, Sire." Robin's voice is so broken as to be near-inaudble. "May I be excused, please?"

He nods, aware of her state but deliberately ignoring it, in the way of Kings.

Robin is out of the kitchen so fast the stool spins wildly behind her. Near blind with tears, the girl makes her way out of the Castle in the most direct path possible -- through windows, over walls, however.

Once in the clear, she cries out an agonized call to her flying friends and stalwart anchors, even as her own feet wing her toward Broceliande. Though she knows that Forest is Paige's and not her Father's, still Robin seeks the Green when she needs to scream her throat raw or cry herself sick. Both of which are on her immediate agenda.

Though Robin does not note the passage of time in her flight, the Green is closer to Xanadu that it was to Amber. She flies headlong into the Green, her fire lizards flying over and around her, worried and angry.

Nothing is unwise enough to disturb her in her flight, and soon enough she has run as far as she can from everything except herself.

Once alone with only her friends and herself, Robin screams her despair and disappointment out into the air, over and over until she is in danger of blacking out. There is no denial or defiance in Robin's calls, only bewildered sorrow that eventually drops her into a sobbing, moaning huddle of girl and firelizard.

It's the feel of Peep's rough tongue on her chin that finally penetrates Robin's miasma. That and the warm weight of Chirrup and Ooot on her shoulder, the worry in her friends' hearts, the rough leathery texture of their wings and bodies surrounding her, protecting her. Poor little ones, to be saddled with such a thing as Robin. She nuzzles them apologetically, whistling her sorrow for causing them pain.

As she does so, it's as though she can feel Him settle around her. Her invisible Vere -- the calm and patient voice of reason that balances her passions. They are not forbidden to each other. In fact, the King practically encouraged them to mate. It is only the marriage that was denied. Since when did a wild being such as Robin need ceremonies or words like 'marriage' 'husband' or 'spouse.' Vere and she are what they are, and will be what they are forever, regardless of the words. And besides, she can always ask again. Later. Over and over again.

A wry chuckle ripples through the girl at that thought and she starts cleaning herself up, looking around to see where she's ended up this time.

The next afternoon, while Silhouette is resting in the infirmary, she receives a note:

Dear Silhouette,

I was very sorry to hear of your recent injuries from the Lord Mayor. When you are well enough for company, I hope to visit you and make your acquaintance. Recent illness of my own has kept me remiss in my duties, but now that I am recuperating, I look forward to resuming my duties to family and the court.

Please let me me know when you are able to receive visitors.

In hopes of your swift recovery,
Vialle, Queen of Xanadu
(by the hand of Ember her secretary)

Silhouette requests that the messenger remain while she writes a reply - a painful endeavor thanks to her bruised and torn knuckles.

My Queen,

You honor me with your compassion. The extent of my injuries - mostly to my pride - will not prevent me from accepting visitors at this time. If it is your wish, please meet me for afternoon tea today. I would cherish the opportunity to speak with you at length.

Your dutiful servant,

Silhouette

Once the message has been sent, Silhouette requests that an afternoon tea service be provided - loose tea accompanied by smoked salmon sandwiches and scones with clotted cream and jam.

[A bit later], the Queen arrives, escorted by one of the guards and a woman whom Silhouette may guess is her secretary. The guard announces her as Queen Vialle, and the woman with her as Ember.

Vialle is a moderately tall woman, almost as tall as Random, with light hair and a graceful, if slow, way of moving. She has an easy smile, but her face seems a bit careworn, or perhaps tired. The reason that a secretary answers her correspondence becomes clear almost immediately: the Queen is blind.

Ember guides Vialle close to the bed so she can greet Silhouette. "Silhouette. How are you today? I hope you're feeling better."

Silhouette reaches out to lightly touch the Queen's hand - allowing the blind woman to gain her spatial awareness. "Thank you, My Queen. I am on the mend, but still incapacitated enough to deeply regret my foolish and coarse actions. Forgive me for the inauspiciousness of our first meeting. Please sit."

She guides Vialle to the bed, if allowed. "And are you feeling better, My Queen?"

Ember moves back and lets Vialle seat herself, with whatever assistance she seems to need to take from Silhouette. As for the Queen, she allows herself to be helped to a seat on the edge of the bed. "I've recovered from my injuries," she says. "Thank you for asking. And don't worry about our first meeting. I've had many meetings with family members that have been less--" she pauses and settles on "--auspicious."

Vialle moves her head, with its unseeing eyes, in a way that Silhouette would describe as 'looking at' the tea service. "Is the tea from Karime? Their afternoon blend is my favorite of the surface teas."

"I fear we must trust the chef's prerogative, as I am still learning the teas of this realm. And I am certain that the bitter coffees of my home would be displeasing to the normal palate," Silhouette chuckles.

She leans over and prepares the tea - leaving a thumb's space between liquid and lip for Vialle's cup. "If I might ask, were you in Rebma during all the unpleasantness, My Queen?" Vialle can likely hear the discomfort in the woman's voice.

Ember watches the preparation of the tea, but does not interfere.

"I was not, no, although I have heard accounts from those who were. When Random left Rebma, I followed him, and have not returned in the intervening years," Vialle explains. "Rebma is the land of my birth, but Xanadu is my home now. I gather you haven't visited Rebma yet." She does not make this a question.

Silhouette gives a dark laugh, "To put it simply: no. Nor - considering my current affiliations - would such a visit be advisable. That does not preclude my intense curiosity of the realm, of course. Perhaps, once I am associated with the King's name rather than Prince Huon's, I shall venture there. Until then, however, I have enough enemies to contend with."

She serves the queen with a steady and careful hand; her fingers lingering against Vialle's until she is certain the woman has the cup and saucer. "If it is not too private, may I ask how you came to be wounded? Hopefully, it was under more respectable circumstances than I."

For all that Vialle's grasp is not as strong as Silhouette might expect, she seems quite able to handle the cup on her own once it's in her hand. "My illness is a long story, and one not suited to a pleasant afternoon. Suffice it to say that that the Princess Fiona has acted as my physician and nurse, and that she expects a complete recovery for me in due time. Have you met her? Most of the family is not in Xanadu; I doubt she has returned yet."

"If there is any aid I might provide, you have but to ask, my Queen. Although my skills at the forge have taken precedence, my studies of Draig-Talamh included healing and medicinal remedies," Silhouette offers. "As for the Princess Fiona, I have been eager to meet with her. However, my experience with the Family remains limited to only a few cousins and my Uncles Caine and Random. And, of course, Lord Huon."

She sips her tea, studying the Queen and Ember. "Have you ever dealt with my mother, by chance?"

"Many times. She was at court in Amber for part of Eric's reign. I assume you have many questions about her." The last sentence is definitely not a question, but Vialle's tone invites continuance of Silhouette's line of thought.

"That I do, my Queen," Silhouette says; refreshing their tea if necessary. "Apart from her intense desire to, at best, deny my existence or, at worse, have me executed, can you tell me of her life here? Did she remarry? Was Lucas a recent child? Until his death has she been happy? Forgive my flurry of questions, but despite my abandonment, I have worried for her."

"I never heard that she had married at all, at least not that Oberon recognized," Vialle says thoughtfully, and takes a slow sip of her tea, careful not to spill it. "She brought Lucas to Amber at the beginning of the late war; he was already grown, and had taken the Pattern, by then. He remained in Amber through the Regency, and only recently went to Paris. I think Paris is very like the shadow in which he was raised."

Silhouette grows introspective until she recalls Vialle cannot read her facial expressions. Unwilling to be rude, she touches the woman's knee to reassure her that she is indeed listening. "Yes, I was told I could not attend his funeral in Paris. Nor did I wish to press the issue with Uncle Corwin. But it does make I wonder if he is my elder or I am his. Or 'was,' I should say. Such a strange thing this distortion of Time."

She exchanges her tea for a sandwich, "May I offer something to eat, my Queen?" If she agrees, she fixes the woman a plate. "Once my duties for Lord Huon are fulfilled, I'd hoped to stay here and serve you. However, if you believe this would cause you difficulties with my mother, I shall return to Shadow. Your husband, the King, thought not, but I suspect a female perspective would have a better grasp of the potential consequences."

Vialle moves to set her cup aside, and Ember steps forward to take it from her in a kind of well-choreographed motion that suggests years of service together.

With her hands free, Vialle takes the offered plate and picks up a sandwich. Clearly she knows the food from her own kitchen. "My husband is not close to Florimel," she says, a statement that could cover many different kinds of meaning. "I'm sure he wouldn't exile a member of the family simply because his sister was unlikely to be pleased. But I understand that she believes her daughter was killed many years ago."

"By all accounts, I did die," Silhouette replies, taking bird-like nibbles from her sandwich. "Soldiers murdered my family and left me for dead. Slavers found me and then took into Shadow. At least, that is what I can surmise. However, from what I have learned, my mother still should have possessed the ability to locate me.

"And yet, she did not."

She allows the Queen a moment to reply before changing the subject, "Has your husband spoken to you regarding Lord Huon's amnesty?"

Vialle chooses to let Silhouette change the subject. "We have spoken of it, yes, and he has had my counsel." She lets that stand by way of inviting Silhouette to continue.

"Then I hope you see the potential benefits presented to you should the King choose to follow the Second Law and honor his request," Silhouette says. "Lord Huon could be a useful ally in the times to come, a valuable resource that can be utilized as you see fit. One that will be both gracious and eager to please, unlike former malcontents this Family has known. But, if he is chased like a rabid dog, he will continue to be a powerful enemy; one no longer eager to negotiate. Is it not better to have him on a leash, rather than roaming free?

"True, his offense to Rebma is severe. But further bloodshed will serve no one. I believe he should be incarcerated here and be put to good use, rather than simply executed -- and possibly inciting a Blood Curse. By honoring the previous agreement, it would also show King Random's solidarity with the Family, rather than reveal weakness to his peers. For if he is easily swayed by outside influences at the expense of the Blood, his siblings will be unwilling to serve him faithfully. By pulling one weed, he will inspire more to grow in his Eden.

"I understand if you would disagree, considering your Rebman origins, my Queen."

Vialle takes a slow sip of her tea during Silhouette's recitation, and sets it down on her plate--the one stable surface she controls, when Silhouette has finished. The act of drinking serves to mask her facial expressions as Silhouette speaks. "I am certain that the King will take all these matters into consideration when he decides how best to deal with Huon."

Silhouette sets her empty plate down - her bruised ribs evoking a pained sigh. "And now I fear I have sullied our pleasant conversation," she says. "Shall I refill your cup while you handle our discussion with a finer grace, my Queen?"

Vialle does offer the cup to Silhouette. "You haven't sullied the conversation. But if I could not keep my own counsel, I should make a very bad Queen." Her tone sounds more amused than in any way offended.

A soft laugh touches Silhouette's lips as she steadies Vialle's hand with her own, refilling the Queen's cup. She allows her supportive fingers to linger once again until she is confident in Vialle's grip. "Something tells me that I shall most enjoy serving you in the future."

She takes another sip from her cup, "Do you play music, my Queen? Are you part of your good husband's band?"

"I have not learned a surface instrument," Vialle says. "It is something I haven't had the luxury of spending my time on since I left Rebma. In Rebma, of course, music is very different. No woodwinds and no strings." A smile crosses her face at that last. "Music is sometimes more of a man's accomplishment in Rebma. At least you can perform on percussion instruments."

"You must have had such an intriguing life, my Queen," Silhouette replies, unconsciously mirroring Vialle's smile. "I would most like to travel to Rebma some day. Studying the realm's effect on supercavitation alone could occupy me for years. And ultrasonics, my goodness. The possibilities for my work are staggering."

She chuckles over her cup, "Of course, I doubt the deep waters would be amiable to my overly warm blood. Swimming in the bay by itself was enough to set my teeth chattering. Do you - as a Rebman - find it too warm on the surface, I wonder?"

"Too chilly, rather, The waters of Xanadu are much cooler than Rebma. And, of course, there's no question of getting out into the cold air in Rebma," Vialle explains. "But I would say the waters are simply warmer, closer to the temperature of the tea--" and she holds up her cup "--than to the temperature of the bay."

Silhouette actually purrs, "Oh, my Queen, you tempt me far too much. I find the constant chill here utterly exhausting. So to be warm again, if only for a moment, would be bliss. How funny that I could find beneath the waves the relief I normally seek within the flames. When we are mended and I've sworn myself to Xanadu, we must travel to this watery realm, you and I. If only to improve our constitutions, yes?"

After refilling cups and plates once again, she asks in an innocent tone, "May I ask what influence Amber - and thus now Xanadu - have over Rebma? Forgive my ignorance, but if the realm is a reflection of the True City, does it not owe fealty to you? Or is it a separate entity, entirely?"

"That's a matter of complex metaphysics that I don't claim to understand entirely. But Rebma has never formally offered fealty to Amber and even when Oberon was king, Amber never demanded it. And I don't expect that to change even with the regime change in Rebma. Random is not so well-loved there that he would be accepted as an ultimate power, were Rebma minded to let any man take that role," Vialle says, as if none of that requires explanation.

"A regime change?" Silhouette asks, holding off on questions of a more personal nature. For now.

"Did Lord Huon's recent attack cause a power shift in Rebman politics?"

Vialle laughs and shakes her head. "Oh, no, this was already happening before Huon came on the scene. If Rebma were a reflection, one might say that this trouble reflected events already past in Amber. The seeds of it were sown some years ago."

"I see," Silhouette says, setting her cup aside. "But if these realms are a triune, could not Amber's recent fall into Stagnation be similarly reflected in Rebma? Say an endless civil war that throws it into darkness? And, therefore, could not that unrest also be reflected in Tir-a-Nogth?

"Or are the realms triadic in nature? Where the destruction of one would require one or both of the others to assimilate the former entity's role in their inter-connecting relationship? Or can they even survive its undoing at all?"

Silhouette folds her hands together, "I suppose I am curious, with Amber's image fading into obscurity, will Rebma or Tir-a-Nogth fade as well... or cast reflections of their own."

"I don't think they'll fade," Vialle says with a certainty that seems to surprise her a moment later, her blind face registering a moment of confusion that she doesn't know how to hide. "But there's no way to know, of course."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," Silhouette says with a slight smile; the Queen's expression intriguing her deeply. She decides to bait the waters and see if this beautiful fish will nibble.

"I have read about the Ghost City, my Queen. About its past. And its future. Prophesy suggests that a time of tumult approaches. A Doom. One that could resonate through its counterparts; Rebma, included. I wonder if this Doom has been sparked by the Fall of Amber. And would very much like to investigate this further.

"For the Greater Good."

"Unfortunately that is impossible," Vialle says firmly. "Random and Corwin have forbidden anyone to enter Tir until they decree otherwise. You should take your concerns to them. Corwin is considered the greatest living expert on the city; perhaps he will know of this doom and what it portends."

"How unfortunately, indeed," Silhouette replies. "But I would never defy the rulings of my King. Perhaps - if my mother's colorful words have not completely poisoned Uncle Corwin against me - we might discuss the matter and explore new avenues."

She finishes off the tea pot, refilling their cups as best she can. She sighs faintly, "I should not keep you much longer, my Queen. But may I ask a boon of you? Might you inform the King of my embarrassment with regards to the incident that led to my incapacitation?"

"Your embarrassment?" Vialle says, as if she's unsure exactly what Silhouette means.

Silhouette regards the woman for a moment. After a time, a cheerless exhale crosses her teeth. She gently takes Vialle's hand and (if allowed) guides it up to her swollen face. Although blind to the dark purple stains, the Queen's touch can easily distinguish the violent bruising.

"Perhaps you have not heard the inglorious circumstances of my injuries," she says. "I became involved in an altercation with a man twice my size. The consequences of following my cousin into a bit of tomfoolery. Fisticuffs and bloodshed do not fall under the purview of an emissary. Forgive me."

Vialle's fingers pull away from the bruises as soon as she discerns what they are. "Ahhh. I suggest that you not worry about it. Random will understand a certain amount of high spirits."

"Yes," Silhouette smiles, allowing Vialle's fingers to slip away. "I suppose he just might at that."

She pauses, then changes the subject entirely with a feline abruptness. "Can you make use of the Trumps, my Queen? Specifically that of Prince Caine."

"I have never tried. I am told," Vialle says with quiet dignity, "that one must be able to see."

"Truly?" Silhouette replies without a hint of ridicule. "They appear to open a sympathetic contact with the subject depicted through the Law of Contagion. Initially, one might suspect the image itself initiates the Correspondence. However, I believe the Law of Similarity goes much deeper. After all, what is an image but the artist's personal interpretation of the subject? An exegesis, of sorts. And, thus, can be flawed. Contagion requires an intimate understanding of the subject. As such, the visual itself is irrelevant.

"Indeed, I believe a sighted artist would lack your insight. I suspect you can 'see' the true person behind the mask. Through the inflection of their voice. Their touch. Their smell. Their very essence. Your image would be unfettered by visual encumbrances. So, yes, my Queen, I believe you could utilize the Trumps. If not better than anyone in the Family."

"You are kind to say so. In any case, I have never tested any ability I might have with them, so I cannot say that I can use them." Vialle turns her head aside, and over the Queen's shoulder, Silhouette can see Ember's slight silent frown.

Silhouette locks eyes with the woman, quirking an eyebrow, but saying nothing. Her attention soon returns to the Queen. "Well, not to worry then. I am certain one of my cousins can relay a missive to Prince Caine on my behalf," she says.

Her hand pats the Queen's knee, "I worry that I have kept you far too long. And although I find your company most enjoyable, my Queen, perhaps I should allow you to return to your duties. Otherwise, I might pester you with questions all day."

"And I should not tire you." Vialle moves to come to her feet and Ember steps forward to touch her shoulder and offer whatever guidance Vialle needs. The Queen seems to have matters in hand, because she rises without assistance. "Good afternoon, Silhouette. I wish you a swift recovery. If there is anything I can do to make it easier, please let me know."

"Perhaps we can stroll beside the lagoon over the next few days," Silhouette suggests. "I believe it might be beneficial to our constitutions. And I would most enjoy the company. Good afternoon, my Queen."

"Make time in my schedule for it," Vialle suggests to Ember. "We will walk together then," she says to Silhouette.

Ember closes the door behind them when they leave.

After he excuses himself from Martin and Folly, Brennan finds Brita and effects the transfer to Xanadu. If Random and Corwin are keeping Xanadu and Paris in synch, then it's late when he arrives, and later after he finds his way back to his quarters. But he doesn't feel like sleeping.

Instead, he turns to his writing desk. The first note is a brief but formal one to the King, requesting an audience to correct one error and seek advice on avoiding another, at a time and place of the King's choosing. The second is a brief note to Paige, expressing regret that their duties do not allow them to meet. However, in the wake of recent events with Lucas, Brennan wants there to be no doubt-- if Paige feels the need to make a Trump of him, she should feel free to do so.

Those notes are sent immediately with whatever King Random has set up as a page network.

Still, when those short tasks are finished, he doesn't feel like sleeping. And he might be leaving Xanadu before the end of the next day, which means he only has a short time to set his thoughts in order on Folly's project of "listening" to the Patterns as a way of diagnosing them. It's an interesting idea. More than just interesting, it's something Brennan would probably never have thought of, even though he's heard Bleys and Fiona make offhand comments about frequencies and harmonics.

No time like the present. Brennan can go without a night of sleep.

It is a slow process-- a very slow process. If Brennan were writing only for himself, or for another redhead, it might go a little faster, but not by much. Most of the time Brennan engages in this process, he's thinking about Sorcery, rather than the Pattern. Then compounding that, Brennan wants to write something that is useful for Folly. And just the nature of the questions she was asking indicates that she's a more intuitive thinker than Brennan is.

By the time the sun comes up, Brennan feels like he's spent the night locked in a furious debate with someone he keeps misunderstanding, but he does have some solid pages that he thinks will be useful: In order for there to be sound, or something like it, something usually has to vibrate. As is often the way of these things, the starting assumptions are everything. In this case, Brennan makes two: Either the Patterns are vibrating, or the Patterns are completely still, and the universe is vibrating around them.

He follows both cases out as well as he can, keeping the analogies more musical when possible, instead of mathematical. When math is necessary, Brennan tries to keep it in terms of music theory, not the mathematics of vibrations. So the vibrating Pattern analogizes to a violin string; the stable Pattern to a flute which shapes the vibrations around it. Brennan tries not to indicate it, but he favors the second, even though in many cases it takes more effort to tease the meanings out of it that he wants.

He touches on what he thinks these things mean for the Veils, and for people Walking them, and for various ways to indicate that either, or both, interpretation is correct-- invariably, these techniques are easier with access to Real objects. When Brennan has a thought that a Pattern Blade might convert the flute interpretation into a more clarinet interpretation, he puts the pencil down, and rubs the bridge of his nose. There's inspiration, and there's taking the inspiration too far. He's probably already done that, but it also probably happened before the reed instruments showed up in his thinking.

It's almost dawn at that point, anyway. He signs it, puts a note to Folly with it, and sends it off by page.

Then a hearty breakfast, and hopefully off to talk with the King.

Random walks in on Brennan's hearty breakfast, carrying a tray of his own. "Morning," he says.

...Or we'll talk to the King over breakfast, Brennan thinks. "Majesty," Brennan greets him, and waits for him to get situated before charging immediately into business. But once he is situated, he says: "I gather that the page delivered my note; thank you for seeing me. Which would you like to hear first-- the error I've already made, or my asking advice on how to avoid another one?"

Brennan doesn't look thrilled to be mentioning errors he's made, but it's got to be done.

Random eats some bacon while he's considering, gravely, how to answer Brennan. "Hmm. I say lead with your second best material. Save the funniest one for the closer."

Brennan knows perfectly well which topic he considers less funny. He nods, "All right. The error already committed: At the Family meeting a few nights ago in Paris, it was mentioned that Ambrose was making his way toward Xanadu. It was not mentioned that Ambrose is making his way toward Xanadu with a substantial number of people. There is a substantial difference between Ambrose coming to town, and Ambrose coming to down with a large group of settlers."

Brennan clearly does not like admitting basic errors-- it makes him feel like an idiot-- but he's not going to pretend there was some justification, or way to point fingers or share blame. He shifts from passive voice to first person, singular, active. "I have no excuse. I simply failed to realize that not everyone knew what I had recently learned. I failed my brother and my King by not relaying the information promptly."

With the band-aid ripped off, Brennan waits for the response.

"Hmmm. Are they ... musical?" Random asks.

"I'm not sure I've ever been to a shadow whose people weren't, unless they had no ears or no mouths," Brennan says. "Yes, there's a musical tradition, mostly whistles, pipes, and percussion, but not entirely." Brennan stares off into the distance for a moment, dredging up a tune he hasn't heard for a long, long time-- a tune he had always liked, and Brand had always hated. Once he's captured the better part of it in his mind, he puts his lips together, and whistles for a few minutes, keeping time with his thumb against the rim of the table.

Unbidden, the words come back to him, too. He doesn't sing, because he's already whistling, and because the translation from Uxmali to Thari would do badly anyway. With the words in mind as an adult, now, Brennan understands more why Brand hated it: It's a mockery, a subtle subversion of the religious serpent chants to which the Uxmali people would meditate. After long enough to get a feel for it-- a true serpent chant goes on for hours, spiraling in on the object of its meditation-- Brennan stops.

Random's head bobs along with the music, and his hands move, as if hitting a goatskin drum. He makes no sounds, but seems to be playing along in silence.

"Well, if they've got nothing else, they can sing for their supper. My biggest concern is that they'll arrive here and not acclimate well to a moderately technical society that prospers by being a trading hub. If they're gonna integrate and in four generations they're a source of quaint ethnic customs, that's a thing. If they want us to provide for them while they build temples and pray to Brand, that's another entirely.

"Best would be if they were fishermen or sailors. We need those."

"Ah," Brennan says, suddenly understanding where the King is coming from. "Fishermen, yes, to a degree. Mostly coastal and shallows, for shellfish, crab, and the like, but in some degree, yes. Sailing, less so," he frowns. "I'm not sure why, less so. They have most of the obvious skills that would make them good at it-- they're a sky- and star-watching culture, there's a tradition of mathematics from careful calendar making, they're familiar with water transport in general..." Brennan shakes his head-- he just doesn't know why it never caught on. "Maybe it will, here. As another thought, they're familiar with jungle warfare and living off the land in such environments. If Broceliande turns hot, Paige might find them helpful.

"I can't say much to whether they'll acclimate in a few generations, or if they'll be clinging to their old ways. I suspect acclimation. Like a lot of folks, the people living now will be remembered in legend as the generation that Ambrose led into a promised land, wherever that land ends up being. Seems like that could change a people. And if it doesn't..." Brennan looks up at Random, then around at the physical environs of Xanadu. "They have even less chance contesting your will than Brand's, no?"

"Yeah, but I'm lazy. I prefer to win conflicts with my subjects by not having them. Summoning lightning to display my wrath attracts the chicks, sure, but not the ones that are, strictly speaking, my type. There are reasons why I don't allow Corwin to date anymore."

That's not what Brennan meant, but he's not going to waste Random's time quibbling over it.

Random shakes his head. "Anyway, we'll cope with that when it arrives. What else?"

"Thank you, Majesty," he says-- and means it, since Random could just as easily have given him a flat no to carry back to Ambrose.

"Next is easier, because it's not yet happened, and it's avoidable if I know your will. I mentioned that I had a notion of how to get into Rebma's Pattern chamber without taking the hard route. This is still true: The notion is to go to Amber, make a key from Amber's chamber, and then make various types of mirror images of it," Brennan explains.

"If this doesn't work, then what happens is, I march down to Rebma, try to use the key, fail, look stupid, and the go back and do it the hard way." Brennan shrugs. "Let's say it does work, though. Clever Brennan marches down to Rebma, unlocks the chamber door... and Khela puts her hand out for the key and says, 'Thank you.'"

Brennan pauses very briefly to let Random think about that before continuing. "But it's not really my key to give, is it? That was the realization I had after I left the Family Council-- it's not my key to give, and it may not suit your plans for her to have it."

"So. Rebma, under Good Queen Moire, had me under sentence of death for a couple of hundred years. I'm not really her number one fan, as you might imagine.

"My plans are to not have that relationship with Rebma anymore. It was a lot like having Flora as a sister, except with more threat of actual cutting rather than social cutting."

He grins madly. "Might've been very, very similar, if Flora'd had a daughter, really. Including the real cutting. Too bad her real daughter is still so young. We could make my dear sister crazy..."

Random takes a deep breath. "Anyway, first I'd rather Khela was my friend than my enemy, and if we could've and didn't the latter is more likely than the former. Second, I'm curious as to how you're going to make a key so strong that Gerard could not break it in the lock. If it were me, I'd just find one of the other copies, but that's a matter of personal style..."

Brennan adopts as aggrieved an air of offended pride as he can, without making it obviously fake. "Majesty," he says, "you take the fun out of everything. Besides, I don't know where any other copies are, Amber's or Rebma's."

Random nods, and touches the side of his nose. "Good, good. The key, which is to say the key to the key, is not to know, but to be certain," he says, grinning.

On the surface, it's obvious to any initiate what Random is talking about. But the implications run counter to what Brennan thought were the limits of that ability.

"It never occurred to me to try that in Rebma," he says, thinking about the various differences between the Pattern and former Pattern realms, none of which he's really had the chance to experiment with. "Although I suppose...." Brennan starts to get that slightly faraway look he gets when he's chasing an idea down, but then snaps back to this time and this place.

"My understanding is that if I tried that right here, right now, that it wouldn't work. But that actually brings to mind a different question, since etiquette has been much discussed lately. This place has different rules than Amber had, but it has definite rules. Rules that you decided on. Is there an etiquette to the exercise, or even the attempt to exercise, whatever Family gifts we've mastered? In some sense, it seems as though we're pitting our will or cleverness against your rules," Brennan says.

Random cocks his head, thinking for a moment. "There are rules and there are rules. It's more like you know how it works, and the universe makes itself accommodate you. I don't think, for instance, I could have made a pattern in a place where there was no charge on electrons, for a couple of reasons. First of all, I couldn't survive there and second of all I couldn't imagine it.

"Making a pattern is more like painting a trump, I think. Except on a different level. I don't set up the rules, I make it the way I want it to be and the rules that that implies follow. When you make a trump, you don't know what's behind the trump frame, but it's something that fits, somehow, with what you do see.

"Anyway, it's not like I said 'Rule #456, paragraph 12, subsection zed omega: If your name starts with B and so did your father's, you may not use pattern on the cliff face.'

"While that's true, it's true for nearly everyone."

"So, some things have a uniqueness to them that makes it hard to manipulate the pattern to find them, but there's more that can be done than most people think. Not many people know that I found Greyswandir for Corwin using this method, but I did."

Finding Greyswandir through Pattern manipulation gets both eyebrows raised, but does not get an interruption.

"It's a matter of making the non-unique place the unique thing is more probable, until it is. I have no idea of that makes any sense. It's half probability manipulation and half shadow travel and half balls. Also, it takes imagination and luck. And booze. Booze can help."

He smiles. "Does that clear it up?"

"Mostly," Brennan says. "What I just heard was: For Khela, you desire her to have the key, as a gesture of friendship between Xanadu and Rebma. For the key itself, there are easier ways to get it, even if they are less fun than my proposal. For the metaphysics of Pattern, it probably won't work here, but it's not an insult to try it... which I suppose stands to reason, since Pattern doesn't really change rules, just exploits them, in a way."

Brennan waits to see if Random corrects him on any of those points.

"There's another case of rules and rules-breaking, though. Sorcery. Which, the way I learned it, is exactly about ignoring rules, changing rules, and sometimes tying them in pretzels to get impossible results. I've not pushed it in Xanadu or Paris, because it seemed like an offense. Besides, it shouldn't work." He frowns. "What we did in Rebma was desperation," he adds, "but it shouldn't have worked, either."

Random nods, but not in agreement. "Yeah, I'm the wrong kind of redhead to ask about that. My guess is that in the same way Tir isn't right in the head, neither is Rebma. Maybe the will of the creator is weakened a few centuries after her death, maybe it's possible to push it when she'd secretly approve. That was my guess about Dad and Corwin's Avalonian Rifles.

"Who knows? Maybe electricity used to work in Amber until Finndo came to town with Tasers and Lightning Cannons and Dad said 'that shouldn't work' and now it doesn't. It's beyond anything but speculation.

"Oh, yeah. Maybe you did something that wasn't really Sorcery. I know they have magicians in Rebma. Smarmy bastards were always smoking and didn't like to share.

"My guess is you can't do serious sorcery here for the same reasons you can't do serious pattern here. There's no head room to operate in. Make sense?"

"Mostly," Brennan says, then changes topics. "As long as you're here, though, and it looks like I'll end up there one way or the other: Anything you particularly want done or not done while I'm in Rebma?"

Random shakes his head. "No, nothing major. Try not to give it to Huon, or let him get the sword from Conner. Don't start a war, or let someone else start one. You know, basic stuff like that."

Random frowns. "I guess I'll need an ambassador. Gotta think about that. A permanent one, I mean. Not your cousin."

Brennan looks quizzical for a moment, then, "Oh. The Sword?"

Random shakes his head, slightly. "Well, no. I mean yes, that too, but I sent Fletcher to Rebma, just to see how he does. I don't mean for that to be a permanent appointment, for lots of reasons. I don't want to lock any of you all into something like an ambassadorial role. It's a waste and you'll get bored, and there are people who like that sort of thing.

Brennan tries, and somewhat succeeds, at hiding a smirk-- yes, most if not all of his cousins would get bored with such an assignment, and thankfully Random wasn't looking for him to volunteer himself for it.

"I can't use Droit, because he was officially working for Eric while he was on Bleys' payroll, and while it would at least give me a good idea who in that Embassy was untrustworthy, it's not my ideal choice. Not to mention that Droit spent years breaking the 'don't get your honey where you get your money' rule, by nailing the Queen's mother."

Random reaches behind his ear and removes a cigarette that was certainly not burning there before. He takes a long drag on it. "Got anyone you want to give a promotion to that'll get them out of town for a few decades?"

"You make it sound like a punishment," Brennan says, "so in that sense, not really. I do have a squire I've been meaning to Knight for a while, though. I'm given to understand he did well in Rebma while I was otherwise occupied, and anyone who can keep his head and be useful while one of us is trading shots with a thing of Chaos is a valuable man. Maybe not valuable in the fashion you're suggesting, though."

Random shrugs. "If he deserves knighting, I'm not gonna stop you. I do forbid you from knighting Huon, however.

"Do you have a position for your newly knighted squire, or are you looking for a royal one?"

Brennan frowns. "Therein lies a dilemma I didn't even realize I had, until you put it that way. It goes to what I want the Order of the Ruby to be-- or at least what I want those knighted by my hand to be, since Lilly and Marius have their own notions. Right now, Dignity is something of a personal retainer. I've groomed him through enough situations that only Family get involved with to know that he's solid and steady, even when he's faced with a hungry Chaos thing that just ate a lake of fire.

"Which, to a large degree, is what I want: A talent pool, for when I-- or Lilly or Marius, if they see it my way-- need to go somewhere and get something done. Almost a counterpoint to the Rangers, the way Julian has them set up, but less specialized and more outward directed. But there's a big element of hurry-up-and-wait in that idea, which is not present in the Rangers. They have the ever present threat of the Green to give them a day to day purpose," Brennan says.

"All of which is my problem, not yours," Brennan says, "and not the problems I came to talk about. But as long as this is an advice-seeking conversation...."

"Hmm. No standing army. That's a rule. If they're going to be King's men and/or women, they need to be useful when Xanadu is not at war, if such a state ever happens."

Random pauses. "Perhaps they can learn to bake. We need pastry chefs."

"There won't ever be enough of them to be an army," Brennan says, "But, yes, I take your point. That's why the hurry-up-and-wait part of this is a problem to be solved, in my opinion. Evidently, yours too." Brennan ponders that over a sip or two of coffee, but no immediate remedy is forthcoming. "I'll think of something, though. It's not as though any of us have been cranking out Knights by the dozen, or even by ones and twos, since the Coronation."

Random nods. "Yup. Fair enough on the honors. OK, what was number three on your agenda?"

"I only had two, and we just covered something like four or five to include the ones I didn't know I had coming in. I think that leaves small talk," Brennan says. "Thanks, though, for the advice."