With his court obligations met and his bags having been packed for days, Fletcher proceeds to the stables and orders that his Parisian horse be readied for him as soon as possible.
When his gear is assembled he mounts up and heads back to Paris along that same river road he took from Paris to Xanadu. As he gets a ways from Xanadu and begins shifting shadows he puts just a bit extra effort into his use of the Pattern. It may seem 'noisy' to any nearby Pattern-sensitives, but helping establish an easier-to-follow path over time should be worth it.
The ride is as boring as expected, and the extra effort makes Fletcher tired at the end of each day. How long he takes won't be clear until he gets back in touch with Xanadu or Paris, since this kind of pattern-work makes the timing of days an arbitrary thing.
Fletcher guesses it to be nearly a week when he sees Paris on the horizon. The walls of the city look more like historical relics than working fortifications, but there seem to be relatively new wooden watchtowers by the main road. They are manned, and they are stopping traffic in and out. There seems to be plenty in both directions, mostly of the peasants-selling-food variety.
Fletcher doesn't mean to be a jerk about it, but he is a knight and a nephew of the King on his way to the palace. He skirts around the line of peasants, and approaches the gatekeepers on his horse.
He calls out to the gatekeepers. "Hello there! I am Sir Fletcher, nephew of King Corwin. How fares the City?"
The guard snaps to attention. His native tongue is a dialect that Fletcher has encountered the like of many times in Shadow, so he has no trouble comprehending the man.
"The city fares well, Sir Fletcher. The King did not advise us of your coming, or we would have prepared for you. We have a motorcycle available if your news is urgent; your horse will be brought to the palace afterwards."
Fletcher thanks the guard for his kindness. Leaving his no-doubt tired steed in the guards' care, Fletcher borrows a motorbike and a pair of goggles and speeds to the palace as much as the pace of traffic in the city will allow. It hasn't been that long since he studied the layout of the city from atop the Eiffel Tower, but he keeps an eye out for changes in the city, given the new construction he's already seen at the gates.
The city is constantly being built out and expanded. The guard post is further out than Fletcher might have expected; it was wise of him to take the offered motorbike. There are more cars and motorbikes than he remembered, and even, once, an aeroplane flying over the city. And the population seems to have expanded outward as well, which makes the placement of the guard post sensible.
All in all, Paris has continued to bustle and grow in ways that remind Fletcher of the Amber of his youth.
Fletcher arrives at the Louvre and asks the guards who meet him to have the motorbike refueled and waiting for him, because he plans to head to Rebma as soon as he's seen the King. He heads into Corwin's palace, sending word that he has arrived and hopes for a brief audience with the King at his earliest convenience.
The open courtyard is surprisingly full of people who have business at the palace, but the guards meet Fletcher and his bike, which he suspects is normally used by a courier. They send ahead on his behalf to King Corwin and escort him to the palace door, where he is met by a page who offers him a chance to refresh himself before he meets with King Corwin.
Purposeful footsteps come up behind Fletcher; the walker sidestepping to narrowly avoid a collision. A raven-haired woman brushes in beside him, dressed in clockwork couture -- all leather, brass, and Victorian sensibility. Axle grease stains her pale cheeks and bare arms, undoubtedly from the output shaft of the car she has recently disassembled.
She gazes at him through cup eye goggles; their obsidian sheen providing her with the appearance an exotic bird. Her nose twitches, a vague smile, then she turns her reflective gaze on the page. "Have the Rebman fashions been prepared for my departure, as I requested?" Her voice is calm, mechanical, like a music box's song.
The lad bows. "I'll look into it, Madam, as soon as I have taken this urgent message to His Majesty."
"I see you've already got the goggles, though I don't know if they're actually in fashion in Rebma," Fletcher remarks. He bows slightly rather than offering to shake hands. "I am Sir Fletcher. I think we met at the funeral."
Silhouette smiles faintly, "Ah yes. Forgive me, ser. So many new faces and a solemn occasion. A pleasure remaking your acquaintance."
She flips open the goggles' reflective lids, revealing the dark eyes behind. They drift over him, then the smile becomes hopeful. "Have you been to Rebma recently, by chance? I suspect I shall be a fish out of water there. So to speak."
"Heavens no. It's been practically forever since I last visited Rebma. Why would one want to go there now? I'd think they're still repairing damages from the recent conflicts."
Silhouette's smile remains. "I have business in Rebma, on behalf of the king -- Random, not Corwin. Considering the current circumstances, I wish to ease my arrival as much as possible." She shrugs; her fingers stroking the metal shaft as if it were a cat. "And you, cousin? Important duties in Paris?"
"Just stopping by. I have non-business in Rebma, on behalf of Random, my uncle, not the King. He didn't mention there was any official delegation going. I'm shocked that he would have neglected to tell me about you." Fletcher does not seem shocked.
"Our uncle is a busy man, I suppose," Silhouette says with adequate conviction. "Perhaps he neglected to mention my mission, as I am not an 'official' delegate in the strictest terms. I shall offer Prince Huon's surrender to the Rebman Queen, under certain conditions set by Random. Deniably may be key, if she is unwilling to accept them."
She tilts her head and smiles impishly, "We should travel there together, cousin. I hear the Parisian sewers are an experience to be shared."
Fletcher shrugs. "I guess we could go together. I'm headed straight there as soon as I check in with Corwin. What's your schedule like?"
"Open. I've been waiting to be assigned a guide, so you may be the perfect manner in which to expedite my departure."
Silhouette jerks a nod toward the palace, "Come. Have a drink with me. No sense standing out here. They'll locate you in due order. The staff is excellent at keeping a handle on their guests."
"Sounds good. Might as well enjoy a proper martini glass while I can." Fletcher gestures for Silhouette to lead the way.
Silhouette smiles, "Delicious." She leads Fletcher to her guest apartment - a fashionable, double suite divided by French doors. Her bags sit beside the main door, in preparation for her departure. The comfortable living area offers most amenities, including a walnut drink trolley. She nods in its direction, "Please, help yourself. They typically stock it with cheeses and crackers, as well, in case you're hungry. I need to clean off my souvenir. And myself, I suppose."
She heads into the bathroom - talking through the open door; her voice raised to carry over the running water. "So tell me, Sir Fletcher. What is it you do for the King?"
"Mostly I'm in the nephew business. I hang out at his palace and attend family functions. I've done this for a bit in both Paris and Xanadu, and now Random has suggested I try branching out into the 'cousin' business by paying a family visit to cousin Khela. I hear she's got a castle now."
A soft laugh echoes from the other room. "Interesting. I wonder if I shall be invited to participate in the niece business. Whatever that may entail."
The sound of water ends, only to begin again. Perhaps the shower? Silhouette's voice is slightly louder to compensate. "Have you ever met Khela or will this be your first introduction? And whose daughter is she? This Llewella uncle Corwin mentioned?"
Fletcher raises his voice in return. "I haven't really had much of a chance to hang out with her. Hadn't you heard of aunt Llewella before? Well yes, she's Khela's mother. How'd you get lucky enough to be sent to Rebma then?"
Fletcher takes a moment to mourn the demise of his martini before starting his next one.
"I regret that my knowledge of the Family remains deficient," Silhouette replies. "The Rebman branch even more so."
The directionality of her voice continues to fluctuate; she is most definitely showering. "I am tasked with negotiating Prince Huon's surrender. The King would prefer a peaceful end to this situation. Recompense rather than retribution. My patron agrees, unsurprisingly. And a surrender will benefit the Grand Design, so to Rebma I go."
"So you work for Huon then? What's his Grand Design?"
"Have have been in his employ for some time now, yes," Silhouette calls back. The water ceases; silence follows for a moment. She soon emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy towel, and using another to dry her long, black hair. The scent of sandalwood and roses has replaced that of grease and petrol.
"The Grand Design belongs not to him, cousin. He belongs to it. Huon is an important piece, true. But a simple cog in the machinery, nonetheless. He shall serve the Design better alive than dead. Rebma shall benefit by default, as shall Creation. And so, I assist him in this last affair."
She politely gestures for him to turn around, as if suddenly discovering her modesty.
Fletcher turns and move toward the door, drink in hand. "So who's design is it then?"
"The Grand Design is Creation's progression toward Perfection," Silhouette replies. "Its Manifestations are numerous, and while I serve them all in some fashion, my truest devotion is to Draig Talamh - the Maiden of Gears."
A brief pause. "A little help, Mister Fletcher?"
She has chosen a rust-colored taffeta suit, accented with a high Chinese collar and cuffs adorned with black lace. She slips a jacket over her bodice, and then reaches behind her to the full-length skirt with attached bustle and train. "Would you be so kind as to smooth me out back there, please?"
Fletcher provides what assistance he can politely provide. [GMs: Is this a card draw moment? :-)]
Fletcher inquires, "Is there a list of those Manifestations somewhere? I must confess I had not heard of this Design previously."
"They vary from Shadow to Shadow, faith to faith," Silhouette says, giving a little twirl to check her appearance in the mirror. "I have heard of many Manifestations. The Maiden of Gears, the Father Builder, the Demiurge, Tiphareth, and Malkuth to name a few. You may know them, cousin, but have yet to truly recognize them."
She looks up at Fletcher, raising a brow. "Have you discovered your Purpose, cousin?"
"Didn't you know? We are meant to be reminders. Symbols of Order. That's what makes our relatively small number of Kingdoms important. We exist and so the world is less entropic. Less barbaric. Or at least we remind the world that it has a choice."
A sparkle flares in Silhouette's midnight eyes, "Then perhaps you understand the Grand Design better than you think, cousin." She provides him with a pleased smile.
She drifts over to the settee, "As scions of Order, we must guide Creation away from entropy. Away from chaos. Otherwise, the Machine shall invariably self-destruct. I, for one, will not allow that to happen." She gives a sad shrug, "Not all of the Family agrees with that viewpoint."
"When it comes down to it, it is harder for one to stand by and let things fall apart than it is to say one is OK with things falling apart. But when it comes down to it, 'guidance' can take a number of forms. Inspiration can have longer-term effects than action."
"Then you understand the core of the Grand Design, specifically consequentialism. Each Action creates Resonance, sending ripples outward that alter the path of all they touch," Silhouette says, the smiling growing further. "Inspiration cannot be contained. Nor should it be. But it must possess direction. Purpose."
She folds her hands in her lap, "Do you consider yourself an idealist or a pragmatist, Fletcher?"
"On the level at which we operate the difference is moot. We are ideals living in a world governed by pragmatism. Inspiration inspires. It may not have a specific purpose, or even a specific thing which it inspires. One can try though." He finishes his martini. "What do you consider yourself?"
"I would prescribe to the pragmatic viewpoint," Silhouette replies. "From my experience, intelligent practice holds sway over Reality, not ideals. That said, I do not see these philosophies as entirely disparate in nature. And one cannot be spiritual without possessing some form of idealism." She steeples her fingers against her chin. "Still, I rather enjoy your description of us. I suspect that stems from your broader experience with our place in the world, as it were."
"Not experience so much. Or even logic, though there are a number of key points that support a logical argument in that direction. Our link to the Pattern, for example. The natural opposition of Order and Chaos for another. And then there are certain aspects of how the lords of the Courts of Chaos interact with the world around them." He busies himself making another drink. He eyes Silhouette's glass to see if she's ready for another.
She offers her glass to be filled - scotch, neat. "From what little I have heard, these Chaosians are a blight. And yet, we are... related to them." She shivers with cold revulsion, the very utterance distasteful.
"My bond with the Pattern remains solely by Blood. I have not walked it, so it remains an enigma to me. They say it completely changes your perception of Reality. Undoubtedly why most dismiss my viewpoint."
"Hmmm." Fletchers refills her glass and hands it back. "It is a right of passage...a confirmation as well as an initiation. It does alter one's perceptions, and expands one's senses. As for whether it really alters one's perspective, I suppose that's something that varies from person to person. I have started to get the idea that there are social implications and matters of respect within the family that are influenced by whether or not one has walked the Pattern. It may be as you say."
Silhouette nurses her drink, swirling the amber liquid in lazy circles. "I suppose I shall see once I have officially joined the Family, as it were. Although, I am curious about the nature of the multiple Patterns. Uncle Corwin remained decidedly vague on them. But surely, they cannot be completely parallel in configuration. They must possess discernable qualities." She glances over at Fletcher for confirmation or dismissal.
"I wonder what it means to be an official member of the family these days," Fletcher muses. "At one point it was scandalous that Eric was born out of wedlock. Now it seems to be the standard..." he decides not to say state of affairs and switches to "situation."
"I wonder if we now consider paramours family members. Or perhaps we've devolved to the point where only blood descendants of the King are considered family members. I have not seen conclusive evidence of the former, and Vialle's standing is the most obvious evidence against the latter. What would it take for you to be 'officially' family?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know, considering that even birth precludes me from membership," Silhouette says with unrepentant venom. She offers Fletcher a rueful smile, "My mother, Princess Florimel, refuses to acknowledge me. Or maybe it's her sin of abandoning our family she denies. Either way, I remain an outcast.
"There are a number of bastards in my generation, from what I can determine. But if their non-Blooded parents are considered true Family, I am unsure."
She tilts her head, "Do you come from the time of Oberon's reign then?"
Fletcher feigns surprise or possibly indignation. "It wasn't all that long ago when granddad was King. I'd be willing to bet you were born during Oberon's reign too." He grins. "Not that that would narrow things down at all of course. By Amber's reckoning I was born during the reign of Queen Faiella."
Silhouette smiles, "I am only in my mid-thirties, chronologically. King Eric's regency lasted far longer than that, if I am not mistaken. However, the possibility remains, when one considers the capriciousness of time and Shadow. Queen Faiella was Eric's mother, yes?" Her smile devolves into ruefulness. She is not one that suffers uncertainty well.
Fletcher laughs and nods. "Yes. Eric. Faiella was his mother. I had forgotten myself. One might consider the terms 'King' and 'Regent' mutually exclusive. I was considering that granddad functioned as monarch until after Eric had pass away. I did not mean any insult. But despite Eric's best intentions, the social technicality remains that the reign of Oberon was not yet over. Pragmatism versus Theory once again I suppose." He sighs. "Though for practical purposes one could derive that my age is approximately sixty times 30 years."
A mechanical blink. "Truly? Then we shall have much to talk about on our trip," Silhouette replies, then gives a wry laugh. "Well, you shall talk and I shall ask a plethora of questions. You are a man of keen insight and shall grace me with Enlightenment; of that I have little doubt.
"And, perhaps more important, you are one of the rare Family members possessing a high level of tolerability, Fletcher."
"I assure you, when it comes to being able to bring newly-arrived family members up to speed, there is no one less qualified than me. But I do tend to talk a lot, so there is a good chance I could say something one would find useful. I haven't really gotten to know the entire family yet, but I was under impression the average tolerability index had increased in recent years." This last observation he lets hang, awaiting further comment from Silhouette.
She replies with a droll laugh, "If that is so, I shudder to consider the affectations of previous generations. Thus far, I have witnessed less male posturing at Areos day cockfights. Oh true, the pretense of familial civility is maintained, but even a cursory glance will reveal darker undercurrents. As the Second Law states, 'If you have no enemies, find a way to make them.' In this I have succeeded, no doubt. Then again, you may do better considering your anatomical 'advantage.'" The wry smile returns.
"I hadn't really given it much thought. Everyone I'd met since my return to Amber has seemed the hardworking well-intentioned sort." He pauses and thinks for a moment. "Or at least the latter if not both, but mostly both. Do you think you've offended anyone in particular?"
"Oh, I believe I have disappointed two cousins by not betraying Prince Huon's confidence," Silhouette says. "More affable cousins have informed me that they are not men to forgive a slight. No matter. One is blinded by his own grandeur and the other by his cantankerousness. They are a moderate threat.
"Might I try that drink you're having? It appears quite intriguing."
Fletcher glances down at his glass. "This? It's just a martini. It's not very fresh. I could make you a fresh one if you like." Fletcher wonders how a daughter of Florimel could fail to recognize a martini, but also doesn't want to risk alienating a family member from martinis with his mostly-drained glass.
"Martini," Silhouette tastes the word, and enjoys it on her lips. She gives an agreeing nod. "Yes, could you please make me one of these martinis?"
Fletcher mixes up a fresh martini.
She exchanges her empty glass. "Have you adjusted well to the new Family dynamics? Do you have old grudges still? Or have the long years erased such matters?"
Fletcher affects mild surprise. "Grudges? Me? What could I hold a grudge over? For that matter who's left for me to hold a grudge against? Right now my biggest frustration seems to be a lack of useful trumps."
Silhouette chuckles, "Regrettably, I cannot rectify that issue. Another talent in which I lack knowledge of skill." She experimentally sips her drink, growing quiet. "Intriguing. Cool. Calming. Yes, I like this."
She holds the glass as she talks, "If you stem from Oberon's time, did you ever encounter the Moonriders?"
Fletcher's response is immediate. "Yes, indeed! As a matter of fact, I did run into some of them. They're terribly mysterious. I think they were after Bleys though, so the encounter was brief. Why do you ask?"
Silhouette smiles behind her glass, "They are becoming more active with Oberon's death. This may have something to do with the termination of old oaths and pacts. You know they took Queen Vialle, of course. And may have had something to do with cousin Cambina's death. Personally, I am intrigued by their realm and their Queen. And their Pattern." The last word comes out like a purr.
"I'd have thought they'd forfeited 'their' Pattern some time ago. But I imagine there are a lot of interesting things for a new arrival. What about them caught your attention?"
If she is disappointed at this news, Silhouette hides it well. "What interests Prince Huon interests me," she states plainly. A faint smile. "He mentioned the City of Youth during our dealings. Intrigued, I delved deeper into its existence and its strange occupants. My Enlightenment has been both troubling and wondrous. What role they shall play in our future, however, remains unwritten."
"Really? How on earth did you find that kind of information? Even in Amber hardly anyone will talk about anything except vague generalities. Did you by any chance come across anything about what causes changes in their dimensional aspect?"
Silhouette gave a faint shrug, "Perhaps. I have a theory, but I have not been allowed to investigate it beyond conjecture. The Queen is the key. She desired immortality and dealt with evil powers to obtain it. To fulfill this goal, she betrayed her husband and bore a bastard son by a kinsman. She was granted her desire, but Tir-Na N'ogth became 'severed' as a result. Those who did not transform -- become severed, as it were -- fell to their death. These beings are known as the Youth; your ghost-riders. I believe, like their city, they are now more dream than substance."
"The implies there was something out there capable of granting that kind of wish. Did your source say who the man behind the curtain was?"
A rueful sigh. "Regrettably, no. And this comes from Shadow legends. As such, I would not hazard to guess how transformed the truth has become after countless retellings." Silhouette smiles, "Still, I agree that someone set this into motion. Not Huon, though. He fears the Queen.
"We might do well to find this bastard child, Prince Medrawt. The Sleeper. If for nothing more than to possess something the Queen would desire."
"How much of this did Huon know about? Have you any idea where to start looking?"
"He told me very little. And nothing about the son. He sleeps in an 'eternal city' awaiting the End Times. Beyond that cryptic morsel, there is little else," she admits with unmasked disappointment. "Rebma may hide some information, for it is the 'mirror of Ghosts and People alike.' Another nebulous snippet worth examining."
"It sounds like you should be prepared to spend quite some time pondering the nebulous then. How's your calendar look for the next few years?"
Silhouette shrugs, "Apart from modernizing and expanding Xanadu's naval capabilities, designing various recording electronics for the King despite paradigm restrictions, supplying weapons for an inevitable war with Gateway, and mastering one - or all - of the Patterns, I believe it is pretty light."
She raises her head at a knock on the door. "That is undoubtedly for you, Lord Fletcher." She stands, smiling. "I look forward to traveling together. Your company pleases me."
After having seen Paige off, Ossian meets the poet Adreano in his (Ossian's room). Adreano is wearing travelling clothes, and a small pack. He is grinning.
Ossian says "So, we start off by going to Paris. Time for the trick."
Ossian opens his Trump case and picks up Corwin's Trump.
Adreano watches with fascination as Ossian focuses on the card, but doesn't interfere in any way.
After a moment, Corwin receives the contact. "Who calls?" he asks.
"Your great-nephew Ossian." Ossian says "I'm trying to find Reid. Will you let me and my friend through?"
"Of course," Corwin says agreeably. He offers his hand to accept whoever is coming through first.
"Adreano, with the help of Corwin, I will now transfer you to Paris, where he rules. It's safe, even if you might feel a bit uncomfortable. Give me your hand."
Ossian will then hand Adreano through, and then go through himself.
When he arrives, he bows deeply. "Thank you for that."
He then waits for Corwin, after all Corwin rules this place.
Corwin helps Adreano step into Paris, and then brings Ossian through. They're standing on a manicured lawn in the courtyard of the Louvre.
Adreano bows to Corwin from the waist, and recites:
"To travel from Amber to Xanadu was hard
But from Xanadu to Paris was simpler, by card."
He glances at Ossian, who suspects he's not entirely satisfied with the couplet. Xanadu is difficult to insert properly into poetry because of the bobbly in the rhythm.
Ossian smiles and nods.
"You can stay," Corwin says to Adreano. "I like that. Welcome to Paris. I'm Corwin, and I am king here." He calls a page to take Adreano's gear, and Ossian's, and to arrange for rooms for them. "Let's walk, and you two can tell me about Reid, and I can tell you what I know before you go looking for him."
Ossian bows and starts "What Reid does not know, and the reason for me wanting to track him down, is that he has a child."
Corwin doesn't look shocked in the slightest.
"Actually," Ossian adds after a moments pause "the child I erroneously claimed as mine. As her guardian, I have set upon myself to try to find Reid.
"So now, I'm trying to gather everything I can get on where he could have gone."
Corwin ponders the question. "Reid kept a place on the Left Bank, near Montpar--the Parnassian. You might inquire there. I think the girl he took with him worked for one of his photographer colleagues. I'd ask there as well. Also Silhouette is here; she's interested in looking for him. She ran into some religious--" a word which twists from his mouth with Amberite distaste "--from a Shadow--Clervaux, I think--who were interested in him. You should talk to her soon, because she's due to leave for Rebma soon."
Ossian nods. "That's very interesting... Clervaux. I was going to ask you if you know anything about it. It's old, apparently home of Reid's mother."
"I will talk to Silhouette as soon as I can. Do you know when Reid was last here?"
"Five or six months ago, which is why his disappearance is becoming a matter of concern," Corwin says. "He left overland with a plan to shift to Xanadu. It should have taken him a couple of weeks if he went by the direct route. You'd think he'd have called someone, or answered, by now."
Adreano is half listening to the conversation and half taking in the buildings and and the gardens around them.
"Oh." Ossian says "That is not good. I've tried to Trump him, of course. I did not get through. I hope he did not run into Huon."
"It's not Huon. There are enough other people who think like him; Dara, for one." Corwin seems like he might be ready to say more on that front, but Adreano's presence stops him. "Do you have a card of me ready to hand, in case you need my help? I can sit for one if you like, and when you're free from the work you can spend time investigating the city with your friend's help."
Ossian nods (He will not rub it in that he actually arrived by card about 5 minutes ago) "I actually happen to have a card of you. I will put yours at the top of my deck. It's very generous of you to offer your help."
"What worries me is that I might not be able to Trump anyone - Reid seems isolated, and he's strong with the cards."
[Corwin thinks it might be a loaner.]
"I wonder about that myself. I don't know how much of an armsman he is, but Reid seemed adequate to the task of taking care of himself. If you could use a guardsman, I can ask Lance for someone."
Ossian does not feel that Corwin means that as a slight on his swordplay.
"If you could, that would could be useful."
Corwin nods. "I'll talk to him and see who he can send with you."
Ossian will start his investigations in Paris by visiting Reid's house in the city. Who lives there now, or is it empty?
Ossian finds the address. It is a flat in a building on in the Martyr's Mount district.
The room he let is supposed to still be held for him, but it appears to Ossian that other people have had access to it even though rent was paid in advance. Many of the supplies left here--spare paints, canvases, and easels (at least one of which has a drying painting on it--are too fresh, although there are still older things left in the room that are probably Reid's. There's a trunk that has not been disturbed, and Ossian thinks its dust could be that old.
He can take some time and investigate things and go through the trunk if he likes.
The landlady suggests that Ossian apply to M. Caniche, one of Reid's friends, or perhaps one of the photographers: one of the Lumieres or Nadar or Atget, perhaps. Most of them spend their time called Cafe Tubulaire.
Good. Ossian will thank her for the information (and give her an appropriately generous tip).
He will start by investigate the room meticulously, and especially the trunk. He will tell Adreano to be to be careful, after all Reid could have put a trap somewhere to catch nosy visitors.
It's pretty easy for Ossian to sort out what belonged to Reid and what didn't. Other than the trunk, it doesn't look like he left that much. Some supplies (most of which Ossian suspects have been "borrowed"), a couple of partially finished canvases, some receipts for photographic equipment that might still be with Reid's photographer friends. Not much in the way of clothes or personal effects, most of which he must have taken with him.
Adreano offers to take on the chest:
"It's easy to learn doors, windows, and locks
If your teaching is had in the school of hard knocks."
It appears that the chest lock is not trapped, or Adreano manages to pick the lock without trapping it. Inside are items that Ossian recognizes as useful to the making of Trumps and a book full of Reid's handwritten notes. Skimming through them, Ossian suspects Reid was researching a project to use photography to improve his Trump skills. He'll need to make a more detailed examination before he can be sure. Nothing in the skim suggests where Reid might have gone.
Being who he is Ossian will start by examine the painted work rather than the notes (although he will examine those later too.) What is painted on the partially finished canvases?
Landscapes and cityscapes. They might be prototypes for later trump sketches, although one of them seems to be leaning in a less obviously representational direction. (Perhaps it's some kind of experiment.) Not human portraits. At least one of the canvases is some kind of leather or vellum, but not from calfskin, Ossian thinks. Adreano has no opinion on this.
Ossian will take the note book, but leave the rest, unless any of the canvasses look interesting.
Next stop will be Cafe Tubulaire. Ossian and Adreano will enter the Cafe and stay in the doorway for a few moments, taking the place in (and showing themselves.)
It's an establishment Ossian suspects is frequented by all sorts. His garb, and Adreano's, despite not being local standard following their arrival from Xanadu, excites no notice. The place isn't exactly deserted but Ossian can have his pick of tables.
Ossian knows the hours of artists; most of them are probably awake now and perhaps have broken their fast, given how long it took him to get across town and to review the contents of Reid's old flat. If he and Adreano wait, the artists will be done with their daily work, such as it is, in a couple of hours when the sun starts to go down and the quality of the light changes for the worse. After that, they will start filtering in.
Ossian chooses a table at a wall, but not in a corner. He and Adreano will stay there until the artists start pouring in. They will entertain themselves with improvised poetry, and some doodling. (Ossian will not show his full painting talent at the moment, knowing that artists can be jealous.)
After a couple of hours the first few artists--mostly men, but not exclusively so--start to drift into the cafe. Adreano exchanges poetry with a couple of them, Thari for French, and invites a couple of them to drink with himself and Ossian, leaving room for Ossian to ask questions.
There are also ladies who would enjoy spending time with Ossian and Adreano and their new friends, especially if someone is paying for drinks.
Ossian will be generous, but not excessively so. He will not breach the subject of Reid in the beginning, rather discuss art in general, an the art scene of Paris. He is especialy interested in the state of photography.
After a few hours Ossian will mention that he knows Reid. What do the artists think of Reid's art?
The discussion initially centers around various photographic techniques and questions of whether accurate representation in the photographic style can actually be real art. There's a lot of discussion of pictorialism and the use of various techniques, including rough-grained papers and so on, but the younger and, Ossian feels, wilder artists think in a more modernist style: photographs can be representational and be art as well.
Reid's work is considered very striking in all materials and forms. Controversial, perhaps, although Ossian suspects that effect is muted by Reid's connections to the palace. One of the young artists, a bold fellow that Ossian would recruit for the Thrush Pack if he lived in Xanadu, asks whether Ossian and Adreano know the King as well.
Ossian smiles and nods. "I know the king, even if have only met him a few times. Reid is my cousin, once removed.
"I knew Reid as a painter, not as a photographer. I suspect that could be seen in his photography?"
"Oh, yes. Also it's rumored he worked in other sorts of ink, but I haven't heard such a thing myself," Pinceau says. "I admit many of us wondered whether he'd decorated Papillon, but if he did, it was never anywhere that we could see." He winks at Adreano and Ossian.
Adreano smothers a grin; Ossian suspects that whatever couplet he's composing might not be safe for polite company.
Ossian shakes his head, amused. "He could very well have done that. Did he take this Papillon with him when he left?"
"He did," Pinceau says. "If you want to know more of her, ask Nadar. She was his assistant for a while, before she took up with Reid." He says that in a way that suggests "took up" might have more of an amatory meaning than a photographic meaning.
[Is this Nadar in the cafe?]
Pinceau points out where Nadar usually sits; many of his companions, with whom Reid has worked, are arriving and have already claimed their usual tables. Nadar is expected at any time.
Ossian nods. "I'm actually trying to find Reid. I'm worried for him. Normally we would have heard from him several months back. Do you know anything about where he has gone?"
Pinceau shakes his head in the negative. "No, I'm afraid not. But perhaps you should ask Nadar when he comes--ah, there he is. Ask him about the business in the sewers." He gestures to the photographer, who sees him at the doorway and turns toward the table where Ossian and Adreano are sitting with Pinceau.
Ossian will quickly buy drinks for Pinceau and Nadar. "Pinceau here has suggested that I should talk to you about Reid. I need to find him." Bluntly like that. Ossian will want to see Nadar's reaction, as he does not know if Nadar likes Reid or not.
Nadar looks more surprised than anything else. His eyes narrow a little as he looks Ossian over. "I'd like to find him too. Him and Papillon both. They left Paris months ago and no one's heard from them since. Why do you need to find him?"
Ossian smiles "Since no one has heard of him. And I carry news that he needs to know. For strange reasons it might even be so that it is more important for me to deliver the news than for him to recieve them."
Adreano has pulled Pinceau into a side conversation to let Ossian talk to Nadar in peace.
The expression on Nadar's face slides from suspicion to something like confusion. Seeing that Pinceau is engaged in an animated discussion with Adreano, he leans in and lowers his voice. "Papillon thought he had some enemies. Someone tried to drown them in the sewers, she said. This was before they left the last time."
"He certainly has enemies. Or at least people who want to harm him. Did you get any details of what happened in the sewers?"
"Papillon, she grew up playing in the catacombs; it's why she was--is--so good in the darkroom," Nadar explains. "She didn't tell me all the details, but at one point they were looking for connections between various places. The palace, the chapel he had become interested in, and so on. They were exploring under the city one day when it was raining, and they were swept away in a sudden and unexpected flood. They found what seemed like a construction tunnel, or a hidden area, but then they--" and here Nadar frowns a little "--well, she told me they left by means of a card, so I don't know what really happened.
"But the thing was, someone opened a sluice gate, or so Papillon thinks. Otherwise the water wouldn't have come so fast and suddenly. If they hadn't been very lucky, they would have drowned."
Ossian nods "So, the tunnels are connected might provide some answers. Do we know anything of where they have gone, or did they just vanish?"
"They were going to someplace called Xanadu, but Reid seemed to think it might not be an entirely straight journey." Conceptually this is something Nadar doesn't seem sure about. "He also wasn't sure about some of the supplies he was taking. It was as though he wasn't sure all of them would last, or would work."
Ossian smiles a little "The journey to Xanadu is tough, but they should have arrived there a long time back. They must have lost their way somewhere on the way there. I will go looking for them. Do you want me to carry a message of any sort?"
"Tell him I still have his things, and he is much missed in Paris by his colleagues. And also I hope he and Papillon are well." As far as Ossian can tell, Nadar's sentiments are sincere.
Ossian almost flinches at Nadar's words "You have his things? Would you let me examine them for hints of where he went?"
"Certainly, but I don't think there's anything that will help you. Just photographic equipment, the tools of his trade. Things I took for him so they wouldn't be, how shall we say, borrowed? from his flat. I have them in my own studio," Nadar explains.
Ossian looks disappointed "I was certainly hoping for other things. Any photos?"
"A few, mostly of scenery. A church in which he was interested. I'm not sure they were all his compositions, though," Nadar says thoughtfully. "Not his style."
Ossian smiles again. "I would very much like to see them. Maybe I could learn something about where he went. Is the church here in the city?"
"Yes," says Nadar. "But he was working with the picture. In the folio, that is. I believe he was altering it based on another building. You'll want to see what he was doing, both for the idea of the building here and for the architectural technique."
Ossian nods "He had interest in lighthouses last I met him. This will be interesting"
Adreano remains behind in the cafe in the hopes of finding other people who have interesting stories to report about Reid as Ossian and Nadar take off on the Metro to go back to his studio. When they arrive, Nadar has to go through his things to find the photographs and negatives Reid had left.
Eventually he comes out with the prints. They're gorgeous work in an unexpectedly pictorialist style. Reid, or the person who had taken the photographs under his instruction, took many pictures of street life in Paris, and also some in particular of a church in the 4th arrondissement. In addition to the prints of the church, someone--Ossian imagines Reid--has done some hand-editing work on the prints to remove parts of the towers, as if he were trying to imagine what the building had looked like in earlier days.
(for reference: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pictorialism)
Ossian looks through the pictures. When he comes to the church ones he whips out his sketch book to make some rough copies.
"I know Reid was looking for an old place, and this gives me some hints to work from. Thanks a lot, Nadar, this is really helpful." Ossian says.
How does Nadar live? (does it look like he is just scraping by, or is he well off? Ossian thinks about finding some way of rewarding him.)
Nadar is an older man. He lives reasonably well, and Ossian thinks the best way to reward him is not financial. If his portraits were to become particularly fashionable, that would do more for him than anything.
[Nadar is not as aged as real-life Nadar would have been in 1905; he's still a working artist. See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nadar_(photographer) ]
Ossian will try to buy a portrait (of Ossian) from Nadar. Is Nadar still working on aerial photography? (Ossian will want to discuss that too)
Nadar isn't too old for portraiture but he's probably a bit fragile for ballooning, even if he doesn't know it. He'll discuss it with enthusiasm, though.
Ossian has tried to find Silhouette for a couple of days before finally finding her down by the river, sketching.
He approaches quietly. "May I look?" he asks with a smile.
Silhouette glances up from her work, the stern concentration transforming into warm gentility. "Ossian," she says, savoring the name on her lips. "And, but of course. You are the rare breed that may appreciate my work."
She hands him the opened sketchbook - its aged leather cover as soft as felt. Intricate schema and cursive notes crowd the interior pages in an exquisite fusion of art and natural philosophy. Here Ossian finds the topographical anatomy of a bird's wing meshed with the gears and springs of some combustion engine. There he discovers the a hydraulic organ designed with evocation runes. And on and on.
Ossian looks closely. "Interesting. One day we should have an exchange. You know a lot about machines. I about light.
"I think there is a pattern here, but I cannot put my finger on it."
Silhouette smiles, "I would be intrigued by such a communion, as I have never considered expanding my art beyond its practical applications. I lack your talent for inspiring others through aesthetics. This is a deficit I will remedy with your guidance."
Ossian smiles.
She pats her picnic blanket for him to join her. "Is it my fascination of transcending the Flesh that you see, perhaps?"
"It could be. The machines. Are you suggesting transcending the Flesh through them?"
"In a manner," Silhouettes says, staring out at the landscape. "The Machine is flawless. Unwavering. Eternal. The Flesh is imperfect. Mutable. Finite. And yet, the Machine invites Stagnation, while the Flesh inspires Change. Neither end can achieve true Perfection. There must be a balance between the two that can be achieved to serve the Grand Design. A balance that will invite a transhumanist renaissance of device and desire. It is this balance that I seek."
She mechanically brushes aside a stray lock from her check, "In my art, anyway."
"And in life?" Ossian grins. "Have you seen Uncle Benedict's arm? It should be of interest to you."
Silhouette lazily raises a dark brow, like a lynx catching sight of a plump bird. "No, I have not. I've only heard his name in passing, to be truthful. Pray tell me more?"
"I was not there, but from what I've heard, Benedict lost his arm in the Black Road war. Then Corwin came back from... Tir, I think, with a magical mechanical arm that survives in Amber. Where most mechanics fail." Ossian smiles "I think Corwin might have quite a lot more to say on the subject. As for Benedict, I have never spoken with him, really."
A husky breath passes over Silhouette's lips, her hand touching her heart. "No wonder Uncle Corwin is cagey on the subject of Tir. Such magic is exactly what I have sought all these years." She gives a happy laugh, almost girlish with excitement. "Oh, Ossian, what a gift you have given me. I must speak with Uncle Benedict as soon as possible.
"Once I have finished in Rebma and found Prince Reid, of course," she corrects with a faint sigh, "So many responsibilities. But Patience is a law of the Preceptor."
Ossian grins "You have plans of finding Reid? Because I'm also trying to. I have important things to tell him. How do you plan to find him?"
"Indeed. I had hoped to enlist someone in possession of Pattern abilities, such as yourself, Ossian," Silhouette says. "I intend to travel to Clervaux; Reid's former homeland. It may provide clues, as to his whereabouts and dealings."
She pauses, touching her chin in thought. "You are a Trump Artists, yes? Forgive my ignorance on the subject, but can you utilize a Trump like an arcane connection to an individual? In other words, even if the person in question is not answering their Trump, could you still use it to locate them in Shadow?"
"How do you plan to get to Clervaux? Do you know something about the place?
"I don't think it is possible to use the Trumps for locating people that way. If you get a connection you have other possibilities."
Silhouette nods, but does no belabor the issue. "I know very little of the realm, in truth. Reid studied there during his youth, but informed the monks of St. Ninian that it burned last he saw. It may also have ties to Queen Cymnea; Reid's grandmother. All trade routes appear to have been cut, so travel there will be difficult.
"Compounding this difficulty is my restriction from the Pattern. As such, I would need a Walker to escort me there -- or wherever the trail may lead. Uncle Corwin will provide me with a personal Trump, so I can contact him once Reid has been located. But beyond that, I am bound - terrestrially-speaking."
Ossian frowns. "I think we need to find him soon, he might be in danger. I was planning to search Paris for leads and then go looking in Shadow immediately. But if you have anything that would help me find him, it could be worth the wait for you to finish that other business you have..."
Silhouette touches his hand, "I understand your concern. On a far more personal level than you can imagine." Mettle darkens her gaze. "If you must venture into Shadow before I am done in Rebma, then at least provide me with a Trump. Then I can join you the moment my duties are complete."
She begins to rise, "Come to my apartment. I will provide you with a copy of my research. The Parisian archives offered little of use, but even snippets of Enlightenment are better than blind ignorance."
Ossian nods and lends Silhouette a hand to help her rise. "I am grateful for anything you could provide.
"I will paint you a Trump sketch. A full Trump will take too long to make."
Silhouette laces her fingers with his, an innocent smile on her too-perfect lips. "I assume there is a distinction between the two beyond terminology? These Trumps remain mysterious to me and are far beyond the kin of any magick I have studied."
"Oh." Ossian says "The sketches are not as permanent as the full Trumps. But very much quicker to use. A full Trump will not be destroyed unless you really try to. A sketch does self-destroy with time.
"Still they are both made of paper, so I don't recommend you to use them in Rebma."
"I see. An interesting technique, and a highly convenient one."
As they come to the palace's main road, Silhouette sighs. "Water-proofing everything will be required before descending into Rebma. Or items abandoned entirely. Have you been there, Ossian? Is it... cold?" She rubs her slender shoulders, trepidation echoing in her question.
Ossian smiles. "I was there briefly. The water is not cold. The people on the other hand are. Tread carefully there. Both Corwin and Random's places are simpler, more straightforward. "
Silhouette gives a wry laugh. "I would not credit our uncles with 'straightforwardness.' If that is so, I shudder at the thought. In truth, I believe I shall welcome this less congenial realm. It will be good to be working with proper adversaries again."
They reach her apartment in short order. Her luggage waits for her by the door, a diaphanous dress languishing upon the bed. She gestures toward the bar. "Please fix yourself a drink, Ossian. I will collect my notes for you."
Ossian mixes up a drink with very little alcohol in it. He examines the apartment. What does he see?
The palace here has been rebuilt (or renovated) within the last few years, Ossian imagines. It seems fresh and new. The room is decorated in light colors, mostly pale yellow with white or silver accents, and a heavy antiqued crackle-finish mirror over the fireplace across from the windows that Ossian suspects is there mostly to enhance the light. There are electric fixtures but the technology is less discreet than in Xanadu.
Ossian notices that the furniture seems to be in a variety of styles, all slightly different, with, for instance, chairs matching but the legs of the table showing a slightly different style. It is as if the palace had been built many years ago and the furniture accumulated over time, and the electrics retrofitted on.
Corwin's device of the silver rose is everywhere, against a dark background where it is feasible to present it so but against the lighter as well.
Before Silhouette can answer, there is a knock on the door.
Silhouette passes by Ossian on the way to the door, gently placing a notebook in his hands. "I've memorized most of this, so please take it with you. Perhaps they will be of use to you." [The notes contain everything she learned from the Parisian archives.]
Then she answers the door.
Ossian takes the notebook, and starts reading it, while watching what happens at the door.
The page at the door brings a message from Corwin. The message says the King has made arrangements for Silhouette to proceed to Rebma now that court has resumed and she can be received. She will need to spend most of the rest of the day preparing her things for the trip underwater, unless she's certain they're completely waterproof.
Silhouette folds the missive carefully, nodding her thanks to the page. After she closes the door, she casts a rueful smile at Ossian, "It would appear that the Rebman court has resumed session. I am to depart by day's end. Will that provide you enough time to complete your sketch, Ossian? You're more than free to stay with me until the time comes. If for nothing more than the pleasure of your company."
She contemplates her final selections for the trip, "I suppose I can forego the umbrella."
[I hope Ossian can ask at least one more question?]
"The Monks of St Ninian. Where did you meet those?"
"Oh, they oversee a church in the city at the Crossroads of the Elm in the 4th arrondissment. The organ alone is well worth the trip, I assure you. Speak with Brother Vigil. It is he who first mentioned Reid, and is aware that I am searching for him. Intriguing fellow. Feel free to mention my name."
"Ah. I will really have to visit that place. That is helpful."
Ossian will rummage through Silhouette's painting equipment (with her permission), looking for the best material for a sketch. He will stay in her room, painting a sketch until he is finished (He goes for speed here. Half a day?)
[OOC: That won't last forever but should do for now. Otherwise you can carry on.]
He finds a rosewood case with stylus, paper, and inks - more the tools of an engineer than an artist like himself. Silhouette remains a silent observer while he works, fascinated by his techniques. He can sense the questions in her dark eyes, but she is not one to interrupt an artiste's work.
In the end Ossian chooses to use the ink, but not the paper, settling for as water-resistant material as possible, using paper from his own sketch book.
Silhouette will note that Ossian is very quick, and makes a lot of use of the mirrors in the room (he is painting a self portrait after all.) She might appreciate how Ossian builds up the picture with layers and layers of shadows and light.
Silhouette examines the end result giving an approving nod. She bends down to lightly kiss his cheek, "My thanks. I will contact you as soon as I am able. Hopefully, it will not be too long. A creature of flame and steel, such as myself, has little place in a realm of water." Her eyes linger on his image for a moment, smiling.
Ossian smiles. "I look forward to that."
Then, she adds the trump sketch to her other possessions, making certain it will be safe from harm.
Corwin, having sent his greetings on the news of Fletcher's arrival along with the news that he is in royal conference and unable to speak with Fletcher until the morrow, has arranged a breakfast meeting with Fletcher.
When Fletcher arrives at the appointed hour, he quickly realizes that for all that Corwin's capital doesn't look or seem like Amber, it must eat like Amber. Corwin has already poured his own coffee from the silver urn on the sideboard, which is groaning with food, but hasn't prepared a plate from the offerings just yet. Sober as always in black and silver, Corwin rises to greet Fletcher and offers his hand in a friendly clasp.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to see you last night. I had an unexpected problem turn up, and Random and I had to deal with it. It's under control for the moment. How was your trip?"
Fletcher answers Corwin's question while preparing his own cup of coffee. "It was a mixed bag. I got briefed on what I'm supposed to convey to Khela in Rebma, more or less. I got to meet a new cousin. And Random didn't seem interested in hearing an oath of fealty from me. I suspect my father's involvement there. I wanted to check in here before heading off to Rebma to see Khela. What kind of emergency takes two kings to deal with? Is there a larger family-related problem in the offing? Anything I should worry about on my trip to Rebma?"
Corwin shakes his head. "Random's granddaughter has left Rebma in something of a huff and landed on my doorstep. I think she's expecting me to do something about her grievances but I'm not inclined to pressure my daughter to let her walk the Rebman Pattern when it's just killed someone."
Fletcher looks surprised and concerned. "The Pattern killed someone? What happened? in Rebma? And I didn't know Random had had a granddaughter yet. Please help me understand this." He grabs a plate. This clearly requires more than a cup of coffee. Perhaps bacon. And sausage. And eggs.
Corwin is coming to his feet, presumably to join Fletcher at the sideboard, and there's an awkward moment of surprise there when he's not quite off balance. "I assumed Random had told you so I didn't ask last night. You must have headed out before the news hit. Khela attempted the Pattern and failed it." His expression tightens. "Celina has taken the throne, as Khela intended."
Fletcher halts his plate-filling, closes his eyes and inhales. He turns to Corwin. "Ouch. That changes everything. So I guess my trip to Rebma is off. I'll need to go back to Xanadu and see what Random wants me to do. What's the situation in Rebma? Or if it's OK with you I'll borrow the use of a trump." He realizes he's got too many questions and needs a moment to figure things out. So he gestures to the breakfast spread and resumes filling his plate. When his task is completed he finds a seat. "Have you been in touch with Celina then?"
"I have. I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd carry something for me to her, either way. I'll loan you Random's trump, but I don't think this changes anything for him." The last word betrays some of the stress Corwin must be under. "The situation is stable. Moire and Rilsa are still missing, and Loreena has vanished as well. The court has taken oath. Conner has accepted the position of defender of the realm. The Huon problem is still a problem. The upside, for Random, is that Celina's not taking any guff from Meg. Martin's daughter, the one he acknowledged at the family gathering. Through his mother's line, Meg's a Rebman heir as well. She tried to leverage that with Celina and it didn't work out as she planned."
Fletcher looks chagrined. "I will help in any way I can, of course. I didn't quite put two-and-two together regarding Meg's status. I should keep better notes. Or possibly a diagram. If Random still wants me to go as his unofficial representative, I will of course go. And if not, I suppose I'd be free then to carry a message for you anyway. I've already made arrangements to travel to Rebma with Lady Silhouette. How is Celina taking the whole thing?"
"I believe the correct phrase is bearing up man--no, womanfully, in her case. Celina's just carrying on right now as she believes Khela would have. I think she's talked to Random, too, but of course you'll need to check that." Corwin has moved to the sideboard as he talks and is in the process of serving himself a hearty breakfast as he answers questions. "In particular I don't think there's any change in the Huon situation. But of course you'll need to keep that to yourself for the moment. And," he adds, selecting a pastry to add to his plate, "don't worry about not knowing about Martin. You haven't had the centuries of hearing the Rebmans complain about Random that most of the rest of us have."
Fletcher nods. "I can imagine that might still color the relationship between the realms. Speaking of which: I'd just about gotten up to speed on Khela's claim to the throne and now this tragedy. Celina was previously in line of succession for the Sapphire Throne, as I understand it, as well a being your daughter. I can see that further contests for the throne in Rebma might put you in a difficult position. Have you by any chance made any pre-emptive declarations along those lines?"
Corwin shakes his head in the negative. "I haven't found it necessary or wise to do so. Relationships between the realms are all personal. There's not a significant shift between Khela and Celina in part because neither of them has had time enough to make or break relations with the rest of us. Things do change, though, and taking charge of Rebma will be a big one. But that's not something you'll need to worry about in the time frame of your embassy from Random."
Fletcher is relieved by Corwin's reply. "On a more fundamental note... any idea how they even got into the Rebman Pattern room? I had gathered there was some problem with access to it. I even considered trying to walk the Pattern to get into it when I heard, because I'd like to study it. In retrospect, it's a good thing I didn't. Ever teleported onto a Pattern?" Fletcher's question is semi-rhetorical, but Corwin has ample time to reply while Fletcher erodes the pile of food on his plate.
"Yes, onto the center. But I was heading out of Rebma, not into it." Corwin doesn't elaborate on the answer to the semi-rhetorical question. Instead he changes the subject between bites of his own breakfast. "Celina didn't say how they got in but she did have Brennan and Conner working on the question. Or rather, Khela did. You can find out from her, or maybe she told Random."
Fletcher's eyebrows go up at the mention of teleporting onto the center of a Pattern. "Yeah, I should borrow that trump of Random as soon as possible." He can't avoid it - he puts down his napkin and asks, "But how did you get off the center of the Pattern after teleporting onto it? When I did it it felt like it had lost its charge."
"In the usual way. Which Pattern did you teleport onto? Because I know it wasn't Paris, and I presume it wasn't Xanadu--if it was, ask him." Corwin states the single fact about Paris with certain knowledge.
Fletcher responds matter-of-factly. "The outdoor one. So you just teleported off the pattern a second time?"
"Yes, that's how you do it--did it, anyway--on the Amber Pattern. It's the location and not the journey, although most people don't know that. I'm not surprised the Primal works differently, though." Corwin reaches across the table to grab some honey to drizzle on a piece of bread. "I don't think it's part of the circuit."
Fletcher shrugs and looks at the scant remains of his breakfast. "Well I guess I should trump Random then and get on with this." He looks expectantly at Corwin, holder of trumps.
Corwin nods and produces a deck of the family's favorite playing cards. He turns one towards himself and says, to Fletcher "Give me a moment, I'll reach out my hand when I have him."
The King concentrates on the card, intently staring at the image of his brother on cardstock. "Random? Corwin. Your Ambassador to Remba is here, and he wants to talk to you. Something about him not knowing that my daughter was the new Queen." Corwin waits a moment. "Yes." And again. "Yes." He holds out his hand.
Fletcher joins the conversation.
Random is on a balcony overlooking the waterfall in Xanadu. Fletcher thinks he may have woken the King. His hair isn't combed and his shirtless. He might also have been drumming.
"Fletcher. Yeah, I missed you when I talked to people about this. I think you'd already left."
"Yeah. Last I heard Ossian was working on a trump sketch of me for just such an occasion. But he said it would be a while before he could actually put it together. Anyway, do you still want me to go to Rebma, and if so should I even begin broaching the topic of recognizing the new Queen? If not, it'll just just be a quick trip to get some tea for Queen Vialle."
Fletcher awaits his majesty's pleasure.
Random makes a face. "I never learned to like that stuff. Tastes like salty mud. Or peanut butter and squid. The main thing in the brief, other than tea, is to discuss terms of my deal with the Queen. That part doesn't change."
Corwin perks up at this turn in the conversation, and Random smiles. "It's the deal we discussed in Xanadu at the funeral, Corwin. He'll come in for punishment like a good boy if they promise not to kill him to death. Fletcher makes them agree to it, and finds out what carrots they want for it." Corwin nods, satisfied. "Do you need anything else, Fletcher?"
Fletcher goes over his mission in his mind. Talking about Huon hadn't been part of the original mission. He had been prepared to speak about what sort of trade concessions Rebma might make if Xanadu were to recognize Khela as the legitimate ruler of Rebma. However he didn't get to be as old as he is by failing to adapt, or by pointing out the King's faulty memory.
[OOC: It's in the secret orders in the sealed envelope you're not supposed to open 'til you get to Rebma...]
"Just a trump deck. But that can wait a bit. For now I'm good."
"I'l have to see what we have," says Random. "Moving the flag has made some things a bit hard to lay hands on."
Last modified: 29 October 2011