Julian is looking out toward the ocean, but when the door to the porch opens, he turns to greet Folly. There's a hanging moment when he seems to be waiting for someone to join them, but when the door swings shut behind her, it's clear that she's alone. "Kinswoman," Julian says, "what word?"
"None, alas," she replies with a sad little smile. "I couldn't get through. But then, he'd warned me I might not be able to."
She moves to the porch railing and stares out at the ocean herself, thinking. "If the family is gathering back at the center, I suppose we'll need to save the follow-up visit with my grandfather until another time, yes?"
Julian nods, but he's frowning slightly. "It may be a generation before we pass this way again, however. Do we know what the rough time differential is between here and Amber--Xanadu?"
Folly looks thoughtful for a moment. "When I first returned here after the Sundering, I'd spent five-and-some years in Amber, but nine years had passed here. That was all before there was a Xanadu, though, which I suppose could have shifted things somewhat...."
Her brow furrows. "That was, what, three or three-and-a-half months ago, Xanadu time...?" She slips her mother's journal out of her satchel and compares the date on the most recent entry to the date of her last visit, to see how much time has passed in Texorami.
Based on the dates, and double-checking on the computer if Folly needs to, it's been about eight months.
She relays that information to Julian.
Julian frowns. "How long do you need to wait to do whatever else you were going to do here?"
Folly answers with a rueful smile. "My original plan involved holing up somewhere to paint and have a baby. Now, I'm improvising. Which means -- give or take checking in on my grandfather -- we can leave at any time."
Julian takes a moment to answer. "What about your friend?" He's already reaching for his deck, though, which is an answer in and of itself.
Folly shakes her head. "If there were time, I'd wait here a week, or a month, to see whether she answered the message, or to gather more information. As it is, I've given her and the universe a little nudge. Perhaps it'll draw her down the rabbit-hole with the rest of us. If not...." She offers up a tight, mirthless smile. "We'll see how things stand after the funeral."
She pauses, thoughtfully, and chews her bottom lip. "Perhaps we should check in with the king."
"Do you want to call him, or shall I?" He's shuffling out Random's card.
"I'd like to, if you don't mind," Folly replies. "It was partly at his request that I've come looking for my friend Haven; I should probably update him."
That's nothing like the only reason she wants to talk to him, but it's the least-complicated one to say out loud.
Julian passes Folly the trump of Random. "Go ahead. Just don't go through without me."
"I won't," she promises. She takes the card and concentrates on Random's image, willing a connection.
Random appears quickly before her, the sky is a bright yellow and the sun shines down on him. She seems to have interrupted him as he carelessly walked towards a narrow, curving precipice that looks remarkably familiar to her. His wet hair is dripping down onto an unfamiliar black doublet and yellow hose and he's carrying a flower.
"Hey, Folly. I hope your day's going better than mine." He's grinning, but it's the funny-on-top-of-grim grin.
"Well, I worked my mother into a froth and then handed her to Bleys, which I suppose counts for something...." Folly gives Random a tight but sympathetic smile.
"We heard," she continues, simply. Her tone is gentle, familiar, soothing; if they'd been having this conversation at her old flat, years ago, there'd be a mug of spiked cocoa and her hand in his hair. "Figured we should check in. You've... gone to look for Dworkin?" she ventures, squinting a little at the landscape behind Random.
The sky behind Random fades back to a more-normal blue and Folly thinks she smells salt water. "Not at all, we went to look for Vialle and we ran across Dworkin. Oh, and Benedict. Hopefully this means they'll be part of the finding."
Random pauses. "I'm surprised Bleys took your mother. He's normally too fastidious to want sloppy seconds."
"One hopes, then, that he will find something properly fastidious to do with her," Folly replies drily. "Perhaps something involving pants, and the continued wearing of them."
Random looks as if he might explain the top ten reasons things that seem more likely that that, but apparently changes his mind and keeps silent.
In a softer tone, she continues, "When we heard what happened, we were just up to the point of trying to track down Haven. I've put out a feeler, but I expect it would take some time -- maybe a week or two -- to pan out. If it even works at all."
She pauses, and gazes at Random through the contact. "Where do you need me the most right now? Here, or there?" It's not entirely clear whether by 'there' she means Xanadu, or wherever he is.
Random takes a deep breath. "Wellllll, Gerard is in charge in Xanadu, Caine has Amber under the iron grip of his brass knuckles, Solange and Hannah are probably about to drag Corwin to Tir na nOgth to try to see if they can see who pushed Cambina and Llewella has the Rebman war under control or not, plus, I've got Garrett here, so I can't really answer your question the way it deserves to be answered.
"But my immediate thought is 'Get Haven. The more and the sooner we make Xanadu our home the more homelike it will be and the less we have to worry about.' In other words, you've got damn good instincts for this crap, follow them. Ask Julian to show you some probability tricks, they'll make it quicker."
Folly nods her understanding -- of the things he said as well as some he didn't, quite. "It's a plan," she says. "My favorite kind of plan, too: 'improvise'." She smiles.
"Do you know whether Martin has been informed of what's happening? I... have his card, if you need me to pass any news along." Some instinct suggests to her that this is a better phrasing than I tried his card first and couldn't get through, though she's unsure for whose benefit she made the change.
Random sighs. "Yeah, Martin needs to know, if only so he can come to the funeral. If you can't reach him, I'll try, or I'll send someone closer to the midpoint. If he and Lily went into lower-case-c 'chaos' like they planned, then they'll be hard to reach, even from Texorami."
Folly nods. "I'll see what I can do. I'll keep you posted, whatever happens. And you call me if you need anything, okay? ---Or call Julian, anyway." She smiles, a little, and prepares to break the contact. "Good luck, love."
"We make our own luck, love--and now you know what I meant by that. Last thing--last three things, really. I need twelve pairs of Pro-Mark XLs in White Beech, a case of Einar's Screaming Maibock, and a crate of Coyote Brand Chili, no beans. That's in order of importance, after Haven."
"Of course," Folly agrees, grinning. "I'm on it."
Random pauses, then sighs. He steps closer to the edge of the thumb-shaped rock formation. "We'll have the funeral is a couple or ten days. You all should try to be back for it. We can figure out what happens next then."
Random waits for Folly to reply or let the contact drop.
Folly nods. "We'll get things taken care of on our end and get back as soon as we can," she says. "Take care, sweetheart."
With that, she drops the contact.
"New plan," she says to Julian as she returns his trump to him. "We're to stay here for a few days and continue to try to get in touch with Haven. Random suggested I should get you to show me some probability tricks to speed up the process."
"There are things we can do, yes," Julian agrees. "At some point, soon, one of us will also need to check in with Gerard. Is it safe to stay here, or to keep your mother's device?" He gestures inside. "For all that I know that I lived in this shadow for a time, I don't feel as though I know the local conditions, and when we leave, I'd rather do it on our own terms."
Folly nods. "Mum has always kept a reasonably secure house -- gated community, and all that -- so we should be safe here for a while. I'll be watching for a bite on the hook I threw; but if it takes more than about a week, we'll want a more direct back-up plan. In the ideal scenario, Haven would see my message and respond in kind, we'd set up a meeting, and go from there. If that doesn't work, though...." Folly's eyes narrow in thought. "We'll find a more direct way to reach her. Mum's contacts list may help, and shouldn't be too hard to dig up. Or we'll... improvise. Do some research, figure out what she's been involved in lately, try to use some of it as an in."
She pauses, and briefly considers adding '...and try not to punch anyone' to the plan outline; but if things get to that point, she decides, having said it out loud won't make any difference.
Instead she asks, "Would you like to call Gerard, or shall I?"
"I'm sure he will want to hear how you're doing. I may join in the contact later, if that's all right with you." Julian frowns slightly, as if thinking. "I'm considering how best to improve our odds of finding your friend."
"Would it be possible to... I dunno, tweak the odds that she reads the note I left? Or that some event will take place this week at which she might appear? Charity event at our old school, something like that? It'd be just the sort of thing that lot she's fallen in with would turn out for." Folly frowns, too, unconsciously mirroring Julian's expression.
Julian nods slowly. "Either or both should work. Some research would be helpful; I'll do that while you talk with Gerard. If you finish your conversation before I'm done with my research, tell him I'll speak with him later."
"I will," Folly agrees.
She takes a moment to show Julian how to use the laptop to access information, and to fill him in on what she has learned so far about Haven's situation, answering his questions as well as she is able.
Once he is settled, she borrows his trump of Gerard and moves into the kitchen to make contact.
Gerard answers at once. "Aye, and who is it?" he asks before the contact is fully formed, which is to say very quickly.
"It's Folly, checking in," Folly replies. "I can call back in a little while if this is a bad time," she adds, taking his haste to mean that he might be expecting an urgent trump from someone else.
"Nae, this is as good as any time. I've been a bloody trump conduit all day. Where's Jules? D'ye need a way home?" Gerard is already extended a beefy hand to her.
"Not yet," Folly replies. "Random has set us one more task while we're here. Julian's just in the next room, doing some research that will help us. He'll join us if he gets done in time, or if not, he said to tell you he'll speak with you later."
She gives Gerard a sympathetic smile. "Things there must be a bit of a madhouse, I suppose?"
Through the trump connection, Folly can sense Gerard's disappointment that she and Julian aren't coming through. "Aye. People coming and going. Hannah's trying to get Corwin to take her up to Tir as if that's any safer for them than it was for poor Cambina. And we've still no word from most of the family. Hae ye heard from Martin?"
"Not yet, alas." Folly shakes her head. "I tried to reach him, but couldn't get through -- he did warn me he'd be going places where that might happen. I'll keep trying, though. We did speak with Bleys -- or Julian did, anyway -- and had the news about what had happened from him. We, ah, sent my mother to him -- so, you know, if he shows up with a woman that looks sort of like me, only slightly older and more obnoxious, that's who that is." She offers a faintly apologetic smile. "Besides Martin, is there anyone else we should try to reach with the news?"
Gerard shakes his head. "I think they've reached as many as they can; it's a matter of the young'uns we have nae cards for. Is there aught I can help you with? Besides yer ma--and Bleys hasna come here wi' her yet?"
Folly nods. "You'd likely do so anyway, but... keep us posted as things there move forward, okay? I'm hoping we can finish our task here within a few days, Xanadu-time, but if it does turn out to require more time than that... I'd hate to miss the funeral inadvertently."
She regards Gerard through the trump with a look of concern. "Is it public knowledge yet, about Cambina, and the queen's disappearance?"
Gerard nods. "Aye. Solange has called as many as she could reach to come home, although most of them haven't come just yet. I reckon they'll all come by ones and twos over the next day or so." There's something about his daughter's name that evokes a tension that Folly can feel through the connection.
Folly is about to clarify that she really meant the public-public rather than the family-public, but Gerard's sudden tension stops her short. "How is Solange?" she asks instead, gently.
Gerard takes a long time to answer. "I'm worried about her," he says finally. "I think the stress of all this is gettin' to her."
Folly, who has some idea what Solange-under-stress looks like, gives Gerard a sympathetic look. "I imagine it hasn't been so easy for you, either," she says. After a moment's pause, she asks, "You've quarrelled?"
Because if Solange were showing stress by having fallen ill -- the other logical, but perhaps less-likely, possibility -- Gerard probably would have said so.
"Aye." Gerard slumps in his wheelchair a little. "She's doesna like that Vere's ma came to Xanadu, and she has some idea that if she and Vere raise Cambina the way they tried to raise her ma, Cambina will tell them something useful. And it must be done now--no waiting to speak with Jerod. She's no thought for the trouble that might come from it."
Nearly all of that is news to Folly, and it takes her a moment to even begin to process it. What she says, finally, meekly, is, "Raise Cambina?"
She's seen movies like that, and they rarely end well.
After another moment, she adds, "Er, do you know whether your brother has a trump of Solange?"
"Jules?" Gerard shakes his head. "I think there's a sketch of her in the booth. And of you--if ye want to speak with her--" He sounds vaguely hopeful.
Folly suspects that passing a sketch through a trump might not be such a good thing for the sketch -- rather like passing a beer across a pool, underwater -- and anyway, in the time it would take to send someone to fetch it, she might very nearly be able to finish a sketch of her own. "Why don't you tell her to contact me, if she hasn't heard from me by the next time you see her," she suggests. Not that she particularly expects to be able to talk Solange out of whatever course of action she's decided on -- but perhaps she can calm her cousin down enough for something approaching rational thought.
Her mind finally works around to the rest of what Gerard said. "How did Vere's mum come to be in Xanadu?" she asks, sensing that Gerard may yet need to unburden himself a bit.
"Hae ye not heard about the evacuation o' the Isles?" Gerard asks.
"Evacuation?" Folly's brow furrows. "I knew Huon had taken his army there. It was that bad?"
Gerard shakes his head. "Nae, not frae Huon. The shadow hae been stretched and torn sae much that it seems like not to survive. So Vere is leadin' the people to Rebma. Vere's ma set down her staff and came to me in Xanadu so his sister Avis could lead the people on their journey. Solange does nae like her, I think."
Folly thinks about that a moment, piecing it together with the other things Gerard had said that she didn't yet fully understand. "Is it the woman herself Solange doesn't like, or the idea of her?" she asks gently. "You said she... she tried to raise her own mother, yes? Perhaps... seeing Vere's mother there with you just reinforced her sense of loss. But... perhaps she'll come around, in time."
She hesitates, just for an instant. "She, ah. She told me she'd only recently found out about her real mother. About your sister. I know processing that kind of information can take some time." She swallows.
"Messin' about with her ma brought nothin' but trouble. If she has trouble adjusting, it's nae doubt as much from what her ma said and did as from knowing she ever was." Gerard scowls. "Which is why I canna understand why she'd want to do the same to Cambina." He waves a hand dismissively. "It's neither here nor there, though. Ye canna solve it, and I dinna want you to make her mad at you as well as at me. Jules and I will deal with it, and I thank ye for asking."
Folly frowns, a little. Wasn't she supposed to be helping Gerard feel less stressed? She tries again: "Is Vere's mum settling in all right otherwise? I look forward to meeting her, when I'm done with my duty here." Though that meeting might itself be another sort of duty, to show due respect to the mother of her foster-brother, the sentiment is sincere. Having seen the differences between Vere and his father, she's quite curious to meet his mother.
Gerard smiles at the mention of his wife. "Aye, I think you'll get on. She's well enow. It's an adjustment for her. The Isles are ruled by women and here--not sae much. And not only is she not queen and priestess, I'm not even that high in Random's counsel. He left me in charge because he was sure I wouldna leave. But it's good to be useful, sae I'm not complainin'," The smile has faded as he continues, and is totally gone by the time he finishes.
"Well, and there's always so much to be done," Folly says in gentle encouragement, "and I suspect that moreso than his predecessor, Random divvies up responsibilities based more on what one can and will do than on what bits one happens to carry in one's trousers." She smiles, just a little.
She continues, "When I return, we should all sit down for a meal together -- you and I and Vere's mum -- and I'd be happy to talk with her about ways to be useful that suit her interests. Er..." she frowns thoughtfully. "Is there something I ought to call her besides 'Vere's mum'?"
"Corvis. Her title was 'the Lady', but that's her daughter's title now. That's Avis, Vere's half-sister. She's the one helping Vere lead the people to wherever they're to end up now that there's war in Rebma."
He adds, "I'm glad someone's like to get on with her."
Folly smiles. "I cannot imagine that someone so dear to you would not also be dear to me."
Her thoughts turn unexpectedly to her own mother... which reminds her of something else. Her brow furrows in a faint frown. "Er, did I tell you I've learned who my father is?" Something in her tone suggests that she does not expect whoever-it-is to be particularly dear to either of them.
"Err ... no?" Gerard says. His tone suggests he's picked up on her anxiety.
"Mum said he called himself 'Uwe', when she knew him." Folly gives Gerard a wry smile through the contact; her eyes sparkle with grim humor. "I don't suppose I'm obligated to ask him to give the bride away if he's making war on the rest of the family, am I? On the other hand, I did tell Random we should invite Moire; why not collect the whole set? Have we got any other enemies we should add to the guest list -- preferably ones we're related to?"
"Uwe?" Gerard says slowly. Then his expression changes as he catches on. "Oh. Folly. Who have you told about this?"
"No-one." Folly shakes her head thoughtfully. "Well, I mean, Julian knows, because he was here; and Mum knows, because she's the one that told me -- but she's with Bleys now." She frowns. "Which means that if you're thinking we should keep this to ourselves, it may already be too late."
"Aye, well, there's no keeping secrets in this family, as well you know. But best you speak to Random first about it, for if you're Huon's daughter, there are some that might think to use you against him." Gerard does not shake a worried finger at her, but the sense that he'd like to carries through the contact.
"You make a good point," Folly says with a sigh. "I suppose I have some more calls to make." She gives Gerard a rueful smile. "But we'll talk again soon, all right? And if there's more news from this end, we'll pass it along when Julian calls you in a bit."
With that, she bids her uncle a fond farewell and closes the contact.
Folly pulls out her own trump case and fidgets with it as she thinks about her next move. She knows she should go back to Julian and trade Gerard's trump for Random's again. But, she reasons -- or perhaps rationalizes -- if Julian were ready to be interrupted, he would have joined her in the call to Gerard.
She makes her decision. She looks down at the trump case in her hand -- and is not really surprised to see that Martin's trump has been already shuffled out by touch, and sits ready atop the case.
Folly takes it up and concentrates, willing a connection.
Meg doesn't know how long it's been since the woman named Dara and the manlike creature called Cleph took her from the boat she and Brita and Ossian were travelling on.
Wherever here is, time seems to run strangely. The castle is strange, and Meg has not been allowed to go outside it. When she walks down the hall one way and then walks back, she doesn't always end up in the same place she started. The furniture in the place seems to be alive--and possessive.
Dara claims to be Meg's mother, which is strange, because Dara seems to be younger than Meg herself is. Dara claims Cleph is her brother, which is even stranger, because Dara appears to be a woman, but Cleph clearly isn't human. There's something wrong about his proportions, and his legs bend in the wrong places, as though he has two knees and they don't bend the same directions. And Cleph looks at her hungrily, not in the way a man looks at a woman, but the way a man looks at a chicken whose neck he means to wring so he can cook it up for dinner.
Dara stays with Meg much of the time, and sets sorcerous wards around her the rest of the time. It's easier when Dara is there. The castle seems less unsafe. The downside is Dara talks a great deal about politics of Amber and the Courts, the identity of all of which is unclear to Meg, and the unfairness of the last war, and how Corwin stole Meg's brother Merlin away--Corwin being his father and, Meg suspects from the tone of things, the subject of a massive crush of Dara's now turned to bitterness. There are plans, great plans, for righting all the wrongs and Meg can help, if only she'll learn sorcery.
When she sleeps, Meg has terrible nightmares. It's wise not to sleep, but sometimes exhaustion overtakes her. If they're fairies of some sort, Meg's betrayed herself by eating and she'll be here until she dies or, more likely, goes mad.
But in its own crazy way the castle has a certain peace. All things bend to Dara's will, even Cleph. And in time, whatever that is, Dara clearly expects Meg to do the same.
Until one day, or whatever division of time, such as it is, it's not peaceful. Dara is missing (fortunately, so is Cleph) and the light in Meg's chamber is strange, and the room itself seems to shrink. The furniture seems to crowd closer to Meg.
Throughout the ordeal, Meg has done what little she could to keep her environs safe, orderly, predictable. If a room changes, she straightens and tidies it until it resembles her memory of it as closely as she can make it do. After Dara's harangues, she writes long lists of names and places. She has tried to work out the genealogy, but after an afternoon's (? time is unclear here) work it makes her head swim worse than the castle, and so she desists.
She has a knife, a breadknife. Sometimes she takes it out and looks at it, when she is unlikely to be troubled with Cleph or Dara. Sometimes she tests its edge against her thumb. It is her one small guardian talisman, her link to places where outlines are sharp and craftsmanship, the work of men's hands shaping order, reigns. Looking at the knife reassures her, as much as anything can. She does not sleep with it, however, as she acknowledges to herself that she may do something desperate in the throes of nightmare.
On the day when the castle shudders, Meg firmly sets the furniture back in place, glaring at the walls for moving as though they were her children in need of a good scolding. She straightens her clothing to a nicety, threadbare though it is becoming, and faces the door.
Her knife is in her hand.
The door opens, and a young man--young enough to be one of her sons, but one of the older ones--steps through. He appears to be human, with all his joints in the right places. He takes the room, and Meg, in, with sharp blue eyes. His hair is blond and short-clipped; he wears rough clothes like a workman might wear, and he's got a sword in his hand. There's a sense of calmness that radiates from him. Of, dare she say it, Order.
The castle is palpably hostile to him.
"You're Meg?" he says, and it's only sort of a question.
Meg gives him only sort of an answer. "Why ask what you already know?" She holds the knife unwavering. The enemy of one's enemy is not necessarily one's friend... especially with sword in hand.
"Because I'd rather find out that you're Dara before I do the rescuing part of this job. I'd be a lousy repo man if I didn't check ID first." He's already moved so he's away from the door, his back to neither it nor Meg, and not too close to any of the walls.
A footstool growls at him and he silences it with a well-aimed kick.
"I'm Martin. The King of Amber sent me to get you out of here."
"And was he riding a unicorn with braided mane and tail at the time?" Meg jeers, most unwittingly apropos, her gaze falling momentarily on the spurned and whimpering ottoman. "Everything here has a dozen guises, as you well know, sir. What will befall me if I dance your pavane only for you to melt into... another... hardly bears thought. You are a pretty guise, that is true enough; but I should be a fool to trust you."
"And I'd be a fool to trust you. Either that or I'm pretty sure I can kick your ass even if you are really Cleph or Dara in disguise. And the King of Amber isn't the member of the family who rides a unicorn. Legendarily." Somehow Martin manages to make that sound like it's not an innuendo.
"Your options are limited here, Meg. You can trust me and we can get the hell out of here, or Dara and Cleph can show up and prove I'm not them and I can see if I can actually kick both of their asses--which I might be able to, but I'd rather not test it. If I lost, there would be bad consequences, and not just for me. Or you can stay here until you go mad." Martin glances down the hall, as if expecting someone to join them momentarily: someone he doesn't want to see.
He was unfortunately entirely correct as to her options, and judging from the castle's reactions, entirely correct as to the amount of time they didn't have.
Her eye is drawn to his sword: gleaming-sharp, well-made, held precisely as such a sword should be held. The sword decides her, and she lowers her knife, though she does not put it away. "I have nothing save what I hold, and I will take nothing from this cursed place. If you can procure our escape, then let us go, please you, sir."
"Absolutely don't take anything, and leave as little as you can behind. Nothing to ensorcel you with," Martin says.
The footstool edges back in Martin's general direction, still growling. The seam between the cushion and the frame opens to reveal a mouth with snaggled teeth. Martin thrusts the blade in its general direction and it backs off once more. He crosses the room to a barred window, sheathing his sword as he moves. Strong hands wrap around two of the bars and pull them apart. The rest of the bars part like a curtain around them to make room for them to spread more.
Once there's a hole big enough for Meg to wiggle through, Martin punches the glass and it rains outward. "You first, then me," Martin says, moving to draw the blade again.
Putting her knife away in its pocket in her apron, Meg busies herself ridding the room of the few traces she has left there -- a tangle of hair in the wastebasket, a worn and stained cloak on a protuberance by the door -- while Martin deals with the window. His violent treatment of the castle seems liable to draw Cleph and Dara, so rather than cavil, or even pause to see if he has injured his hands, Meg gathers her skirts and climbs nimbly onto the sill, as stepping down through it seems the likeliest way to squeeze through, considering that her hips will likely be a bit of a tight fit.
She gives him a hasty but heartfelt "Goddess be with you, Sir Martin," as she passes him.
Meg finds herself standing, or perhaps sitting, on the side of the building as she emerges. The pull of gravity is toward the wall, which is now the floor. Martin comes out of the window beside her. He seems to have expected the change of the center of gravity, because he comes out head first and ends up standing. If she's sitting and needs a moment to reorient, Martin offers her a hand up.
"Let's move," he says, and sets off at a jog in the direction she would formerly have characterized as 'up'.
Meg shakes off the vertigo from the unexpected change in orientation and takes Martin's hand to arise. She occupies a few moments in girding her skirts up for running before she strikes out after him. Since he is not sprinting, she catches up in reasonable time and settles easily into his pace; it is a taste of freedom to move again, and the pleasant rhythm of running is its own reward.
She ignores the protests from her inner ear. Nothing here makes sense; best not to dwell upon that inconvenient fact.
"How long shall we be running, Sir Martin?" she asks at length, in order to husband her strength properly.
"Until we get to transport or until someone tries to stop us, which will be about ... now," Martin says, as the wall starts curving so they're running in a direction Meg's inner ear is identifying as up and some portion of her hindbrain that remembers the direction she started in a few moments ago identifies as something else.
She should be uspside down about now.
Martin does--something--that Meg can't identify, but his face betrays a certain concentration, as if there's a struggle, for all that his feet seem to be going on autopilot. Then the disorientation drops away and the wall/floor/ground is roughly horizontal again and it doesn't feel like she's walking on a wall or upside down.
"If that's all we have to deal with before we get out of here, we'll be lucky. Can you ride?"
"Aye, sir." Then Meg thinks she perhaps ought to be specific. "Horses, that is. Are we -- have we truly left that place?" The constant disorientation heretofore has left her just a tiny bit green about the gills (so to speak), but she has any nausea she is feeling well under control.
"I hope they're still horses by the time we get there," Martin says, as if there's some doubt. "We're not out until we're past the Tree, but we've made a good start. I've arranged a distraction for Cleph and Dara, and with luck, we should be far enough away as I understand things to make pursuit difficult. If not, I've always got a card." He glances sidewise and back at Meg. "Don't get further than about ten feet from me."
She trims her pace to stay less than an arms-length from him, practically shoulder-to-shoulder. Considering that she had a knife aimed at him hardly a quarter-hour past (well, it felt like a quarter-hour or thereabouts), she is evincing no little trust.
"While on horseback as well?" she asks, for clarification. "And how is it that a card will help us, pray you, sir?" She can do nothing about the surroundings or the danger, so all that remains is to glean what information she can.
"It's a magical transport device," Martin explains. "I'm not convinced it will work here. We need to be closer to where we're going. Also, if we try it inside Dara, she might be able to block it. And yes, stay close to me all the time. I'm a center of Order and that's what's suppressing the local chaotic effects. Time will continue to go forward, space will continue to have three dimensions. That kind of thing."
"An improvement on the alternatives, I suppose," Meg says ruefully. "Dare I ask what time has been doing while I was trapped listening to Dara whinging and Cleph hungering?"
"We won't know for sure until we get to the other side of the tree, other than that time continues to go forward. Unfortunately. I have business of my own. My wife," Martin says, suddenly a bit louder, as if for someone else's benefit, "is with child, and I don't know how close she is to her lying-in."
They're coming to what would be the top of a tower that they're running up the side of. Atop it, Meg can see something vaguely horselike.
The entire castle, if she looks back, is Disneyland as interpreted by M.C. Escher. And that's the parts that make sense to Meg's eyes.
Meg's polite inquiry dies in her throat as she looks over her shoulder for pursuit. The mistress of a fine household and the mainstay of a community does not faint, however; nor does she ignore the clear and urgent instruction of a knight. Meg forces herself to breathe and holds to her pace.
After a moment, she is recovered enough to ask the question that first came to mind, before the hideous castle did its best to knock sense from her. "Will this be your first child, Sir Martin? We should hurry; I am sure you do not care to be long away."
"It's our first, yes. But I was the only agent with the skills for this job, so I got it."
As they reach the roof, Meg can see that the horse-thing--for it is no longer exactly a horse, even if it originally was one--has wings.
Meg can see a lump in the roof. It extends out from the center of the tower they're standing on, between them and the horse. Martin comes to a dead halt and extends his arm to block Meg from overshooting him. It's low enough to be a body block rather than a clothesline.
Meg skids to a halt, the roof squelching disgustingly underfoot.
"Well, shit. There goes that escape plan."
The lump starts to coalesce into a human figure. Female. Almost certainly Dara.
Martin's blade is clearing its sheath.
Meg has a decision to make: the young man she hardly knows, or the woman who claims to be her mother?
Fortunately for Sir Martin, it is not much of a decision. A good mother does not abandon her daughter save at great need, nor does she kidnap and imprison her. Such a mother forfeits all right to the name.
Not to mention that Meg's mind revolts at the thought of being closely related to the thing being extruded from this monstrosity, this mockery of a castle...
Meg's knife comes out of her apron-pocket in an instant, and she steps a little away, to give Sir Martin room to strike, and herself space for a good slash that will not endanger him. Not too far, though; she is still mindful of his instruction.
"Another escape possible?" she queries softly. "For you, at least?"
Martin's focus is mostly on the thing assembling itself quickly into Dara. "I still have a couple of tricks up my sleeve. I'm not leaving you behind."
Dara has finished forming into, well, something humanoid, but not entirely human. "That assumes you can get out of here yourself, Martin." She doesn't appear to be armed, but then again, she just formed out of the castle.
"That assumes I leave a here to get out of," Martin shoots back. His left hand is inside his jacket pocket; his right hand, with his blade in it, is between him and Dara.
Meg plays the only card she can imagine she has. She, too, sets her gaze on the creature before them. "I am watching this, you know... Mother. It is hardly what I should call maternal behaviour."
"Do you want to be taken back, then? They'll do nothing but destroy you, as they've done to your brother!" Dara cries, her frustration obvious.
She moves toward Meg, but Martin keeps himself between Meg and Dara.
Martin makes a disgusted noise. "Merle's better off with Corwin than he'd ever be with you. Corwin's an ass but at least he won't eat Merle. And Meg here is going to go mad if you keep her here much longer. I should know."
There is a sense of imminent violence in the air. Meg feels that if she does not intervene, Dara and Martin will come to blows momentarily.
"Sir Martin," Meg says, quietly but firmly. "Permit the Lady Dara and me to speak for a moment, if you will."
Martin doesn't answer immediately. He seems a bit distracted.
Meg comes within an arms' length of Dara, but no nearer. "I am a woman grown, Lady Dara, and it is ill-done to mew me up like a naughty child. Grant us two leave to go in peace, and for my part, I promise you that --" Meg stops, realizing that traditional "year and a day" formulae have little meaning in this place. "I promise that once I have met this Merlin, I shall seek you out again and speak with you of him. Provided we both go free and hale from here, wheresoever we will."
Martin says, "Meg's offering a good deal, Dara. You should take it, or you might find out what I have in my pocket, and whether you'll fare better against it than Cleph did."
Meg wants to chastise them mildly, tell them that there is no need for violence, but that is so false and fatuous a statement she must repress a bizarre desire to laugh aloud at the thought of it. Instead, she raises her knife just enough for it to flash in Dara's eyes; her threat is not violence, which Dara will likely shrug off, but rejection. She settles for, "I wish no one hurt, not him and not you. Take my bargain or counter it, pray you, Lady Dara."
Dara folds her hands in front of her and nods, looking unhappy. "Very well, go with my blessing. But Meg, be careful! Merlin's father killed your grandfather in cold blood. They will lie, or worse telling you enough truth to trick you. When you are ready to talk to me, again, Martin can arrange it, either via my trump or in person."
"I shall try not to be made a fool of," says Meg, putting away her knife. "Thank you, Lady Dara, and fare you well."
Martin sheathes his blade and pulls his hand, now empty, out of his pocket. "I'll send word when she's ready." With one hand, he reaches back for Meg.
She lays her hand in his without demur. It is trembling slightly, but her hold on him is strong in spite of it.
Martin reaches forward and says, "Now," although it's not apparent who he's talking to. He takes a step forward, pulling Meg with him.
As they depart Dara says something, but Meg cannot hear what it is.
Martin's form coalesces against a vertigo-inducing backdrop in which he appears to be standing on the side of a tower. Folly can see the ground, she thinks, in the distance behind him. He looks pretty rough: beard, unshaven, and cranky. There's no greeting as his image comes into focus. Instead, he says, "Meg's offering a good deal, Dara. You should take it, or you might find out what I have in my pocket, and whether you'll fare better against it than Cleph did."
At first, the dizzying image in the card makes her stomach turn and her head spin, so that Folly has to heavily against the counter for support. But then she feels, deep in her belly, a small but emphatic kick of protest that brings her back to herself.
"We're here," she says softly into the contact, and tries to focus mostly on Martin's image (which isn't so hard, really; the background could be full of naked acrobats juggling fire while standing on the backs of frisky tigers, and he'd still be the most interesting thing in her view). Then, loudly enough so that her voice carries from the kitchen out into the living room, she adds, "Julian, I've reached Martin by trump. He seems to be in conversation with Dara."
The '...and I might need a little backup in a minute here' is unspoken, but strongly implied.
There's some noise in the other room that suggests Julian is putting down the laptop and sure enough, momentarily Julian is in Folly's peripheral vision, blade in hand.
Folly can feel a wash of relief through the contact before Martin speaks again. He sheathes his blade and pulls his hand, now empty, out of his pocket. "I'll send word when she's ready." With one hand, he reaches back, out of Folly's field of vision.
Folly positions herself within easy reach of the knife block, braces her foot against the lower cabinets -- just in case -- and offers him her hand.
Someone else is in the contact with them and as soon as that happens, Martin reaches out to Folly and says, "Now." He takes a step forward, pulling Meg with him.
Folly braces and pulls him and his companion into her mother's kitchen, a room much longer than it is wide -- but too big to be characterized as "long and narrow", as if it were designed to accommodate a small staff of caterers all working here at once -- all done up in white and steel. The only signs of recent use are a teakettle on the stove, a bowl and mug -- probably from breakfast -- in the sink, a half-finished pot of coffee in the coffeemaker on the counter, and a datebook and a few loose papers by the phone. Along one of the long sides of the room, an opening between the upper and lower cabinets reveals the dining-room; at the far end of the room, Julian hovers in the doorway to the living-room, blade in hand.
"You're safe, love," she says almost as soon as Martin steps through. Her voice is low and soothing, meant to ease him down out of flight-or-fight mode, and she does not let go of his hand. "You're safe. You're okay. We're okay."
She is faintly aware of the woman with Martin that reason tells her must be Meg, but her focus for the moment is clearly and completely on her husband.
Martin looks ragged around the edges; he needs a haircut and a shave and Folly improbably notices as she takes his hand that his nails are bitten to the quick. He slides his arms around Folly and lets out a deep sigh, pretty much ignoring Meg and Julian for a moment.
Meg steps away from them, as they clearly have no use for her just then.
In the absence of any useful commentary from Folly and Martin, the tall, thin fellow in the door of the room says, "I am Julian of Amber." And indeed, Meg does remember that name from her first visit to Amber, even if she can't necessarily place him. "You must be Meg. Welcome to Texorami. Which do you need first, food, or a chance to bathe and fresh clothes?"
Despite threadbare garments, nails as bitten as Martin's, and a distrait look about her, Meg can still offer a curtsey fit for a royal court. "My thanks to you, sir. I should quite like to make myself fit to be seen, if it is no trouble. Pray you, how should I style you?" She remembers just enough of Amber to know that "sir" likely understates the case, and -- oh, dear, has she inadvertently insulted Martin, in her Chaos-induced lackwittedness?
Poor lad, he will not want her apology just then, by the look of things. She offers Julian what little she has by way of a smile, and makes ready to follow him.
"Master suite's at the end of the hall," Folly says over her shoulder, though she does not let go of Martin, nor show signs of doing so anytime soon: she has her arms around him in a stance that looks protective and comforting all at once. "You're welcome to whatever you need."
Belatedly, she realizes she left something out, and adds, "Oh, um. Hi, I'm Folly. Welcome to Texorami."
"Thank you kindly, Lady Folly," says Meg, stopping in the doorframe to turn and curtsey. "I owe your husband a great debt, and you as well. Do look to his hands; he broke a window in my rescue, but there was no time to physic him." With a gentle, genuine smile for the gentle tableau, Meg withdraws.
As she's moving out the door, following Julian, who seems to have a good idea where the master suite is, Martin releases Folly and says, "Go help Meg. I'll be all right and I have to report in to Dad. And my hands are fine. I was careful. Very careful." He says that last bit with particular significance.
Folly gives a short, grim nod of understanding.
Julian stops and says, "If you'd rather, I can contact your father."
There's another sigh from Martin, and he says, "If there's a second bathroom, I could stand to clean up, too. And you can talk to Dad, Julian."
"Downstairs," Folly says in answer to Martin's not-quite-question, and gestures toward the far end of the dining room where the staircase begins. "And it's on a separate tank from the upstairs, so neither of you need worry about inadvertently stealing all the hot water from the other." Martin, who knows Folly well, probably hears in her words the implicit instruction to take all the time he needs in a nice, hot bath or shower.
She doesn't bother to give any further description of where to find anything; Martin will find what he needs, and she or Julian will find what Meg needs.
[Note: the house is loosely based on this one.]
Folly leans in and whispers a few words to Martin, then asks, "Meg, what is your preferred style of dress? While you freshen up, I'll see what I can find in the way of fresh clothes for you." She herself is dressed in loose denim trousers and a short-sleeved knit shirt that looks as though it was wadded up before being dyed in shades of deep indigo and vivid purple, one of which matches the streaks in her dark hair.
Something is odd here, Meg cannot help noticing; how does Martin not know his own wife's house? But nothing is so bizarre as Castle Dara had been -- edges here are sharp, clean, gleaming white and silver and glass; every least thing, though much is strange to Meg's eyes, bears the stamp of careful craft, and rests properly in its place -- so Meg can put aside a small interpersonal mystery for the nonce.
Meg's clothing is, to her, rather humdrum: a chemise that was once fine and white and is now dirty yellow-grey with much wearing; over that a frayed kirtle, wine-colored bodice and dark-gray skirt, the bodice-strings much-knotted; finally an apron, it too once-white linen, weighed down with something heavy in a pocket. The substantial wool cloak over her arm may be salvageable with cleaning, as Castle Dara has no creature in it so pedestrian as the humble moth. Meg's fine straight black hair falls unbound and un-capped past her shoulders, rather to her chagrin; she is no young virgin, to make such a disorderly show of it.
"Beggars may not choose, Lady Folly," Meg says, holding her filthy garments away from the white walls as she walks, "and so I needs must throw myself on your mercy. So it be clean, and what a decent widow would be seen in here, I shall be enormously grateful."
"Mum is a widow, at least," Folly allows with a cheerful smile and a twinkle in her eye; she willfully avoids making direct eye contact with either Martin or Julian as she moves to follow Meg. "We'll see what we can do about the rest."
Julian stands aside now that Folly has taken charge of Meg. "By your leave," he says, and bows to Martin and Folly before disappearing back out onto the porch.
Folly murmurs a word of thanks to him as he departs.
Martin, if Meg chances to see his face, doesn't seem to have much of a reaction. Maybe he's too exhausted to appreciate the joke. He waves and disappears downstairs.
Too weary-minded to wonder about the arrangements, or to cavil at Martin and his wife being separated, Meg continues on her way. "Your husband informs me you are with child, Lady Folly?" she inquires politely. One does not neglect the forms; they, even more than the distance which Martin and Folly somehow annihilated, are what separates one from Dara and Cleph.
"I am," Folly replies. "A bit more than halfway through, we reckon. It's our first, so we're still working out how it's all supposed to go. Do you have children?"
"Sons, yes." Her tone is bleak. "They are in Huon's army now."
"Ah," Folly says, then nothing more, perhaps deciding that so serious a conversation can wait 'til Meg has had a chance to freshen up.
They've reached the open door to a spacious bedroom; another door within reveals the bath. Folly, however, heads straight for the closet, slides open its doors, and scrutinizes the contents thoughtfully. In the natural light streaming in from the ocean-facing windows, it is immediately apparent that most of the clothes therein seem to be brightly colored, or sparkly, or both.
Meg stops just inside the door, not seeing anyplace obvious to put her cloak, and not wanting to sully the lovely appointments with it. She glances at the sea once, then quickly looks away from it to the contents of Folly's closet.
Seeing the potential difficulty, she clears her throat. "Pray don't go to any trouble," she says. "Anything will do, I am sure."
"No, it's no trouble," Folly replies, a bit absently; her attention is focused on the contents of the closet as if she is willing an appropriate garment to appear spontaneously out of the densely-packed jumble of color.
She plunges her arm into the closet seemingly at random and rummages around for a moment by touch. When she draws back again, she's holding a wrap-style dress in a deep blue-green color, like the ocean, decorated with abstract splotches of color that suggest flowers or tropical birds. She holds it up on its hanger in front of Meg, on whom it falls to just above the knee. "That's not a bad start," Folly says, "although I daresay you'll want something to wear under it. Or multiple somethings." Indeed, in addition to showing a lot of leg, the dress seems designed for impressive decolletage even on a woman more petite than Meg. "Unless there's something else that strikes your fancy? I doubt my mother would miss a stitch of it."
Even in Meg's off-kilter state, the cut of the dress stirs instinctive disapprobation. Are they not decent, the women here? "What a lovely color," she says, with all the conviction she can drum up. "Over a chemise it will do nicely -- but mine is long past saving, I fear. I am dreadfully sorry, Lady Folly; I am a distasteful object at present, I know."
Behind her, beyond the wide windows, the ocean will not stop its sloppy churning. Meg sets herself to ignore it.
"Well, you've been through a lot, as I understand it," Folly says with a sympathetic smile, "and for all that, you seem no more bedraggled than we'd get after two weeks in a van with a flaky air-conditioner during the summer festival season." Whatever that meant. At the very least, Folly seems genuinely neither shocked nor offended at the state of Meg's attire and grooming, as if it were just something that happens sometimes. And perhaps it is, if one is married to a man who threatens the denizens of Chaos.
Meg feels a tiny touch of genuine kinship at Folly's nonchalance. From grimy orphans to grimy back stairs to grimy stepchildren, Meg is no stranger to grime -- just not in herself, particularly when first encountering such exalted company. Not to be scorned or railed at for it, that is grace, that is the nobility Meg herself has always striven for. However strange Folly's garb, her hospitality commends her immediately to Meg's heart.
"Why don't I show you how the facilities work, and you can get yourself freshened up while I hunt up something for you to wear under this? I'll lay out what I find just here" -- Folly gestures to the end of the bed -- "and pull the blinds on the windows, so you can bathe and dress at your leisure. Oh, and..." She slips the dress off its hanger, which she offers to Meg. "You can hang up what you're wearing now on the towel-rack, if you like" -- she nods toward the door to the bathroom -- "and we'll see a little later how much of it can be salvaged."
This offer is so kind and so welcome that Meg is for the first time close to tears. "Oh, thank you," she says, taking the hanger and setting her cloak on it with deft hands. Its folds give off a hint of the sickly smell of Chaos. "I believe I could be tempted to infamy for a basin of hot water just now."
Not needing a second hint, Meg goes into the bathroom... which is as unfamiliar to her as such a utilitarian place can be. Ah, well, the towel rack Folly mentioned is plain enough, and there is space for the hanger where her cloak will not dirty anything. She leaves it hanging there, and then looks about her to sort out what comes next, absently starting on the stubborn knots in her bodice-string.
Folly follows just a moment behind, having laid the dress neatly on the end of the bed. The bathroom, all stone and brass and tile and glass, is large enough for two people to maneuver comfortably without much worry of getting in the way of one another.
A large tub dominates the space, and Folly shows Meg the use of all its knobs buttons and levers and switches: to plug and release the drain; to fill the tub with water from cool to steaming hot; to release the long brass snake of a faucet and spray water from it in a hard stream or a diffuse trickle; to turn on bubbling jets to ease aching muscles. There is a tiled stall of a shower as well, much simpler in its operation, and a sink set into a counter of marble before a large, clear mirror. Folly's brief explanation of the flush toilet tucked into its own nook walks a fine line between delicacy and straightforwardness.
Meg nods at everything, but much of the explanation passes her by, and she privately resolves to use the shower. Sometimes, in Abford, an upended bucket of clean water was the only thing to do.
In a cabinet by the door Folly finds fresh towels, a washcloth, and a dizzying array of bath products: soaps and salts and washes and foams, masks and peels and loofahs. After a bit of digging she finds a plain bar of soap and a shampoo that smells of citrus, and sets these on the counter for Meg -- after an ordeal such as she has had, sometimes it is the simplest things that bring the most comfort -- but makes clear that she is welcome to sample whatever she fancies.
"...And I hope I haven't completely overwhelmed you with all that," Folly says with a wry, apologetic smile as she concludes the whirlwind tour of the facilities. "Is there anything else you require before I leave you to freshen up?"
There is only one proper response to that, and Meg makes it. "Not at all, Lady Folly; you have been kindness itself, and of course you are wanting to see your husband. What hours do you keep here? When shall I be expected?"
Folly flashes another wry smile. "I'm afraid we keep hours rather at our whim. Take the time you need, and I'll see to my husband, and I suppose when we're all feeling a bit more human we'll re-convene in the living room for a bit of a catch-up. Oh, and food -- we'll want food." That last seems to be a mental note to herself; Meg may well recognize the expression that comes with deciding how to put together a meal from odds and ends for unexpected guests. "You're welcome to rest here until then, or come out and explore the house -- or even to sleep through all of it, if that's what you need."
"Perhaps I could be of some use in the kitchen?" Meg asks, despite thinking ruefully that if the kitchen is anything like this, she will need an entire re-education. "Even just as scullery-maid, pro tempore."
"Perhaps, yes," Folly agrees -- and brightens suddenly. "Pie. This seems like an excellent day for pie, doesn't it? I'll see if I can find the makings for one. Left on my own, I'm afraid the spread would be all sandwiches and cookies-out-of-a-box, so I'll be glad for the help. Thank you, Meg."
Before she can stop herself, Meg bobs the small curtsey of kitchenmaid to mistress.
Folly turns to go, but pauses at the door. "Oh. And... you needn't bother with this 'Lady Folly' business, really." She smiles gently. "Just 'Folly', please, if you will. You're among friends here. Well, actually, I suppose you're among family, aren't you?"
"So Dara informed me," answers Meg, a wry twist to her mouth. "It is an uncommon oddity, for an orphan."
"I can imagine. As it happens, 'uncommon oddity' sums us all up rather nicely," Folly says. "Did she give you the full run-down of the family tree? How you're related to Martin, for instance?"
"How she claims I am, yes," says Meg with a small wince, remembering the long, uneasy, convoluted, self-pity-laden lessons in the unquiet castle. "Sir Martin's father is His Majesty King Random, not so? And His Majesty, if I recall aright, is paternal half-brother to Prince Benedict, from whom, if she says truthfully, Dara herself sprang, with a distance of some generations. And Dara claims to be my mother. Begging your pardon, La -- that is, Folly -- but I would gladly forego the tie, despite the honor of connection to so illustrious a family."
Folly inclines her head in sympathy and understanding. "You may find it a comfort to know that most of us find our strongest family connections elsewhere than with our own parents. You have the lineage right, or at least that's the way I understand it, assuming Dara really is your mother."
"She is not my mother," Meg says flatly, "whether she bore me or no."
Folly gives a short nod. She understands the distinction intimately.
She hesitates, thinking. "Martin may well want to know, if he hasn't yet had the chance to ask, what Dara had to say about her other child, who is one of Martin's dearest friends. But that will wait 'til we're all fed and settled; I should leave you to it, before I talk your ear off...." With a smile and a nod, she turns to depart.
Meg lets Folly go with an answering nod; Meg wants to wash, and Folly wants to see to her husband, and both desires are perfectly proper and to be expected. There is no reason to derail them with idle chitchat.
First things first. Meg removes her faithful edged companion from her apron-pocket and washes it carefully in clean cold water in the washbasin before setting it with equal care on a shelf where its edge will not be further dulled and it will not harm anyone.
Meg has to break her bodice-strings, they are so beyond hope. She drops the pieces in the waste-can Folly showed her. If there are sorcerers here as well, so be it; but Folly did not strike Meg as a stupid or careless woman, so Meg suspects this to be an eventuality Folly has warded against. She makes a mental note to inquire when opportunity presents itself.
Her discarded clothes Meg rolls into the towel with which she dried her knife and sets aside, as that seems a tidier option than dirtying the floor. Soap and shampoo in hand, she steps into the shower and starts the water, not at all minding the first thirty seconds of cold spray, as cold water is an Abford speciality. The heat, when it comes, is positively decadent, as is the pleasant scent of the soap cutting through the lingering miasma of Chaos.
Meg cannot help it; once she is clean at last, she leans against the shower's back wall, hugs herself, and cries until she can no more. Then she washes her face one last time and shuts off the spray.
The bed is more than tempting, but Meg has given herself work to be at, so she dons the clothing Folly left for her, forcing down the thought that if any of the Abford orphans wore such a thing Meg would have had to save her from being forced out as a hussy and a dangerous influence. At present, the best Meg can do for herself is to plait her damp hair around her head and make another mental note to ask Folly for fabric, needle, and thread.
She goes back into the bathroom to tidy it, and then retrieves her knife therefrom, thoughtfully wrapping it in a clean facecloth lest someone think she has murder on her mind. These needful things accomplished, she sets out to find the kitchen.
Last modified: 11 April 2009