Man About Amber

After Solange leaves, Garrett goes back to examining his new trumps. This time, though, he seems to be barely looking at them, lost in thoughts of another nature. With a determined sigh, he makes a decision. Sitting up straight like a true prince should, he fishes one card in particular out of the deck.

Uncle Bleys.

He concentrates.

A few seconds pass in deep concentration and suddenly, Bleys appears in sharp relief. Bleys has on some sort of white hooded robe that covers most of his face.

"Who calls?", he asks.

"It's Prince Garrett, sir," Garrett answers. His head cocks and his eyes lower a bit as he tries to peek under the hood while trying not to look like he's peeking. "Uh... is this a bad time?"

"For you, your highness? Is there ever a bad time? I am not currently in a place where I would be burned for witchcraft for talking to evil afrit, if that's what you're wondering. Is this your first time using trumps?" Behind Bleys there seems to be some sort of haze in the air. Garrett gets the impression that Bleys is somewhere hot.

Garrett snorts at the witchcraft comment. "With this family, you never know what you might trump into the middle of. And no, I've used trumps before. This is just the first time with my own deck.

"Anyway, what I called you about is this. I've been trying to learn how things work over the last several months, and in most areas, my father, Martin and others have been very helpful. But there have been several times that questions of trump, Pattern and the like have come up and in those, I've been referred to 'the redheads.' Now that I have the opportunity, I thought to try to get some of those questions answered."

Bleys nods, thinking. "There are a number of reasons they may have said that, only one of which is uncertainty. They may think you should discover the answers for yourself, they may think it would take too long to explain, they may think I have better knowledge or a knack for elucidation, they may want to distract the conversation from some morsel it was approaching, and of course, they may have genuinely wanted you to come to me." Bleys smiles, and it's both sunny and complex. The family resemblance to Random is unmistakable.

"And you have come to me and I am as yet still fashionably late for my own hanging in this shadow, so ask your questions and I will see if I can answer or point you to a useful reference. 'How things work' is a rather broad curriculum. What do you want to know, specifically?"

Behind Bleys, Garrett see motion. Three small moons pass over the older prince's shoulder in rapid succession.

Garrett is momentarily distracted by the passing moons, but then gets to the point. "Not long ago, Martin mentioned something about a 'primal pattern'. What is it? And where is it? And is Amber really a shadow itself? I mean, I know it is now, but was it before?"

Bleys smiles. "My sister and I deduced it from the equations, of course. It was something of an entrance test for advanced studies. The old wizard gave us enough to see who wanted to know badly enough to figure it out. I assume Dworkin will have new criteria for advanced students in the future." Bleys turns his head, momentarily silent, and then continues. "Amber is a second order node of order, and the primal pattern is the first order node. The second order nodes were inscribed by children of Dworkin and naturally protect the first order node. Second order nodes are naturally similar, as they reflect both the zeroth order node at the origin and the first order node written into the blood of the initiate who binds it to himself and it to him.

Surprisingly, Garrett's eyes do not glaze over as the conversation grows more complex. Indeed, Bleys can see him mentally trying to fit the pieces together.

Bleys pauses. "I can explain it all better with some equations. How advanced is your study of mathematics?"

"Practical mathmatics mostly, sir," Garrett confesses with an embarrassed grimace. "Multiplication, division, sums... the things one would need to know to run a stable. I'd like to learn more."

"I see. And well worth your time it will be, Prince Garrett. Mathematics is the foundation of all knowledge that a prince needs to know, and not just in the exchequer. Naval and Castle architectures are just pretty drawings if not backed up by mathematics. Wars are fought with men, but lost without supply. How long can you withstand a siege of Castle Amber? Benedict knows, and knows why. "

His eyes twinkle. "And then there are those matters you refer to, those of high metaphysics, where an elegant equation is the same as the grand curve is the same as Dworkin's favorite symphony is the same as the color of the sea in a thousand shadows. A pattern is not a thought, it is a dissertation, and it requires a kind of special mathematical discussion that is known to dozens and mastered by a handful. Every strength and weakness we have is writ large in tiny equations."

He sighs. "I am myself but an indifferent teacher, but I would not leave you thirsting for knowledge when I can find you a suitable fount." Bleys looks away for a moment. "Give me a day and I will have a better idea who can undertake your tutelage."

Garrett nods at points during Bleys's speech, an eagerness to learn evident in his eyes. "I would appreciate that, Uncle," he says. "I've taken on my physical training with a new sword master and been studying in the library to improve my letters, but mathematics and the physics behind the powers that are within us are things I felt I was lacking."

His eyes narrow as he thinks of another question. "Can you tell me what it is that changes when one walks the Pattern? Is it physical or mental or... does it open some channel somewhere that was blocked before?" Bleys can see that that analogy doesn't please Garrett exactly, but he's having a hard time explaining it another way.

"What changes? The universe, my boy. Minutely in the greater part, but more dramatically in the part that is you. To observe is to interact, to interact is to change. In a real way, the universe is a flaw in a jewel. Perfection is a trap." Bleys smiles. "You have two paths to the knowledge you want: theoria and praxis. Both are required, and we shall leave the poiesis to your father."

"Of course," Garrett says levelly, assuming that word means something like "permission." "Uncle, in your opinion, is there an age, or perhaps level of experience, that's the best time for walking the pattern? Martin spoke once about some people walking it too early and some too late. I reckon I'm wondering what the risks of each of those courses would be."

"Chronology is meaningless, but maturity matters. One could be too emotionally immature to survive the test of wills required to walk the pattern at any age. One could be too physically frail to survive the rigors of it as well."

Bleys gives the impression that he's looking Garrett up and down. "You, for example, are certainly physically ready. Emotionally? One's patternwalks are a reflection of one's internal state. Are you ready to let the Universe re-write you, even slightly? Can you force yourself on by sheer will no matter what vision or temptation your own mind dredges up to convince you to stop? It's actually easier if you're somewhat dull. The truly creative have a much rougher time walking the pattern."

Bleys looks into Garrett's eyes. "The pattern is many things, one of which is a barrier to prevent us from going out into the larger world and doing harm to it before we've proven that we can follow a truly difficult task through to completion. The only relevant question is 'do you want it badly enough'?"

Garrett considers his uncle's words carefully, then nods slowly and deliberately. "I want it bad enough," he answers evenly, blue eyes crackling with determination. "To answer your questions, Uncle, over these last several weeks, I've been nothing but rewritten. I'm growing accustomed to the feeling. And I can be stubborn when I have to be. I get that from both sides. I know I'm ready for this."

The younger prince smirks. "And once it's done, I'm not the type to try to turn the world on its head. I know I have a lot more to learn before I can do that. But so much of it can't be taught until I have this behind me."

Bleys holds up his hand, "I don't have an interest in the matter, Prince Garrett, unless your father thinks I encouraged you and glares at me at the wake. The only person you need to answer to is yourself."

Bleys hand drops to his side. "I'll talk to my son and see if he is available for royal math tutoring. He'd be the ideal one, I think."

"All right, though I suspect I'll have to keep him away from my master-at-arms. Sounds like there's some bad blood between them. Issues from their homeland, I believe. You wouldn't know any more about that, would you?" Garrett asks.

Bleys drawls out an answer. "More than I care to, and too much to interfere in my son's affairs of state. He'll have to tell you his stories. He is unlikely to be able to harm Edan, and Edan is unlikely to choose to harm him."

"As long as it stays that way, that's all I care about," Garrett says. For a moment, he looks thoughtful, as if considering whether to ask something else, but then he shakes it off. "Thank you for your time, Uncle. I'll look forward to hearing from Edan. And at some point when I'm farther along in my weapons training, I'll want to ask you about the tactics you used in Chaos. Bringing in the horse. I'm quite interested."

Bleys nods. "The knights were amazing. Speak to Van sometime, from my daughter's household. He was with me. I shall tell you more of it when we both have leisure."

The contact cuts out.

Garrett studies the cards reflectively for another few moments after the trump connection closes, then places the deck carefully back into the leather pouch at his belt. He rises and begins wandering about the garden, trying to convince himself that his wandering is aimless. He fails. The false aimlessness leads him onto the well-trodden servant path at the back of the garden and that in turn leads him down to the Quarters.

He pauses at the edge of the woods, surveying the cottages and rowhouses that he had once known so well, Finally, with a heavy sigh, he strikes off toward one of the rowhouses. Next to the wall, second from the left. Sparrow's house.

[Holding here to determine who, if anyone, is around outside or if the door's open or closed.]

The door is open, as most of them are along this row. A few are shut. They look like they may be shut for good. Two are boarded up.

It's a lot quieter than Garrett remembers it being.

"Good," he mutters under his breath, happy that the move is progressing, but wistful about what that means for his old familiar surroundings. He approaches and knocks on the open door, peeking into the interior as he does. "Sparrow? Phoebe? Anyone here?" he calls.

The household goods are in crates and cases. It's amazing how little it takes to put away a lifetime's worth of living. The place still seems cramped, but may have more space in it than Garrett has ever seen.

Sparrow walks around the boxes. "Garrett?" she says. She doesn't sound pleased to see the King's youngest son.

"Hey," Garrett says softly by way of greeting. That's all he gets out before the awkwardness overcomes him. Despite being a son of the King, he hangs his head and shuffles uncomfortably. "I'd wondered if you all had left yet. I'd hoped to... to, um..."

He trails off, realizing that every way of putting what he wants to say ends up sounding lame. He risks a glance at her, then gazes around at the mass of crates and boxes. "You want a hand with any of this stuff?" he offers instead.

A man sticks his head down from the children's loft. He's holding out several dolls. "Hey, 'Row where does this--" He stops speaking when he sees Garrett. His name is Peat, and he's a few years older than Sparrow or Garrett.

"No, Garrett. We're fine."

"Peat," Garrett says evenly, nodding to the man in cool acknowledgement. Garrett recognizes Peat from his days in the Quarters, but had never had much to do with him then.

He turns to Sparrow. "Can I talk to you?" he asks her, nodding toward the door and sounding serious. "Won't take but a moment." He holds her gaze, the awkwardness now gone from his blue eyes.

She steps outside and crosses her arms.

Garrett steps away from the door as well. His gaze softens a bit as he begins to speak. "Thank you. For listening. I know you're busy, so I'll get right to the point." He sighs heavily. "I'm sorry for the way I handled all this. And I'm deeply sorry for hurting you. You didn't deserve any of it. All you wanted to do was help and I should've let you instead of pushing you away."

He pauses, his gaze dropping to the ground then back up to meet her pretty brown eyes. He stifles a wistful smile as he looks into them. "I just wanted you to know that." He hesitates again, then shakes his head slightly as if there's something he doesn't with to bother her with. "I wish you well," he finishes as brightly as he can, though his smile appears forced.

"So you got what you asked for, and it turned out not to be what you wanted?" She looks back at him, not giving an inch. "I know that feeling." She softens slightly. "I wish you well, too, Prince Garrett. You went about it like a jerk, but you probably weren't wrong to get rid of me."

Garrett takes the venom without flinching. He deserves it, after all. At the last, though, he shakes his head sadly. "No. I was wrong. But done is done," he concedes, glancing at the open doorway where the sound of Peat's packing can still be heard.

"Goodbye, Sparrow. Safe journey," he says, turning away.

"Wait. What's it like? The new place," Her arms are still crossed, but she's not as mad.

Garrett looks back over his shoulder, the hint of a sly smile turning up just the corner of his lip. "Like Amber in the old days," he says. "Back before the Great Storm. Only better. More... magical, somehow. You can feel the promise. Like it's gonna be something big." His smile widens into a confident grin. "You'll like it."

"I always thought that that going away was called 'growing up.'" She shrugs. "We're leaving on the tide. We're following Lady Solange's boat. It's a risk, but it's the one we could get." She straightens. "Goodbye Garrett," she says, looking back past him at the door to her house.

"Take care," Garrett says, deliberately not following her gaze. He turns away and starts walking resolutely down toward the stables, determined to put distance between himself and the pair of them while trying to make it look like he's simply busy rather than uncomfortable.

Once out of earshot, however, he mutters softly, "Chart a safe course, Solange."

Garrett saunters into the stableyard and asks the nearest groom about a horse. He stands by as the horse is prepared and exchanges pleasantries with the man, asking about the state of the stables, how many horses and men are still left, how fares the horsemaster and other questions. As hard as it is for him, he refrains from helping with the actual preparation of the horse, doing his own job as prince by allowing the groom to do his.

The horses that the royal family and important people care for have already been sent to Xanadu, and the rest are here while the castle is the center of Amber. The groom doesn't think they'll be replaced, though. The groom is nervous around a Prince. He's new. The horsemaster is fine, and is with a mare that is foaling.

Garrett does his best not to intimidate the boy, having once been in his shoes. In fact, he tries to treat the lad with the same easy authority that he'd seen a certain young blond prince use before the Sundering.

The groom isn't as steady as Garrett would have been, but he's not incompetent. Shortly, his horse is ready.

Garrett thanks the lad and asks that his regards be sent to the horsemaster when he's available. Then he mounts and rides down the road to town.

It all looks so small. All the places people said would be rebuilt after the fire didn't really get rebuilt. There are still lots that aren't cleared, much less rebuilt. It hasn't been a wash for everyone; there's a few places where the rubble has been replaced with buildings or grass. It looks like one of the horse markets has expanded.

Once he hits the edge of the city, Garrett takes the scenic route, detouring through various districts to see how each has been affected, or has adapted. He studies the results almost statistically - which types of people seem to be leaving, which are more reluctant - and considers what else might be done, short of royal proclamation, to urge the hold-outs to move on. The port is his last stop.

The poor seem most willing to go, and the younger they are the more likely. Those with families are especially prone. The sick or the the old, less so. Foreigners from the foreign quarter are anxious, except for the devout religionists, who seem not to trust the crown.

Some who wish to stay seem to be making their fortune buying and selling from the soon to be departed.

Garrett is more recognizable than he'd've expected. There are decorative plates in the window of a store with the images of Random, Vialle, Martin, and himself on them. His image looks almost like him, as if he'd been described to the potter.

"Huhn," Garrett snorts in pleased bewilderment as he gazes at them.

The port is no longer quiet, but the ships aren't from in from a double-dozen seas. It's mostly loading, not unloading.

Garrett dismounts in front of the harbormaster's office and enters the building.

The harbormaster's office is a hive of activity. As he enters, a young sailor straightens. "Prince Garrett!" Activity stops and a sailor slips into the back. An older seaman looks over. "Your Highness, may we be of assistance?"

There's a slate board behind him, with the departure dates for a dozen ships on it.

"At ease, gentlemen" Garrett addresses the assembled sailors as he sweeps in. "I merely wish to check on the progress of the migration and as such, do not wish to interrupt your handling of that. Please carry on."

He turns to speak to the older seaman. "So tell me," he asks, nodding at the slate board, "how does this compare with recent activity? Is this an average day or a busy one?"

"Busy, Highness. We hope it stays this way. With Lady Solange laying a path, every ship and sailor are trying to set sail."

"As well they should. Path-layers are thin on the ground here lately," Garrett concurs.

The harbormaster comes out from his office. "Your highness, how kind of you to come. We were expecting Lord Archer, but he was unavailable. Are you aware of the nature of the crime?"

Garrett can't hide his surprise. "Crime?" he exclaims. "No. I arrived from Xanadu just today. What happened?"

"Oh! Your pardon, highness, I assumed that you'd come down due to our request to the castle. Captain Moss captured a stowaway on his vessel. We normally would have just sent him to prison, but he claims he is a diplomat, and entitled to immunity.

"We're not really gaolers, Your Highness. We don't know what to do with him."

"A diplomat from where? And what have you done with him so far?" Garrett asks.

"Asiria," says the harbormaster. "Asir Island."

Garrett's eyes narrow in thought. It's evident by his expression that the name means little or nothing to him. "Was he stowing away to leave or to come here? Where is he?"

"He was on a ship to Xanadu. Asirians are bad luck on ships." A sailor spits on the floor at the name. "He's in the basement."

Garrett raises an eyebrow at the vehemence of the sailor's reaction. "All right. I'll talk to him. Make him see the error of his ways," Garrett says, resigning himself to duty. "Take me to him."

The harbormaster says "Thank you, your highness, this way." He turns to the sailor and says "Bring him up to my office."

Garrett is taken into the harbormaster's office and a man is brought in, his hands bound with stout rope.

"Here he is, highness."

Garrett nods his thanks to the harbormaster.

The man's head is bowed. His temple is bruised, but not actually bloody.

Garrett walks around the man appraisingly, his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He says nothing for several minutes, but merely regards the man with a steely gaze. Finally, he faces the prisoner fully. "Talk," he orders.

"I am the Asirian ambassador to Amber. I need to speak with her King, Random. It is a matter of state."

"And could you not speak with his Regent, Prince Caine, here?" Garrett inquires.

"I cannot." He does not explain. "It is not a matter that is amenable to such. I can pay my way to Xanadu if necessary, but they will not take it."

"And you offered payment?" Garrett asks, shooting an inquiring, and somewhat accusatory, glance at the harbormaster as well.

"Everyone can pay, and offers to, after'n they're caught," replies the harbormaster.

Garrett concedes that point with a nod.

"I looked for a ship for weeks. They are only taking Amberites who are moving to Xanadu. I was not welcomed."

"Well then," Garrett says, crossing his arms before him. "We'll have to find some other way to get your message through. I'm reluctant to boot emigrants off the boats to make room for you when we've been trying so hard to get them to leave. As a son of the King, I can take a message back when I return to Xanadu. Write something up."

He looks troubled. "Your highness, I dare not commit to paper the message I have, for fear that it might be inadvertently disclosed. It would be worth my life and more. I must see the King myself."

"I suspected as much, but it was worth a try," Garrett says with a nod. "Your other option, as I see it, is to tell me the message and have me relay it back to my father the King. This could be done in private if you're worried about disclosure." He turns to the harbormaster. "This can be arranged, I'm certain?" The question does not really sound much like a question.

The harbormaster gestures towards his men, who precede him from the room. "A sailor will be in the hall for your convenience, Highness."

"Thank you," Garrett nods graciously, then turns to the Asirian.

The Asirian looks at Garrett. "Is it enough to say that our complaint is about Prince Caine?" He looks as if he is expecting the answer to be 'no'.

He is not disappointed. "That's hardly enough to be concerned about disclosure," Garrett observes.

The young prince sits on the edge of the desk with his left foot remaining on the floor and leans one elbow on his leg, a pose that one might consider casual if there were anything casual about the encounter. The relaxed air does not extend to Garrett's eyes.

"So, your name, if you would. I like to know who I'm talking to. Then the specifics. In that order."

He swallows, then nods. "I will tell you, my Prince, although it may mean my life. You now have it in your hands, so please be aware that I value it."

Garrett nods once, solemnly.

"I am Slaine, of the Princely Household of Armet in Asir City, attached to the embassy here. We have evidence that Prince Caine is conspiring with certain Asirians to commit and act of war against our people and assassinate an Asirian nobleman.

"We would have the King stop him."

Garrett's expression is hard and serious. "What sort of evidence?" he asks quietly so the conversation won't carry.

"We have captured one of the assassins. She tells of meeting with Caine and extracting a promise that he would provide them sanctuary in Amber after they did their task."

His head bows. "We do not expect justice, we merely want interference in Asirian matters stopped."

"Understood," Garrett nods, his eyes still narrowed critically. "Tell me more about this assassin. It's a woman, I take it. Was she caught in the act? If not, how was she caught? And who was her intended victim?"

"She was caught breaking into our T-- Embassy. We had warning of her coming, and captured her. She told us all. She would have assassinated a man named Mhet, who shall one day rule Asiria."

"Not a very tight-lipped assassin then, to spill everything as soon as she was caught," Garrett observes skeptically. "And you have other evidence to back up her claims? Or you just took her words at face value?"

Slaine's eyes narrow for a moment, and he speaks rapidly. "Do you think us fools? We took it from her mind."

"You can do that?" Garrett blurts out, his youthful inexperience showing. He stands and begins to pace, partly to cover his lapse and partly to help him think. "Anyway, to the rest of the question," he says, recovering his composure. "Do you have any other evidence to support your claim?"

The man watches Garrett pace. "No. Which is why we wanted to discuss it with his majesty, rather than publishing it in the broadsheets."

"Wise choice," Garrett observes. He pauses in his pacing and sighs. "All right. Here's the deal. I'll present your story to my father. If he wants to speak with you further, he can order a captain to transport you. In the meantime, you sit tight here. I'll let you go back to your Embassy, provided the Embassy makes restitution for any damages or lost revenue caused by your... stowage. I'll get those figures from the captain."

"I took nothing nor damaged the vessel. I am not a thief." Other than that, he waits on Garrett's pleasure.

"If that is indeed the case, then the cost of one passage, paid by your Embassy to the captain for his trouble, should suffice," Garrett decides. "You can wait here until that is settled, then you're free to go. Someone will be in touch if the King has further need of you." He nods once then leaves the room.

[Assuming Garrett asks that harbormaster, he'll agree that there's no damage, but he thinks the captain will claim such, that being the way of captains.]

Garrett does indeed ask, then explains his judgment to the harbormaster. The fare for one standard passage to Xanadu, with no premiums for Asirian connections, will be the captain's recompense, per order of His Royal Highness Prince Garrett. He doesn't say that in so many words, but the harbormaster should get the gist.

[What now, oh Prince?]

[Though his player cringes, Garrett has decided that he should head back to the castle in time to take supper with Uncle Caine. It's still way too early for Solange to have made it to Xanadu yet. If he meets up with other PCs in town, that's fine too.]