Towards the evening Ossian will send a messenger to Regenlief asking if she wants to take a walk with him. Assuming she agrees, he will take her for a walk along the Seine.
He will chitchat for a while, but the he says : "The Klybesians had another prisoner I would have liked to free, but I chose to bargain for your release.
"Had they not told me you were the mother of an Amberite, I might have chosen differently, despite counting you as a friend."
Regenlief has put aside her armor and helmet; apparently someone told her that it wouldn't be fantastic form in the streets of Paris. She has cleaned up and someone's attempted to make a fashionable gentleperson (closer to a man, but there's no hiding that she's a woman) out of her. The odds of her being a fashionable denizen of any bank of Paris ever are low.
Ossian finds this hilarious, but does not show it.
"Then that was the first stroke of luck it ever brought me," she tells Ossian, unconcerned by the possibility of prying ears in the park. "Who was the other prisoner? I'd hate to see some poor bastard left in the clutches of the Klybesians for too long."
Ossian looks sad. "A friend of Reid's, a woman from here, Papillon." But he is not to be distracted. "Please tell me about this child of yours, where is it now?"
"I don't know," Regenlief says flatly. "It was taken from me after I gave birth. I never saw the child again." It's a story she's rehearsed enough to give her a veneer of frosty equanimity about the story, although Ossian can see right through it. "It's not a happy story. I don't dwell on the matter. It was a long time ago. I hope my child had a good life, but that's all I can do."
"It is dangerous to be a child of Amber. Who is the father, and who took the child? We will need to find it to protect it."
She looks at Ossian as if he's said something somewhat stupid. Maybe he has. "The Klybesians took my baby. I was in their employ when I met the man who might have been the father. A mercenary: some called him Ramble and others called him Gamble, depending on who you listened to. His forces and mine fought the agents of the Black Road. The Klybesians have their grudges against Amber, but even they knew the Black Road was bad news." She presses her lips together for a moment and adds, "If I had to guess what happened to it, I'd think they had it raised in their faith, to be brainwashed into serving them later. If a child of Amber is dangerous, they'd think it was powerful, and they'd harness that power however they could."
Ossian pulls out his Trump deck. " Would you be able to identify the father from a picture?"
"Probably. Depends on the picture." Regenlief shrugs, a gesture that her outfit clearly wasn't designed to accommodate. "Why? Do you think you have an idea of who the father might be?" Her voice has taken on an edge of nerves and suspicion; this is clearly not a topic she's comfortable with. "If he's looking to marry me and legitimize his claim to the throne of Amber with an heir, he can think again. I'm not interested in Amber's civil wars; I have a few wars of my own to prosecute," she tells him firmly.
Ossian smiles. "I would not think marriage is a risk. Nor civil war at the moment.
"But I have a few guesses." He flips through his Trump deck until he finds the card of Random. "This one?"
Regenlief takes the card and examines it. "Cold," she notes. "I don't know this man," she says after looking at him for a bit. "Who else do you have in mind? I can tell you it's not the dark-haired fellow, the one who's King here, either. I never saw him before." She hands the card back to Ossian. He can tell from the way she hands it over that she doesn't have the proper care that she ought to have with Trumps.
(Ossian suspects that Corwin wouldn't throw Regnelief out of bed for eating crackers based on the way he looked at her, but Corwin likes dark-haired women.)
Ossian nods. He picks out his sketch book. He flicks through it until he finds a half finished sketch of Brennan. (a non-trump one) He decides it is good enough. "This man then?"
Regenlief takes the sketchbook from Ossian and examines the sketch closely. She handles it the same way she handled the trump. "The clothes are different, but obviously that could be changed. We go from place to place and clothes and customs change. But that could be him. If you put him in the right gear and dragged him through a battle and a half against the Black Road, that could be him.
"Who is he, and where is he now? Do you know?" She looks up from the Trump to watch Ossian's response to the question.
"He would have looked more warlike, yes. He's probably far from here right now, but he moves around a lot. I guess I could reach him given a week or two."
Ossian sighs "His name is Brennan. Do you know of a town called Abford?"
"Never heard of it." On that point Regenlief is certain. "I moved around a lot, though, during the war. I didn't catch all the names, though. Tell me what it was like and I might remember it, if it was somewhere I went through in a rush." She glances back down at the sketch of Brennan. "Sometimes we had forward motion against the Black Road for a little while but for the most part it was a fighting retreat."
Ossian describes Abford in some detail, and adds: "I grew up in an orphanage there, not knowing who my parents were. I have learned since that Brennan is my father."
Regenlief is shaking her head here and there as he describes Abford, which apparently sounds to her like any of a number of shadows she's been through, until that very last bit. Then she stops and stares at Ossian, really stares at him. Then she eyes Ossian's hands, which have the calluses of a painter and not a swordsman or archer. "Are you trying to tell me you think you're my son?"
"I think it is possible. We should have someone test it." Ossian looks at her. Does he and Regenlief look alike at all?
"Test it how?" Regenlief asks at once, eyes still narrow and suspicious. She may be a little in shock, Ossian can feel. "Do your princes of Amber have a way of knowing such things? Because I've been told the Klybesians do, and nothing of theirs is simple or easy. Or free." She presses her lips together for a moment. "It's a good thing you didn't let on who you were, because if they had any idea, they'd never have let you out of there."
Ossian nods. "It would be fun if they missed that. But it certainly seems that way. There are ways to test parenthood, I think, but that is not my art. Brennan knows how to do it, though."
Regenlief shifts uncomfortably from one leg to the other as they stand in the grass by the river. "How long will it take him to come and do whatever it is he wants to do? Will it involve bleeding?" Her face twists a little in distaste. "I don't like having blood taken. The Klybesians used blood in their divinations."
Ossian frowns. "I hope to get in touch with him within a week. To be honest I do not know about the blood, but I think something else would suffice. Hair maybe."
The look of distaste on her face shifts slightly. "How much hair? I don't mind giving up a few strands, but I'd rather not cut it off." Another thought occurs to her. "You're going to be in touch how? By bringing him here, going to him, or some other magic?"
"I will first talk with him across the world's with the help of some magic, then we decide how to proceed. Preparing that magic will take a number of days."
"All right," Regenlief unbends a little, or at least the stiffness in her posture releases. "I don't have anywhere else to be. I can wait that long." Nothing about this situation seems to please her, though. "And what happens after that depends on what we find out."
Garrett arrives at the appointed meeting place at the appointed time to find Heap already waiting. He motions toward an alley behind the building and leads Heap into it. After checking to see that no one else is around to notice, Garrett turns his back to his companion and self-consciously pulls out his trump deck. Unsure about how much Heap knows about this process and uncertain about non-emergency, non-family Trump protocol, he keeps the cards close to his chest, shuffles Corwin's trump to the top of the deck, and concentrates.
Heap doesn't seem to have a very good idea of what's going on, but he's very interested in it.
Once he's pulled the trump and concentrated, there is a moment or two before Garrett is sure he's caught Corwin, at which point the picture of Corwin clarifies into him in some interior room, probably a study, at Paris.
"Who's there?" Corwin asks.
[Assuming a clear answer.]
"What can I do for you, nephew?" he asks.
"Well, sir, I have someone here who needs to be brought to Paris on Prince Jerod's orders. I have business there myself as well. Would you prefer us to travel by trump or shall we come the long way?" he asks. While he's not exactly hiding the trump from Heap, he's not openly sharing the view either.
"I can bring you through." Corwin's eyes narrow a little. "Who do you have with you and why does Jerod want him brought through to Paris?" Corwin is coming to his feet, probably to make room for Garrett and his guest, or maybe to get out of the room before he brings them through.
"A man from Amber by the name of Heap, sir. Jerod wished him to deliver a message to a... woman named Silken, who we believe has relocated to Paris," he reports. If Corwin still seems willing to bring them through after this information, he takes Heap by the elbow and readies himself for transport.
"A moment," Corwin says, and steps out of the room through two sets of French doors and a hallway out onto a lawn. The first door clicks securely shut behind Corwin. Wherever he was, he doesn't want Heap to appear there.
[OOC: I'm pretty sure Garrett has been in Corwin's study in Paris and if so, he'd recognize the room as where Corwin had been as the study.]
Garrett waits patiently for Corwin to choose the entry point. He had been expecting some sort of advance preparation.
Once he's out on the lawns of the Louvre, Corwin offers his hand to Garrett. "Send him through, and then I'll bring you through. If this Silken is in Paris, we'll find her."
Garrett does as instructed. Once he's through himself, he makes the proper introductions and continues, "Silken is from The Red Mill, Uncle. She'd likely have settled in a similar position here. Unless she used her connections with Lucas to move up in the world." He glances at Heap inquiringly.
"I'm not as familiar with the houses of that sort here as I was in Amber," Corwin admits, though Garrett suspects that Corwin has more familiarity with the clubs of that sort in both Ambder and Paris than he might like to admit.
"I will be glad to help Your Majesty in any way you might require," Heap interjects, bowing his head obsequiously to Corwin.
Corwin's attention is still on Garrett, however. "We'll ask Flora about Lucas' connections," he continues, as if Heap hadn't said anything. "I don't think it would be wise to ask the widow about his connections of that sort. Even if, as I suspect, they're not primarily for entertainment."
"True," Garrett agrees, not mentioning that he had already asked Solace vague questions in that regard on his last visit. He continues, "Though, is that something he would have shared with his mother?" His ears go slightly pink at that line of thought.
"Clearly you never saw my sister interacting with her son," Corwin says drily, ignoring the bugged-out eyes of Heap. "Now let's get you and your guest settled for the duration of your stay. Alice is my chatelaine, and she'll see that you're tended to and have appropriate servants to care for your needs. And the same for your man here." He glances at Heap, who is desperately delighted to receive such a promotion.
Corwin adds, "Unless there's something else you need now."
Garrett grimaces slightly at Heap's elation, but his attention remains on his uncle. "Thank you, sir. No, there's nothing else at the moment. I... we'll... get settled first. I can find Alice myself, if you're busy," he offers.
"We'll summon her once we go inside. She'll know how to make all the necessary arrangements." Corwin smiles and, with his face turned toward Garrett and away from Heap, winks.
Once Alice has shown Garrett and Heap to their rooms and bustled off busily to her next task, Garrett turns to Heap and says, "Now then. We're here. What did Prince Jerod want you to do?"
Heap can't seem to decide whethet he's relieved or unnerved that they're in Paris and under the scrutiny of Corwin and his people. Paris is very different to Amber, and the palace is probably more luxurious than anything he's seen in his whole life. Garrett has no trouble reading the naked ambition in him.
"He wanted me to take a message to Silken, Your Highness," Heap says, his tone dropping into that grovelling sound that Garrett has come to know so well from talking to him. "Once we find out where she is, we can do that as soon as possible, I hope? I would hate to disappoint Prince Jerod."
"And I reckon he didn't give you any hints on where you might find her once you got here?" Garrett asks doubtfully.
Heap has to think about this for a moment, but he comes up with an answer pretty quickly. It's entirely possible he's not making this up as he goes along. "He told me to deliver the message without fail. But I know that the man who handled all Lord Lucas' business in Amber was the tobacconist Prudenter, who removed to Paris to continue to provide... cigarettes. If anyone knows the whereabouts of Silken, it will be the tobacconist." Heap beams, as if he's done something particularly clever.
Heap has Garrett's attention on this. The young prince frowns. Something about "the tobacconist" sounds VERY familiar, in a Connected-with-Martin sort of way. "All right," he muses quietly, rubbing his chin in thought. "You're good on the streets. Do you think you can find this person if I leave you loose to wander? Not talk to him. Just find him?"
"I can do that." Still beaming, Heap nods enthusiastically at Garrett. "I can send back to the palace for you, if you like, and follow him if he leaves wherever he is, Your Highness. I will not fail you!" Or perhaps not Prince Jerod, who is a more fearsome fellow than Garrett by some significant measure.
"No, don't send anyone back. Just watch him a bit, then come tell me. I'd rather not bring anyone but us into this," Garrett says, emphasizing the "us" very slightly. He's not above using Heap's ingratiating nature to his own advantage if it's convenient. "In the meantime, I'll talk to my aunt to see if she knows of any other contacts."
"Very well, Your Highness." Heap bows, and once Garrett dismisses him, scuttles off into the city to spy on the tobacconist for the prince.
When Ossian gets back to his room in Corwin's palace he goes through his collection of inks, brushes and paper. "You have travelled to much." he decides, and goes into town to buy the best art supplies he can get.
Then he looks at himself in a mirror (carefully covering it afterwards) "I'm not sure that was helpful at all" he says to himself, before starting on a sketch of Brennan.
Ossian will spend a whole day painting. He wants that sketch afterwards too. Then he takes a deep breath and tries to use it.
There is no sense of immediate connection, but Ossian doesn't think the trump has failed; it's more like Brennan cannot be contacted just now for whatever reason. He's too distracted to take the call or otherwise occupied or something.
Ossian sighs and puts away the sketch of his father. He flicks through his deck until he finds the Trump of Random. "Reporting time. " he mutters to himself.
Random replies almost instantly from the chamber behind the throne room. He's wearing a crown and a regal-looking robe and Ossian guesses that someone is fitting it on him. "Ossian, I was wonderering how you were getting along. How goes it?"
Ossian grins and then turns somber. "I'm in Paris. Have met the Klybesian monks, who told me Reid's dead. It will not be easy to confirm however."
Random pauses, considering. Eventually he asks two questions. "Did they kill him? Do you know if he made a death-curse?"
"They said they didn't, whatever their word is worth. I have no idea if he made a curse. Is there a way to tell?"
"To tell about a death curse? You usually tell by the consequences. If the Klybesians were cursed by Reid, we might not know for decades, but it will be inexorable and permanent. Entire shadows have been removed from the cosmos by a well-phrased death-curse. Save yours for the enemies of the Pattern.
Ossian nods. "Booring." he thinks to himself.
"Please pass this message to them from me. 'The family of Reid of Amber claim his body and will soon send a delegation to recover it. If there is the slightest resistance to our reasonable and just request, the Klybesian Order will find the consequences will make the death-curse of a Prince of Amber seem mild by comparison.'" Random pauses. "And after you tell them that, skedaddle. There's no small-talk after a lovely threat like that."
Ossian frowns. "I gather you want me to go back there to deliver that message? And that you have a reason for that... Hm. Harsh wording?"
Random nods. "Let 'em guess on my meaning or reasons. If you want to indulge in speculation with them on the subject if the king's tone, lead them towards 'I think he is annoyed that you didn't tell him without being asked.' I don't know that they did something I don't like here, but I know they do things I don't like in general."
Random's eyes move, as if he's making eye contact with someone on his end, out of Ossian's sight.
"I understand you are busy. One last thing." Ossian grins. "I would love to deliver that message. How quickly do you need it to get there?"
Random nods to Ossian's grin. "How far out of your way is it? You can deliver it to any highly-placed godbotherer you can find, if it's inconvenient or risky. You've gotta get these messages to them fast. Monks are like puppies; you can't teach 'em what's bad unless you basically catch them in the act."
Random reaches his hands up above his head, and someone puts a jacket on him. "Go forth and rattle them for me. Observe how they react, and let me know if they drop anything useful. Does that make sense?"
"It will take me a few days to get there. Anything else?"
Random cocks his head slightly, as if thinking. "Other than 'Don't get killed'? Nope. I figure that's a good assignment for now. Should be easy-peasy."
"Heh. If you don't hear from me, please have someone Trump me."
Ossian will try to get some kind of armed escorts for his trip to the Klybesians, Firumbras would be ok, for instance. He will also ask Corwin if he wants Ossian to simultaneously demand the release of Papillon.
Corwin wants Papillon back, yes, but Random's message comes first. He suggests that Ossian ask for her to show Random and Corwin that Reid died of something other than being murdered by the Klybesians, not that Ossian should say things that way. Macy's doesn't tell Gimbel's that either, unless it wants a lawsuit.
Sounds reasonable.
He'll definitely send Firumbras or Lancelot with on this one, but suggests recruiting a family member might also be worthwhile. Someone who could make a firm martial impression would be ideal.
Heh. Who is available? I know Marius is, but his former experience with the monks might render him unsuitable.
NPCwise, Marius may be it. Unless you want to try for Merlin or Ambrose--and you might could get someone from Team Rebma if you talked to Ambrose. Merlin is on an errand, last we saw him, but you can ask him. Mind, he doesn't cut an impressive figure, but he's probably the most powerful of the youngers.
Or possibly Raven will be getting in touch with Ossian and that will do instead?
Ossian will not drag Merlin to the Klybesians, for various reasons. If Raven calls, that could be a fun solution.
Back in his sitting room, Garrett drafts a note to his aunt. He writes slowly and carefully, recalling childhood lessons in penmanship at his da's side; lessons that were largely ignored as he grew older, except on those rare occasions when he was called upon to write formally. If anything could be called a formal occasion, a meeting with Aunt Flora certainly qualifies.
Dear Aunt Flora,
I have returned to Paris and would like to meet with you, as your schedule permits. Perhaps a late lunch on a quiet veranda could be arranged?
Garrett
He sends the note off with a page and takes some time to clean up and dress in proper Parisian finery while waiting for a response.
After an exchange of notes, Florimel agrees to meet him for tea in one of the salons. When he arrives, she is a vision of loveliness, in the current fashion--which Garrett suspects she set, since it's perfectly suited to her complexion, coloring, and form--seated on the low sofa, with handsome Irish wolfhounds to keep them company.
She rises, though by rights she does not have to, being both the lady and the elder of the two, not to mention in her own place. The swan is in her movement, as the song says, and the morning in her smile. "Prince Garrett," she says, and her voice is like silver bells tinkling. "How lovely to see you."
Garrett bows from the neck formally, momentarily as lost for words as an illiterate docksider asked to recite epic poetry. "Thank you for agreeing to see me, Aunt Flora," he says, regaining speech. "The pleasure is mine. I trust that Paris is treating you well." He moves toward the chair she just vacated and touches it in a gesture of gentlemanly politeness, inviting her to sit, though he is fully aware that, manners or not, his aunt will make her own rules.
Her lips curl upward at the corners and her eyes crinkle in amusement and pleasure as she seats herself and politely gestures to Garrett to join her. The grey--she is, technically, still in mourning--of her skirt spills over the fabric of Corwin's sofa. "Do join me, and tell me how things have been. Did you come from Xanadu or Amber? How were your travels? How does everyone fare?"
This is all standard fare; Martin warned Garrett about it. She's older and more powerful and has the office of host. It's Garrett's place, Random's son or not, to give his news first, at least according to family etiquette.
Garrett settles in for a long chat, feeling rather like a mouse caught between the paws of a tail-twitching tabby. Accustomed by now to family etiquette, he begins speaking without hesitation. "I come from both, actually. Amber most recently, but only briefly, and I saw none of the Family there. I was here fairly recently, as you know, and went back to Xanadu for a short time before going to Amber. Father caught me up on developments there, chiefly that Bleys and Edan have been poking the Moonriders with sticks. His words, not mine."
"Oh, that sounds quite fascinating," Florimel says with a knowing nod. "Bleys always finds such interesting ways to get himself into trouble, and that son of his seems likely to follow in his footsteps. I'm sure that they'll come back with delightful stories of the scrapes they've evaded soon enough."
As if on cue--and perhaps it was cued by his entrance--a page comes in with a tray of tea and food: little crustless sandwiches and delectable little sugary treats. He sets it down on the table before Flora's sofa and bows to the Princess and Garrett before retreating.
"You may pour." Apparently that's an honor. "And how does Queen Vialle fare?"
Garrett nods his thanks to the servant then makes his best effort to pour a proper tea [and as his player has no idea how to do this, assume Garrett learned from Vialle]. "Father says she's doing better," he replies, "but it's a slow recovery. He didn't say more than that, but that's not unusual. He's been vague about it all along." He allows his concern for his step-mother to show on his face, assuming Flora to be adept at reading expression.
"He mentioned that the Moonriders are growing more active, though he didn't seem to feel there was reason for immediate concern in Xanadu. He didn't mention Amber, but there's not much there to pillage anymore anyway. I reckon that Corwin would be monitoring threats here as well?" He says this as a question, though he can't imagine that Corwin wouldn't be watching the situation closely.
However he's doing, and Garrett suspects his tea-pouring skills aren't up to snuff, based on the gentle guidance he gets here and there from Florimel, Florimel is nothing but complimentary toward his efforts. Once the tea is served, she waits for Garrett to serve himself some of the little crustless sandwiches--the little roast beefs are clearly there for his benefit--before taking a single cucumber half-sandwich of her own. Clearly she doesn't eat like a prince of Amber, or at least doesn't in front of one.
Roast beef sandwiches, crustless or not, are something that this young prince of Amber cannot resist. He helps himself and downs one quickly, with passable manners and no crumbs dropped, as his aunt speaks.
"I'm sure he does; I know he's in close contact with your father and, I'm sure, Caine. Corwin is old enough and remembers enough of the last time we fought them not to take the Moonriders lightly."
Eager interest lights Garrett's eyes at this. "Did Corwin ever speak to you of it? The last time we fought them, I mean?"
Florimel smiles, as she often does when she speaks of the old days before Oberon died. "I've heard the tale of his heroism, and Bleys' and Benedict's, many times, but I wasn't present. Father had sent me to Rebma to see me safe from the Moondriders. It was only in the recent war, when things became more desperate, that I was allowed to participate." She takes a sip of her tea, eyes meeting Garrett's over the curving rim. The cup does not clink when she sets it into the saucer. "What in particular would you like to know?"
"I wish I knew, exactly," Garrett begins, the remainder of the little sandwich forgotten between his fingers. "I keep thinking about the encounter we had with the Marshall, when we rescued the Queen. I go over it, trying to remember something I missed, or something I should ask my aunts and uncles about. What I keep coming back to is a feeling of... I don't know... coldness? Dread? The idea that the Queen could be possessed as she seemed to be... and wondering if that could be done to one of us, or if she was vulnerable because she wasn't one of us. Do you recall any mention of... that sort of attack?"
A delicate bite from one of the cucumber sandwiches gives Florimel some time to think about that. She ultimately shakes her head in the negative. "The chief magical attributes I've heard of--and seen, though never at close range--are their abilities to move things in space and time, presumably sorcerously. Which is not to say they don't have other magical powers, and that those of us of the royal blood don't have particular strength in resisting their magics. But neither their legendary powers, nor their witnessed powers in the last war, include possession. Not of our forces, nor of their own."
Garrett pops the last bit of sandwich into his mouth and ponders this as he chews. "That fits with what we saw," he says once his mouth is no longer full. "The images, I mean. I reckon they could have been scenes out of time rather than ghosts or some kind of possession. Or... perhaps that's what ghosts ARE. Scenes out of time."
He shudders at this, his thoughts going deeper than he'd planned for this particular conversation. "Anyway, that wasn't really what I asked to meet you for," he resumes. "I wondered if you knew where I might find of one of Lucas's... um... associates from Amber. A woman by the name of Silken."
Florimel laughs. "His mistress, you mean. Maitresse-en-titre, as we would say here in Paris. I know he kept her at Red Mill and that certain arrangements were made for her after his death. But I don't know where she is now, and I would very much like to find out. I think someone removed her, and I do hope--" her smile turns down around the edges a little "--that it was not a permanent sort of removal. Since we do know that poor dear Lucas had enemies."
Garrett is relieved to find Lucas's mother so matter-of-fact about the idea of a mistress. His own mother certainly wouldn't be. He relaxes visibly, though her last comment concerns him once more. "If you don't mind my asking, Aunt Flora, what makes you think that? Back in Amber, they seemed to think she had simply moved to Paris. No one was alarmed, as far as I knew. Have you heard something more?"
"I have heard nothing, and that is why I believe she has been removed," Florimel explains. "She is not in Paris. I am aware of all of the ladies who practice the arts of love at her level, who are mistresses of the gentlemen of the court. Moreover, I was somewhat aware of Lucas' affairs--not of all of them, obviously, but those that a discreet ear in the right place could make one privy to--and I know she has not been in contact with any of his other agents. The ones who now report to me know better than to keep such news from me." She smiles sweetly at Garrett.
"Indeed," Garrett agrees seriously, acutely aware of the steel beneath the sweet smile. He rubs his chin thoughtfully and picks up another sandwich, more to have something to hold in his hand that because of true hunger. "Aunt, have you heard of someone named Scarlett? I believe she's in Xanadu now, but she's from the Amber Docksides originally. Her name has come up more than once as someone who bears watching."
Florimel sniffs, but not unkindly. "A woman of the Docksides generally is beneath the notice of the court. But," she relents, "if it was someone one of the Princes noted, perhaps. I don't know her in relationship to Lucas, but if she's the woman I think you mean, I know she's had Silken's attention a time or two before I left for Paris. I had concluded that she was related somehow to Silken." Her gaze falls onto Garrett. "What makes you think there's something more to her that makes her worthy of our attenion?"
"Only that she had my brother's attention before he left Xanadu, and Jerod's recently. Both were in the 'watch out for That One' sense," Garrett explains. "It seems a bit too coincidental that Silken, who I always heard could take care of herself, should mysteriously disappear when Scarlett turned up."
This captures Florimel's interest enough that she sets aside her cup for a moment and leans in to look closely at Garrett, sort of in the way that a cat might look at a tastily interesting mouse. "That could be taken to mean any number of things. Are you suggesting that Scarlett removed Silken somehow? Or something more interesting? I'm fairly certain people have seen them in the same place at the same time, but as Caine has demonstrated, that's not necessarily proof of anything." Another sniff, disdainful, at that.
Garrett's dark brows arch, startled. "The first one, certainly. I...had not even considered the second possibility until this moment," he admits, though his newly-thoughtful tone indicates he's thinking it now. "Do you think that's possible?"
"I doubt that Silken is sufficiently powerful or closely enough related to manage Caine's trick. I'm sure there are some of us who couldn't, if only because of the fortitude it takes to provide the corpse." Another Florimelish moue of distaste covers that situation, though talk of corpses doesn't seem to have interrupted her appetite for tea or tea-cakes. "But it's quite possible. Your father has explained to you about Shadow duplicates, n'est-ce pas?"
"Not specifically, no, but he's not much for long explanations," Garrett replies. "I heard stories about Caine's return from the dead back when it happened, but it was mostly servant gossip."
"They had a body, of course, because it wouldn't have been credible without. I saw it," Florimel explains. "I didn't think anything of it at the time. We thought Benedict was dead after twenty-odd years, and Corwin had been dead for longer, but there had been uncertainty. Caine wanted to be certain we didn't look for him, and to pin the business on Corwin. So he walked into a close shadow and removed the shadow-Caine from that place, killed him, and left the body for us to find." The corners of her mouth turn up and she nods, approvingly.
"But why?" Garrett asks, intrigued. "What did he do while he was gone? All I remember was that he showed up in Chaos at the final battle and killed... Brand." The change in his eyes and voice on that last word is abrupt, as though a long-known legend has suddenly become alarmingly personal. Which it has. "Did he know about Martin?" Garrett asks quietly.
"That's a question you'd do better asking him. It seemed at the time like a feint against Corwin, but Caine wasn't the only one acting against him, or on the assumption that he was behind whatever was happening, so I could be wrong about that." If she were carrying a fan, Florimel might be opening it and looking over it at Garrett. Instead she merely bats her eyes. "I suppose you have more freedom of action when you're believed to be dead. Between Benedict and Caine and our father, all the best people were doing it."
Garrett snorts in amusement. "To the point where it would no longer work from overuse, I reckon," he says with a wry smirk.
"Back to the point though, Aunt Flora," he continues, reaching for another meat sandwich. "Silken is still missing. Do you think any of the 'agents' you mentioned might be able to help find her?"
"If she fled on her own, through routes that dwellers in the city can take out of Paris, quite possibly. Paris doesn't have a Golden Circle yet, but it will in due time. Some of those places have stable routes, and those are being--let us say 'explored' by Royal agents. If Silken is there, it's quite likely she'll be found.' The corners of Florimel's mouth turn up predatorily. "But if she's been removed by someone who can cross shadow paths, with or without her cooperation, all bets are off."
"Well," Garrett sighs, "I reckon I'll have to cross that path when I come to it. Best to start at the beginning though. Could you put me in touch with your people? Or put the word out to them if you'd prefer not to reveal your contacts?" He smiles slyly at that last bit. Ladies, especially royal ones, must be allowed their secrets, after all.
Florimel purses her lips slightly and considers matters. "I could certainly ask for discreet enquiries to be made. It may take a little time for results to arrive. How long will you be staying? How should I reach you if something interesting turns up and you've gone on your way?" She looks inquiringly at Garrett over the rim of her teacup.
(She does not do anything interesting with her pinky when she drinks, Garrett has noted. Either the legends are untrue or the fashion has changed.)
"This is my prime job now, so I should be here until it's settled," Garrett explains while finishing off his sandwich. "If I'm not, I reckon I'd be in Xanadu and you can ask Father."
"Then I will be sure, when I hear something one way or another, to let you know." Florimel sets her teacup down and nods by way of signalling her agreement to the favour.
Last modified: 4 January 2014