After Breakfast

Merlin is looking after Random, but with the King's departure, he turns his attention back to Celina. At Ossian's approach, he smiles at his cousin.

Ossian smiles as he approaches. "I didn't expect you back so soon! But your arrival makes this bleak day much brighter, Merlin. And your arrival too, cousin Celina." If allowed Ossian will kiss Celina's hand.

The lady permits easily. "I thank you for your welcome ... cousin. Is the day bleak because of the fall of Amber or this discussion about it? I'm not sure I understand. Are there more dark tidings?"

"Let us hope not. I have had enough of dark tidings for a while," Merlin says. He adds, "Cousin Ossian here is an Artist." He stresses the last word for Celina's benefit.

The young woman nods at Ossian. "I respect the power of Art. I hope to see some of Amber's Art while I am here. What branch of Art do you prefer, cousin?"

"I have no special preferences." Ossian says with a smile "Although I am best at painting. And no, I have no more dark tidings for the time being.

This last seems to brighten her smile.

"You seem to have arrived in the nick of time to see Amber's art before Amber falls. I should be able to give you a tour, as long as the King doesn't have other duties for me." Ossian seems to be less calm than he usually is and more alert.

Celina's smile disappears in the middle of Ossian's comments.

"Or for me," Merlin says. "I am sworn to him as well." He looks at Celina. "I will also have to arrange for you to meet him as well. Do not concern yourself about his behavior. He has been very informal on most of the occasions on which I have dealt with him."

"Oh? That's interesting. It is not what I have come to expect from the royals of Amber. I appreciate the advice," Celina says. "Yet surely everyone must concern themselves with the King's behavior? There are always consequences to royal displeasure."

"I guess there are. We haven't had this king for long, though, so no-one really knows the rules yet. And I have the feeling Random keeps changing them. Like today." Ossian grins "Keeps things interesting."

Celina tucks this small treasure away for later.

"By the way." Ossian says, pulling a small pack of cards from a pocket, taking out a single card "Speaking of art. I promised you this last time we saw each other, Merlin." Ossian gives hands a Trump of himself to Merlin.

Celina's jade eyes follow the transfer, her thoughts spiraling about a center that might be her brother.

"Thank you," Merlin says, accepting the card and pocketing it. "I am still working on yours. I have had very little time for portraiture, having spent too much of the last few weeks on a horse. I feel like I could sit for a month and do nothing but paint myself--and my sister, of course." He smiles at Celina.

She flicks her gaze to his. "Oh." Celina has a moment to follow several ideas. "But what is the balance between danger offered by the Art and community enabled by the Permission?" She reaches and takes Merlin's hand -- leaning a bit into the answer he might give.

"It is possible to make a Trump without the permission or even the knowledge of the subject. I have heard of such things, and they seem to lead to bad ends," Merlin says. Then he flushes and looks away from Celina and Ossian.

"How many such cases do you know of, cousin?" Ossian says with a chuckle. "I can think of only one."

"I would think that was enough," Merlin replies.

Then she settles back on her heels and nods to Ossian with a smile. "Everything is so new. Even something as simple to you as Trump is full of unknown potentials to me." She releases Merlin's hand gently. "Of course, I imagine I'd love to see a painting by you, brother."

"It is kind of you to say so. I shall show some of my work sometime," Merlin says softly.

"You should, indeed." Ossian says (with a good-natured tone in his voice) "Art should be viewed and not be hidden. And Celina, I don't think Trumps are ever simple. Brand is the best Artist I have met, and even he did not have a full grasp of them. Eh. And we should be happy he didn't, I believe."

Celina studies Ossian and Merlin, almost certainly as if she were trying to figure the personal investment of these two in the departed Brand of Amber.

"My schedule is very uncertain right now, but I'll send a note to both on you and suggest when we sould take the Art tour?"

"That ought to be delightful," Celina responds. "At your pleasure, gentlemen. The sooner I become oriented to the city, the better."

"Absolutely," Martin says, as he comes up to join them. "Listen, I have some business to take care of in town, but first I'm going to make sure that Steward Vent is getting rooms for you two. I hope sometime this afternoon you'll be able to spare me a few minutes so we can catch up on family gossip. Ossian is far more caught up on current events than I am, since I just got back yesterday. I've been meaning to ask, Ossian, how's Valeria?"

The question seems to mean something to Celina. She looks to Ossian for the answer.

Ossian flinches just a little at Martins question. Then he smiles, with a gleam in his eyes //So you know. Well then. Let's play.//

"She's doing well. She is of course disappointed that we haven't found her father's murderer, or torn the universe down in a search for Conner. But she is really doing well. I think she is starting to feel at home in Amber."

Celina's eyes widen at 'murderer'.

"How unfortunate for her that the court will soon be moving to Xanadu, then," says Martin, somewhat too brightly. "I'm glad to hear that she's doing so well. And I'm sure you are too, Celina."

Ossian looks almost disappointed.

Celina has glanced at Merlin only half a second before looking once more at Ossian. She nods to Martin after he addresses her. "I find myself the center of a great whirpool of feelings for my relatives. Among those there is certainly the relief that Valeria is doing well in Amber."

Merlin takes his sister's hand. "I am sure also. I am glad we will have a chance to talk this afternoon, for we have much to speak of."

Which makes Celina smile. She squeezes Merlin's hand.

Martin looks at his young cousin, considers this for a moment, and says, "Yeah, I think we do."

Volumes have gone on unspoken in that conversation.

Martin turns to Celina, and says, "I hate to eat and run, but I've got four weeks of overdue business to take care of. I'll see you after lunch, I hope."

"After lunch, yes. I'd be pleased to have some of your time once you have finished the business of state," Celina responds. She looks back at Ossian. "If you have the chance, Ossian, I'd be greatful if Valeria heard about my arrival from someone she already considers a friend. I do look forward to that tour."

"I will tell her." Ossian says "But I doubt I will be able to outrun rumour."

And Celina will go with Merlin if settling in rooms are the next bit of business.

Ossian and Martin depart, heading their separate ways.

As the King leaves the room, Lilly rises quickly to her feet. "If you will excuse me," she says to no one in particular before following in Random's footsteps.

Once she is some what certain she will not be heard from the breakfast room, she says to the retreating Queen and King, "Your Majesties, may a please have a moment of your time?"

The King and Queen turn. "Of course, Dame Lilly" says the Queen. "Here in the hallway or do you require more privacy than that?" adds Random.

Lilly's eyes sparkle and for a moment it seems as if she might smile. She begins speaking before it can take hold however. "Actually a bit more privacy would probably be best. There is a personal matter I need to bring to the attention of my Uncle Random, completely off of the royal record if at all possible. It is not of extreme urgency so if now is not a good time we can arrange to meet later today if you'd like your majesty."

"Of course. At Sext? Come by my study." Assuming that Lilly agrees, the King and Queen depart.

Lilly nods. "I shall see you then your Majesty." Immediately she returns to her quarters and changes into something appropriate for a long workout. Mere minutes later she is headed to the Salle. Physical exertion always seemed to help her focus her mind. She hoped today would be no different.

[Lucas] makes his way back to his own quarters, where he passes at once into the anteroom he has set aside for receiving visitors who are of a lesser rank.

Shrike is waiting in the anteroom, under the watchful eye of Gaston, who seems to believe that if the sailor was let alone in the anteroom, he'd steal everything.

Gaston asks Lucas if he wishes anything and departs, either to fulfill Lucas' commands or to handle other business, as appropriate.

Lucas dismisses him with a wave.

Shrike is standing, with a sailor's hat in his hands. He is squeezing the brim, likely from nervousness. He waits to be addressed.

"You must forgive me," says Lucas. "I was detained by affairs of state."

And for once this is techncally true.

"Now," says Lucas, "you are ready to take me to the temple of the Paresh? How long will it take us?"

He nods his head, nervously. "Yes, my lord. It should be no more than a watch, my lord, unless you wish to spend more time below ground. It wasn't that long for the other lords."

"Good," says Lucas. "And will - perish the thought - any special equipment be needed? Grappling irons? Rope? Ah ... the things I do for literature!"

He catches sight of himself in the long looking glass set over the fireplace. "Assuredly," he murmurs, "I must change. Do you not agree? These trousers - a masterpiece of the tailor's art! - are not designed for scrambling, one feels."

"We shall need light, my lord. We are going underground.

"Into a basement, not a cave," he adds hurriedly, "it's not banned spelunking. I can make a torch, my lord."

"Good," says Lucas. "Wait here - Gaston will bring you anything you need for the torch."

A tug on the bell cord summons Gaston, and Lucas then disappears for a surprisingly short space of time, to return wearing dark jeans, sturdy walking boots, and a dark purple soccer shirt bearing the inscription on the front, "Each succeeds in reaching the goal by a different method", and on the back the legend: Machiavelli and the number 7. He also wears his rapier with casual insouciance - the grip today is a deep purple to match his sword.

"Shall we go?" he asks.

"As you wish, my lord. The temple is down in the temple quarter."

Lucas lets out a low whistle, and a small curly haired urchin in page's uniform, with a deceptively angelic expression, nearly explodes into the room with the velocity of a cork shot from a pop-gun.

"You called, my Lord?" he asks with an engaging grin.

Lucas sighs.

"Yes, Pert. I ... erm ... called. I want you to go down to the stables and have Cheval saddle Greybeard and ... " He looked speculatively at the studry sailor. "The Preacher, I think."

"Yes, my Lord," says Pert cheerfully, and disappears again with the same alacrity.

"Shall we make our somewhat more leisurely way to the stables?" asks Lucas. "You do ride, I trust? Or should I have summoned my carriage?"

"I've had basic instruction, my lord. I expect not to fall and to get to my destination. I prefer to sail, sir."

Folly returns to her quarters, calling out along the way to summon Fathom to her. When he appears, she scoops him up and nuzzles his fuzzy little head. "Shall we go write a letter to your great-great-grandfather?" she asks quietly.

When she reaches her room, she lets Fathom down to explore and gathers up the notes and messages that have accumulated in her absence -- including the note from Garrett. She reads and re-reads it, her brow creasing as she tries not to let herself jump to too many conclusions. Through the narrow windows of her sitting room she regards the sky: afternoon can't come soon enough.

After a quick glance through the rest of her notes for anything urgent, she turns her attention to the problem of what to write to Julian.

She sits at her desk, pulls out a blank sheet of paper... and stares at it. Nibbles the end of her pen. Fidgets. Finally she writes:

Dear Uncle Julian --

and immediately crosses it out.

What if he isn't really? Even as his brother's fosterling, she feels odd writing it. But she can't very well start right off with "Dear Great-Grandfather," now, can she?

She nibbles the pen some more.

What does she know about Julian anyway? Formal and duty-bound... and stubborn, by Gerard's reckoning. Trustworthy, by Robin's. At the Masque, he....

Folly sees a blur of motion out of the corner of her eye: Fathom emerges from under the couch hot on the trail of a fluffy white feather, which he bats enthusiastically about the rug.

Folly smiles. At the Masque, Julian was the one in the big white wings. Great-grandfather, indeed.

She takes a new piece of paper and begins again, this time with a clearer purpose.

Prince Julian --

I hope this note finds you -- and Arden -- well. I apologize for interrupting your duty to her even in this small way, but I have recently had some news that I thought I should pass along as soon as possible.

If Gerard has spoken of me to you, then you no doubt know I have recently become his ward. Although your father Oberon identified me as a relative when he sent Martin to fetch me to Amber, he did not reveal how I am related, and no-one has stepped forward to claim me as his own child in blood. Gerard, having been something of a father in spirit these last few years, has therefore stepped into the role.

In the weeks since the Coronation, I've finally had a chance to return to the land of my birth and speak with my mother for the first time since I came to Amber. I had hoped that she might shed some light on the mystery of my paternity; but alas, she remains as stubborn as ever and was quite unhelpful on that front when asked.

However, much to my surprise, when confronted with pictures of the sons of Oberon in an attempt to jog her memory, she identified you as her own grandfather.

Now, my mother is not always entirely trustworthy, but I have no reason to believe she is lying in this instance. She may be mistaken, though, of course.

Here are the facts as I know them: Upon my great-grandmother's death, my mother learned from her old diary that she had borne the child of her riding instructor, who vanished before he even knew she was pregnant. The diary included sketches of the riding instructor; these apparently bore a strong resemblance to your Trump. The child of that union, my mother's father, has himself been gone -- off "defending his primal woods," Mum says -- for almost sixty years. I don't know how old he was when Mum was born, but my best guess is that he'd be a little shy of a century old at present. His family name is Kuli. If he grew up in the same place as Mum, then he is from a town called Winterness.

If you really are the man in those sketches, I figured you'd rather know than not know.

Folly pauses, sets the pen aside. There are far too many words there already, especially since this is supposed to be a quick note to a guy who's already up to his eyeballs in more important things. She suddenly wishes she could just traipse off to Arden and tell Julian in person, so she could see his reaction. It would give her a much better sense of how to proceed....

But no. Not while there's a war going on. The letter will have to do, and she'll just have to make her own intentions as clear as possible....

She picks up the pen again.

I understand you are in the middle of a war, and it may be some time before we are able to speak of this matter in person. In the meantime -- and I hope this will quell any uneasiness you might have about my situation -- please understand that I am not especially looking for anything from you. Confirmation or denial of my mother's story I would certainly appreciate, if you are able to give it, but even that is hardly an obligation. I am, and have been, well looked after; I certainly don't feel you owe me anything.

But in some quieter future, if you are amenable, I do hope we might get to know each other a little better.

Her pen is poised to sign, but then another thought takes her, and she adds:

(At the very least, if you decide you wish to seek out your alleged son and granddaughter, I hope you might allow me to warn you in person just what you are getting yourself into....)

She smiles. At least Julian already has plenty of experience with willful offspring.

Yes, that should do it. In her angular hand, she signs:

Sincerely and respectfully,
Your great-granddaughter (or not),
Folly

Next to her signature, she adds a tiny stylized sketch of a pixyish lute-playing girl. She seals the note with purple wax and -- because she's not yet come up with a definitive personal seal for herself -- stamps it with a seal depicting a cat playing a fiddle.

Then she's off to find Gerard....

A page tells her that Gerard is in his office, with Caine.

Hmmm. Folly really has no desire to conduct this sensitive bit of business anywhere near Caine's presence. She thanks the page, decides she'll just hafta catch Gerard later, and returns to her room to ready herself for her afternoon ride.

Garrett leads the horses back to the stables, muttering under his breath about breakfast meetings and royal blood. "Is that all they do is eat?" he asks the horses, while his own stomach rumbles at the thought of breakfast in the castle.

To the horses, he says, "I reckon we can find you a couple nice stalls in the royal part of the stable. Food's good. Comp'ny can be a bit stuffy, but you get used to it." He grins at them, then notices their condition, tsking. "Don't these royals know how to care for their horses?" He looks them over carefully as he walks, checking for signs of lameness. "She's Rebman, though. They prob'ly don't have horses there," he muses, giving Celina, at least, the benefit of the doubt.

He pauses, a new thought striking him. His eyes narrow in wonder. "Where did you come from anyway?" he asks the horses. "Hmm....if you just came from Rebma, you'd be wet, and you're not. Yes..." says Garrett, knowing now how he'll spend the rest of the morning. "You both need a good, thorough grooming, and I'm gonna give it to you."

At the stables, Garrett unsaddles both horses, examining the style of the tack as he does so. If any of the other grooms offer to help, he politely refuses, saying he has time and will take care of them both. After feeding and watering them, he turns Celina's horse, a mare, out into the paddock, breaks out his grooming tools and starts on the gelding.

Usually Garrett would work on the hooves last, but this morning he starts there. Leaning against the gelding's shoulder, he picks up his front hoof and carefully digs out the dirt. Instead of just letting it drop, though, Garrett examines the debris to see if he can see any clues about where this horse might have been recently. He does the same on the rest of the hooves. All the while, he talks to the horse gently, making friends, asking its name, getting it comfortable with him.

When he finishes the hooves, he does the rest of the grooming, curry comb in one hand, body brush in the other. His strokes are rhythmic, almost hypnotic to watch. He pays careful attention when combing out the mane and tail, again looking for leaves, bugs or other things that might indicate where the horse came from. When he finishes with the gelding, he repeats the whole process on the mare.

The horses have seen a little intermittent care, but not good, daily, regular care. Garrett's best guess is that neither Merlin nor Celina knows how to care for a horse properly; they've seen some grooming, but not the kind of solid maintenance care that horses need over time.

Between the manes and tails on one hand and the hooves on the other, Garrett thinks the horses have cut across a wide swathe of terrains recently. There's blades of two or three different kinds of grass, leaves from several different kinds of trees, gravel that's probably from a road, and some sand.

But Garrett doesn't think the horses have been out long enough to account for all the different kinds of terrain they seem to have been on. Given how haphazard, if well-intentioned, Merlin and Celina seem to have been about grooming the horses, he'd have expected more tangles in their manes and tails.

It's very strange.

While Garrett is engaged with the mare, a small boy in page's uniform rushes in to the stable, calling, "Cheval! Cheval!"

It is Lucas and Solace's page, Pert, a boy of somewhat dubious morality but a singularly engaging manner. He looks round the corner of the stall where Garrett is working and beams at him.

"Have you seen Cheval?" he asks. "Monseigneur needs two of his horses immediately."

"Easy, lad! Slow down 'round the horses," Garrett chides lightly, mane comb in hand. "I think he's over in the tack building," he says, nodding in that direction. "You know where that is?"

Pert nods vigorously, then catches Garrett's eye and grins.

"No," he admits.

Garrett laughs. "C'mon, then. I'll take ya there," he says, tossing the comb into his grooming box. He ruffles the mare's mane and says, "Back soon, sweetheart," as he makes his way out of the stall, securing it behind him.

He leads Pert around to the rear of the royal stables and past the stock area to a long, low building near the outer bailey. "Cheval!" Garrett calls as he nears the building. "You still in there?"

After a moment, Cheval pokes his head out of the tack room. "What? Oh, it's you, Garrett. Hullo, Pert. What does Monseigneur need?"

"Hey, Cheval," Garrett says in greeting. "The lad here says the Marquis needs two horses straight away. You got it or you need help?"

"Greybeard and the Preacher," says Pert breathlessly - it seems he ran all the way to the stables. "And he's coming now, Cheval."

Cheval - a dour man - nods. "If you can spare time to help, Garrett, I'd be obliged. Monsigneur is very particular ... "

"I can help! I can help!" shouts Pert (who is still at that useful stage of boyhood that delights in handing around the sandwiches at grown up parties, rather than the slightly later stage that goes in for leaning moodily against walls and surveying the assembled company with a jaundiced and derisive eye).

"You!" says Cheval with amused contempt. "You'd be filching the bits out of the horses' mouths. Check your pockets, Garrett, to see if the little devil's made away with your pocket book."

Garrett furrows his brow and pats his pockets. "Nothing missing yet," he teases.

Pert assumes an expression of such outraged innocence that it suggests there is some truth in Cheval's claim.

Garrett's used to dealing with children. He leans down to Pert's level, hands resting on his knees. "I've got a job for ya," Garrett says to Pert importantly, winking at Cheval. "If the Marquis will be taking these horses on a long ride, they'll get very thirsty. How 'bout you grab those pails by the door and fetch them some fresh water, then meet us by the front of the stable," he suggests, nodding in that direction.

Pert stares at him for a moment, unblinkingly weighing up the options. The he nods.

"Bien sur."

He trots away obediently.

Cheval watches him go, and then nods his approval. "A young rogue ... but with good in him. And devoted to Madame la Marquise. Alors, these horses."

He sets about tacking up the horses (with Garrett's assistance, if he chooses). Greybeard is a lovely dappled grey stallion; the Preacher is a thickset bay - a sturdy farmer to Greybeard's undeniable aristocrat.

Garrett helps get the horses ready, following Cheval's lead to get Lucas's "particulars" just right.

Bu the time the horses are tacked, Lucas strolls into the stable, wearing dark jeans, sturdy walking boots, and a dark purple soccer shirt bearing the inscription on the front, "Each succeeds in reaching the goal by a different method", and on the back the legend: Machiavelli and the number 7. He also wears his rapier with casual insouciance - the grip today is a deep purple to match his shirt.

He is followed by a man whose garb no less than his demeanour proclaims the sailor.

Garrett bows as Lucas enters. "Good morning, Lord Lucas." To the sailor, he nods, "Good day, sir." He has work to get back to, but waits for the proper dismissal.

Lucas sees Garrett, and nods. "Thank you," he says, in the quiet tone that signals dismissal, and then, before Garrett can leave, "I'll bring Hope down tomorrow morning, if the will be convenient."

Garrett bows again. "Very good, m'lord," he responds and he's off to finish grooming the mare.