Lucan Diversions


[Lucas joins Ossian in the study], walking into the room, turning and closing the doors behind him, and then turning again to survey the room, and his cousin.

"We must hope," he says finally, "that the doctor is used to a degree of eccentricity in the friends and relatives of her patients. Otherwise she might be a little surprised by one whose response to a delicate young woman's collapse is to take out pen and pencil and begin to make a sketch of himself.

"You must admit, cos, that on the surface that argues a degree of narcissism that could be interpreted as deeply disturbing."

[OOC: If the Trump sketch of Ossian is not finished by this time, he is still sketching. He is aiming for a somewhat more long-lived sketch than the one he did for Solace, but he aims to destroy this sketch before the night is over; call it a "normal" Trump sketch. GMs?]

"I chose to place research before appearance for once, although it is against my principles." Ossian says with a wry smile. "There was not much I could do for Solace at that point anyway. But I want to exclude one possible cause for her collapse."

[Presuming Hannah is not present:]

"Anyway. Hannah is a doctor. She could interpret it as a shock reaction."

"Now I believe we have more serious matters to discuss. Do you have something to drink?"

Lucas looks faintly pained. "You doubt me, cos? Or merely my ability to rise to every occasion?

"I believe I might have something that attempts to pass itself off as an Armagnanc. I just hope Random's imagination allows his relatives some freedom in alcoholic choice, or I suppose we will be swapping the barren wastes that are the post-Patternfall choices in Amber's drinks cabinet only to sip on the kind of indescribably sweet and fizzy cocktail connoctions that are held to be radically incomplete without the addition of small paper umbrellas, straws moulded into improbable contortions and bits of fruit of luminescent hues speared with plastic sticks."

He has moved to his own drinks cabinet as he speaks, and has poured into two balloon shaped brandy glasses a rich amber liquid that glugs reassuringly from the bottle.

"So," he says contemplatively, turning and carrying the drink to Ossian himself.

"Thanks." Ossian says. "I need that."

He sips the liquor greedily. "Well. First. Your suspicions concerning your wife's ancestry are undoubtedly correct. I guess we can put that to the side for the moment?"

Lucas waves a languid hand. "If you so wish. Myself, I was wondering whether this was the effect of attempting to trump a non-Amberite. But I bow your your superior knowledge in this.

"Proceed, s'il vous plait."

Ossian shakes his head "Trumping a non-Amberite would not work at all. She's a cousin all right. I tried to be sneaky, but the contact opened fully.

"Then it collapsed. Just like that."

Lucas frowns, taking a sip of his brandy. "Because she was not prepared, perhaps? I presume ... you and I are not similarly affected - even in Amber."

Ossian shakes his head again "That would be the comfortable answer. I don't think it happened that way."

"Go on," says Lucas. "The anticipation is positively delicious, but much as I enjoy hanging on your every word, I fear I must hurry you towards elucidation where my wife's safety is concerned."

"I don't know what happened." Ossian answers very quickly "But there are some possibilities. The least scary possibility is that the failure of the sketch hurt her. I am not entirely sure what happens if a sketch breaks during contact. I mean, now and then they break when you close the trump call, but what if it is broken during the call?

"We can test that possibility tonight. With the sketch I'm working on."

Lucas raises his dark eyebrows.

"You'll trump me, and then you destroy the sketch." Ossian says, in an off-hand manner.

"With yourself as the guinea pig? You know, people are going to start suspecting my hospitality if I am continually having to call the doctor to my room to treat visitors bent over with excruciating headaches."

"I trust I am a bit tougher than your wife." Ossian shrugs.

"I believe you are," says Lucas softly. Suddenly he smiles. "And - despite what I say, my thanks for being willing to subject yourself to this. I shall be doubly within your debt.

"How goes the sketch?"

"I will be finished in a number of minutes." Ossian smiles bleakly and takes another sip. "There are of course other, scarier theories."

"I think it is unlikely that breaking the sketch will be the thing. It is more likely that your wife for some reason cannot recieve Trump calls. Either she has some special weakness in the Trump department, or someone is blocking them for her."

Lucas nods slowly. "Could that - subconsciously - be myself? Protecting her?"

Ossian gives a short chuckle "That would surprise me. I have no idea of how it could be done even. And there was no real resistance in establishing the contact. It was more like something broke it after a little while."

"As though someone realised contact had been made," says Lucas slowly, "and stepped in to prevent it ...

"Perhaps you should be drawing my belle mere."

"Now, that's an interesting thought." Ossian lights up, and then shudders. "It's not impossible, of course. Who else would have an interest in blocking your wife?"

Lucas rises and moves towards the fireplace. Once there, he takes a poker from the fire irons there, and slides it between the glowing coals, stirring them meditatively. "Solace, on the surface, seems an unlikely target for attack - and perhaps for defence, also. Particularly a defence that is so ...crude that it occasions her considerable pain."

"Unless it is someone who is more concerned about Solace's reputation than her health." Ossian suggests

Lucas' head comes up. "Mother?" he says slowly. "No ... she would prefer to see Solace dismissed as a mere Shadow that I'd tired of. While as for being linked in relationship with Lady Vesper ... " He gave a short laugh. "If only I can persuade my belle mere her future lies at the Court of King Corwin, my cup really will run over ... "

"What if Solace has a ... passenger?" Ossian asks "One way or the other. If someone uses her to spy on us."

Lucas winces. "That ... would not be pleasant," he says softly. "For any of us."

"No." Ossian nods "Now, she does not seem to be the one I would choose, if I could use Venesh or Gilt Winter instead. Unless the spy needs someone of our blood. A Trump spy. She might be ideal, as the weakest family member."

Lucas is nodding slowly at this, a faint frown between his brows.

"This is true," agrees Lucas. "And yet ... so cunning a spy ... would he not have a better means of disguising his - or her - presence than by injuring his tool so obviously? If the spy possesses such a degree of skill ... then why does he not simply block the trump in such a way that it appears Solace possesses no Amberite blood?"

"Anyway, the spy would not want me to find him via the Trump contact." Ossian says with a shrug. "What do we know about the earlier attack on Solace?"

Lucas shrugs. "It ran much the same course as this one. Not so severe, it seemed to me - but that was perhaps because she did not hold Phillippe when she fell, and was able to break her fall a little."

Ossian nods. "I guess you have tried to find out more. Have you failed?"

Lucas gives a particularly Gallic shrug. "Would you call this attempt of ours a success or a failure, mon brave?"

"I believe cousin Vere would call it a 'replication'." Ossian says. "Not very fun, sorry.

"Going back to the spy: If the spy is not in full control, they might not even know of a Trump contact until it is established. Hm. I just thought of yet another possibility. Me, Reid and Merlin did some experimentation on multiple Tump contacts."

"I can sustain two at a time, Reid could maybe hold three. Solace could maybe only hold one. If someone is spying on us through a Trump of her they might suddenly find themselves struggling for control of the contact, without knowing there is another Trump call coming in. I suppose Solace could get hurt when two people try to keep failing contacts up at the same time. Especially if she has no idea of what is going on."

Lucas winces again. "That sounds ... plausible."

Ossian pays no heed. His mind seems too be racing through a large number of theories (He is probably holding back) "Either way. We will probably have to find out ways to check if someone is connected to her mind. I will think on that over night. Have you considered letting a sorceror examine her?"

Lucas looks up. "One already has. And found no trace of sorcery. Merlin. He was not looking for traces of a trump spy but ... I think he would have been aware of such a presence."

"Good." Ossian says "A Trump spy could come and go, of course. We could let her trump someone, to see what happens. But that's your desicion."

Lucas is silent for a moment. "To do that means confirming her worst fears," he says finally. "But maybe the time has come to do that - for her own protection."

"Then we could teach her to block Trump calls. Useful." Ossian adds.

"I hope she may so regard it," says Lucas.

"I guess you have some time to decide if you want to tell her about her father." Ossian says. "But there is another interesting question we have not touched. Who called her last time? It sure wasn't I. Nor was it Merlin, I think?"

"He investigated her for sorcery," says Lucas. "He didn't even mention the possibility of a triump connection. Of course, as that was the cause, it might not be in his interest to bring the subject up ... "

He frowns, recollecting the conversation. "If he was wearing a mask," he says slowly, "I'd say it was a remarkably good one."

He sighes, rises, and then takes both their glasses to pour second armagnacs.

"The whole thing could be something as simple as Paige taking it into her head to contact Solace for tips on Amberite baby rearing, you know," he says, bringing the glasses across, "although I doubt it. But Brita? I can't see that either.

"Which leaves ... our Elders."

Ossian nods, taking his glass with a grateful look on his face. "Brita and Paige would have a hard time making that sketch without having Solace to model. Reid might be able to, but I agree that it is probably our elders.

"But... we know of no living Trump artists among them. Unless Brand painted a Trump before he fell.

"Who do we think Solace's father is? Someone could want to find out if she was theirs. That, or your mother."

Lucas frowns. "Can a trump contact tell you that?" he asks. "Or did you mean that someone who had reason to suspect Solace was their daughter might have made a trump and be trying it? Which would rule out Eric. I attended his funeral myself."

"No. The second theory was what I was thinking of... Is Eric the prime suspect? Of fathership I mean?" Ossian asks.

"Who is most likely to know how to paint Trumps? Bleys and Fiona?"

"It occurs to me," says Lucas, "that my delicate Solace may very well not be the daughter of one of our Uncles ... but the grand-daughter, the great-grand-daughter ... who knows how many generations must pass before our blood is so infintely diluted that no trump can reach us? It's certain Solace would never walk the Pattern ... but her mother could - if her blood were right. I wasn't entirely joking when I suggested you added Harmony Vesper to your to-do list."

"I am aware of that." Ossian says, with a playful grin.

"But ... on the point you raise ...

"You know more of this than I do. Would one have to be skilled in the creation of trumps to create a trump sketch? I mean ... would it be possible for someone with some skill to produce a sketch, even if they lacked the ability to produce the full artefact?

"Then, I would suggest, the field might be wider. Corwin, perhaps. Llewella even - all that staring into mirrors should have by now have given her some feel for perspective. But then I don't think Solace has Rebman blood.

"If it's a male tied up in her bloodline ... it could be any of them. Including, probably at several removes, Oberon himself."

"I guess someone _could_ be taught how to make Trump sketches, without learning how to seal the Trumps. But it does not take less skill." Ossian frowns. "No, we are dealing with a real Trump artist here, if it was a trump call last time too.

"Before we speculate more, shall we do a little experiment?" Ossian asks and hands over the sketch he has been working on to Lucas. "I'll go into the next room, and you'll use that to contact me. When we are in contact, just tear it in two pieces."

Lucas regards the trump sketch with considerable unease. "All right. But if you collapse with a hollow scream, I'm hauling you back to your own room to recover. Otherwise my staff will swear these room are cursed, and all give notice unless I give them a considerable hoick in salary."

He takes it and gestures expansively for Ossian to take up his position - rather in the manner of Sir Thomas Beecham raising his baton to begin conducting the Eroica.

"Well, if I'm collapsed, I will not protest, will I?" Ossian grins. "You could of course compensate for the raise by selling tickets to the cursed rooms of Amber Castle'."

Ossian goes into the other room and closes the door. For safety he sits down on a couch. Then he waits.

In the other room, after a brief pause, Lucas begins to focus on the trump he holds - ready to rip it in two if the contact works.

Lucas starts to contact Ossian. The contact begins to form normally, and then:

On Lucas' end, he tears the sketch in two. The contact breaks and he has two torn halves of the sketch in hand.

On Ossian's end, the forming contact is very brief. Ossian senses it normally, and then it breaks off very abruptly. There is no other effect as far as Ossian can tell--no pain, no dim vision, etc.

Ossian comes back into the room. Before he sits down he pours himself another glass. "Well, the good news is this: you don't need to carry me back to my rooms. The bad news: It didn't hurt at all. Nothing. Which means something more fishy is going on with your wife.

"Unless she is allergic to trumps, of course."

"That," says Lucas, with a certain sourness, "appears to have been amply demonstrated."

He pours himself another tumbler of brandy, rather fuller this time.

"We seem to have answered one question ... and given ourselves several dozen more."

He gets up, glass in hand, and walks over to the sketches that Ossian has done of the children. He half reaches out a hand to touch Hope's ... and then hesitates, swinging round.

"These ... Ossian ... you didn't ... "

"No, I didn't." Ossian says, somewhat irriatatedly "I didn't care for the duels that would come after." He sweeps his glass and adds "Besides, I didn't have the time. With kids, growing and all, its harder than grown-ups if you have known them for the same amount of time."

"Good," says Lucas. Then his eyebrows arch. "You've experimented with this?"

"Not really. There has not been very many children around. Except myself, of course. But I'm pretty sure it works that way.

"It is not necessarily a bad idea; but I wouldn't dare trying to Trump them without having talked with someone who has experience of trumps and children first."

"That would seem to suggest a rather small pool of knowledge to draw on," says Lucas, somewhat gloomily. "Most of those with the intellectual curiosity to experiment with it wouldn't have the morality to care overmuch for the condition of the children at the end of the experiment." He tosses back a large proportion of the brandy in his tumbler.

"So ... I'm married to Jerod's unknown sister, or Lady Vesper will be darkening my horizon for eternity. Let's get honkingly, hog-whimperingly drunk, cousin."

Lucas has not seen Ossian drunk ever. He looks with some surprise at Lucas. Then he nods. "It is not a bad idea. Not bad at all." Ossian drains his glass, then rises to refill it. He returns with the whole bottle, and places it between himself and Lucas. "We'll need more than that, of course."

Several hours and drinks later: Ossian looks at the mantlepiece, where Lucas keeps an erotic sketch by Ossian's hand "You've still got that sketch." Ossian gestures with an unsteady hand "I'm... flattered."

Lucas seems a little steadier on his feet. The only sign of his increasing intoxication is the care with which he enunciates his words - his usual languid drawl has become quite clipped.

"That picture," he proclaims, "is a ... masterpiece of its genre. Your talent, cos, is bottomless."

He blinks a little owlishly at the sketch. "Well," he says, "perhaps not here. Here we do seem to have a plentitude of bottoms. One might almost say ... a cornucopia of bottoms. A bottom-fest.

"Do you have any more? One might start a collection to add to one's bibelots."

"More bottoms?" Ossian asks. "Sure. Shall we go and have a look at them?" he rises unsteadily, then streches out a hand to help Lucas rise. Ossian sighs. "Should've made a Trump of my room. Would have spared us the walk."

"The walk," says Lucas firmly, "will be good for us."

And staggers slightly.

"Eventually," he concedes.

He makes it to the door and throws it open.

"Lead on, cousin!" he says dramatically.

Ossian happily walks out into the corridor, bottle in one hand, glass in the other. "This way, this way!" he gestures When they finally reach Ossian's room, he places both glass and bottle on the floor and goes to open one of the large cabinets, and brings out a stack of sheets. "I think I have most of them here." he says and starts to show Lucas the sketches.

"This is actually cousin Paige..."

Lucas collapses is an armchair, mutely holding out a hand for the sketch.

"Painted from life?" he asks. "In all her fleshy hues?"

"Technically..." Ossian says in a bad Lucas imitation, as he hands the sketch over "..it's drawn, Lucas."

The sketch is decidedly more chaste than the one Lucas has on his mantlepiece. This is a simple nude portrait of a woman lying on a bed. Her head is simply left out of the sketch.

"I think it captures the female form well...But I guess you wanted to see something more risqué." Ossian leafs through the stack, and finds a number of sketches of couples in various intimate positions, some of them rather inventive.

Lucas studies them with interest - and passes several knowledgable comments on technique - both on the part of the artist and on the part of the models. One, however, he objects to as being anatomically impossible.

"At least," he says, considering his empty glass a little owlishly, "without the aid of considerably larger amounts of alcohol ... "

It is a Hint.

"Seems like a splendid evening for anatomical research." Ossian says and rises. "Let's see what I have." He opens a small cupboard, and returns with a very simple glass bottle. The label has only two words: 'Ethanol' and 'Flammable'. Ossian seems to have stuffed some kind of herbs into the bottle a while back.

"I have not came around to transfer this into another bottle. And thin it." Ossian says as he pours his and Lucas' glasses full.

The liquor is rather spicy, and far too strong to drink if you are not already somewhat drunk. Ossian drinks about half his glass before starting to unbutton his shirt...

Lucas sips delicately at his drink, but - as yet - shows no propensity to disrobe. Instead he leans back in his chair, watching his cousin through half-closed eyes, a little smile on his lips ...


After his binge with Ossian, Lucas receives the following note, sealed with a thumbprint, in Martin's hand.

The matter we spoke of earlier today is finished. The name of our friend's friend is Eyelet.

I leave the rest of it in your capable hands. Burn this when you are done and scatter the ashes.

The note is unsigned.

Bundled with the note in Martin's hand is a second note, sealed with a swan stamp in purple wax.

When Lucas breaks the seal, he finds a scrawled note on the bottom flap of the folded paper. It was obviously written in a hurry.

Cos --

Apologies. I'd meant to bring this by in person, but we've had a slight change of plans and M [---illegible----] Xanadu approx now. M tells me you are [illegible] odd dreams -- here is one I've had recently. He thought it might mean something.

My love to Solace; I wish her a speedy recovery.

CUNXa--- F

Lucas reads the note with a faint smile, then turns his attention to the contents.

The interior contents of the letter, in contrast, are neatly and elegantly written:

Dream:

I am at sea, on a trading voyage with Martin. A terrible storm arises. I am thrown from the ship and plunge deep into the water. As I fight my way back toward the surface, I see a dark shape hanging motionless in the water a few yards away. I realize it is Martin: he has hit his head and is unconscious. I swim toward him quickly to pull him to the surface; but before I reach him, a huge shape rises from the dark waters below: a man, but much larger, with flowing hair and a fish's tail instead of legs and a strange dark mark beside his eye. He grabs Martin; I know he means to drag him into the depths.

But then he sees me. He does not say anything, just stares at me with those intense eyes. I know what it means, though: he thinks Martin belongs to him. He turns towards the depths and begins swimming away, taking Martin with him.

I scream, long and loud and angry; and though I no longer have any breath left in my lungs, I prepare to pursue, to get Martin back or die trying.

But then a hand grabs me from behind and drags me up to the surface, into a boat. As soon as I catch my breath I see

And then it ends, abruptly, as if the writer were interrupted mid-sentence.

"Hmmm," says Lucas. "Martin being urgent, one would imagine."

Phillippe, who is building a wall out of small painted wooden bricks, looks up at this and makes an answering, querying gurgle.

"No," Lucas says to his son. "No matter. But I'd be interested to know if she shared this vision with him. It clearly harps his fears aright ... but has it fed them?"

In a slightly different tone he adds, "Not the pink next to the orange, Phillippe; it doesn't work."

But Phillippe, already dis-satisfied, has set the pink block down and reached for a blue one. Pleased by the effect, he gurgles again.

"Much better," approves Lucas. "If only Earth were still around ... I think you'd benefit from seeing some Matisse ... "

His son's tastes progressing well, he turns his attention to the letter again. "The call of Rebma?" he says. "I wonder ... what are the seas like ... the seas of Xanadu."


Lucas summons his favourite tobacconist to take another order - clearly, concern about Solace is increasing his tobacco intake.

But the order for nicotine at least is cursory. The saturnine Prudenter seems to sense this, settling his glasses more firmly on his long nose. They wink in the candlelight; the hour is late now.

"And my Lord has further orders?" he asks softly. Is there an underlying pleasure in his voice, a hint of voluptuous anticipation?

Lucas smiles faintly.

"How well you know me, Prudenter. Yes ... there is more.

"A woman named Eyelet. I need to know about her. All you can discover. You see, Prudenter, she has an appointment at the House of Sorrows."

A beat. A still pause in the hushed room, where only the fire splutters as a log cracks wide.

"As you please, my Lord."

"As I please," agrees Lucas. "And ... ah ... in an amiable frame of mind, I think."

Prudenter smiles - a thin-lipped smile that is very remote from humour.

"The nightmares," says Lucas. "You will, of course, pay particular attention to those."

"Of course, my Lord."

It takes several days to come up with the required information. But, as Lucas knows, there is more to be done to find out about a woman's inmost secrets than there is to find out the name of a stablehand who has run too many errands into the city.

[How does Lucas propose to have Eyelet brought to the House of Sorrows?]

[OOC - he would leave that to Prudenter to arrange. He expects that it will be done with complete discretion; depending on her situation, there might be an outcry at her disappearance, OR she might be removed without comment. But no-one will see when she goes, or where she goes, or how she goes.

And once there, she will be kept for several days anyway before Lucas appears to speak with her. Things will happen during those days which need not be drearily detailed - the techniques are, alas, all too well known. But in the rare intervals she is permitted to snatch a few minutes of sleep .. that will be a good time for nightmares.]


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Last modified: 5 November 2004