“I'lI hold you to that,” I said as I splashed and lathered.
Mandor gave me a crooked smile, then conjured a corkscrew and opened the bottles-“to let them breathe a little”—before he tended to himself. I trusted his judgment, but I hung on to the Sign of the Logrus in case I had to duel with a demon or avoid a falling wall.
No demons sprang; no masonry toppled. I entered the dining room behind Mandor and watched him transform it with a few words and gestures. The trestle table and the benches were replaced by a round table and comfortable-looking chairs-the chairs so situated as to provide a good view of the mountains from each. Jasra had not yet arrived, and I was carrying the two wine bottles whose respiration Mandor found most appealing. Before I could even set them down, Mandor conjured an embroidered tablecloth and napkins; delicate china, which looked as if it had been hand decorated by Miru; finely wrought silverware. He studied the tableau a moment, banished the silverware, summoned a set with a different pattern. He hummed as he paced and regarded the layout from various angles. Just as I moved forward to place the bottles on the table, he summoned a crystal bowl filled with floating flowers as a centerpiece. I took a step backward then as crystal goblets appeared.
I made a small growling noise, and he seemed to notice me for the first time in a while.
“Oh, set them there. Set them there, Merlin,” he said, and an ebony tray appeared on the table to my left. “We'd better check to see how the wine is holding up, before the lady arrives,” he said then, pouring some of the ruby fluid into two of the goblets.
We sampled these, and he nodded. It was better than Bayle's. By far.
“Nothing wrong there,” I said.
He rounded the table, went to the window, and looked out. I followed. Somewhere up in those mountains, I supposed, was Dave in his cave.
“I feel almost guilty,” I said, “taking a break like this. There are so many things I should be tending to—
“Possibly even more than you suspect,” he said. “Look upon this less as a break than a retrenchment. And you may learn something from the lady.”
“True,” I replied. “I wonder what, though.”
He swirled his wine in his glass, took another small sip, and shrugged.
“She knows a lot. She may let something slip, or she may feel expansive at the attention and grow generous. Take things as they're dealt.”
I took a drink, and I could be nasty and say my thumbs began to prickle. But it was actually the Logrus field that warned me of Jasra's approach along the hall outside. I did not remark upon it to Mandor, since I was certain he felt it, too. I simply turned toward the door, and he matched my movement.
She had on a low over-one-shoulder (the left) white dress, fastened at the shoulder with a diamond pin, and she wore a tiara, also of diamonds, which seemed almost to be radiating in the infrared range amidst her bright hair. She was smiling, and she smelled good, too. Involuntarily I felt myself standing straighter, and I glanced at my fingernails to be certain they were clean.
Mandor's bow was more courtly than mine, as usual. And I felt obliged to say something pleasant. So, “You're looking quite... elegant,” I observed, letting my eyes wander to emphasize the point.
“It is seldom that I dine with two princes,” she remarked.
“I'm Duke of the Western Marches,” I said, “not a prince.”
“I was referring to the House of Sawall,” she replied.
“You've been doing homework,” Mandor noted, “recently “
“I'd hate to commit a breach of protocol,” she said.
“I seldom use my Chaos title at this end of things,” I explained.
“A pity,” she told me. “I find it more than a little... elegant. Aren't you about thirtieth in the line of succession?”
I laughed.
“Even that great a distance is an exaggeration,” I said.
“No, Merle, she's about right,” Mandor told me. “Give or take the usual few.”
“How can that be?” I asked. “The last time I looked-”
He poured a goblet of wine and offered it to Jasra. She accepted it with a smile.
“You haven't looked recently,” Mandor said. “There have been more deaths.”
“Really? So many?”
“To Chaos,” Jasra said, raising her goblet. “Long. may she wave.”
“To Chaos,” Mandor replied, raising his.
“Chaos,” I echoed, and we touched the goblets together and drank.
A number of delightful aromas came to me suddenly. Turning, I saw that the table now bore serving dishes. Jasra had turned at the same moment, and Mandor stepped forward and gestured, causing the chairs to slide back to accommodate us.
“Be seated, please, and let me serve you,” he said.
We did, and it was more than good. Several minutes passed, and apart from compliments on the soup nothing was said. I did not want to be the first with a conversational gambit, though it had occurred to me that the others might feel the same way.
Finally, Jasra cleared her throat, and we both looked at her. I was surprised that she suddenly seemed slightly nervous.
“So, how are things in Chaos?” she asked.
“At the moment, chaotic,” Mandor replied, “not to be facetious.” He thought a moment, then sighed and added, “Politics.”
She nodded slowly, as if considering asking him for the details he did not seem to care to divulge, then deciding against it. She turned toward me.
“Unfortunately, I'd no opportunity to sight-see while I was in Amber,” she said. “From what you told me, though, life seems a bit chaotic there also.”
I nodded.
“It's good that Dalt's gone,” I said, “if that's what you mean. But he was never a real threat, just a nuisance. Speaking of whom-”
“Let's not,” she interrupted, smiling sweetly. “What I really had in mind was anything else.”
I smiled back.
“I forgot. You're not a fan of his,” I said.
“It's not that,” she responded. “The man has his uses. It's just"-she sighed-'politics,” she finished.
Mandor laughed, and we joined him. Too bad I hadn't thought to use that line about Amber. Too late now.
“I bought a painting awhile back,” I said, “by a lady named Polly Jackson. It's of a red '57 Chevy I like it a lot. It's in storage in San Francisco right now. Rinaldo liked it, too.”
She nodded, stared out the window.
“You two were always stopping in some gallery of other,” she said. “Yes, he dragged me to a lot of them, too. I always thought he had good taste. No talent, but good taste.”
“What do you mean, 'no talent'?”
“He's a very good draftsman, but his own paintings were never that interesting.”
I had raised the subject for a very special reason, and this wasn't it. But I was fascinated by a side of Luke I'd never known, and I decided to pursue the matter.
“Paintings? I never knew he painted.”
“He's tried any number of times, but he never shows them to anyone because they're not good enough.”
“Then how do you know about them?”
“I'd check out his apartment periodicaliy “
“When he wasn't around?”
“Of course. A mother's privilege.”
I shuddered. I thought again of the burning woman down the Rabbit Hole. But I didn't want to say what I felt and spoil the flow now that I had her talking. I decided to return to my original trail.
“Was it in connection with any of this that he met Victor Melman?” I asked.
She studied me for a moment through narrowed eyes, then nodded and finished her soup.
“Yes,” she said then, laying her spoon aside. “He took a few lessons from the man. He'd liked some of his paintings and looked him up. Perhaps he bought something of his, too. I don't know. But at some point he mentioned his own work and Victor asked to see it. He told Rinaldo he liked it and said he thought he could teach him a few things that might be of help.”