He clicked his fangs twice, then pursed his lips.
“The House of Hendrake . , .” he mused. “I think not. Your grandmother was Hendrake…”
“I know,” I said. “But I didn’t have much to do with them. Some disagreement with Helgram… ,”
“Hendrake Ways is very much of the military sort,” he went on. “Glory of battle. Martial honor, you know. I can’t see them as holding a peacetime grudge for a wartime happening.”
Recalling my father’s story, I said, “Even if they considered the killing less than honorable?”
“I don’t know,” he said to that. “It’s hard to guess attitudes on specific questions.”
“Who is head of the House of Hendrake now?”
“The Duchess Belissa Minobee.”
“The duke, her husband-Larsus… What happened to him?”
“He died at Patternfall. I believe Prince Julian of Amber slew him.”
“And Borel was their son?”
“Yes.”
“Ouch. Two of them. I didn’t realize.”
“Borel had two brothers, a half brother and a half sister, many uncles, aunts, cousins. Yes, it’s a big House. And the women of Hendrake are as doughty as the men.”
“Yes, of course. There are songs, such as ‘Never Wed a Hendrake Lass.’ Any way of finding out whether Corwin had any doings with Hendrake while he was here?”
“One could ask about a bit, though it’s been a long while. Memories fade, trails grow cold. Not easy.”
He shook his head.
“How long till bluesky?” I asked him.
“Fairly soon,” he said.
“I’d better be heading for Mandorways then. I promised my brother I’d breakfast with him.”
“I’ll see you later,” he said. “At the funeral, if not before.”
“Yes,” I said. “I guess I’d better clean up and change clothes.”
I headed back through the way to my room, where I summoned a basin of water, soap, toothbrush, razor; also, gray trousers, black boots and belt, purple shirt and gloves, charcoal cloak, fresh blade and scabbard. When I had made myself presentable, I took a way through a forested glade to the receiving room. From there, I exited onto a thruway. A quarter mile of mountain trail later, ending abruptly at a chasm, I summoned a filmy and crossed upon it. Then I bore right to Mandorways, traveling a blue beach beneath a double sun for perhaps a hundred yards. I turned right, passing through a remembered archway of stone, moving briefly past a bubbling lava field and through a black obsidian wall, which took me to a pleasant cavern, over a small bridge, through a corner of a graveyard, a few steps along the Rim and into the receiving area of his Ways.
The entire wall to my left was composed of slow flame; that to my right, a non-returnable way, save for light, giving sight of some sea-bottom trench where bright things moved about and ate one another. Mandor was seated human-formed before a bookcase directly ahead, wearing black and white, feet propped on a black ottoman, a copy of Robert Hass’s Praise, which I had given him, in his hand.
He smiled as he looked up.
“ ‘Death’s hounds feared me,’ “ he said. “Nice line, that. How are you this cycle?”
“Rested, finally,” I said. “Yourself?”
He placed the book upon a small, legless table that floated near just then, and rose to his feet. The fact that he had obviously been reading it because I was coming in no way detracted from the compliment. He had always been that way.
“Quite well, thank you,” he replied. “Come, let me feed you.”
He took my arm and steered me toward the wall of fire. It fell away as we drew near and our footsteps sounded in a place of momentary darkness, succeeded almost immediately by a small lane, sunlight filtered through arching branches overhead, violets blooming at either hand. The lane took us to a flagged patio, a green and white gazebo at its farther end. We mounted a few stairs to a well-set table within, frosted pitchers of juice and baskets of warm rolls near at hand. He gestured and I seated myself. At his gesture a carafe of coffee appeared beside my setting.
“I see you recall my morning predeliction,” I said, “from the Shadow Earth. Thank you.”