Spring is over before Martin knows it, and the day of Dad's poxy
Ceremony is drawing closer. On a cool evening in the newly arrived
summer, after a long day spent going over reports from the various
Household divisions, discussing Tessa's progress with Sir Calidore, and
checking on Farrand's fitness, he heads down to the library, looking for
something to ease his mind...

He was standing by the large sideboard near the desk, examining the
label on a bottle of something red and dark when the draught riffling
the pages of a book on a nearby table announces the opening of the
library door.

Bleys strides purposefully towards one of the bookcases, his steps
slowing as he notes the other's presence. "Martin." he speaks in way of
a greeting, inclining his head in his direction.

Bleys stands tall, with thick hair the color of fire. He wears a
well-groomed beard and moustache behind which his warm smile can often
be seen. The colors he wears are suggestive of the fires he was named
for - vibrant crimsons and oranges, impeccably tailored in his own
inimitable style. Perceptive eyes may note the well-worn grip of the
sword sheathed in an ivory scabbard, somewhat at odds to his stylish
appearance. His hands bear three heavy rings, weighed down with a single
large stone each: ruby, emerald and sapphire, the devil himself dancing
in his azure eyes and reflecting off the sapphire. His every move flows
with the fluidity and grace of a born warrior or dancer, though his
manicured hands and insightful expression denote a scholarly inclination
as well.

Martin turns partway, looking over his shoulder. "Uncle," he replies,
politely, evenly.

Bleys continues towards the bookcase, taking down a rather slim volume
before turning to casually approach the sideboard. "Have you found
something interesting, nephew?"

"Not as interesting as what you seem to have found," Martin answers,
balancing the bottle in the palm of his hand, as he watches Bleys
approach.

A rising wind howls through the castle walls.

Bleys' shoulders rise and fall in the faintest of shrugs. "It depends on
what you call interesting. This..." he hefts the book in his hands "..
is about the only well-written primer on sorcery I've ever found. To me,
that's interesting. As to your discovery..." his eyes traverse the
bottle in your hands, attempting to read the label.

"... was sitting in the back of the cupboard," Martin shrugs a shoulder.
"Likely, I shall discover why." A speculative pause, and, "Care to join
me on a short tour of discovery?"

The book placed casually on the sideboard, Bleys' lips quirk into a
brief smile. "Why not? If your discovery matches the others I've found
in this room, it'll be well worth savoring."

Martin returns a brief smile, more politeness than warmth or amusement,
as he fishes out a pair of wine-glasses and sets them atop the
sideboard. Easing the cork from the bottle, he says, conversationally,
"Brushing up on your technique?" indicating the primer.

Bleys shakes his head, fingertips lightly brushing over the fine leather
of the book's cover. "No, I'm afraid this is the sorcerous equivalent of
learning the alphabet. It's for a student of mine...." His eyes flicker
over to meet yours for a moment, a hint of curiosity evident.

Martin pours the wine, dark red liquid sliding like silk from the
bottle's mouth into each glass. "Oh?"

Bleys' eyes track the movement of the wine as he inhales sharply,
catching the first hint of bouquet. "Ahhh." He pauses for a moment
before responding, his expression carefully neutral as he speaks. "Yes.
Your sister Tessa shows an aptitude for the Arts, so I've decided to add
that to her curriculum."

"Does she?" Martin answers blandly, as he replaces the cork in the
bottle, and offers a glass to Bleys.

Benedict enters the library then, carrying a leather-bound book tucked
beneath his arm. He pauses in the entryway and clears his throat. "Am I
interupting?"

Tall and thin, Benedict stands just over six feet tall with narrow
shoulders and a lean build. Shoulder-length, straight brown hair frames
a thin, dour face and strong jaw. Piercing hazel eyes flank a round,
flat nose above a thin-lipped mouth that rarely smiles.

A yellow poet's shirt seeks to hide Benedict's form with flowing,
billowing sleeves and shoulders, only to be tamed at his waist with a
simple brown leather belt; the left sleeve is folded and pinned up
neatly to the shoulder of the shirt. Between the folds of his brown
leather vest, the shirt hangs open and untied. Orange breeches hug his
hips and thighs, disappearing in a pair of knee-high brown leather
boots.

Benedict appears to be unarmed.
	 
As he reaches over to accept the offered glass from Martin, Bleys' head
swivels to encompass the new arrival. "Not at all, Brother. Care to
sample Martin's discovery?"

Martin turns. "Uncle Benedict," he greets, a little surprised. "No, not
at all. Come join us," he invites.

Benedict nods his acceptance, making his way farther into the room. He
stops on the way to deposit the book he carries before moving to the
pair.

Martin waits for Benedict to join them, offering his own glass to him
when he does so.

Bleys raises his glass as Benedict approaches, once more sampling the
bouquet from the wine. "We should have a toast. What shall we toast to?"
he asks, his eyes flicking from face to face.

Benedict doesn't make Martin wait long, accepting the glass with a nod
of thanks. To Bleys, "You are the most likely to have an appropro toast
on hand, Brother."

Martin hunts out another glass for himself, when Benedict accepts his,
and pours himself a drink.

A pause, as Bleys ponders the burgundy liquid in his glass before
raising it higher still. "I declare a toast to Peace: Brief though it
may be, the greater the reason to savor it."

Benedict lifts his glass lightly in toast. "Salut," he agrees before
sipping from his glass.

A draught stirs the pages of the book again as Niara closes the door
behind her, quietly.

Martin nods, raising his glass, and drinks.

Benedict stands near the sideboard with Martin and Bleys, each man's
glass of wine raised in toast or being sipped from.

Niara rubs the back of her neck distractedly as she walks across the
carpet toward a shelf, muttering under her breath.

Benedict flicks a glance at Niara as she enters, tracking her entrance
for a moment before returning his attention to the two before him.

Bleys tilts his head to one side as he finishes the required sip from
his glass, his gaze falling upon Niara as she enters. "The library's
popular tonight. Such a studious family we are..."

Martin follows Benendict's glance to the door, then looks to Bleys,
smiling partly. "Not all of us, Uncle."

Niara folds her arms as she peers up the second shelf she comes to,
frowning some.

Take the Mona Lisa. Make her darker and elfin boned, and substitute her
straight brown-black hair with ebony. Widen her almondine eyes. Color
them bronze, like those of some leopards. Occasionally, fleetingly,
re-draw that famous smile onto a Dionysian mouth. Give her slender,
fragile hands, impossibly tiny feet, and indolent grace that is the
stuff of scientific treatise. Shear her lustrous hair until the back is
just at ear level, and beginning to curl. Snip her bangs into a coronet
of short ringlets. Lace her into a sleeveless snug-seamed tunic, a lean
line of silver butterfly-broidered deep purple silk from cuffed collar
to black leather covered calves. Slit it from hem to waist beside each
leg and in the middle of the back, all over filmy, swishy, gold-shot
orange faille trousers. Spiral bright copper up her forearms. Buckle a
black scabbard low on her right hip. Stick a plain sabre in it. Make her
smell like tea roses and oleander.

Bleys returns Martin's smile with the beginnings of a sly grin. "Not all
knowledge comes from books, Nephew."

"My point exactly," Martin replies to Bleys. His gaze drifts back to the
primer on the sideboard. "Some learning is more necessary than others."

Benedict stands quietly, watching the exchange between Martin and Bleys
over the rim of his glass as he sips from it. Neither interest nor
disinterest shows in his expression.

Niara tiptoes to drag a battered black book off a shelf just over her
head. She waves a hand in front of her face to dispel the puff of dust
that comes down with it.

"And some lessons should be taught -before- throwing the student to the
wolves." Bleys responds, his eyes narrowing. "Sink or swim is certainly
one way to teach someone, but you should at least explain to them what
water is."

Niara's brows come together shortly after she opens her book. "A fluid."
she murmurs. "Interesting."

"There was the small matter of a war, Uncle," Martin reminds Bleys,
pleasantly enough. "They don't have much consideration for the
responsibilites of others."

Bleys gestures dismissively with his free hand, delaying his response
long enough to enjoy another sip of his wine. "The war is irrelevant. As
the one bringing Tessa here to Amber, you were responsible for ensuring
that she knew enough to survive -before- bringing her here. I'd think
that you of all people would appreciate the dangers present to the
unwary..."

Benedict interjects, "I was wondering when the source of an otherwise
ambiguous conversation was going to show itself. Is Tessa having
difficulty with life in Amber?"

"She was," Martin answers Benedict, his gaze remaining on Bleys, to whom
he says, "I was instructed to bring her here, by one that Tessa herself
chooses not to heed. That, and she, are not your concern."

A faint shake of his head marks Bleys' disagreement. "She was, and is
still having problems adjusting, Martin. As to her being my concern..."
he waves his index finger back and forth for a moment. "Having taken
Tessa on as my student, with Random's knowledge and blessing I might
add, she most definitely is my concern."

Niara continues to page through the book in her hand, drawing a finger
under the words as she reads them. Some are mouthed, slowly.

Martin quirks a brow at that, and it's a second before he says, "Yes,
I've noticed. Why the sudden interest in the King's daughter, Uncle?"

Benedict turns slightly towards Bleys now, the motion communicating his
equal interest in the answer to Martin's question.

"Tessa's a lovely child, but she's the weak link in the Realm right now,
as anyone with the slightest amount of sense could fathom." Bleys
replies, setting his glass down upon the sideboard. "Picture, if you
will, what would happen if Tessa was found dead in her rooms tomorrow
morning."

"Picture, if you will," Martin replies instead. "What the nobles are to
think of the brother of Brand in the King's daughter's room."

Benedict states evenly but firmly, "Enough."

Martin sips his wine, regarding Bleys in silence.

Benedict says, "We are both the brothers of Brand, Martin. We do not
bear the title with shame. However, it is inappropriate to insult either
brother by reminding them how they do bear the title."

He gives Bleys a smooth and meaningful, but shortlived glance.

Bleys inclines his head in Benedict's direction, meeting his gaze for a
moment before turning back to Martin. "Irregardless, Tessa is a prime
target for anyone wishing to destablize Amber. Having fought in two wars
to defend the realm recently, I'm in no mind to see any further damage
occur."

"Uncle Benedict," Martin answers him politely, his gaze still fixed on
Bleys. "I was merely reminding Uncle Bleys that for those of us who
remained here in the defence of Amber, there are many who remember a
different Prince Bleys, and that in the name of propriety, if not the
well-being of the city, he might be advised to spend a little less time
in the company of the King's daughter."

"Your point has been considered, Martin, and you'll note that I'm rarely
in Tessa's company without some servants in attendance." Bleys remarks,
refilling his glass. "You may also consider that this may be intentional
on Random's behalf, as a public sign that I have his support, and he has
mine. A show of familial solidarity, as it were."

"No doubt," Martin says. He offers "Perhaps we should consider
discussing Tessa's further education, at some convenient time, since we
both apparently have her interests at heart?"

Benedict watches the exchange again for a moment, taking the break to
sip from his glass again.

Niara closes her book, and takes the steps necessary to lay it on a
table. She gives its cover a little pat before returning her attention
to the shelves.

Martin watches Bleys over the rim of his wine glass as he sips.

Bleys inclines his head in Martin's direction, gesturing palm-up as he
speaks. "A good idea, in my opinion. I have some suggestions you may
want to consider."

"Later then," Martin answers Bleys, as expressionlessly as before. He
raises his galss to him, "I'm glad we could sort this out."

Benedict looks dubious at best, dour more likely. But he says nothing.
Niara collects another book, one larger and less dusty. She lugs it over
to the table and puts it down before she opens it.

"Later." Bleys echos, mirroring Martin's salute in turn with his glass.

Martin nods once to Bleys, and sips the wine from his glass.

Bleys half-turns to regard Niara as she peruses the books. "I'd no idea
you were this studious, Niece." he remarks, noting the hefty tome under
investigation.

Niara replies, "Perhaps you have indulged overmuch in wine, and are
hallucinating, then," without looking up from what she is perusing. A
little half-smile pokes its way out of her absorbed expression.

Benedict drains his glass after a long, silent, pensive moment, then
sets the emptied vessel upon the sideboard. "A good discovery, Martin,"
he compliments.

Bleys snorts dismissively. "A word of warning, Niara. If you ever -do-
meet a hallucinating member of our family, run. Swiftly." A soft smile
graces his face as he nods his head to Benedict. "I concur."

Niara taps fingertips on her jaw, thoughtfully. A quiet chuckle slips
through her lips before she turns another page.

Martin shifts his attention to Benedict. "Can't imagine who'd want to
hide it all the way in the back of the cupboard, Uncle," he says,
smiling faintly.

Benedict says, a bit too smug for Benedict, "Nor can I." He favors
Martin with a rare, faint smile of his own.

Bleys eyes Benedict with a slightly suspicious air, a lopsided grin
favoring his expression.

Martin returns Benedict's smile with a brief grin. "It's good to have
you around again."

Benedict says, "I am certain not nearly as good as being 'around'
again."

Bleys glances out the window, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he
collects his book from the sideboard. "Pleasant as this has been, I'm
afraid duty calls. Good day to you, Brother. Nephew. Niece." He favors
each in turn with a nod of his head before slowly walking towards the
door.

Benedict nods once, silent, towards Bleys.

Niara bobs her head, but does not look up.

"Good evening, Uncle," Martin says, watching him leave out of the
corners of his sight.

Benedict asks, a few moments after Bleys departs, "Would you walk with
me, Martin?"

With Bleys gone, Martin relaxes visibly. To Benedict, he nods, "Of
course."

He downs his glass, replacing the bottle within the sideboard, and sets
off after Benedict.

Niara lifts her chin a little.

As he heads out, he smiles a "Good evening" towards Niara.

Niara returns the smile, with a wink.

Martin grins, and heads out into the gallery.

Out in the gallery, Martin closes the door to the library after him as
he steps out, following Benedict.

As he walks along the corridor, Benedict comments, "You seem on edge,
Martin." He doesn't appear to be heading in any predestination.

Martin slips his hands into the pockets of his jacket, keeping in step
with Benedict. "Things are a little rough right now," he shrugs. "It's
nothing that can't be dealt with."

"What things," Benedict replies, casual conversation in the tone.

"Everything," Martin concedes after a pause.

Benedict suggests, "Perhaps if you were more descriptive..." the
implication of aid is left unsaid.

Martin eyes Benedict a long moment before returning his gaze to the
corridor. "Dad coming back as King," Martin suggests. "The whole mess
with Virga. Tessa's insanity. All this sudden friendliness," he pauses.
"You know, everything."

Benedict says, "Do you feel that your father does not deserve the
Crown?"

It's another long moment before Martin answers. "What I think doesn't
really come into it, does it?" he answers then. "The Unicorn chose him,
right? So." Another pause. "I don't know if he can do it, that's all.
He's like some kid with a new toy right now."

Benedict replies, "Whether or not your opinion counts is hardly
relevant. If it were, you would not be disturbed." He pauses. "Are you
concerned for him or for something else?"

"For Amber, of course," Martin answers, brusque. "Nothing else matters."

Benedict says, "It is strange to hear you say that. Not eight years ago,
the opinion you shared with me regarding Amber contained quite a few
more expletives."

Martin rubs his forehead, hiding an embarassed smile. "Ah, well, that
was before... you know, things change. And besides, my quarrel wasn't
with Amber so much as, well, Dad. Mm, I can see how this probably
looks."

Benedict says, "Looks are not important in this instance, Martin."

Martin nods. "But you are wondering, aren't you?"

Benedict says, "You suggest that I have not been the son of a King
before. I do not wonder."

"If not you, then others," Martin says, shoving his hands deep into his
pockets. "I didn't ask for this."

Benedict says, "No one did.

"What disturbs you about Tessa?" Benedict asks, deliberately dismissing
the prior topic.

Martin lets the first subject drop, as Benedict will, and continues with
the other, counting off a list. "Dad's indiscretion about her, his
inability then and unwillingness now to recognise how unprepared she is
for any of this, her refusal to deal with the real world, and the
possibility that she's got more of Paulette's blood in her than is good
for us."

Benedict says, "Paulette is her mother?"

"Grandmother," Martin corrects mildly. "Tessa's mother was some bar
wench or something Dad hung out with for a time." By way of explanation,
he adds, "shortly after she arrived, the staff started talking about how
it was like Paulette all over again: wandering through the hallways in
the dead of night, talking and laughing to herself, dancing to music
nobody else can hear... that sort of thing."

Benedict nods at this, faintly. His naturally dour expression is
directed straight, as if he were walking by himself despite the
conversation he holds. "Do you believe that there is something wrong
with her?"

"I don't know," Martin answers simply. "I hope there isn't."

Muffled footfalls and the shutting of a door can be heard down one of
the passage-ways.

Benedict stops the walk now and turns, directing his gaze upon you. "You
mentioned something about sudden friendliness."

Martin shakes his head, "It's little things. All this sudden niceness,"
he shrugs a shoulder. "When everyone was in Chaos, things were... tense.
But you always knew how it stood. And now... well."

Benedict smiles slowly. But the expression is gone before Benedict
replies, "Welcome to Amber."

"I don't know this Amber," Martin answers quietly.

Benedict says, "You don't know it. Or you don't want it."

"What I want has never been a consideration," Martin lifts his gaze to
meet Benedict's. "I know the Amber I fought and bled for. I'm just not
sure if it's the same Amber as anybody else's."

Benedict says, "Do you believe that my Amber is the same as Bleys's
Amber? Or your father's?"

A pair of courtiers stroll across the far end of the hall, talking
quietly.

Martin's answer comes slowly. "Whatever Dad's Amber is is the one I've
given my word to defend."

Benedict says, "But you don't believe it to be the same as your own."

"I don't know that either," Martin says. "I don't know much of anything
about him, except that he'd rather make Tessa his heir, irregardless of
what it means for Amber."

Benedict's expression does not shift. "That sounds like resentment."

"No," Martin answers evenly. "That's fear."

Benedict nods, chosing not to comment further. Instead, he points in the
direction of the Royal Apartments. "If you seek to know more about the
King's Amber, you know where to find out about it." Dropping his arm, he
says, "I must take my leave of you now, Martin."

Martin nods, "Sure. Good night, Uncle." Almost as an afterthought, he
adds, quickly, "And thanks."

Benedict only nods. Turning, he moves quietly into the next hall and is
gone.

<4/30/98>

Shortly afterwards, Martin is tossing up between heading back to his own
rooms and getting ready for the trip to the Golden Circle, or looking
for the rest of his band. Which is when one of the palace's prettier
maids finds him. Bleys sent her apparently, with a suggestion to meet
downstairs, in the Crimson Drawing Room. He didn't take long, he thinks
as he dismisses the maid and makes his way there.

Martin lets the door swing open, glancing into the room before he steps
in a moment later, closing the door behind him as he does so.

The Crimson Drawing Room's a grand, formal affair. Red silk and brocade,
liberally garnished with gold trim and gilt. Not one of his favorite
rooms, but clearly something that the extravagant Bleys feels
comfortable in.

Bleys reclines on one of the gilded chairs, a bottle of wine on a small
table next to him. Two glasses sit beside the bottle, both filled. "Join
me in a drink, Nephew?"

Martin regards his uncle from where he remains standing by the door, and
inclines his head in a faint gesture of acknowledgement. "Thank you,
Uncle," he replies, crossing the room towards him. "I will."

Bleys lifts both glasses, extending them to you. "Take your pick." he
comments in a dry tone of voice. "Neither's poisoned, you have my word."

As Martin reaches the chairs, his features quirk briefly into a grin.
"It'd hardly accomplish much at this point, if either were," he says,
reaching for a glass.

Bleys inclines his head, raising the remaining glass in a salute. "True
enough. That's one of the reasons I've never been fond of poison: Too
random....no pun intended."

Martin answers with a shrug as he settles into a chair. Resting an elbow
on an armrest, he returns the salute, then begins idly swirling the wine
in his glass, watching his uncle. "Tessa..." he prompts.

"Yes. Tessa.... Irregardless as to the whys of the matter, the fact
remains that Tessa is woefully unprepared for life here in Amber. That
would be dangerous enough on it's own, as you well know, but combined
with her position in the family - she's in grave danger." Bleys states,
very deliberately taking a long sip of his wine.

"This we appear to already... agree on," Martin answers slowly. "What
was in question was the methods and appropriatness of those methods."

Bleys leans back in his chair, eyes masked for a moment as he takes
anothe sip of his wine. "Indeed. For example, I have to wonder at your
choice for her morning instructors....two noble yet aged gentlemen, one
of whom appears to be teaching her the invaluable information held in
the lists of marriage rolls for the last millenium."

"A little basic background and history," Martin says, taking his first
sip of the wine. "Nice," he comments before continuing. "He has his
instructions, but she's free to lead her lessons where she will."

Bleys nods, lips pursing for a moment. "The problem being, she has
little or no idea as to what would be the most advantageous direction
for her lessons to take. In a single conversation with your sister, she
learned more of that which she needs to survive than the entire time
she's been in Amber. I'd say that proves my methods are both effective
and appropriate."

"More like, you stuck your hand in something that was being finely
tuned, and fucked it up," Martin says evenly, resting his glass on the
arm of the chair for a moment.

Bleys shakes his head slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he speaks.
"Don't overstep yourself, Martin. Benedict's not here to protect you
today." he comments in a neutral tone of voice. "And what were you
finely tuning Tessa for, an early grave? Oh, I can see why you'd be
jealous: the beloved daughter, given information and a Trump by her
watchful father. Not quite the upbringing you had, now was it?"

Martin quirks an eyebrow at Bleys, his gaze dark and narrowed. Then,
after a long second, he begins to chuckle. "Ah, that's Tessa. At least,
I hope that's Tessa, or you're a lot less wiley than I've been led to
believe. Sorry to disappoint you, Uncle, but, wrong." He smiles a thin,
knife's smile. "The real problem here is that you have involved yourself
where you were not required to. But. It's done," he shrugs, the smile
fading some. "The question remains, how is the matter to be resolved?"
He flicks the question back to Bleys again, watching him.

"You never pined for Random's fatherly embrace, Martin, as I well knew.
No, I was wondering whether you'd take the hook or not." Bleys remarks,
the slightest hint of a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. "As
to Tessa's education, I involved myself where and how I saw fit. To my
mind, there is no resolution required: There is no-one better qualified
than I to teach Tessa the ways of our family, and the Powers and Arts we
command."

Martin returns the faint smile. "So long as you remember that you are
not the only one," he answers, raising the glass to his lips again.

A moment passes as Bleys contemplates the wine in his glass. "That I
know, Martin. I'm merely the best one for the job..." He pauses once
more before continuing. "There seems to be some misapprehension in your
mind, Nephew, which needs clearing. I'm not Brand, you know." He shift
slightly in his chair, his expression shifting for a moment to reveal
the steel beneath the bon vivante exterior. "You'd be wise to curb your
tendency for casual insults."

"Perhaps, Uncle, if you made fewer rash assumptions..?" Martin suggests
quite pleasantly.

Bleys lifts his glass to his lips, an eyebrow lofting skyward on his
brow. "I? It was not I who seems to find something objectionable in my
spending time educating my niece. Her father thought it a good idea, as
did the Lady Vialle. No, only you have objected, Martin. It seems to me
that the one making rash assumptions is the same man you see in your
mirror every morning."

"I might agree with you there, but not for quite the reasons you think,"
Martin answers, chuckling again, with very little humor. "I did not come
here to apportion blame, Uncle, much as that seems to be a favorite
past-time of yours, but to see the matter clarified."

A slight grin creases Bleys' lips, his eyes dancing with some secret
amusement. "Then the matter is settled. Tessa will continue with the
valuable lessons you have arranged in the mornings and her afternoons
will be devoted to -my- instructions. You will seek to curb the youthful
enthusiasm of your insults, while I...." His grin is slowly brought
under self-control. "I will do that which is most appropriate."

Martin's answer is a smile, and a faint nod. "As will I, of course." He
finishes his wine, thanks his uncle for it, and leaves.

------
5/5/98