The next day, with early morning sunlight streaming past the windows, Martin climbs up the stairs of the tower to the King's office. There'a a lot needs doing. He'd sent a message to Bleys earlier when he heard his uncle was back, so he had that to look forward to as well. Vialle sits at the desk, her slender fingers tracing just below the eye-sockets of the skull. The door to the stairwell opens, letting in a brief, cold breeze of air. Martin takes a second to glance into the office's interior before entering. "Hi, Vialle," he says to the woman at the desk. "How're you doing?" Vialle is a small woman, only a little over five feet tall and quite slim. Her dark hair is kept short and neat, a pretty frame for her fine features; her eyes, too, are dark... but sightless, never changing in focus. The clothing she wears is loose, sleeveless and long-skirted, in the colors of crimson and gold. On her left hand rests a band of silver-gold metal, designed to swirl around a single stone: a blue-black opal glittering with green fire. An unadorned circlet of silver rests upon her head. Vialle replies, "Well enough, on the whole." She turns her head, as if to indicate the room. "It's quiet here. A good place for thinking. You're well, I hope? There haven't been any further real problems?" "No, nothing I can't handle," Martin answers after a pause. "If I'd known you were here, I wouldn't have come in. Would you, uh, like me to leave?" Vialle touches the parietal bone, then lets her hand fall away from the skull. "Please, no. Do you have work here?" "Some, I guess," he says. "Sort of," he says after, then concedes with a shrug, "Still working my way through his notes and things. It's kind of haphazard." Vialle smiles a touch at that, and rises. "Your father is at his best when he doesn't dwell on things, I'm afraid. Note-taking qualifies as dwelling." "Mm," Martin makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat as he steps over to the desk. He picks up a crisp sheet of paper there, scans it, replaces it o the table-top. "So..." he begins idly. "Do you know what he wanted done around here? Specific plans, sort of thing?" Vialle replies, "We've had discussions." She brings her hands together, touching the fingertips of both one to the other. "The Festival is the most important, just now; that and the associated attempts to cover the ... changes. Collecting the coins, warding off the hawks of the Circle." Martin nods agreement. "I'm keeping an eye on our friends in the Circle, and I've one or two ideas for dealing with the cover-up." He studies the glass front of a cabinet to one side of the room, which offers him a reflection of the room's contents. "Did he tell you what his plans were for this... 'Festival'?" Vialle tips her head a little to one side, thoughtful. "Harvest makes a good excuse for it; let the Princesses make the arrangements, they're the best suited, and focus on collecting the changed coins. Be prepared to melt them down, mint them new, and put them back into circulation... if we can." Martin allows himself a soft chuckle, "You read my mind." The faint smile he wears carries into his words, "I don't want any acknowledgement that those coins used to be Amber currency, so I was thinking we could tell the people that as part of the Festival, the coins are to be given up to be melted down, and a statue will eventually be cast from the melt. Something to commemorate our victories against Chaos and Virga. What do you think?" Vialle says, quietly, "Fifteen percent of the currency is a great deal of gold to take so quickly out of circulation." She touches a fingertip to her mouth. "We've stated that they're to be treated as negotiable currency for the moment, as well; and that they're to be exchanged for normal coinage during the Festival. Unless you mean that exchange by 'giving up'?" "A symbolic gesture of sacrifice," Martin explains evenly. "A catharsis for the common people. That's why the Crown issued a temporary coinage. It was always going to be destroyed at the end." His tone reverts to his usual one, "Certainly, I see no justification for the coins to remain legal tender beyond the festival. It's hurting us too much at present. Besides, none of the shadow money is even gold, or much similar to the real stuff. The real loss has already occurred, when the money became altered." "Anyway, the plan is to melt down the Festival money. Whatever seems like the best thing to do with them afterwards, is afterwards. The thing is to get them out of circulation soon," he concludes. Vialle nods. "Exchange them for normal currency at the Festival; after that, none of it will pass. I believe that was established at the last court?" "Yes, the details still have to be settled though," Martin says. "Meantime, we have to clean up the mess it's caused with Adamas and others." Vialle sighs softly. "Adamas. The imprisonment and the import duties both..." Martin nods again. "Yeah, all that." He considers, "Uh, Vialle, can I get you to take care of something..?" Vialle replies, a touch warmer, "So long as it doesn't involve color-coordination, I should imagine." Martin chuckles, "Could I get you to oversee the Festival?" Vialle shivers delicately. "If necessary, but I believe Flora or Llewella might be somewhat better suited." Someone knocks at the door. "Probably, but you're the only one I trust to do this we..." He turns at the knock. "Bleys. About time. Excuse me." To the door he calls out, "Come in." Vialle suggests, "I'll leave the two of you to your meeting, then?" Bleys enters the study, pausing at the doorway to favor Martin and Vialle with a polite nod of his head and an elegant half-bow, respectively. "If you wish," Martin says to Vialle. "I'll talk to you again later to see how it's going." He turns towards the door. "Bleys," he greets. The man before them 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. A faint breeze sweeps through, rustling papers and filling the chamber with the smell of old parchment. Vialle turns as Martin does, at the sound of the door's opening; offers a warm if poorly-aimed smile, a slight curtsey. "As I said to Martin: I'll leave you two to your talk, if I may." Bleys spread his hands, a warm smile coloring his expression. "Please don't feel that you have to leave on my part, Vialle." Martin steps aside, affording the Queen plenty of room to make her exit. "Scarcely, but truly, it is rather late." Vialle lingers for a moment, listening for Bleys' steps, before beginning toward the door. "'later then, Vialle," Martin says as he rounds the desk to occupy the seat just vacated. Vialle promises, "Until then, Martin." Bleys moves aside to allow Vialle room to pass, stepping further into the study. "A shame to have seen you for so short a time, Vialle. I trust that our next meeting may be perhaps a bit longer?" Martin nods a farewell to Vialle, a gesture not seen by her, but one she could expect from him perhaps. He waits, hands clasped on the desktop, patient. Vialle agrees warmly, turning her face up to address Bleys as she passes him, "Come and see me when you're about, then." "Right," Martin says a breath after she's gone. He turns his attention to his uncle, "What did you uncover?" Bleys draws a deep breath, making himself comfortable on a nearby chair. "Not a hell of a lot...but that's interesting in and of itself. I don't think this is a plot at all..." "As in, you don't think someone's behind this," Martin paraphrases, a brow raised a fraction. Bleys glances around the room, his eyes narrowing slightly as he peruses the area before replying. "No, in fact the more I learn the less likely it seems to me that someone could pull this off. "The sheer volume of items being switched, and the fact that no one has ever been seen even close to the coins or plates as they're replaced....this feels more like an instability in reality." "Then you have discounted any possibility that some sort of sorcery is being employed?" Martin continues evenly. Bleys shakes his head. "Not entirely, but Amber is an extremely difficult place in which to practice sorcery, especially of this scale. Let me put it to you this way: I doubt that Fiona and I together could manage the sheer volume of substitutions going on." Martin nods thoughtfully. "Some other method then? There's at least one loose Trump of Amber out there that we know of." Bleys steeples his fingers. "I suspect that there may well be several loose Trumps off in Shadow, but that still doesn't explain how the substitutions are being made. "No, I have my suspicions that there may be something wrong with Oberon's repair of the Primal Pattern, and I intend to check that as soon as possible. "I had -hoped- to convince Random to come along with the Jewel in case my theory is correct, but it seems he's decided that he's now a competent researcher and has headed off for parts unknown." Martin's quirked brow becomes a frown. "What if Oberon's repair was botched? Can it be fixed?" Bleys' shoulders raise and lower in a faint shrug. "To be honest, I can't say for certain but my best guess is Yes. Dad was in an extreme rush and wasn't exactly well-rested when he repaired the Pattern. I'd say that it could be fixed with the Jewel, /if/ my theory's right." "How dire do you rate the current situation, and do you see it worsening?" Martin asks, studying the other man's features. Bleys draws a deep breath. "It's not too serious yet, but this escalation in the size of items being switched has me worried. Lorelei's done some calculations....damn good work too, by the way, and if things continue to escalate at the current rate, Kolvir will be no more in just over a decade." "Great, so we can expect to see buildings change sometime in the next few years, if we don't fix this soon?" Martin says levelly, the gravity of the situation thinly veiled by his tone. "We can expect people to complain to us about their cows changing into wooden goats? Maybe their wives as well?" "That's just about right." Bleys replies with a serious expression on his face. "Again, this is just a theory at the moment...but it's the best fit to the facts at hand. Unless you've seen my brother Corwin lately?" "Random spoke with him recently," Martin replies, the expression changing little on his. An eyebrow lofts skyward on Bleys' forehead. "Here? I've been trying to contact Corwin myself...another possibility is ripples in reality being caused by interference between Corwin's Pattern and the Primal one." "Corwin's Pattern?" Martin asks, without a shift in tone. Bleys' eyes flash as he grins indulgently at Martin, rising to his feet. "If you're going to be a Regent in your father's absence, Martin, you really should pay attention to what's been going on. It's all about information...the lack of which may well kill you." He turns towards the doorway, performing a vague gesture of farewell in passing. "Ask around, Martin." Martin leans back in his chair, his gaze narrowing towards Bleys. "Generous as ever with advice, Uncle," his smile is as slim as a knife. "I won't keep you from your tasks. Feel free to drop by and share further words of wisdom." Bleys nods his head the slightest fraction. "Trust me in that much at least: I will." After Bleys leaves, Martin glares at the door, fingers drumming an angry tattoo on the table. There're too many damned redheads in this family, he concludes sourly as he rips a random report out of the nearest pile and begins. ------- 8/21/98