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