The Great Book of Amber - Chronicles 1-10

  Roger Zelazny

  The Great Book of

  Amber

  The Complete Amber Chronicles, 1-10

  Avon Books - New York

  Avon Books

  A division of

  The Hearst Corporation

  105 Madison Avenue

  New York, New York 10016

  Published by EOS/Avon December 1999

  Nine Princes in Amber Copyright © 1970 by Roger Zelazny

  Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 77-103787

  ISBN: 0-380-80906-0

  The Guns of Avalon Copyright © 1972 by Roger Zelazny

  Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 72-76223

  ISBN: 0-380-00083-0

  Sign of the Unicorn Copyright © 1972 by Roger Zelazny

  Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 74-12722

  ISBN: 0-380-00831-9

  The Hand of Oberon Copyright © 1976 by Roger Zelazny

  Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 75-39124

  ISBN: 0-380-01664-8

  The Courts of Chaos Copyright © 1976 by Roger Zelazny

  Published by arrangement with Doubleday & Company, Inc.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: xx-xxxxx

  ISBN: 0-380-xxxxx-x

  Trumps of Doom Copyright © 1985 by Roger Zelazny

  Published by arrangement with the author

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 84-29776

  ISBN: 0-380-89635-4

  Blood of Amber Copyright © 1986 by the Amber Corporation

  Published by arrangement with the author

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 86-3530

  ISBN: 0-380-89636-x

  Sign of Chaos Copyright © 1987 by The Amber Corporation

  Published by arrangement with the author

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 87-14509

  ISBN: 0-380-89637-0

  Knight of Shadows Copyright © 1989 by The Amber Corporation

  Published by arrangement with the author

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-34658

  ISBN: 0-380-75501-7

  Prince of Chaos Copyright © 1991 by The Amber Corporation

  Published by arrangement with the author

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-17296

  ISBN: 0-380-75502-5

  Dedications:

  For Jadawin and his demiurge,

  not to forget Kickaha.

  — from Sign of the Unicorn

  To Jay Haldeman,

  of friendship and artichokes

  — from The Hand of Oberon

  Again, Judy

  —from Trumps of Doom

  For Kirby McCauley

  —from Blood of Amber

  To Phil Cleverly

  and our seasons in the sun:

  Thanks for all the Kokyu Nages.

  — from Sign of Chaos

  This book is for John Douglas

  — from Knight of Shadows

  To Jane Lindskold:

  Gramercy, lady, for your help.

  This one was yours from the start

  — from Prince of Chaos

  Forward

  by EvilRich

  I don’t normally insert anything not in the original editions in these, but in this case I’m going to make an exception for a couple of reasons. Zelazny was the first author I can recall who began to turn me on to characterization, as well as plot. He’s associated with Samuel R. Delany, Thomas M. Disch, Phillip K. Dick, Ursla K.LeGuin, Harlan Ellison, and other bright lights of the so-called ‘New-Wave’, but I found that other than Delany, the rest were way overrated. I’d also have added Bertram Chandler, H. Beam Piper, and of course Gordon R. Dickson! (I read Genetic General and Junkyard Planet when they were Ace Doubles!) The main difference, I think, was the adventure they added, as opposed to the turgid maunderings of LeGuin, Dick, and Disch and Ellison’s really pale imitation of Hunter S. Thompson. To me, he naturally led me to David Drake, Lois McMaster Bujold, David Weber, and lately Roland J. Green, John Ringo, and Mike Moscoe. Other than Bujold and Weber, while these may not be the most “Literary” writers, they always seem to produce whacking good Stories!

  Second, I should say that this is not the Great Book of Amber as published by EOS/Avon, but is rather a combination of my own near-futile attempt at scanning all of the original Avon books on a really sorry first generation flatbed scanner. (This process was aided by the fact that Avon’s Corwin paperbacks were so horribly bound—term used really loosely—I didn’t even have to cut off the spines. The glue gave up on the pages within the first month after purchase!) About the only thing from the EOS/Avon edition is the cover. After about an aggregate year, chapter by chapter, I managed to import the .txt files into Word, clean up, and finally have something decent. Note: this was before Abby FineReader and hi-rez scanners. Imagine my surprise when I found out someone had used these fine tools to produce a better cleaned up version, in .html yet! After I spit out the rug I’d just finished chewing, I imported to FrontPage 2k, compared equivalent files and reconciled them, and produced this. As an extra added attraction, I added the six Amber Short Stories Zelazny produced, and EOS/Avon stupidly left out. I’d’ve probably added the Guide to Castle Amber if I could’ve, but God knows, it’s the biggest .lit file I’ve produced to date, damn near 3k pages at the median font size. You’re gonna need some memory for this!

  Now, I’m absolutely certain that there are typos, split or combined paragraphs, and other assorted errors, but I believe that this is a pretty readable version of these fine books. I hope Zelazny’s ghost will forgive me, but I believe that between this newsgroup and #bookz it’ll be damn near eternal, and screw Eos/Avon, he deserved better!

  — EvilRich

  Roger Zelazny

  Nine Princes in Amber

  The First Amber Pentology - Corwin’s Story: Book 1

  1

  It was starting to end, after what seemed most of eternity to me.

  I attempted to wriggle my toes, succeeded. I was sprawled there in a hospital bed and my legs were done up in plaster casts, but they were still mine.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, and opened them, three times.

  The room grew steady.

  Where the hell was I?

  Then the fogs were slowly broken, and some of that which is called memory returned to me. I recalled nights and nurses and needles. Every time things would begin to clear a bit, someone would come in and jab me with something. That’s how it had been. Yes. Now, though, I was feeling halfway decent. They’d have to stop.

  Wouldn’t they?

  The thought came to assail me: Maybe not.

  Some natural skepticism as to the purity of all human motives came and sat upon my chest. I’d been over narcotized, I suddenly knew. No real reason for it, from the way I felt, and no reason for them to stop now, if they’d been paid to keep it up. So play it cool and stay dopey, said a voice which was my worst, if wiser, self.

  So I did.

  A nurse poked her head in the door about ten minutes later, and I was, of course, still sacking Z’s. She went away.

  By then, I’d reconstructed a bit of what had occurred

  I had been in some sort of accident, I remembered vaguely. What had happened after that was still a blur; and as to what had happened before, I had no inkling whatsoever. But I had first been in a hospital an
d then brought to this place, I remembered. Why? I didn’t know.

  However, my legs felt pretty good. Good enough to hold me up, though I didn’t know how much time had lapsed since their breaking—and I knew they’d been broken.

  So I sat up. It took me a real effort, as my muscles were very tired. It was dark outside and a handful of stars were standing naked beyond the window. I winked back at them and threw my legs over the edge of the bed.

  I was dizzy, but after a while it subsided and I got up, gripping the rail at the head of the bed, and I took my first step.

  Okay. My legs held me.

  So, theoretically, I was in good enough shape to walk out.

  I made it back to the bed, stretched out and thought. I was sweating and shaking. Visions of sugarplums, etc.

  In the State of Denmark there was the odor of decay. . .

  It had been an accident involving an auto, I recalled. One helluva one....

  Then the door opened, letting in light, and through slits beneath my eyelashes I saw a nurse with a hypo in her hand.

  She approached my bedside, a hippy broad with dark hair and big arms.

  Just as she neared, I sat up.

  “Good evening,” I said.

  “Why–good evening,” she replied.

  “When do I check out?” I asked.

  “I’ll have to ask Doctor.”

  “Do so,” I said.

  “Please roll up your sleeve.”

  “No thanks.”

  “I have to give you an injection”

  “No you don’t. I don’t need it”

  “I’m afraid that’s for Doctor to say.”

  “Then send him around and let him say it. But in the meantime, I will not permit it.”

  “I’m afraid I have my orders.”

  “So did Eichmann, and look what happened to him,” and I shook my head slowly.

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll have to report this. . .

  “Please do,” I said, “and while you’re at it, tell him I’ve decided to check out in the morning.”

  “That’s impossible. You can’t even walk—and there were internal injuries....”

  “We’ll see,” said I. “Good night”

  She swished out of sight without answering.

  So I lay there and mulled. It seemed I was in some sort of private place—so somebody was footing the bill. Whom did I know? No visions of relatives appeared behind my eyes. Friends either. What did that leave? Enemies?

  I thought a while.

  Nothing.

  Nobody to benefact me thus.

  I’d gone over a cliff in my car, and into a lake, I suddenly remembered. And that was all I remembered.

  I was...

  I strained and began to sweat again.

  I didn’t know who I was.

  But to occupy myself, I sat up and stripped away all my bandages. I seemed all right underneath them, and it seemed the right thing to do. I broke the cast on my right leg, using a metal strut I’d removed from the head of the bed. I had a sudden feeling that I had to get out in a hurry, that there was something I had to do.

  I tested my right leg. It was okay.

  I shattered the cast on my left leg, got up, went to the closet.

  No clothes there.

  Then I heard the footsteps. I returned to my bed and covered over the broken casts and the discarded bandages.

  The door swung inward once again.

  Then there was light all around me, and there was a beefy guy in a white jacket standing with his hand on the wall switch.

  “What’s this I hear about you giving the nurse a hard time?” he asked, and there was no more feigning sleep.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What is it?”

  That troubled him for a second or two, said the frown then, “It’s time for your shot.”

  “Are you an M.D.?” I asked.

  “No, but I’m authorized to give you a shot”

  “And I refuse it’” I said, “as I’ve a legal right to do. What’s it to you?”

  “You’ll have your shot,” he said, as he moved around to the left side of the bed. He had a hypo in one hand which bad been out of sight till then.

  It was a very foul blow, about four inches below the belt buckle, I’d say, and it left him on his knees.

  “____ ____!” he said, after a time.

  “Come within spitting distance again,” I said, “and see what happens.”

  “We’ve got ways to deal with patients like you,” he gasped.

  So I knew the time had come to act.

  “Where are my clothes?” I said.

  “____ ____!” he repeated

  “Then I guess I’ll have to take yours. Give them to me.”

  It became boring with the third repetition, so I threw the bedclothes over his head and clobbered him with the metal strut.

  Within two minutes, I’d say, I was garbed all in the color of Moby Dick and vanilla ice cream. Ugly.

  I shoved him into the closet and looked out the lattice window. I saw the Old Moon with the New Moon in her arms, hovering above a row of poplars. The grass was silvery and sparkled. The night was bargaining weakly with the sun. Nothing to show, for me, where this place was located. I seemed to be on the third floor of the building though, and there was a cast square of light off to my left and low, seeming to indicate a first floor window with someone awake behind it.

  So I left the room and considered the hallway. Off to the left, it ended against a wall with a latticed window, and there were four more doors, two on either side. Probably they let upon more doors like my own. I went and looked out the window and saw more grounds, more trees, more night, nothing new. Turning, I headed in the other direction.

  Doors, doors, doors, no lights from under any of them, the only sounds my footsteps from the too big borrowed shoes.

  Laughing Boy’s wristwatch told me it was five forty-four. The metal strut was inside my belt, under the white orderly jacket, and it rubbed against my hip bone as I walked. There was a ceiling fixture about every twenty feet, casting about forty watts of light.

  I came to a stairway, off to the right, leading down. I took it. It was carpeted and quiet.

  The second floor looked like my own, rows of rooms, so I continued on.

  When I reached the first floor I turned right, looking for the door with light leaking out from beneath it.

  I found it, way up near the end of the corridor, and I didn’t bother to knock.

  The guy was sitting there in a garish bathrobe, at a big shiny desk, going over some sort of ledger. This was no ward room. He looked up at me with burning eyes all wide and lips swelling toward a yell they didn’t reach, perhaps because of my determined expression. He stood, quickly.

  I shut the door behind me, advanced, and said:

  “Good morning. You’re in trouble.”

  People must always be curious as to trouble, because after the three seconds it took me to cross the room, his words were:

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” I said, “that you’re about to suffer a lawsuit for holding me incommunicado, and another one for malpractice, for your indiscriminate use of narcotics. I’m already suffering withdrawal symptoms and might do something violent....”

  He stood up.

  “Get out of here,” he said.

  I saw a pack of cigarettes on his desk. I helped myself and said, “Sit down and shut up. We’ve got things to talk about.”

  He sat down, but he didn’t shut up:

  “You’re breaking several regulations,” he said.

  “So we’ll let a court decide who’s liable,” I replied. “I want my clothes and my personal effects. I’m checking out..”

  “You’re in no condition—”

  “Nobody asked you. Pony up this minute, or answer to the law.”

  He reached toward a button on his desk, but I slapped his hand away.

  “Now!” I repeated. “You should have pressed
that when I came in. It’s too late now.”

  “Mr. Corey, you’re being most difficult....”

  Corey?

  “I didn’t check me in here,” I said, “but I damn well have a right to check me out. And NOW’s the time. So let’s get about it.”

  “Obviously, you’re in no condition to leave this institution,” he replied. “I cannot permit it—I am going to call for someone to escort you back to your room and put you to bed.”

  “Don’t try it,” I said, “or you’ll find out what condition I’m in. Now, I’ve several questions. The first one’s who checked me in, and who’s footing my bill at this place?”

  “Very well,” he sighed, and his tiny, sandy mustaches sagged as low as they could.

  He opened a drawer, put his hand inside, and I was wary.

  I knocked it down before he had the safety catch off: a .32 automatic, very neat; Colt. I snapped the catch myself when I retrieved it from the desk top; and I pointed it and said: “You will answer my questions. Obviously you consider me dangerous. You may be right.”

  He smiled weakly, lit a cigarette himself, which was a mistake, if he intended to indicate aplomb. His hands shook.

  “All right, Corey–if it will make you happy,” he said, “your sister checked you in”

  “?” thought I.

  “Which sister?” I asked.

  “Evelyn,” he said.

  No bells. So, “That’s ridiculous. I haven’t seen Evelyn in years,” I said. "She didn’t even know I was in this part of the country.”

  He shrugged.

  “Nevertheless....”

  “Where’s she staying now? I want to call her,” I said.

  “I don’t have her address handy.”

  “Get it.”

  He rose, crossed to a filing cabinet, opened it, riffled, withdrew a card.

  I studied it. Mrs. Evelyn Flaumel. . . .The New York address was not familiar either. but I committed it to memory. As the card said, my first name was Carl. Good. More data.