Roadmarks by Roger Zelazny Page B

will and you seek to toy with it." He raised his head. The other drew back. "Do you challenge me?"
    "No," said Chantris.
    " . . . And by that you say 'not yet.' "
    "I would not be so foolish as to choose this time and this spot."
    "Good sense. Though I doubt it will save you in the end. Face the north wind and depart."
    "I was about to anyway, Lord Patris. And I bid you remember we need no Road. Farewell!"
    "Hold, Chantris! If you go to damage these chains you have seen, if you go to harm this one in his other form, then you may have chosen your time and your place!"
    But the other had already departed, to seek and stop one who would return to the wind but knew it not wholly, yet.
    Patris revolved his eyes. Times and places moved behind them. He found the channel of his desire and adjusted the fine tuning.
     

ONE
     
    Red sat on his bed, Mondamay on the floor. Flowers on the table between them. Cigar smoke twisted about the room. Red raised an ornate goblet from the table and sipped a dark wine.
    "All right. Where were we?" he asked, unlacing his boots and dropping them beside the bed.
    "You had said that you did not want to come home with me and make pots," Mondamay stated.
    "That's true."
    " . . . And you agreed that it would be difficult for you to leave the Road and stay in hiding indefinitely."
    "Yes."
    "You also conceded that remaining on the Road and going about your business could be hazardous."
    "Right."
    "Then the only course of action I can see is for you to go on the offensive. Get Chadwick before he gets you."
    "Hmm." Red closed his eyes. "That would be an interesting variation," he said. "But he's pretty far from here, and it would certainly not be easy . . . "
    "Where is he now?"
    "The last I knew, he'd put down pretty firm roots in C Twenty-seven. He is a very wealthy and powerful man."
    "But you could find him?"
    "Yes."
    "How well do you know his time and place?" Mondamay asked.
    "I lived there for over a year."
    "Then your best course of action seems obvious: go after him."
    "I suppose you are right."
    Red suddenly put down his goblet, rose to his feet and began pacing rapidly.
    "You suppose! What else is there left to do?"
    "Yes, yes!" Red replied, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it onto the bed. "Listen, we'll have to finish talking about it tomorrow."
    He unbuckled his belt, stepped out of his trousers, threw them next to the shirt. He resumed pacing.
    "Red!" Flowers said sharply. "Are you having one of your spells?"
    "I don't know. I feel a little peculiar, that's all. Possibly. I think you'd better go now. We'll talk more in the morning."
    "I think we'd better stay," Flowers answered. "I'd like to know what happens, and perhaps — ”
    "No! I mean it! I'll talk to you later! Leave me!"
    "All right. As you say. Let's go, Mondy."
    Mondamay rose and removed Flowers from the table.
    "Is there anything at all that I can do, that I can get you?" he asked.
    "No."
    "Good night, then."
    "Good night."
    He departed. As he moved down the stairs, Mondamay asked Flowers, "What is it? I've known him for some time, but I never knew of any illness — any spells . . . What's he got?"
    "I have no idea. He does not get them often, but when he does, he always manages to be alone. I believe he has recurrent bouts of insanity — some sort of manic thing."
    "How so?
    "You will know what I mean if you get a look at his room in the morning. He is going to have a big bill here. He'll tear that place apart."
    "Hasn't he ever seen a physician about it?"
    "Not that I know of."
    "There must be some very good ones in the high Cs."
    "Indeed. But he won't see one. He'll be all right in the morning, though — a little tired, perhaps, and there may even be a personality change. But he'll be all right."
    "What sort of personality change?"
    "Hard to say. You'll see."
    "Here's our room. You sure you want to try this?"
    "I'll tell you inside."
     

TWO
     
    In the room with walls bound like books in large grained, crushed morocco,