Roger Zelazny - Nine Princes In Amber

When I’d worked my way far enough through the door, I’d raise the bar. The sound of it falling would probably bring a guard. By then, though, I’d be out. A couple of good kicks would break out the piece I was working on and the lock could stay right where it was if it wanted to. The door would swing open then and I would face the guard. He would be armed and I wouldn’t. I’d have to take him.

He might be overconfident, thinking I couldn’t see. On the other hand, he might be a bit afraid, if he recalled how I had entered into Amber. Either way he would die and I would then be armed. I gripped my right biceps with my left hand and my fingertips touched. Gods! I was emaciated! Whatever, I was of the blood of Amber, and I felt that even in that condition I could take any ordinary man. Maybe I was kidding myself, but I’d have to try it.

Then if I succeeded, with a blade in my hand, nothing could keep me from reaching the Pattern. I’d walk it, and when I made it to the center, I could transport myself to any Shadow world I chose. There I would recuperate, and this time I would not rush things. If it took me a century, I’d have everything letter-perfect before I moved against Amber again. After all, I was technically its liege. Hadn’t I crowned myself in the presence of all, before Eric had done the same? I’d make good my claim to the throne!

If only it weren’t impossible to walk into Shadow from Amber itself! Then I wouldn’t have to fool around with the Pattern. But my Amber is the center of all, and you just don’t depart it that easily.

After, say, a month my hands had healed and I was developing large callouses from my scraping activities. I heard a guard’s footsteps and removed myself to the far side of the cell. There was a brief creak and my meal was slipped beneath the door. Then there were footsteps again, this time diminishing in the distance.

I returned to the door. Without looking, I knew what was on the tray: a chunk of stale bread, a crock of water, and a piece of cheese if I was lucky. I positioned the mat, knelt on it and felt at the groove. I was about halfway through.

Then I heard the chuckle.

It came from behind me.

I turned, not needing my eyes to tell me that someone else was present. There was a man standing near the left wall, giggling.

“Who is it?” I asked, and my voice sounded strange. I realized then that these were the first words I had spoken in a long while.

“Escape,” he said. “Trying to escape.” And he chuckled again.

“How did you get in here?”

“Walked,” he replied.

“From where? How?”

I struck a match and it hurt my eyes, but I held it.

He was a small man. Tiny, might be an even better word. He was around five feet tall and a hunchback. His hair and beard were as heavy as my own. The only distinguishing features in that great mass of fur were his long, hook nose and his almost black eyes, now squinted against the light.

“Dworkin!” I said.

He chuckled again.

“That’s my name. What’s yours?”

“Don’t you know me, Dworkin?” I struck another match and held it near my face. “Look hard. Forget the beard and the hair. Add a hundred pounds to my frame. You drew me, in exquisite detail, on several packs of playing cards.”

“Corwin,” he said at last. “I remember you. Yes.”

“I had thought you were dead.”

“I’m not, though. See?” and he pirouetted before me.

“How is your father? Have you seen him recently? Did he put you here?”

“Oberon is no more,” I replied. “My brother Eric reigns in Amber, and I’m his prisoner.”

“Then I have seniority,” he told me, “for I am Oberon’s prisoner.”

“Oh? None of us knew that Dad had locked you up.”

I heard him weeping.

“Yes,” he said after a time. “He didn’t trust me.”

“Why not?”

“I told him I’d thought of a way to destroy Amber. I described it to him, and he locked me in.”

“That wasn’t very nice,” I said.

“I know,” he agreed, “but he did give me a pretty apartment and lots of things to do research with. Only he stopped coming to visit me after a time. He used to bring men who showed me splotches of ink and made me tell stories about them. That was fun, until I told a story I didn’t like and turned the man into a frog. The king was angry when I wouldn’t turn him back, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen anybody that I’d even turn him back now, if he still wanted me to. Once —”

“How did you get here, into my cell?” I asked again.

“I told you. I walked.”

“Through the wall?”

“Of course not. Through the shadow wall.”

“No man can walk through Shadows in Amber. There are no Shadows in Amber.”

“Well, I cheated,” he admitted.

“How?”

“I designed a new Trump and stepped through it, to see what was on this side of the wall. Oh my! — I just remembered… I can’t get back without it. I’ll have to make another. Have you got anything to eat? And something to draw with? And something to draw on?”

“Have a piece of bread,” I said, and handed it to him, “and here’s a piece of cheese to go along with it.”

“Thank you, Corwin.” and he wolfed them down and drank all my water afterward. “Now, if you’ll give me a pen and a piece of parchment, I’ll be returning to my own rooms. I want to finish a book I was reading. It’s been nice talking to you. Too bad about Eric. I’ll stop back again some time and we’ll talk some more. If you see your father, please tell him not to he angry with me because I’ll —”

“I don’t have a pen, or parchment,” I observed.

“Goodness,” he said, “that’s hardly civilized.”

“I know. But then, Eric isn’t very.”

“Well, what have you got? I prefer my own apartment to this place. At least, it’s better lighted.”

“You have dined with me,” I said, “and now I am going to ask you a favor. If you will grant me this request, I promise that I will do everything I can to make things right between you and Dad.”

“What is it that you want?” he asked.

“Long have I admired your work,” I said, “and there is something I have always desired as a work of your hand. Do you recall the Lighthouse of Cabra?”

“Of course. I’ve been there many times. I know the keeper, Jopin. I used to play chess with him.”

“More than anything else I can think of,” I told him, “for most of my adult life. I have longed to see one of your magical sketches of that great gray tower.”

“A very simple subject,” he said, “and rather an appealing one, at that, I did some preliminary sketches in the past, but I never got beyond that point. Other work kept getting in the way. I’ll fetch you one, if you’d like.”

“No,” I said. “I’d like something more enduring, to keep me company here in my cell — to comfort me, and any others who may later occupy this place.”

“Commendable,” he said. “What have you in mind as the medium.”

“I have a stylus here,” I told him (the spoon was fairly sharp by then), “and I’d like to see it traced upon the far wall, so that I might look at it as I take my rest.”

He was silent a moment, then, “The illumination is quite poor.” he remarked.

“I have several books of matches,” I replied. “I’ll light them and hold them for you. We might even burn some of this straw if we run low.”

“Those are hardly ideal working conditions.”

“I know,” I said, “and I apologize for them, great Dworkin, but they are the best I have to offer. A work of art by your hand would brighten my humble existence beyond measure.”

He chuckled again.

“Very well. But you must promise me that you will provide light afterwards, so that I may sketch myself a way back to my own chambers.”