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 calluses 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.”