“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.”