“I got to worrying about all the things we had discussed,” he said, “and some that we had not. I waited what seemed an appropriate time for you to have concluded your business in Tir-na Nog’th and returned. I then inquired after you and was told you had not yet come back. I waited longer. First I was impatient, and then I grew concerned that you might have been ambushed by our enemies. When I inquired again later, I learned that you had been back only long enough to speak with Random’s wife-it must have been a conversation of great moment-and then to take a nap. You then departed once more. I was irritated that you had not seen fit to keep me posted as to events, but I resolved to wait a bit longer. Finally, I asked Gerard to get hold of you with your Trump. When he failed, I was quite concerned. I tried it myself then, and while it seemed that I touched you on several occasions I could not get through. I feared for you, and now I see that I had nothing to fear all along. Hence, I was abrupt.”
“I see,” I said, taking a seat off to his right.
“Actually, time was running faster for me than it was for you, so from where I am sitting I have hardly been away. You are probably further recuperated from your puncture than I am from mine.”
He smiled faintly and nodded.
“That is something, anyway,” he said, “for my pains.”
“I have had a few pains myself,” I said, “so don’t give me any more. You wanted me for something. Let’s have it.”
“Something is bothering you,” he said. “Perhaps we ought to discuss that first.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s.”
I turned and looked at the painting on the wall beside the door. An oil, a rather somber rendering of the well at Mirata, two men standing beside their horses nearby, talking.
“You’ve a distinctive style,” I said.
“In all things,” he replied.
“You stole my next sentence,” I said, locating Martin’s Trump and passing it to him.
He remained expressionless as he examined it, gave me one brief, sidelong look and then nodded.
“I cannot deny my hand,” he said.
“It executed more than that card, your hand. Didn’t it?”
He traced his upper lip with the tip of his tongue.
“Where did you find it?” he asked.
“Right where you left it, at the heart of things-in the real Amber.”
“So . . .” he said, rising from the chair and returning to the window, holding up the card as if to study it in a better light. “So,” he repeated, “you are aware of more than I had guessed. How did you learn of the primal Pattern?”
I shook my head.
“You answer my question first: Did you stab Martin?”
He turned toward me once again, stared a moment, then nodded sharply. His eyes continued to search my face
“Why?” I asked.
“Someone had to,” he explained, “to open the way for the powers we needed. We drew straws.”
“And you won.”
“Won? Lost?” He shrugged. “What does any of this matter now? Things did not come about as we had intended. I am a different person now than I was then.”
“Did you kill him?”
“What?”
“Martin, Random’s son. Did he die as a result of the wound you inflicted?”
He turned his hands palms upward.
“I do not know,” he said. “If he did not, it was not because I did not try. You need look no further. You have found your guilty party. Now that you have, what are you going to do?”
I shook my head.
“I? Nothing. For all I know, the lad may still be living.”
“Then let us move on to matters of greater moment. For how long have you known of the existence of the true Pattern?”
“Long enough,” I said. “Its origin, its functions, the effect of the blood of Amber upon it-long enough. I paid more attention to Dworkin than you might have thought. I saw no gain to be had in damaging the fabric of existence, though. So I let Rover lie sleeping for a long, long while. It did not even occur to me until I spoke with you recently that the black road might have been connected with such foolishness. When I went to inspect the Pattern I found Martin’s Trump and all the rest.”