I passed a bust of Random set on a high shelf on the wall to my left. I had actually gone by before it registered that my brother was indeed the subject. Across the room, I saw her workbench. Turning back, I studied the bust.
“I did not realize that you sculpted,” I said.
“Yes.”
Casting my gaze about the apartment, I quickly located other examples of her work. “Quite good,” I said.
“Thank you. Won’t you sit down?”
I lowered myself into a large, high-armed chair, which proved more comfortable than it had looked. She seated herself on a low divan to my right, curling her legs beneath her.
“May I get you something to eat, or to drink?”
“No thanks. I can only stay a short while. What it is, is that Random, Ganelon, and I had gotten a bit sidetracked on the way home, and after that delay we met with Benedict for a time. The upshot of it was that Random and Benedict had to make another small journey.”
“How long will he be away?”
“Probably overnight. Maybe a bit longer. If it is going to be much longer he will probably call back on someone’s Trump, and we’ll let you know.”
My side began to throb and I rested my hand upon it, massaging it gently.
“Random has told me many things about you,” she said.
I chuckled.
“Are you certain you would not care for something to eat? It would be no trouble.”
“Did he tell you that I am always hungry?”
She laughed.
“No. But if you have been as active as you say, I would guess that you did not take time for lunch.”
“In that you would be only half-correct. All right. If you’ve a spare piece of bread lying about it might do me some good to gnaw on it.”
“Fine. Just a moment.”
She rose and departed into the next room. I took the opportunity to scratch heartily all about my wound where it was suddenly itching fit to kill. I had accepted her hospitality partly for this reason and partly because of the realization that I actually was hungry. Only a little later it struck me that she could not have seen me attacking my side as I was. Her sure movements, her confident manner, had relaxed my awareness of her blindness. Good. It pleased me that she was able to carry it so well.
I heard her humming a tune: “The Ballad of the Water Crossers,” the song of Amber’s great merchant navy. Amber is not noted for manufacture, and agriculture has never been our forte. But our ships sail the shadows, plying between anywhere and anywhere, dealing in anything. Just about every male Amberite, noble or otherwise, spends some time in the fleet. Those of the blood laid down the trade routes long ago that other vessels might follow, the seas of a double dozen worlds in every captain’s head. I had assisted in this in times gone by, and though my involvement had never been so deep as Gerard’s or Caine’s, I had been mightily moved by the forces of the deep and the spirit of the men who crossed it.
After a while, Vialle came in bearing a tray heavy with bread, meat, cheese, fruit, and a flask of wine. She set it upon a table near at hand.
“You mean to feed a regiment?” I asked.
“Best to be safe.”
“Thanks. Won’t you join me?”
“A piece of fruit, perhaps,” she said.
Her fingers sought for a second, located an apple. She returned to the divan.
“Random tells me you wrote that song,” she said.
“That was a very long time ago, Vialle.”
“Have you composed any recently?”
I began to shake my head, caught myself, said, “No. That part of me is. . . . resting.”
“Pity. It is lovely.”
“Random is the real musician in the family.”
“Yes, he is very good. But performance and composition are two different things.”
“True. One day when things have eased up . . . Tell me, are you happy here in Amber? Is everything to your liking? Is there anything that you need?”
She smiled.