“Any other ways?”
“A Shadow-storm perhaps.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a natural but not too well-understood phenomenon. The best comparison I can think of is a tropical storm. One theory as to their origin has to do with the beat frequencies of waves that pulse outward from Amber and from the Courts, shaping the nature of shadows. Whatever, when such a storm rises it can flow through a large number of shadows before it plays itself out. Sometimes they do a lot of damage, sometimes very little. But they often transport things in their progress.”
“Does that include people?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
He finished his fixer. I did the same with mine.
“What about the Trumps?” he asked. “Could anybody learn to use them?”
“Yes.”
“How many sets are there kicking around?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who makes them?”
“There are a number of experts in the Courts. That’s where I learned. And there are Fiona and Bleys back in Amber – and I believe they were teaching Random”
“Those sorcerers you spoke of – from the adjacent kingdoms . . . Could any of them do up a set of Trumps?”
“Yes, but theirs would be less than perfect. It is my understanding that you have to be an initiate of either the Pattern or the Logrus to do them properly. Some of them could do a sort of half assed set, though, one you’d be taking your chances on using-maybe winding up dead or in some limbo, sometimes getting where you were headed.”
“And the set you found at Julia’s place . . . ?”
“They’re the real thing.”
“How do you account for them?”
“Someone who knew how to do it taught someone else who was able to learn it, and I never heard about it. That’s all.”
“I see.”
“I’m afraid none of this is too productive.”
“But I need it all to think with,” he replied. “How else can I come up with lines of inquiry? You ready for another beer?”
“Wait.” I closed my eyes and visualized an image of the Logrus shifting, ever shifting. I framed my desire and two of the swimming lines within the eidolon increased in brightness and thickness. I moved my arms, slowly, imitating their undulations, their jerkings. Finally, the lines and my arms seemed to be one, and I opened my hands and extended the lines outward, outward through Shadow.
Bill cleared his throat.
“Uh-what are you doing, Merle?”
“Looking for something,” I replied. “Just a minute.” The lines would keep extending through an infinitude of Shadow till they encountered the objects of my desire-or until I ran out of patience or concentration. Finally, I felt the jerks, like bites on a pair of fishing lines.
“There they are,” I said, and I reeled them in quickly. An icy bottle of beer appeared in each of my hands. I grasped them as they did and passed one to Bill.
“That’s what I meant by the reverse of a Shadow walk,” I said, breathing deeply a few times. “I sent out to Shadow for a couple of beers. Saved you a trip to the kitchen.”
He regarded the orange label with the peculiar green script on it.
“I don’t recognize the brand,” he said, “let alone the language. You sure it’s safe?”
“Yes, I ordered real beer.”
“Uh-you didn’t happen to pick up an opener, too; did you?”
“Oops!” I said. “Sorry. I’ll-”
“That’s all right.”
He got up, walked out to the kitchen, and came back a little later with an opener. When he opened the first one it foamed a bit and he had to hold it over the wastebasket till it settled. The same with the other.
“Things can get a bit agitated when you pull them in fast the way I did,” I explained. “I don’t usually get my beer that way and I forgot-“
“That’s okay,” Bill said, wiping his hands on his handkerchief . . .
He tasted his beer then.
“At least it’s good beer;” he observed. “I wonder . . . Naw.”
“What?”
“Could you send out for a pizza?”
“What do you want on it?” I asked.
The next morning we took a long walk beside a wandering creek, which we met at the back of some farmland owned by a neighbor and client of his. We strolled slowly, Bill with a stick in his hand and a pipe in his mouth, and he continued the previous evening’s questioning.