"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.

"Something you said didn't really register properly at the time," he stated, "because I was more interested in other aspects of the situation. You say that you and Luke actually made it up to the finals for the Olympics and then dropped out?"

"Yes."

"What area?"

"Several different track and field events. We were both runners and-"

"And his time was close to yours?"

"Damn close. And sometimes it was mine that was close to his."

"Strange."

"What?"

The bank grew steeper, and we crossed on some stepping stones to the other side where the way was several feet wider and relatively flat, with a well-trod path along it.

"It strikes me as more than a little coincidental," he said, "that this guy should be about as good as you are in sports. From all I've heard, you Amberites are several times stronger than a normal human being, with a fancy metabolism giving you unusual stamina and recuperative and regenerative powers. How come Luke should be able to match you in high-level performances?"

"He's a fine athlete and he keeps himself in good shape," I answered. "There are other people like that here-very strong and fast."

He shook his head as we started out along the path. "I'm not arguing that," he said. "It's just that it seems like one coincidence too many. This guy hides his past the same way you do, and then it turns out that he really knows who you are anyhow. Tell me, is he really a big art buff ?"

"Huh?"

"Art. He really cared enough about art to collect it?"

"Yes. We used to hit gallery openings and museum exhibits fairly regularly."

He snorted, and swung his stick at a pebble, which splashed into the stream.

"Well," he observed, "that weakens one point, but hardly destroys the pattern."

"I don't follow . . ."

"It seemed odd that he also knew that crazy occultist painter. Less odd, though, when you say that the guy was good and that Luke really did collect art."

"He didn't have to tell me that he knew Melman."

"True. But all of this plus his physical abilities . . . I'm just building a circumstantial case, or course, but I feel that guy is very unusual."

I nodded.

"I've been over it in my mind quite a few times since last night," I said. "If he's not really from here, I don't know where the hell he's from."

"Then we may have exhausted this line of inquiry," Bill said, leading me around a bend and pausing to watch some birds take flight from a marshy area across the water. He glanced back in the direction from which we had come, then, "Tell me-completely off the subject-what's your, uh, rank?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You're the son of a Prince of Amber. What does that make you?"

"You mean titles? I'm Duke of the Western Marches and Earl of Kolvir."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'm not a Prince of Amber. Nobody has to worry about me scheming, no vendettas involving the succession" ‘

"Hm."

"What do you mean, ‘Hm'?"

He shrugged. "I've read too much history. Nobody's safe."

I shrugged myself. "Last I heard, everything was peaceful on the home front."

"Well, that's good news, anyway."

A few more turnings brought us to a wide area of pebbles and sand, rising gently for perhaps thirty feet to the place where it met an abrupt embankment seven or eight feet in height. I could see the high water line and a number of exposed roots from trees that grew along the top. Bill seated himself on a boulder back in their shade and relit his pipe. I rested on one nearby, to his left. The water splashed and rippled in a comfortable key, and we watched it sparkle for a time.