“Corwin,” Random said, “give me the pierced Trump.”

I withdrew it from my pocket and smoothed it. The stains seemed more ominous now. Another thing also struck me. I did not believe that it had been executed by Dworkin, sage, mage, artist, and one-time mentor to the children of Oberon. It had not occurred to me until that moment that anyone else might be capable of producing one. While the style of this one did seem somehow familiar, it was not his work. Where had I seen that deliberate line before, less spontaneous than the master’s, as though every movement had been totally intellectualized before the pen touched the paper? And there was something else wrong with it — a quality of idealization of a different order from that of our own Trumps, almost as if the artist had been working with old memories, glimpses, or descriptions rather than a living subject.

“The Trump, Corwin. If you please,” Random said.

There was that about the way in which he said it to make me hesitate. It gave rise to the feeling that he was somehow a jump ahead of me on something important, a feeling which I did not like at all.

“I’ve petted old ugly here for you, and I’ve just bled for the cause, Corwin. Now let’s have it.”

I handed it over, my uneasiness increasing as he held it in his hand and furrowed his brow. Why was I suddenly the stupid one? Does a night in Tir-na Nog’th slow cerebration? Why —

Random began to curse, a string of profanities unsurpassed by anything encountered in my long military career.

Then, “What is it?” I said. “I don’t understand.”

“The blood of Amber,” he finally said. “Whoever did it walked the Pattern first, you see. Then they stood there at the center and contacted him via this Trump. When he responded and a firm contact was achieved, they stabbed him. His blood flowed upon the Pattern, obliterating that part of it, as mine did here.”