The High House

by James Stoddard

  Enoch reached the other side, and Carter turned at the end of the bridge. At this distance, shooting between the rails, the man was correct; he could scarcely fail to hit them. He approached slowly, certain victory in his cruel grin.

  “You’ll stop there!” he ordered. “Drop the weapon. Be swift, or I’ll blow you open.”

  As Carter dropped the revolver onto the flat roof, he noticed a peculiar mechanism built into the end of the bridge. At first glance he did not fathom its purpose, but after a moment, its function became clear.

  “Take it easy,” the man was saying. “No one wants to die, though you may desire to before it’s over.”

  Carter kicked the lever at his feet, and it unlocked a pair of heavy pins, releasing the walkway from its moorings. The bridge dropped away from the side where Carter stood, and the anarchist lost his pistol as he clutched frantically for a hold. It did no good; as the walkway slammed against the opposite wall he was hurled screaming to the ground.

  “It was designed for that!” Carter cried. “Can you believe it?” A pair of cables and a hoist were built into the wall to bring the bridge back up at need.

  “The Masters of the house have often required speedy retreats on their journeys through Evenmere,” Enoch said. “Various factions have always opposed their rule. But come away quickly. A bullet can still reach us.”

  They soon left the bridge behind, lost in the maze of stonework and statues, and came to a roof covered in flagstones, large as a cathedral, with a tall tower lording over its center, having four yellow clock faces, each displaying a different time, none of them correct. Years of spiderwebs bound the hands of the east face in gossamer ropes, nearly obscuring it. The trail of ocher and gold paving stones, which had continued through the flat waste, ended at the bottom of the structure, where a metal ladder led up to the clocks.

  “Do I know where we are? Yes!” Enoch grinned brightly against the stormy sky. “This is Four Dials Tower. Until now, I have always reached it from below and wound it from within.”

  “But surely it no longer runs,” Carter said. “None of the times are correct.”

  “The east face was ruined half a hundred years ago,” Enoch said. “But I didn’t claim that all the clocks were set to the same time we know. There are different times in different parts of the world. I see they don’t run down, but I never reset them; that wasn’t the task given me. Come. We should climb the ladder and look for a way to descend.”

  Enoch led up the metal rungs to the north face. It was higher than Carter had expected; from his perch he could see above most of the surrounding towers, and it made him uneasy, since he knew they were targets for any who could witness. The ladder ended in a narrow landing, with a tottering, wooden railing, rotten from the weather. The landing itself was more sturdy; their heads were level with the bottom of the clock face, which was eight feet across and sheltered by a stone lip.

  Enoch ran his hands as high as he could reach around the rim of the clock. Finally, he stepped back and scratched his head. “It can’t be wound from the outside. Does the ladder lead nowhere? I doubt it. There must be a way in.”

  Carter examined the clock face. It was white, with black Roman numerals. He noticed the six was slightly crooked, so he reached up and gave it a hopeful twist. It turned with a click, and the whole face opened outward, swung on a long hinge. They pulled themselves over the brink with an effort. Before he shut the face, Carter looked out once more. He could not be certain, but he thought he saw a cluster of black-garbed figures, like blown rags, moving between the cloistered shadows. Beyond that, the clouds had parted, and a single shaft of sunlight shone silver off the rooftops, like coins on the water.

  “They cannot maintain the storm forever,” he murmured, grinning ruefully.

  The clock face shut with a dull clang.

  By the lances of light entering around the border of the four dials, they found themselves in a chamber large enough for the timepiece mechanisms, with enough space for them to stand comfortably. The room resonated with the noise of the ticking.

  The two companions thumped one another on the back in triumph. “Who could have given a better run?” Enoch asked. “And your quick wit saved us on the walkway.”

  “We did it together. I’m still trembling all over. I wish we had time to celebrate with some hot tea, but they surely know our location.”

  “They do. Once they arrive, it won’t take long to decipher the locking mechanism on the clock. And we still must reach the Towers before they block our way.”

  Enoch lit his lamp to dispel the shadows, drew a long key from an inner coat pocket, and wound each of the clocks. By the time he was done, Carter had discovered a trapdoor leading from the tower by way of a rickety ladder.

  They wasted no time, but departed hastily, climbing over splintered wood, and tearing through spiderwebs to reach the narrow room at the bottom. A stair covered in frayed, red carpet led from there, a short descent into a delicate room, with French furniture, green damask curtains, and needlework pictures covering one wall. It must once have been beautiful, but the dust lay thick upon the white linen tablecloth and covered the furniture like gray frost.

  “Anyone ever live here, I wonder,” Carter asked, “and where have they gone?”

  “Since the day I first wound the clocks, it’s been empty,” Enoch said. “But there are many living in this great house. It isn’t unusual to find a poet or a hermit, dwelling in some back room, obtaining his food who knows how. Some have been alone a long time.”

  “Will this route take us back to the main stairs?”

  “Back? No. By climbing the rooftops we have bypassed it and much more. Had I known of this way, I could have saved my weary feet many times.”

  “Did none of the Masters ever accompany you on your rounds?”

  “Several, including your father, but they never used the Word of Secret Ways. I always suspected alternate paths; there are more hidden passages than termites in Evenmere, but the Words of Power are not used for convenience. I never needed a new route until now.”

  They left the room through a paneled door and entered a narrow passage, with chrome-yellow carpet and oak baseboards twelve inches high. Doors lined either side of the corridor and unlit chandeliers hung down its length.

  “Where do the doors lead?” Carter asked softly, lest he be overheard.

  “Where? Many places. I haven’t explored them all. Some open to rooms like the one we just left; some lead other ways, some into strange, curious countries. When I was young I traveled them into many kinds of trouble or adventure. I am less inquisitive now. You could spend many lifetimes wandering and not see it all.”

  One of the doors opened before them, and a figure stepped out, holding a red lamp aloft. Carter drew his revolver, but Enoch placed a hand upon his arm. The man was ancient, and dressed in pajamas and a nightcap. His eyes glowed yellow like a cat’s, giving him an elfin appearance, but when he drew nearer, he cried out in alarm, and hurried back through the door. Carter heard the turning of the lock as they passed. He wondered if the man would care that he was the Steward of the house, or if he even knew there was one.

  For three hours they traveled past the endless rows of doors, and they saw neither inhabitants nor anarchists, though Enoch assured Carter that their enemies would know their destination and guard every known route. Their advantage lay in the size of the house, and in its many connecting passageways, for the anarchists could not patrol all of them at once.

  They reached an intersection, new passages arranged identical to their own. Enoch hesitated. “I must think. We should go to the left; it will lead us away from our goal, yet we can use it to circle back. No, that isn’t the way. It would take us past routes the anarchists would think to guard. Straight ahead is my usual route; it will be the most watched. Should we go to the right? It will lead to the area called the Winelderwist, and it is a maze.” His eyes suddenly blazed as he spoke. “Beyond it is a narrow way, little known, that mig
ht be our best chance, if only I can find it again. What do you think?”

  “If it is the least guarded, I say we try it,” Carter said.

  “Ha, spoken like your mother!” Enoch slapped him on the back.

  “I would have thought rather my father.”

  “No, no. He would have pondered upon it, being a precise man. Your mother made her decisions briskly, with a quick mind.”

  They were hushed by a sound from the left, and Enoch extinguished the lamp at once. This saved them from discovery, for a party of men turned the far corner a moment later. The companions ducked back behind the junction and began testing the nearest doors. The first two were locked, but the third opened with a dull creak, and they hurried within, their way lit by the approaching lamps from the intersecting corridor. No sooner were they inside when the intruders turned the corner, so close they dared not risk the noise of shutting the door. Carter watched through the narrow crack as six anarchists filed down the hall, their shadows bobbing behind them like goblins. At the intersection, two of them continued down the right branch, while the other four halted directly in front of the door.

  “This is it,” one of them said. “They must advance through here if they approach the Towers. I want lights extinguished. We will spot them by their lamps.”

  “Two of us could proceed farther down,” another said.

  “Ineffectual,” the first said. “There are innumerable doors. They would observe your party and simply seek concealment. It is preferable that they come to us.”

  Perspiration slid down Carter’s back. The anarchists’ lamps shone through the crack in the door, granting a half-light to the room, which was small, with little more than a desk and a pair of chairs. At its far end stood another door. He turned toward his companion and gestured toward it, unable to remove his hand from the knob, lest it shift and creak.

  Enoch slipped back to the door and opened it by inches, silently, until it was wide enough for him to slide through. He vanished into its shadows.

  Carter faced a dilemma. If he followed, he would have to release the door; it would certainly move, creaking as it had when opened. Yet, he could scarcely stand here for hours, and the light would soon be extinguished. After a moment, he determined his course.

  The anarchists’ lamps went out, plunging all into utter darkness. Only then did he shut the door, quickly, and it did not creak, but gave a slight click, sounding to his ears as loud as a hammer.

  “What was that?” one of the anarchists asked.

  “Numerous folk wander these halls,” another said. “Nothing to be alarmed about.”

  “Relight the lantern. I say it’s worth investigating.”

  Carter had done his best to memorize the path to the far door. He groped his way through the darkness until he reached it. Once there, he entered and shut it carefully behind him.

  “Enoch,” he whispered.

  “Here,” his friend replied, just to his left. “There is another way out. Do we dare make a light?”

  “Not yet. They may be coming.”

  Carter listened, ear to the keyhole, and heard the door to the corridor open. Lamplight trickled over the threshold crack. By its light, Carter spotted another exit, and was about to try to reach it, when he heard the anarchist say: “There’s no one in here.

  Should I search the rooms beyond?”

  “Don’t bother,” another voice hissed. “We can’t pursue every noise. If our quarry has already reached these rooms, we will never find them. Our hope is in surprise; every moment with the lanterns lit spoils our chances. Come back to your place!”

  Carter heard the door close; the room was immediately plunged back into darkness. He waited several moments before groping his way to Enoch.

  “With two doors between us and the corridor, I think we can dare a low light,” Carter whispered.

  The soft glow of the lamp gradually rose, less than a sliver, barely revealing another room much like the first, with a door on the opposing wall opening into a drab bedroom with tatters for blankets and cobwebs between the posts. Within that room, they found two other doors, and took the one opposite the way they had entered, into a deserted drawing room. So far they had moved in a straight line; the next door stood on the left wall, so Carter knew it would probably exit into the corridor once more, past the intersection where the anarchists waited. This was precisely the direction the men needed to go, yet they would be scarcely two doors away from the ambuscade. After some debate, they decided to douse their lamp, wait thirty minutes for the anarchists to settle, then attempt to slip down the passage.

  The wait in the dark grew eternal. Carter could not say how long they actually delayed, for he could not discern his pocket watch, but Enoch seemed to know the exact time, as if winding so many clocks had made him a living timepiece. At first Carter was anxious, but the monotony of staring into blackness soon made him sleepy. He was nearly dozing when Enoch touched his knee to signal their departure, and he struggled from his stupor, reminding himself of their danger.

  At Enoch’s insistence, Carter went first, and he knew it was because the old servant wanted to place himself between the guns of the anarchists and his master. He slid his hands over the knob and tested it. At first he thought it would prove resistant, for it did not turn easily, but as he gradually increased the pressure the striker slid soundlessly away. As he opened the door, it gave the barest creak. He stood frozen, listening for a hundred heartbeats, yet the passage lay silent.

  He stepped out onto the soft carpet. Gratitude swept through him that he would not have to cross bare, cracking floorboards. It was dark with the complete darkness he had feared as a child, that he feared still, and for an instant he wondered if he had the courage to go on, for he wanted to turn and flee back into the room until the anarchists departed. He could see absolutely nothing. He drew a deep breath, knowing himself a coward, and began inching his way down the hall. Enoch followed, guided by clasping Carter’s shoulder.

  Almost at once, Carter brushed against a picture. He rushed to steady it with his hand, lest it fall from the wall. It struck the plaster with a light tap; he stood holding it for the space of a minute, knowing the anarchists would hear and investigate. When they did not, he gradually released it, and continued his trek, his mouth dry, his heart beating hard within him.

  He was terrified that the Bobby would come at him from the darkness, and he clutched his gun in one hand and doubled his other fist into a knot. At first it was hard to make himself stir; he trembled and could not move his feet; then as they drew farther from their enemies, it was difficult to go slow, for he wanted to run. He caught himself walking too fast, making too much noise, and restrained himself only with an effort. His mind raced. What if there were other anarchists down the corridor? When would they be able to relight their lamps?

  After what seemed like hours, the wall to his right ended. He felt around, trying to ascertain if this was truly the turning of the corner. He stopped and listened again, praying they were not about to walk into their enemies, as they took the passage to the right.

  Step by step they made their way through the darkness, not knowing what was before them, feeling their way again along the right-hand wall. Spots of color faded into Carter’s view, illusions from the lack of light. Finally, when they had gone twice the distance they thought necessary, Enoch knelt with flint and rags and lit the lamp. But as he stood to his feet, a voice called out, “Stop right there!”

  Glancing back, Carter dimly saw the shadow of a man at the corner they had passed; they had slipped by him without knowing.

  A bullet struck to Enoch’s left, and they bolted down the corridor. If the corner had not been near, they would have certainly died, but they ducked behind it and sped down another, shorter passage, Enoch’s lamp, half-mantled, stretching their frenzied shadows long across the walls. At any moment Carter expected to feel lead burning through his back. He doubled his efforts and reached the goal before Enoch, and so turned and fired t
wice to keep the anarchists at bay until his friend was safe.

  He had been on the track team at Bracton College, and had tried to stay in condition since then, but the run left him breathless; he had been a distance man and no sprinter. Enoch fared a little worse, but there was no time to pause. The next corridor ran into the endless dark, and might be forty yards or four hundred.

  To their good fortune a way opened to the left almost immediately. As they took it, Enoch gasped, “I know where we are. We’re almost there.”

  This corridor branched in three directions, and they ran back to the right, then left again, where they came to a circular room, the intersection of eight separate corridors. In the red glow of the lamp, Enoch grinned. “We’ve reached the Winelderwist. Come with me.”

  The passage they took lasted less than a hundred steps, before angling to the right; Carter rejoiced that their light could no longer be seen from the circular hall. Still, they did not relent until they took three more turnings, when they slowed to a walk. Gasping, red-faced, they looked at one another and softly laughed.

  “I thought my galloping days were over,” Enoch said. “Necessity gives wings to old bones.”

  “Will they be able to trace our steps?”

  “There were ten separate branchings we could have taken. Of those, four are unlikely, if they are familiar enough to know it, for they lead away from the Towers, not toward them. If there were six men and each took one corridor, we could indeed be followed. But just ahead is our salvation, if only no more guards await us.”