He descended again, less fearful, and when he was washed from his feet once more, he rode the stream. Nonetheless, it was terrifying in the dark, unseeing, roaring down the waterfall, his back and head striking the stair, gasping every moment for air.
After long, hard minutes, he struck a wall. The impact rattled his bones, and he dog-paddled furiously before he realized the flood was only waist-deep even at the bottom, instead of wholly submerged as it would have been in the real world. He thrashed about until he found the door, but it was locked.
He struggled back to the stair, and pushed his way to the left banister post. Without light, finding the mechanism to open the secret panel was difficult, but at last he turned the valve and entered a passage where the rain did not follow; neither did the water rush through the opening as would have been expected.
He fell on his knees, gasping, too cold to feel relief, too weary to continue, and if his enemies could have taken him then, he would have been helpless before them. He had lost his pack with all his gear, but he found a handful of dried fruit in his pocket, which he stuffed in his mouth. He might easily have fallen asleep where he sat, water dripping off him, but he forced himself to rise, knowing he was nearly to his goal.
There was still no light to guide him, but he knew this corridor ran straight. He followed the left wall and came quickly to the secret panel behind the painting in the upstairs hall. The mechanism stymied him for a time, until he fumbled long enough to release it. The painting opened with a creak, and he stepped into lighted halls.
As he saw all the old, familiar things, he had to remind himself this was not his true home, but only a semblance in dream; he would find no Chant, no Glis, no servants to help him. The chambers were empty.
Though he sorely wished it, he did not stop to change garments, but made his way downstairs toward the library.
Halfway down, he saw Old Man Chaos standing at the base of the stairs, one yellow eye fixed upon him. Carter’s fear lasted only an instant, replaced by hot wrath at being bearded in his home after fighting through so much. He drew his gun and fired at close range, but Chaos only laughed. “I have brought all my forces, all my furies!”
A Word sprang to Carter’s mind, the Word Which Gives Strength. He spoke it at once, not knowing what its effect might be. Sedhattee! The stair shook even as he felt power rush through his limbs. He leapt toward Chaos, intending to rend it with his bare hands, but the Word had an even greater impact on the monster; horror danced through its sallow eyes; it threw its arms before its face, and then was gone.
Carter rushed down the banister and dashed toward the library. He flung the doors open and gave a shout of fear. The room, which lay in twilight, was filled with creatures from nightmare—witches and goblins, trolls and dwarves, wielding axes and swords, uttering spells and incantations. A hag rushed toward him, seeking to drive him back, but he dove to the left, firing his pistol into those who crowded nearest. He was glad indeed for the Word Which Gives Strength after that, for only it, and his anger, gave him the might to thrust his way past the rotting skulls, the vampire jaws, the hands that clutched and clawed. Perhaps the fury of his charge surprised even these vile monsters, or perhaps they truly had no power over him, but he drove them back and reached the door to the study of the Book of Forgotten Things.
He hurried in, and bolted it behind him. Unlocking the cabinet, he opened the book without ceremony and went directly to page seven, while the horde hammered and yowled beyond the door.
Immediately, the flaming Words appeared on the page, all seven together. He read the last three carefully, forcing himself to allow time for them to burn themselves upon his memory. As he did so, a new awareness came upon him concerning the purpose and meaning of the Words, and he knew that so long as a single Word of Power lay within him, Chaos and Order would find it difficult to slay him in the world of reality, and impossible in the land of dream, for they were subject to the Words, and the Words had been made to give the Master the power to maintain the balance between Order and Chaos. And now, with all seven Words in his possession, it was he who was their master.
Three words at once was a terrible trial, and when he stood moments later, his knees felt liquid.
He put the book away with deliberate slowness, trying to absorb his new understanding. Then he focused his thoughts on the one he needed, opened the door quickly, and spoke it.
“Ghandwin!” he cried, and the Word Which Masters Dreams shook the library.
Chaos was suddenly there, standing before its witches, its warlocks, all its minions, but its jaundiced eyes looked uneasy. Carter raised his hands. “No more,” he spoke softly, but his voice rang through the room. “Begone.”
“The red robe in the gray pool!” Chaos cried. “The golden sun on the yellow buds! You will never defeat us!”
But Carter saw he had defeated it, for its minions were melting behind it, like wax candles left too close to the hearth, turning to puddles, writhing and swaying as they went, even more ghastly in their death cries.
Smoke rose where the minions had stood. Chaos itself looked smaller, almost shriveled. Carter strode to it. “Understand,” he spoke with soft authority, “the Words of Power are mine. You will no longer toy with me in the dream world, for I can master it, and you within it. And you will no longer disturb me in the real world, for I can master you there, as well. Do not speak, but go from me, and do not return here again unless I give you leave.”
No emotion passed across Chaos’s face, though it turned and slipped out the library door. Its movements were not those of a defeated foe, but rather, as a river diverted from its course continues on its way, or a mountain, blasted and tunneled by explosives, yet stands unperturbed—passionless force, given passion by the wiles of the Bobby. Was it so with Lady Order as well?
Carter shivered, then reached within himself and commanded his own wakening.
* * *
He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a cot staring at the ceiling of the attic room he had been investigating before weariness drove him to slumber. He sat up quickly and fumbled for his watch; if this was the same day he first fell asleep, he had slumbered less than three hours, not three days, as it felt to him. He was no longer wet, or sore, or even weary; all his adventures in the dream world he recalled through a haze, yet he knew they had been real. He strode to the corner of the room and verified the existence of the spy-hole, though he did not use the secret passage; he searched his memory and discovered he knew all seven Words of Power as well, so that learning the three and utilizing the one in the land of dream had cost him nothing in exhaustion in the waking world.
He rose and entered the main hall, where he heard soft scratching noises. The source proved to be a distant door, and he soon recognized furtive, muffled voices and the scraping of metal as someone tested key after key against the lock. He concealed himself behind a corner in the center section of the attic, and followed a wall away from the door, hoping to circle back around to the other side and return to the Clock Tower.
Though he could no longer see the door, he eventually heard it flung open and the scuffling of boots upon the boards. He drew his pistol and hurried, silent as he could, across the creaking floor.
Someone uttered a loud curse; apparently the anarchists had discovered he no longer slept in the side room. This, then, had been the reason Chaos and Order had sought to hinder him, so the Bobby could capture or kill him, if not in the dream world, then upon the cot as he slept.
He heard scurrying feet, passing in different directions, the echoes making them seem so ubiquitous he doubted he could long escape. He slipped into a room and made his way from chamber to chamber, until he could go no farther, and so returned to the corridor. Soft footfalls at his back, just behind an intersection, spurred him to hasten around the corner, where he encountered the Bobby, barring him from the secret panel leading to the Clock Tower. He started to flee, saw it would avail nothing, and aimed his revolver at the heart of his
foe.
An anarchist turned the corner to Carter’s left just then, gun in hand, cursing in surprise. Reacting instinctively, Carter downed him with a single shot, then retrained his sights back on the Bobby.
“Guns will not harm me,” the Bobby said, his face only a caricature of dark eyes and scowling mouth.
Carter pulled the trigger. The explosion reverberated through the attic; smoke roiled from the pistol. Though the shot struck him full in the chest, the Bobby did not flinch.
“We will take you back with us,” he said with a wicked smile.
Carter wanted only to flee, but there was nowhere to go; the other anarchists would be upon him in a moment. He felt within for the Words of Power, burning like brass, chose the proper one, and let it rise within him. Falan, the Word Which Manifests. It burst from him in a radiance, transforming his face, projecting a brilliance from his very spirit. The Bobby threw up his hands to shield his eyes.
“Stand aside, or feel its full weight,” Carter said. “I am the Master of the Words now. I am coming to power. So far you have bested me because I was unprepared; you will do so no more.”
Gradually, as if pressed back by some force, the Bobby withdrew from the portal, but as he did he laughed. “You are nothing! The Words are nothing! You do not have the Tawny Mantle, or the Lightning Sword of your father, and you will never hold the Master Keys.”
As Carter approached the portal, he caught a movement from the corner of his eyes. Another anarchist had appeared, his revolver aimed at Carter’s head.
The man smiled a snarling grin from beneath a thick moustache. “Dispense with your weapon,” he commanded. “You won’t have it all your own way.”
Carter dropped his gun.
“What should I do with him?” the subordinate asked.
“He knows all the Words of Power,” the Bobby rasped. “It is too late to indoctrinate him. Kill him.”
The anarchist drew his arm taut, aiming carefully.
A shot rang out, and for a moment Carter thought it was he who had been struck, but his assailant crumpled to the ground, felled by another, who stepped from behind the corner.
It was Duskin, now standing waxen-faced, staring at his own pistol as if it were a scorpion. Carter turned back to the Bobby, but he had already fled.
Carter rushed to the panel leading to the Clock Tower. “Quickly!” he cried.
Duskin looked blank, as if he had not understood. Blood pooled beneath the anarchist’s body.
Carter darted to his half brother, took him by the arm, and guided him to the exit. “We must hurry. There may be others.”
Duskin nodded vaguely. “Yes, of course.”
Once inside, Carter locked the panel carefully behind him, and together the two made their way upstairs to Enoch.
Kitinthim
When they entered the Clock Tower Enoch embraced them both, so that Carter realized the old Hebrew loved Duskin well, and he wondered if, like himself, his half brother had followed the Windkeep on his rounds as a child.
Enoch seated them at the table, and set to work preparing biscuits and scrambled eggs upon the ancient stove, humming softly under his breath. The first scent of food smote Carter with ravenous hunger, so that he thought dreaming must be hardy labor. They said little as the meal was prepared and when Enoch set plates before them, they fell upon them with purpose, Duskin as hungry as Carter, saying between mouthfuls: “The anarchists spread a penurious table.” He had a bewildered look about him, as if he had seen much disagreeable to him; his previous arrogance had fallen away, leaving his eyes sorrowful.
“What happened after your mother left the house?” Carter finally asked as they worked on seconds.
Duskin gave a look of distaste. “The Bobby treated us like compatriots in some glorious revolution. I went along, wanting to see some glimmer of decency in Mother’s actions. But he is vile; his words were sweet but meant nothing. He promised me lordship of the house, and fiefdoms and lands for her, and she believed because she desired it. I stayed with them, wanting to obey her, and they told us they had trapped you here. They required me to accompany them, to help in your capture, I suppose to insure my loyalty; they knew I hated you, and thought I would be no trouble. But when I turned the corner, and saw the man’s weapon trained upon you, you looked so much like Father. I remembered how he kept your picture on his desk, and how fondly he spoke of you. Blood called to blood, I suppose, and I knew beyond doubt the anarchists’ plans were all for evil. I … I never killed a man before.”
“Nor I, until I returned to the house,” Carter said. “Defying your mother was a courageous act.”
“It was the act of an Anderson.” Duskin’s face took on the determined look of his father, making Carter wince inwardly, but the next moment the younger man’s countenance fell, and tears filled his eyes. He looked down, seeking to control himself. “How could she do this? Brittle died because of her. He was my friend. I could forgive her anything but that!”
“She is blinded by ambition,” Enoch said. “I saw it in her early, when she could not understand why Lord Anderson would not use the power the house granted him. It has caused much pain. But what will happen to her now you have gone?”
“I have no doubt she will prove valuable to the anarchists’ cause,” Duskin said. “Mother has made a point of gaining the confidence of all the most influential people in Evenmere.”
“She may become a terrible enemy,” Carter said.
“It’s quite possible,” Duskin said. “At first, when she told me she had invited the Bobby into the Inner Chambers, I couldn’t believe it. I thought there had to be some justification. But it was only greed. I’m ashamed, both for her and myself.” He glanced bleakly across the room, as if struck by a new thought. “I’ve turned my back on her. I have nowhere to go now.”
“You could come with me,” Carter said. “To find Father.”
“Do you really believe he still lives?”
“I can’t rest until I know the truth. You say you are ashamed of what you’ve done—I betrayed him. I gave away the keys, and he is gone because of it. I did not desire to be lord of Evenmere, but I have the Seven Words of Power, and I must serve as the house demands.”
“I … don’t think I want to rule anything now,” Duskin said. “I don’t know what I want. Mother always said it was my right, that Father wanted it …”
“There is no truth in that,” Enoch said. “Your father loved you both, but he knew the ways of the house. The Master has great responsibilities; it is never easy. Often he told me he thought you would be happier if neither of you became lord. But Carter is right. The house chooses who it will.”
“You speak as if it were alive,” Duskin said.
“Haven’t you heard its breathing, late at night?” Enoch replied. “Do you feel its windowed gaze upon you, the lamps of its eyes, its gargoyle faces watching? Its heart, blood pumping through gas-line veins, behind its plaster skin? The perspiration in its water pipes, the lit tobacco pipe of its chimneys? Have you never walked in a room and felt its soul, regal as its grand arches?”
“You can’t be serious,” Duskin said.
“Yet, surely you’ve felt it, too,” Carter said, “when you played in its halls as a child—a presence, a spirit—but it’s only after coming back that I recognize it. As a child, I didn’t sense it always surrounding me; departing Evenmere I didn’t know what I longed for; returning, I feel it, though I couldn’t have put words to it till now. I doubt it is alive, but there is something uncanny in it, as if it were a favorite grandfather.”
Duskin smiled for the first time, but it was a sad smile. “Father spoke that way sometimes.”
“He did,” Carter admitted. They fell silent, bound suddenly by the bond of blood and memories.
“I will go with you,” Duskin said finally. “I’m sorry I have hated you.”
“You had the right,” Carter said. “I took away your father.”
* * *
Sunrise fo
und Glis banging on the door where Chaos had once sought entrance, a company of men behind him. The captain, resplendent in his white armor, gave Carter a low bow, shook Enoch’s hand, and threw a doubtful nod toward Duskin. After ordering his band to disburse along the halls, he followed the three up to the Clock Tower for breakfast. Taking the offensive had left him cheerful, and he spoke enthusiastically over poached eggs of strategies and troop deployments.
“The way up was hard but steady, once I received reinforcements from Nianar—Prince Clive’s people—I know him well, though he didn’t come himself. The anarchists massed on the stairs and we had to fight our way through. Bitter work. They lacked the numbers to stop us, but they keep our forces occupied; we must guard the liberated corridors, leaving the Bobby free to strike elsewhere. Nonetheless, our casualties were light and I am content. The only incident was a strange message brought to me by a runner from Hope, saying you had reached the Towers but were in danger, and urging us to hasten.”
“He was correct,” Carter said. “He and I have been … in contact.”
Glis waved his hand. “I needn’t know all the Steward’s secrets. I will inquire as to the correct deportment toward Duskin, as the last time I saw him he was accused of disloyalty.”
Glis did not bother to hide his suspicious glare, while Duskin turned an angry crimson.
“Not he, but his mother,” Carter said. “He has had his fill of the anarchists.”
Glis dropped his eyes. “That, too, is the concern of the Steward. I, for one, will remain alert as the operation unfolds. Since we can’t use the Green Door, our connection with the White Circle is tenuous; the path to Keedin and Naleewuath involves ladders and precipices. I want to locate another route into the Circle from here.”
“That should be possible,” Carter said, drawing his maps from his breast pocket.
“There is one thing more,” Glis said. “The Darkness which the Bobby released from the cellar has been seen throughout the house.”
The High House Page 20
