The High House

by James Stoddard

  Veth was a kingdom of small rooms and narrow corridors. It had been built by additions, for the style changed almost at every chamber, and sections of various woods: oak, mahogany, cherry, and beech trailed one another down the passageways, past wallpapers likewise divergent, so that the quarters were a crazy quilt of patterns. The sparse furniture wore the second hand expression of worn fabrics and scuffed legs. The doorknobs were dull, the baseboards lackluster from hard use followed by neglect.

  They became lost almost at once, for many of the crooks and turns within the convoluted passages were not shown on the map, and they spent the afternoon tracing and retracing their route, each step won at the cost of unwinding the puzzle of the halls. The inhabitants they met were few, and curiously frightened by their coming, rushing to hide behind bolted doors. Only once did they see a child, a boy about eleven, but when they called to him, his eyes widened and he sprinted up a stair, screaming for his mother in a high voice.

  Toward evening, frustrated from unraveling their course, with Duskin complaining of a headache, they tramped into a series of small, interconnected rooms, determined to go no farther that day, and discovered a fireman sitting on the hearthstone, polishing his black boots before the flames. Beneath his red, wide-brimmed helmet, his pale face was smudged with soot; his heavy gray jacket was smeared with charcoal. He was a man of singular appearance, his face pitted and worn as if smoky winds had scored it over centuries, his brow a beetled carapace, ponderous with the knowledge of cinders and sparks, kindling and combustion, embers and arson, pyres and pyromania. His nose was a hook like the end of a ladder. He looked thoughtful and wise, like a sleuth who could read a history from dying coals. His eyes, which smoldered in the firelight, widened in alarm upon seeing them, though he did not rise, but picked up the stout axe by his side.

  “Hello,” Carter said.

  The man looked down, then spoke in a deep voice that matched his face. “If you presume to kill me, I have neither food nor money, and I handle this axe well.”

  “Why ever would I want to kill you?” Carter asked.

  “Aren’t you some of Rooko’s lads?” The man squinted up at them.

  “Never heard of him. We are traveling to Arkalen. We certainly mean no harm.”

  The man sighed. “Good! I’m too tired to get up to defend myself, anyway. But you’ve come at a bad time. Fire has swept Veth; half the country is cinders. Women and children murdered. All because of Rooko. I am Nunth of the Firemen of Ooz. We have fought the blaze for three days and finally have it under control, assuming Rooko doesn’t start another.”

  “Who is this Rooko?” Duskin asked.

  “You must be strangers to Veth.”

  “Carter Anderson,” Carter said, “and my brother, Duskin.” After Spridel’s scorn he had no inclination to identify himself as the Steward.

  “Forgive me for not rising to shake hands,” Nunth said. “I am exhausted. As for Rooko, he is a native to Veth, but the people here say he joined the Anarchy Party two years ago. He was a rabble-rouser, going about making speeches, saying there would be no more Master. The younger men started listening to his anarchists’ jabber, about everyone being a leader, and no one at all. He had more supporters than anyone guessed, and last week, the Bobby himself showed up. Gave a rousing speech, but it was all a cover for Rooko to start the fires. Maybe they were intended to be small, to frighten people, but when we arrived from Ooz, the Bobby’s boys blocked our way. Half the kingdom is ruined, the duchess is hiding, and Rooko and his ruffians have taken Petite Hall and are calling themselves Masters of Veth.”

  “Always the anarchists!” Duskin said. “We have to do something.”

  Carter turned to his brother, surprised by his vehemence. “I hardly think we can. We haven’t any troops.”

  “You are the Steward of the house,” Duskin said. “Father said the duty of the Master was to maintain the balance between Chaos and Order. Chaos is clearly on the offensive here, thanks to the Bobby. It is our duty.”

  “But don’t we have a greater duty?” Carter asked. “The Inner Chamber is in danger—”

  A clattering interrupted their discussion as the fireman rose stiffly, removed his helmet, then, joints popping, climbed down on one knee before Carter. With his eyes averted, he said, “I beg your pardon, sir. I did not know you were the Steward. This is wonderful news. We must take you to the Porcelain Duchess at once.”

  Carter flushed and helped the man to his feet. “None of that, sir. You needn’t bow.”

  There were tears shining in Nunth’s eyes. “But the Firemen of Ooz pledge fealty to the Master and his representatives. This is such an honor! They said there would be no more Masters, but I knew they were wrong. You must come, sir, and help the people. Many have died; many are injured; all need the hope you can bring.”

  Carter looked helplessly at Duskin, who said with a grin, “Of course we’ll come.”

  Despite his weariness, Nunth waddled off at a brisk pace through the narrow halls, his gear rattling. The men followed.

  “Why did you volunteer our services?” Carter asked in a low voice.

  “You may become the Master someday, but you’re still somewhat dense about it all,” Duskin said. “Don’t you see? This is what the Master does. We can’t leave them to suffer.”

  “But what can we do? I know Father was asked to perform such acts, but he had the keys, the mantle, and the Lightning Sword. And we have little time. We could easily lose the war for the sake of a single skirmish.”

  Duskin shook his head stubbornly. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “I suppose so,” Carter said, unconvinced and a little stung. Yet he saw in Duskin an idealism he himself had lost while away from Evenmere, and he admired his brother for it.

  They began to smell smoke and water, and soon found puddles standing on the floorboards beneath scorched walls. They discovered a long firehose hooked into a wide pipe protruding slightly from the wall; Carter had seen many such in his journeys, though he had never known their purpose. In such a great house, where fire could be catastrophic, the Firemen of Ooz were undoubtedly indispensable.

  They quickly reached the ruins swept by the conflagration. Steam rose from tepid puddles; the husks of furniture hung against the walls like scarecrows. Stairs were consumed, walls and ceilings collapsed, floors burnt through, leaving gaping holes. In those areas where the ceiling had held, they could see for yards across the gutted remains, the rooms enlarged by the destruction. Weary firemen shuffled about, axes and shovels in their hands.

  With professional grace, Nunth led them across the wreckage, steering them away from dangers, moving obstacles with his axe.

  They traveled through the ruins for over an hour, and as he followed the miles of devastation, Carter raged inwardly at the cold, calculating minds capable of plotting such pointless destruction. Duskin had been right; he had to stop the anarchists wherever they struck.

  At last they came to corridors untouched by the flames, unscathed save for the smell of soot. Nunth led them into a cul-de-sac with doors on either side and knocked two longs and three shorts on the final entry to the right. A brisk shuffling came from the adjacent room, and after several moments, a stern, unshaven soldier opened the door, his pike before him. By the torn cloth of his uniform, he had recently been in a fight.

  “Ah, it’s you, Captain Nunth,” the man said. “But who are these?”

  “Someone the Porcelain Duchess will want to see,” Nunth replied.

  “Hsst!” the guard warned. “No names here! Come in quickly.”

  They entered a small room occupied by seven more soldiers, four standing, wielding pistols and swords, and three seated on strawberry couches. The identity of the duchess could not be doubted; she sat apart from the others, swathed in sky-blue robes, a tiny woman, with hands like a child and enormous blue eyes, resembling nothing so much as a porcelain doll, no older than fifty, but aged by the sorrow of the last few days. She stood when Nunth approach
ed, an act of humility Carter found unusual for a woman of her station, and the fireman dropped to one knee until the duchess bid him rise. “How goes the fire?” she asked in a sad but unexpectedly low voice.

  “Contained and extinguished, unless more are set,” Nunth said. “I have brought these two men to you, because I thought they might help your cause.”

  The woman’s eyes were keen as she looked at the newcomers. “I am Mélusine. What aid can you offer my tormented kingdom?”

  “Of that I am uncertain,” Carter said. “Nunth said we should come.”

  “He is Carter Anderson, Steward of the house,” Nunth said. “And his brother, Duskin.”

  Mélusine’s eyes lit, but then doubt glazed them over once more. “You do have the name of the old Master,” she said, after a moment.

  “He is our father, and we came this way seeking him,” Carter replied.

  The duchess studied them a moment. Despite her size, she was a sturdy woman with a fearless chin and laugh lines around her eyes, though she did not laugh now. “Why, I believe you are! I met Lord Anderson more than once, and there is indeed a resemblance. If so, you have arrived at a fortunate hour. Come with me.”

  “For what purpose, my lady?” Carter asked. “What can we do that your soldiers can’t?”

  The duchess gave him an odd look. “You need do almost nothing, sir. The fact you are here is sufficient. Nunth, as you go about your rounds be good enough to tell everyone you meet that the Steward has come to put down the rebellion.”

  Without further words, the lady led them through a back exit into a dimly lit corridor lined with doors on either side. The duchess’s servants knocked on each of these as they went, repeating the same phrase to those inside: “The Master of Evenmere has come. Prepare yourselves for battle.”

  Men began pouring from the doors, pulling their boots on as they came, men grim of mien, silent in their resolution, the sorrows of their ruined homeland upon their faces, carrying swords and crossbows, pistols and pikes, some in armor, others in woolen cloth. The duchess did not pause to address them, but within moments a battalion followed her, and Carter and Duskin found themselves urged forward by the press.

  Thus they marched through the desolation of Veth, the army growing with every step. Scouts went forth, and soon came running back, reporting Rooko’s men encamped near what was called the Great Square, warning that they outnumbered their own forces, whispering that the dark-cloaked anarchists were among them.

  “The Bobby’s lies have spread too far,” Mélusine said. “Stories of grandeur and glory, of Veth becoming a great empire, as Lorrimon of old.”

  They came to a canal, sixty feet wide, built of red marble, which brought the water supply from the mountains beyond the Terraces into Veth. The entire area was of white and vermilion stones, so that the flames had not touched it, and Carter saw the splendor of Veth, not as the massive carved palace of Kitinthim had been, but with a beauty of marble sculptures and cool, ivory pillars, and depictions of butterflies cut with such skill that light could be seen through the thin sheet of their marble wings. Glass globes, like colored Chinese lanterns, hung from poles all along the walkway beside the canal; sunlight drifted down from high skylights in the domed ceiling, and parrots of many hues sat on the poles, eyeing the men knowingly.

  The company wound its way beside the canal, and still their numbers grew. An anger was building within them, and words were spoken, threats of punishment and death for those who had sided with Rooko. Yet, a dread was upon Carter, for he knew these men had rallied around him, as if he were their commander, and he did not know how to help.

  On the opposite shore they saw clusters of rebels, some soldiers, most dressed as common men, though many carried bludgeons and bows. None bothered to fire arrows, but fled upon seeing Mélusine’s forces, undoubtedly to warn Rooko.

  They quickly came to a wooden bridge, wide enough for four men to walk abreast. Upon its far side a company larger than Mélusine’s own were gathered, and at their head stood a man in a red cloak, slightly taller than his fellows, with hair dark as crow’s feathers. The distance was such that a voice could carry easily, and as the duchess halted at the end of the span, a silence fell upon both sides.

  The red-caped leader spoke first, in the accent of an unlearned man. “What are you doin’ out of your hidin’ place, old woman? Have you come to surrender to the will of the people?”

  “And have you burned down the duchy at the will of the people?” the duchess demanded. “Did you strike the flint for the good of the children?”

  “It weren’t me as did it,” Rooko cried. “Don’t try to blame me. It was your soldiers, to ruin what you cannot keep. But we will build anew, when you swing from the high balconies, and Veth will become great, so that we bow and scrape no more to those from Gimry and Knoll.”

  “Will your new friends make it so?” the duchess asked sadly. “In one respect you are correct—I am not a great woman and Veth is not a great kingdom. But war will not change that. I have heard your plans; we are not strong enough to fulfill them. Has the lure of treasure blinded you? You are serving the will of the anarchists. They do not care that the White Circle will crush us if we invade our neighbors. We are farmers and blacksmiths, crafters in wood and stone, not warriors.”

  “If you don’t share our vision of glory, you better step aside,” Rooko said. “You have nothing to offer us.”

  “I have this,” the duchess said, her voice rolling across the bridge. And though she looked very small among those tall men, every eye was upon her. “The Master of the High House is come, though you said he never would, and he stands here with me.”

  The announcement caused a reaction Carter would never have expected, exclamations of wonder followed by awed silence. Rooko appeared stunned, and he stared wordlessly across the span for a dozen heartbeats. Then he gave a slow, rolling laugh.

  “Do you think we’ll surrender so easily to an impostor?” he asked. “The Master has been gone for years.”

  But Carter stepped forward a pace, feeling scarcely regal in his tattered clothing. All during the confrontation, he had focused on the Words of Power, and now held one at the ready.

  He spoke it, guessing little its result.

  The canal water paused in its course, and all heads turned at its sudden silence. First the bridge, then the entire hall shook violently. Men fell to their knees in fear; several on both sides threw down their weapons and fled. The duchess stood her ground, tiny hands on hips, chin thrust forward, but her face was ashen.

  In the silence that followed Carter cried, “My father was Master of Evenmere, I serve until his return! What has Veth done to itself? Do you become mighty by burning your homes? Do you become lords by obeying the anarchists? You serve only Entropy. Rooko has deceived you. This is but one of many fronts where the anarchists have struck.”

  He began to walk across the bridge, the Lady Mélusine beside him. The whole force followed a few steps behind their duchess.

  “Archers!” Rooko called. “Show these mongrels we have no need for a Master of the High House.”

  A few of the men nocked arrows to their bows, and a murmuring ran through all of Rooko’s troops.

  Carter did not slow his pace, but kept his eyes on the leader of the rebellion.

  An arrow struck at his feet; he strode over it, not allowing his step to falter. He could see the glint of the shafts aimed at his heart. His pulse beat at his temples.

  Something flashed to his right, and he saw an anarchist behind Rooko collapse, a knife embedded in his chest, the pistol he had aimed at Carter fallen from his grasp. He thought it was over then, that the rebels would cut him down with return fire, but they only stared dumbly at the slain man.

  Suddenly, one of the archers flung his bow to the ground and dropped to his knees. And then all of them were discarding their weapons, and falling to obeisance, some with tears in their eyes, some openly weeping. The Master has returned passed in whispers up and do
wn the whole band.

  Carter stopped four feet from Rooko. This close he perceived an uncouthness about the man, who was scarcely older than twenty, his pale eyes close together, his face lean like a hungry fox. Here was one who had found a following at an early age, and had reveled in his own prominence. But all arrogance had fled from his eyes; he looked imploringly from face to face, like a trapped animal, saw nothing that could help him, and tried to back away, but the press of the crowd prevented it.

  “What is the law of Veth for a traitor and an arsonist?” Carter asked softly.

  “Death, my lord,” one of Rooko’s prostrate followers said. “By hanging.”

  Carter knew this was no moment for leniency. “Then hang him, and the anarchists with him, and your duchess will surely pardon those of you who were misled.”

  Men from both sides rushed to seize Rooko, and his lieutenants with him, who had deceived the people as well. The duchess quickly took charge, and had soon dissipated the crowds, some to the work of finding shelter and food for those who had lost their homes, some to rounding up the anarchists, who had all mysteriously vanished, and some to repairing what could be repaired.

  “We will have to purchase wood from North Lowing, and stone from Keedin,” she said.

  “How did you know the people would relent when they saw me?” Carter asked. “They might just as well had me skewered.”

  “I knew once we rattled their leaders the people would turn,” Mélusine said. “They are a good folk, led astray. Mostly they are fond of me, I think; we just needed to get their attention. Respect for the Master is great in our land. One of the few women to serve in that position was from our country, and it is said when Veth was first built, that Uzzia, who was Master then, brought the red marble you see around you all the way from Merimna, and donated more besides.”