by Sean Russell
But in some way the countess admired the stand Marianne Edden had taken. It was courageous if a little eccentric. The countess believed it natural for men and women to admire each other. To flirt and court. Did not the very animals do the same? Natural. But then it was easy for her to be sanguine about such a thing—she had not been born with crooked teeth or a hideous nose. Men admired her—too much for her liking. But to be ignored. . . . She couldn’t imagine how painful that might be. Will be, she reminded herself. Age would see to that. She would have the experience soon enough, and the thought disturbed her as it always did.
“Will you consent to my seeing these portraits now?” Marianne asked suddenly.
The countess felt a small shiver run through her. “If you like, though they are not portraits.” The Peliers were still in their cases, where she had purposely left them. The truth was that, as much as she wanted to be rid of these paintings, she feared that once they were gone she would never see Skye again.
Reluctantly, the countess went to the wooden case in which the paintings had been transported. “Could you lend a hand? The frames are not light.”
The two women lifted the first painting from the case and unwrapped it carefully, and then the second. They leaned them against the wall on a side table and shifted the light so they could be clearly seen. For a long moment they stood there, gazing at the paintings by lamplight, which, the countess thought, made them, if anything, more eerie.
“What is it about these paintings that disturbs you, Elaural?” Marianne asked softly.
The countess shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered, not even attempting to deny the truth.
“But are you drawn to them, as well?”
The countess nodded, as much as she would have liked to have disagreed.
Marianne turned her attention back to the paintings. “And this man of yours has an obsession with these?” the novelist said flatly.
“I would not say that, but he believes they are significant in the larger mystery.”
“This is the story you told me as we traveled? What was the man’s name?”
“Baumgere.”
“But one painting is a forgery, you say?”
The countess nodded. “Though it might be an accurate forgery—an exact copy. That, at least, is what Mr. Kent believes.”
Marianne leaned closer to look at the signature.
“There is something peculiar about these paintings. I feel it myself. And this man.” She gestured to the figure crossing the bridge. He looks like a man going to the gallows. Look at his face. He knows his fate has been decided and continues only because there is no alternative. Something or someone awaits him, and he cannot turn back. Now here is a character to be pitied. This is the Stranger Skye spoke of?”
“That is what he believes. The spire in the background belonged to a church that burned years ago in the village of Compton Heath.”
“But what became of the man?”
The countess shook her head. “He was taken off in a carriage, though by whom, no one knows. The story has it that it was a mage—but then that makes for a better story, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” Marianne said. “I wish you were not involved in this matter, Elaural. Skye . . . Skye has his own obsessions. You would be best to involve yourself no further. You don’t even know what he is seeking—or do you?”
The countess shook her head. She didn’t. Something more than he was telling her, that was certain. It was not just curiosity. It was an obsession.
Where had the Stranger come from, and what was it that this priest sought? Was that what drew Skye? Did he know what Baumgere was searching for?
“What does the writing on the crypt say? Does Skye know?”
“No. Apparently it cannot be read, or so Skye says.”
“And I understand one may not gainsay the great Skye?”
“You may, but at your peril.”
“I will warn you only this one time, Elaural. I am famous for my intuition, and I do not have a good feeling about this matter. There, I’ve said my piece.” The slightest pause. “It would be different if this man was mad for you. . . .”
“I thought you’d said your piece?”
“I have.” She turned away and went into the other room.
A moment later the countess followed, shutting the door tightly between them and the Peliers.
Marianne looked up, her face still somewhat grim, as though the paintings had left her feeling ill. “This crypt is nearby?” she said, forcing her voice to sound normal.
The countess nodded.
“Then we should at least see it while we’re here. I hope this genius of yours will contact us soon. It does seem a bit inconsiderate.”
“He is not my genius, and I am sure there are reasons for what he is doing. I would like to see the structure myself—I do not know if it can be properly called a crypt. Apparently it is one of the sights around Castlebough.”
“Well, we cannot miss the sights. We should have something for our trouble after traveling so far. Perhaps a ghost will rise from the crypt and answer all our questions.”
The countess shook her head, trying to force the feelings caused by the paintings to subside. “I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as you should, Marianne. I think tomorrow it will be time for you to go back to your work. I am going to keep my word on this. You will be locked into a room with pen and paper every morning at ten sharp, and not let out until you have slipped three pages under the door for me to judge.”
“I was being facetious, Elaural. I will show you the word in my dictionary: facetious.” But it was banter by rote—neither of them laughed.
Fourteen
A memory is a dream turned to disappointment.
—Halden
“I was something of a prodigy of the local Farrellite School, but my father, who was more shrewd than his lot in life would indicate, took me out of the clutches of the priests.” Clarendon lifted a glass of wine. “He realized there was a possibility of making money from my talents, and money was the one thing that had always eluded the poor man.” He paused to taste his wine. “Do you find the finish bitter?” he asked Erasmus.
They had come down from the ruin late in the afternoon to Clarendon’s house. Kehler had insisted on coming later, after darkness fell, and had arrived looking more than a little apprehensive. He still would say nothing, and the others gave up asking, hoping he would come to it in his own time.
Erasmus thought there was quite a contrast between the lad-next-door looks of Hayes and his sharp-featured friend. Kehler’s motions were all quick, and he held his head lowered at the neck in such a way as to leave the impression that he was ready, at an instant, to duck out of sight. The two were about the same age, but Kehler already showed gray at the temples and crow’s feet pressed into the corners of his eyes. But there was also something between these two young men, some commonality despite their divergent appearances. They were both a bit haunted, perhaps for vastly different reasons, but it was unmistakable.
Erasmus tasted the wine again, his focus entirely inward. “Bitter? Very slightly so, perhaps. I almost think I enjoy it. There is an odd aftertaste, like slightly burned apple.”
Clarendon tasted his own wine again, inclined his head to one side, and closed his eyes. “Yes. Yes, I see what you mean. You must meet the others, Mr. Flattery, they will make you most welcome.” He looked up at a painting on the wall—a circus troupe under the light of torches and great lanterns, and then seemed to remember that he had been telling a story. “Originally I would perform arithmetical calculations in my head—problems posed by people who came to see the show, for we had joined a traveling show: General Albert W. Payne’s Traveling Company. Unfortunately the ‘General’ took most of the money, and my father squandered what was left on fine clothing, women, and drink. He was n
ot a very original man, I’m afraid,” he said, as though apologizing.
“Many feats were performed. I memorized enormous blocks of text in one reading and parroted them back without mistake, or merely glanced at a thirty digit number and then wrote it down. I once sat the final examinations in mathematics at Merton making not one error and halving the previous record for time. I was at that time three months shy of my tenth birthday. I gained quite a reputation, and made even more money for the owner of our traveling company. Not long after this my father died—choked on his own gorge while insensible with drink. There was a struggle between several of my relatives, people I hardly knew, and the General, to decide who would be my legal guardian. In the end, one of the women in the show, whom I had always called ‘aunt,’ produced a signed certificate of marriage proving that she and my father had been joined in sacred matrimony—when he was drunk beyond knowing, I’m sure.
“It was something of a scandal, really, but finally my ‘aunt’ managed to outbid my dear family and the General, who only offered the judge money. Aunt Liz, who was a stunning young woman, managed to offer the judge something he did not already have, and perhaps had never possessed—the apparent adoration of a beautiful young woman, however briefly it lasted.
“My life changed on that day. Aunt Liz and I left the company immediately. She had been a dancer and tumbler in the show, which was lewd in the extreme, and perhaps she had even worked in the tents when the show was over, I don’t know, but she was as shrewd a businesswoman as ever palmed a coin, I can tell you that. She took what money she had managed to save, which would indicate she really was working on the side, and hired tutors. A retired professor from Merton to teach me higher maths. An elocution instructor. My crooked working-class accent was hammered straight, and I was also allowed to read as much as I wanted—and I wanted to read all the time. Very soon Aunt Liz had Farrland’s most respected scholars vying with each other to instruct me, for I have a flawless memory and an ability to perform calculations that would take other men hours or even days, though they might take me only a few moments.”
Hayes watched the small man’s face, utterly entranced by the story, but sensing a sadness in Clarendon as he exposed these memories.
“Soon all the performances I did were in the private homes of Farrland’s wealthiest citizens, or in grand halls. Once, I was invited to be a guest of the Society, where they posed the most difficult questions of all, though I acquitted myself well. I began to feel like less of a spectacle, less of a freak, though the old feelings were not entirely gone. I was called The Petite Professor, or the Dwarf Savant. Professor Memory. All manner of appellations. And among all the educated people I even made a few real friends. And I also made money. Lizzy saw to that. She was my guardian goddess, and I loved her hopelessly.” He swiveled as though to look out the darkened window, raising a hand to his face, but turning the movement into a mere gesture, placing the hand beneath his chin.
“When I was seventeen, my darling Lizzy fell victim to a cad. A Colonel Winslow Petry. They were too quickly married. . . .” His voice trailed off. And then he resettled himself in his chair, straightening his small back. “And so I was forced to begin again. For the second time in my short life I had lost everything. Lizzy and the money, too. But fortunately I had a head for figures, and in one sense that’s all money is—numbers, marks on a page. I knew what to do to make it, even if it gave me little joy, and the lesson of my father taught me to preserve what I acquired.
“Lizzy and her colonel went off, spending the money we had made. To this day I can’t think of it without the deepest sadness. She was the one person I had trusted utterly. . . . After that I traveled continuously for six years. Through Doorn and Entonne. To every corner of the lands around the Entide Sea. Everywhere I went, I moved in society. I learned to play the pianum, though I am not so skilled at that as I am at other things I have turned my hand to. I became a devotee of the arts and met many artists and writers. And it was through this that I was saved.” He looked up at his guests, his face brightening a little.
“I was so fortunate, after all my years of travel, to meet the Haywood family—do you know them?”
“The porcelain people?” Hayes asked.
“The very ones. I was invited to their home to give one of my demonstrations, and I almost did not leave. Such open-hearted people, such complete joy in life, I had never encountered. I was captivated by them in a way that you cannot imagine. You see, they invited me into the fold, as it were, as they did a select few they took a genuine liking to. They rescued me . . . from cynicism, bitterness, resentment, all the ugly, unworthy things that had become lodged in my heart. And I cast all of these things out, like demons, and made myself anew. Through the Haywoods I learned that my gifts were to be treasured, and that I was no more a freak than a man who sits before a pianum and holds the audience in his hand, playing upon their emotions with his own given skill. I was gifted, perhaps supremely so. As for my small stature . . . well, in their home it did not matter.”
“You see, I had never thought of myself as an intellectual, but only as someone who could perform tricks, tricks of the mind to be sure, but tricks all the same. In my own view I was no different from the performing animals in General Payne’s traveling show, or from the other freaks whose physical deformities were a source of fascination and horror to the general population. But the Haywoods made me realize that this was not true, that in fact I was the equal of a professor at Merton—even more so, for I disremember nothing and can perform calculations in my head that others can never equal.
“Through them I actually taught for a year, higher mathematics at the University in Belgard. It will sound odd to you, but the Haywoods humanized me, for I was always an outsider in my own mind—a near-human. A dwarf; different in both mind and body.” He smiled almost beneficently. “And so you see before you a man, small in stature, yes, but large in mental abilities. A true man of parts, as they say. And through the good graces and efforts of the Haywoods, I was even able to develop my other sensibilities.” He raised his glass as though toasting his benefactors. “And that, more or less, is my story. I have made enough money that I no longer perform as I did, but devote myself to my interests and my many friends, for as you know people born with my particular physical characteristics often do not live a normal span of years, and I want to be sure to waste as little time as possible.” He drank from his glass.
“And so here we all are, having lived our separate lives, followed our separate journeys, yet somehow we have all arrived here at this exact moment. If, like me, you have grown suspicious of coincidence, you might think that there is some reason for this. Why have we all come to this place tonight?”
Hayes was not sure the question was rhetorical. He even found himself wondering the same thing. What were they all doing there?
“But you have an interest in the mages, Randall,” Erasmus said, “and you know something of Teller, and this is truly arcane knowledge. Has this long been an interest?”
Randall looked down at the table, and Hayes thought the man was trying to decide what he would tell Erasmus, for though it was obvious that the dwarf was an admirer, Erasmus was still a near stranger.
“I came by this interest accidentally. You see, I discovered Castlebough through a physician who attended me. He suggested I come here for the cure, which I did, and for me, at least, it worked. During that visit I fell in love with the village and the surrounding countryside. It is a healthful environment, I think. Clean air, salubrious water, exercise, and few of the aggravations of the city.
“I come here in the spring and usually stay for the entire summer. In the winter I travel. This winter last I visited Farrow.” He stood suddenly in his place, but it was only to lean forward to fill Kehler’s glass. “I am naturally curious and thought to learn something of the history of my new home. And what a history it has! The citadel above saw some of the most terrible
battles of the Wars of Heresy.” He shook his head, the sadness coming back. “And, of course, there was the mystery of Baumgere, which has intrigued the village for years. Unlike the inhabitants of Castlebough, however, I had an enormous advantage during my research. In my travels I have had occasion to meet men of great knowledge, and I have looked into private libraries to which few have been granted access.
“It is astonishing the way knowledge is scattered around our world,” he said suddenly. “Some written in books of which only one copy remains extant. Much passed down by word of mouth, and very temporarily stored in the minds of the most unlikely people in the most out of the way places. And then there are the great libraries and the innumerable attics of the known world. . . . The things people confide in their correspondence! So, yes, it began with an interest in this local legend—the crypt of Baumgere and the denial of absolution—and led me to this man named Teller, and then to the mages.” Clarendon looked up at the others, his manner almost defensive.
Hayes could see that Kehler was staring raptly at his host, listening to every word, and to all that was suggested but never stated. It was a wonder that Kehler managed to contain himself.
“The society that Teller founded was almost certainly destroyed during the Winter War—about 1415—almost five centuries after Teller. Five centuries! What did they learn in that time?” He looked at each of his guests, as though sure they were keeping the answer to the question from him. “I do not know,” he said, dropping his gaze. “I do not know. But enough that the mages felt they must hunt them down and destroy them. Destroy them after they had managed to keep themselves secret for five hundred years.”
“The mages had no need of hunting them down,” Erasmus said, surprising everyone.
Clarendon looked up, his eyes suddenly alive with interest.
