afraid, my friend, as we have never been before. When the
Poetry Men first appeared, we sent ambassadors in a futile
attempt at parlay. Upon finally making contact, we found the
goals of the cult members, who possess neither leaders nor any
form of organization, both unfathomable and intransigent. Two
of our envoys, men wholly dedicated to our cause, joined the
Radicals on the spot, and four others were slain. Only one
survived to report back to us. Later that week, a squad of our
best attacked a single Poetry Man in North Lowing and were
annihilated to the last man. Armed might cannot stop these
people. We have tried, and been sorely punished for it. Their
only goal appears to be destruction for its own sake.”
Chant sighed. “They brought me bitter news to hear and
bitter tears to shed. Very well. I will take you at your word.
We have known each other a long time, so I might as well
admit I knew you for an anarchist from the very beginning.”
Nighthammer sat upright, twisting his cane in his palm.
“You knew? How?”
“I had you investigated. One mustn’t be too careful. Our
agents discovered your anarchist associations, along with your
real name. I never gave you any information of value, and
occasionally, when necessary, fed you false details. It allowed
us to capture the Sullenbode spy ring in Ooz several years
ago.”
It was Nighthammer’s turn to sit speechless. “But you
sounded surprised when I told you.”
“I knew only the most desperate situation would force you
to give yourself away. I too have valued our conversations. I
… regret our charade cannot continue. You are really blind,
aren’t you? I have always wondered.”
Nighthammer gave a grim chuckle. “As a mole. I lost my
sight trying to learn to build bombs. Wasn’t very good at it.
Will you give me over to the authorities?”
“You are already a known anarchist. Sitting in a wood
listening for information is hardly a crime. But now that things
are out in the open, I wish I could convince you to renounce
your creed. Our friendship could continue.”
Nighthammer shook his head sadly. “Regretfully, no. The
universe that blinded me needs to be changed. I may
sometimes disagree with our methods, but not our goals. We
will not rest until Existence itself has been altered.”
“And I regret we have no more time to sit and chat of
books. I must get a message to Lord Anderson at once. Clasp
my hand, old friend. I shall miss you.”
“And I, you.”
With a heavy heart, the Lamp-lighter rose and strode away.
But he hesitated at the opening of the quadrangle to watch
Nighthammer make his way in the opposite direction, softly
tapping his cane against the bark of the trunks, his hood pulled
over his eyes, while The Men Who Are Trees squawked like
belligerent monkeys.
The Relay System of Evenmere, with outposts every four
furlongs, allows messages to be sent through the house with
marvelous speed by runner, bicycle, and—across the broad
fields of the Terraces—horse and carriage. By late that same
evening, Lord Anderson had received Chant’s letter, and he
and Mr. Hope were back on the train to Innman Tor, from
whence they would head to the Mere of Books. Depending on
what happened there, they might then travel to the College of
Poets at the University of Aylyrium, where Nighthammer
claimed the Poetry Men had first appeared.
“I hope we are doing the right thing,” Carter said, over the
clattering of the wheels. Night had fallen behind the distant
walls of the Terraces, and the electric lamps sent shadows
flickering across the yellow seats and sides of the car. The
compartment was mostly empty, and this was the first
uninterrupted moment for either of them since their arrival at
Jossing.
“There’s no help for it,” Mr. Hope said, “even if the
information did come from an anarchist. We can’t trust him,
but we can’t ignore it, either.”
“I like none of it,” Carter said. “We’re too much in the
dark. Did you contact the guard?”
“I sent a message to Marshal Japth in Ghahanjhin, but even
if they leave at once, they’ll be at least a day behind us.”
“Just as well. The whole house is on the edge of panic. It
will give us a chance to investigate without the sight of
soldiers stirring everyone up more.”
They spoke of the armies and militias mobilized
throughout Evenmere, the governors clamoring for action, the
displaced victims, the threats of political unrest, all this on top
of their other responsibilities: the telegraph, their neglected
duties in the Inner Chambers, the rebuilding of North Lowing
(in which Carter’s brother, Duskin, had some part), Fiffing’s
rejoining the White Circle the year before, all the details of
administering the limitless house. The men had become fast
friends over the years, and Carter enjoyed Hope’s optimism
and unorthodox approach to legal matters, while the butler
appreciated Lord Anderson’s imperturbable calm, his solid
logic, and his gift at making rapid decisions.
They journeyed through the night, dozing in their seats for
lack of a sleeping car. By early morning, they stumbled
blearily off the platform at Innman Tor and passed through
double doors, leaving the open field of the rail yard for
carpeted chambers.
The pair journeyed throughout the morning and afternoon,
traveling not down corridors, but through pillared and ornate
rooms with white wall-carvings of ferns, acorns, and human
faces no larger than fists. Deer, unicorn, and gnawling heads
hung on the walls beneath dark-oak ceiling arches. Etched
spider-monkeys loomed from the architraves.
One of Carter’s greatest joys was in traipsing through
Evenmere, guided by his inner maps, knowing yet never
exactly knowing what lay around the next corner. But on this
day he was too worn by worry and travel to appreciate the
journey. Not so his irrepressible butler, whose duties often
prevented him from leaving the Inner Chambers; Mr. Hope
hurried bandy-legged behind his Master’s long strides, eyes
gleaming with excitement, asking questions about portraits
and statues and architectural terms.
By early evening they reached the edge of the Mere. The
borders were unguarded save by a bronze plaque, posted
above French doors, proclaiming Welcome to the Mere of
Books, Owned by the People of Evenmere. Quiet, please. On
the handle of the door hung a crooked sign with SHH! neatly
printed in large letters. Carter turned the brass knob and led the
way into a tiny room filled with dark shelves of books and the
heavy odor of paper. Doorways on either side opened into
similar snug chambers. Signs were posted here and there, with
messages such as Please do not reshelve volumes , and Help is
available
at the Main Desk .
“I actually know little of the Mere,” Mr. Hope said,
keeping his voice low, “besides the fact that its Pilot is a
member of the Servants’ Circle. The histories seldom mention
it, or when they do, describe it only as a small region, too tiny
to call a country.”
By a casual reference from Enoch during Lord Anderson’s
third year as master, Carter had learned of the Circle of
Servants, a group of men and women who served the Balance:
the Seneschal of the Deep, the Queen of Shadow Valley, the
Smith of Welkin Well, twelve in all, including Chant the
Lamp-lighter and Enoch the Windkeep. Within his or her own
domain, each possessed mastery over the fundamental forces
of the High House, and by extension, those of the universe.
When Carter had first learned of them, he felt he was no
longer alone in his struggle, but part of a society of allies. The
reality had proven otherwise. The members of the Circle were
often aloof, eccentric, or dangerous. Still, he wished he had
known about them from the beginning; it would have made his
first years easier.
“You will think the Mere heaven, as much as you love
books,” he said. “I’ve only been here twice before, but Chant
comes through regularly. He is friends with Pilot Abershaw, an
amiable old man concerned solely with maintaining the
library. I’ve met him, but at the time he and his sailors were
too busy for much conversation.”
“Why the nautical titles?”
“You will soon see. I won’t ruin the surprise. A wonderful
place, always fire in the hearths, cakes and steaming cups of
cider on the credenzas, and beautiful volumes on every side.
There is only one strict law; the books may never be
removed.”
“A shame,” Hope said, eyeing the contents of the nearest
shelf. “I had hoped to borrow some volumes for later perusal.”
“No, you don’t,” Carter said, taking his friend’s arm.
“Once you get started, I’ll never pry you away. We need to
find the Pilot.”
“You know me too well.” Hope chuckled, glancing
wistfully from shelf to shelf. “It’s hard to concentrate with so
many books around.”
They passed through several small, carpeted rooms with
reading tables tucked into comfortable nooks and blue-stained
glass adorning the shelves. The gas jets burned low, sending
slow shadows swaying across the oak paneling. The Mere
seemed to enfold the men, drawing them into its butter-rum
serenity.
After a time they heard murmuring, which they followed
until they found a pair of boys clad in gray shirts and caps,
crawling along wooden ladders, dusting the shelves.
“Pardon me,” Carter said.
One of the lads climbed politely down from his perch and
said in a voice scarcely above a whisper, “Yes, sir?”
“I am Lord Anderson, Master of Evenmere, seeking Pilot
Abershaw on a matter of urgency.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Master Anderson! Is there
trouble in the Mere?”
“None I know of,” Carter said, smiling. “I need the Pilot’s
advice.”
“The Pilot is unavailable,” the lad said, “but I’m sure the
bosun would see you.”
“He will have to do.”
“I’ll take them, Slith,” he said to the other boy. “If you will
follow me, sirs.”
The lad led through a winding way, ascending and
descending, gliding between the rows of books.
“What is your name, son?” Mr. Hope asked.
“I’m Nuth, sir. I dust.”
“An important task in such a large library,” Hope said.
“Yes, sir. I was trained in Kitinthim by the Guild of
Dusters and Burnishers. Next year I’ll be allowed to polish
floors. But I hope someday to be a librarian on the Pilot’s staff.
I like to read. I’ve read everything about you, Lord Anderson.”
“Have they written books about me?” Carter asked,
surprised.
“Oh, yes sir, about your father and you, and the seeking of
the Lightning Sword and the Tawny Mantle, and how you
tamed the dragon in the attic and put down the rebellion at
Veth. I’ve read it all.”
“I must see these books sometime,” Carter said, “and
perhaps speak with their author. I have done several things, but
domesticating Jormungand isn’t one of them. He’s untamable.
Besides, he’s a dinosaur, not a dragon.”
“He doesn’t breathe fire?”
“Well … he’s an unusual dinosaur. But I never go to the
attic willingly. It’s too dangerous, even for me, and no one
else, especially a young boy, should even consider it.”
“I wouldn’t, sir.”
“What do they teach children in school these days?” Carter
muttered to Hope, as they passed through another doorway.
Nuth led up a flight of stair to a landing with a single
bookcase. Sliding a volume aside, the boy uncovered a hidden
knob and swung the bookcase inward on brass hinges.
“This way, sir.”
“Why a secret doorway?” Carter asked.
“We’ve little defense here, sir. The passages were made
ages ago to provide a way of escape in case of an attack. These
days the bosun uses them for his office.”
The library had spilled into the hidden corridor, for the
travelers entered a passage containing still more shelves and
books. After several minutes of winding their way, they
reached a room occupied by a heavy, bearded gentleman of
middle age, wearing sailor’s-cloth trousers and a serge frock.
A book entitled Tautology and the Topgallant Sail lay open
before him.
“Bosun L’Marius, sir,” Nuth said. “The Master of
Evenmere has come.”
The bosun glanced up and rose with military rigidity,
extending a hand. “Lord Anderson! I recognize you from your
portraits. ’Tis a surprise! To what do I owe the honor?” His
voice was deep, but he spoke in soft, library tones.
“My pleasure,” Carter said, taking the bosun’s firm grasp.
“I wanted to speak to the pilot, but the boy says he is absent.”
“He is, indeed, but if you’d care to wait, he’s due to return
in no time at all, certainly before the end of the week.”
“I’m afraid the matter is pressing,” Carter said, smiling at
the idea of living where one thought nothing of waiting a
week.
“Perhaps I can help. Before I was bosun, I served as Head
Librarian, and am well informed in most matters of the Mere.
Pray be seated.” L’Marius indicated two worn Morris chairs.
“Nuth, bring tea.”
Carter cast his eyes over the room. Paintings of sailing
ships, clustered together in Victorian style, covered one entire
wall. A chart hung askew behind the bosun, displaying the
flags of the countries in Evenmere. A map of the Mere
occupied another wall, drawn in ornate style with the words
Here There Be Bookworms sketched in the margins beside
drawings of silverfish and weevils. On the battered desk sat a
brass sextant, a worn copy of The Boats of the Glen Carrig ,
and a wooden nutcracker in the shape of a panda.
Mirth twinkled in the corners of L’Marius’ blue eyes, as if
he were privy to some private jest. His nose was large and
bulbous; dark veins ran like estuaries across his left cheek,
vanishing into the jungle of his black beard. Carter told the
bosun what he knew.
“So these Poetry Men are seeking a secret book?”
L’Marius asked, hand to chin. “Do you know its nature or
title?”
“Our informant did not say,” Carter said, “except that it is
an object of power.”
“Hmm.” The bosun tapped his forehead, as if trying to
start his brain. “There are hundreds of legends written about
the Mere. Such a fanciful place—all these books, the great
writings of so many—it lends itself to tall tales. Upon first
thought, I recall a reference within Nameless Horrors , but that
book is mostly concerned with specters haunting the halls …”
L’Marius rolled his heavy fingers thoughtfully along the
desk. “The History of the Mere chronicles the exploits of every
pilot since Tompalhoost and the founding of the first library,
which was actually in Kitinthim. I seem to recall a story within
it that might be relevant. A moment.”
L’Marius strode across the room and withdrew a volume
from a corner bookcase. He consulted the index, scrawled
something on a piece of paper with the stub of a pencil, and
unclasped a small silver key from a chain around his neck.
“Nuth, I need you to find this book. Be quick, and don’t
lose the key.”
The boy, having just finished serving the tea, took the
paper and key and hurried from the room.
“It shouldn’t take long,” the bosun said. “’Tis nearby,
locked in Special Collections. And speaking of collections,
while he’s away, let me show you my own.”
The bosun picked up a long box from beside his desk.
“Ever since I was a lad,” he said, “I have acquired the
buttons off naval uniforms. I have quite an assortment,
including a brass one from Admiral Thornbeam’s dress
uniform, worn just before he fought the Battle of the Sidereal
Sea. Let me show you.”
L’Marius selected a button and held it aloft. “The very one.
And not just a lower button either, but a collar button. Think of
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 4
