Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  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