He stopped whistling when he neared the head of the stair.
The carved, sliver-figure of a night-capped Man in the Moon
stared at Armilus from the balustrades. Above the doctor
stretched the seated form of a stained-glass angel, with
flaming hair and midnight eyes, a golden sword in his right
hand.
“Beautiful work, that.” He held a high regard for fine art.
Within his quarters he possessed two original paintings by
Opperpebb, a Minasian vase, and a silk kite from Toofrun of
High Gable.
He took a doorway to the right. Apart from his quest, he
had a secondary reason for coming this way, a bit of business
requiring a slight detour. He passed through a winding corridor
and down a short run of steps to an austere chamber with
threadbare carpet and a bookcase containing the complete
works of Saevius Nicanor. Removing one of the volumes, he
pressed a secret latch, causing the bookcase to swing aside,
revealing a comfortable room furnished in the Victorian
manner. A single figure, dressed in a robe, sat upon a low
sleigh bed.
“Who’s there?” the man asked. “Who is it?”
“Good afternoon, Nighthammer,” the doctor said. “It’s
Armilus.”
The blind poet gave the slightest gasp. “Doctor. You
frightened me. I … I expected no one until supper. This is an
honor.”
Nighthammer rose and bowed from the waist.
“I was passing through the area and wanted to inquire on
your health.”
“That … that is very good of you,” Nighthammer replied,
still standing. His nostrils curled, probably catching a whiff of
the beast. “I am well. And highly grateful. Grateful you
spirited me away, I mean, before the Master came looking. I
suppose he would have come, wouldn’t he? Even if Chant
were against it? He said I wouldn’t be arrested.”
“The Lamp-lighter? I didn’t know you were so close.”
“Close? Oh, no.” The poet spoke rapidly, his voice
trembling. “Not friends by any means. But we have known
one another many years. You know how it is in the world of
spies. I mean, he was a pleasant enough fellow, but I never …
I mean, he made me feel a fool. Said he always knew I was an
anarchist. Do you think it true? How could he? He isn’t one to
lie.”
“Why do you think I ordered you to reveal your
affiliation?” Armilus rumbled. “Since they didn’t realize we
knew that they knew your real identity, your confession made
the deception more believable. We’ve known for years.”
Nighthammer drew back, brow furrowed. “You … knew?
But … It—for years? All that time, all my service was in
vain?”
“You served the cause. Be content with that.”
“But your lordship must know how long I—”
“Do you always address members of the Brotherhood as
lords? Have you forgotten we have no inherited rank?”
“I …” Nighthammer’s face paled. His mouth worked but
he said nothing.
“Sit down,” Armilus ordered, with a grim smile.
The poet dropped to the bed as if shot.
“No inherited rank,” Armilus repeated. “We are all equal,
all agents of the Society, working together for our common
cause.”
Nighthammer contorted his lips, trying to smile. “That’s
true. We are each part of it—the Great Work.”
“And in that work, who knows what service can do the
most good?” Armilus asked. “Or what action can give one
away? A nod of the head, a momentary glance. Which is why
it is so important to keep you hidden from the White Circle
Guard. I want them to gain nothing.”
“As do I,” Nighthammer said. “Not that I know much, of
course. Only what I was told to say, and a little about the book
and … and such.”
“Especially about the origins of the book. Because you
were there from the beginning, the Comte de Cheslet told you
more than he should have, I think. He does that sometimes. A
good man, but a bit too academic, too free with information.”
“I am sure he was circumspect. I am sure—”
“I am certain he wasn’t.”
The two sat in silence, the poet a portrait of apprehension,
Armilus considering an act of murder. The doctor carried a
gun, though he had powerful hands and strangulation would
do as well. It was quieter, more peaceful, like drowning a bird
as he had once done as a child; one watches it writhe but hears
no sound.
Still, conservation of resources was important, and it was a
mistake to kill a staunch follower except in the gravest
necessity. It cowed the others, leeching away their loyalty.
With the party split and the Poetry Men a threat, Armilus
could not spare any of his adherents.
The doctor glanced around the room. This was the reason
he had come, to see how well the poet was kept and to ensure,
either through death or security, that no one would interfere
with his plan. A truly excellent plan.
“But a trifle fragile,” he said aloud.
“What, Doctor?” Nighthammer asked.
Armilus stood. “Nothing, my friend. Nothing at all.
Having satisfied myself of your comfort, I must be on my
way.”
The man tilted his head uncertainly. “So soon? I should
have offered you tea. Would you like some? But of course
you’re very busy. Thank you for coming. It was too kind.”
Armilus reached out and clapped the man on the shoulder.
Nighthammer jerked, giving a half-shriek.
“Good day then,” Armilus said. “Thank you for your
excellent work.”
“Yes. Thank you, my … thank you.”
Armilus left the room. As he stopped to close the
bookcase, he studied the poet, wishing he could be certain the
man would not be found.
As he stood in indecision, the Black Beast leapt back into
the room and sprang at Nighthammer’s throat. A surprised
scream filled the air.
By the time the doctor reached the bed it was too late. The
animal had been efficient. Armilus found he was not, after all,
displeased, except by the fact that the creature had apparently
reacted to his thoughts.
“The price of ambivalence, I suppose,” he said, warily
patting the beast on the head. “One should be careful what one
wishes for.”
As Chant strolled across the Yard carrying his ladder, he
paused beside the stone well to admire the evening skyline.
The sinking sun pierced the clouds massed on the western
horizon, turning them pink and orange and royal blue, lending
them the semblance of the faces of gods gazing over the
rooftops of Evenmere, their expressions eager and evil and
dreadful and good. A sudden shiver ran along his back; he
found he had no poem to match their majesty.
His eyes still fixed skyward, he took the worn path leading
to the white gate hidden behind the grape arbor. A score of
sparrows fled f
rom beneath the vines and soared over the
eaves. Withdrawing his keys, Chant unlocked the gate and
slipped outside the Yard. Following the cobblestone path that
skirted the low wall, he made his way to the solitary lamppost.
Positioning his ladder, he ascended to perform his duty.
He had just lifted the globe and struck a match, when he
noticed a figure out of the corner of one eye, coming along the
low wall surrounding the Yard. The stranger’s garb, orange
down to his hat, cloak, and boots, gave him the appearance of
a mountebank. He squatted to pluck a long-stemmed blade of
grass from among the bricks, and chewed on its end.
“Good evening,” Chant said, glancing around uneasily to
see if the fellow had companions. The lamppost stood beyond
the grounds of Evenmere, in the everyday world where
colorfully-dressed men were seldom seen.
“Greetings, Lamp-lighter,” the man replied, his voice soft
and pleasant. His nose was crooked, his eyes fanatically bright
beneath wire-rimmed spectacles. Wisps of thin smoke rose
from under his collar. “I saw you admiring the clouds.
Spectacular, aren’t they?” As he spoke, minute sparks flitted
off his tongue.
“Remarkably so.” With studied care, his eyes fixed on the
newcomer, Chant finished lighting the lamp and descended the
ladder, casually placing his left hand close to the pistol in his
coat.
“When did you first volunteer for your duties?” the
stranger asked. “When were you first drawn to the fascination
of the flame?”
“You are mistaken,” Chant said. “I did not seek my
position, but was appointed. Surprised by joy, impatient as the
wind— ” The Lamp-lighter broke off, for to his astonishment
tongues of fire came from his own mouth, accompanying his
verse.
“There now, do you see?” the man said, chuckling. He
reached into his pocket and withdrew a red salamander, which
climbed onto his shoulder. “The flames refute your denial. You
have heard it, the love of fire, the kindled desire for the spark,
the heart of light engulfing the dark.”
Chant retreated a pace. “Who are you?”
“Poetry and flame. How alike they are, how bright the fire
of phrases burn. You know, who have seen it within your
heart.”
“I have seen it,” Chant admitted.
“And it has filled you with longing. You, who have lit the
suns, playing fast and loose with Promethean fire. Like the
gods. Chant, Lamp-lighter, Light-bringer. Yet, though long-
lived, you are mortal. Have you sought the eternal? Do you
hear its name, whispered by the mumbly-men, drifting down
the rainbows, penned within a mother’s gentle tears?”
Looking at the stranger’s face, Chant saw, instead of eyes,
nose, and mouth, flaming stars such as he had but dreamt of.
He gave a gasp as every one of his longings rushed upon him:
for his departed father and mother; for a lost love who had
hanged herself long ago beneath a beam at Totman Chapel; for
other, deeper desires that had haunted him throughout his life,
unrequited cravings found on lonely nights beside dim flames,
yearnings summoned by the soft melody of a viola, or a battle
paean sung a cappella .
“Who are you?” Chant asked again, and his voice was
aflame now, streaming out in burning daggers.
The Poetry Man’s words were likewise tipped in blue fire.
“My name is unimportant, only my mission matters. I wield
energies that formed and molded the world. Leave this
architectural panoply, come with me to lands strange beyond
desire.”
“No,” Chant said, shaking his head heavily. “What you
offer is too grand.” He drew back, blinded by the flame of his
own words.
“It is not,” the other said. “I have seen the faces of the gods
and yet I live.”
With a bound, the Poetry Man rushed toward the unlocked
gate. Chant reacted instantly, placing himself between the
intruder and his goal. They faced one another, scarcely four
feet between them. Chant drew his pistol.
The Poetry Man laughed. “Put away your petty toys. Are
we boys, to play these childish games? I seek to bring the joy
of flame into the chambers of your lord.”
“No.” Chant backed toward the gate.
The Poetry Man followed. Chant fired. The bullet came
flaming from the barrel, a white-hot bolt that incinerated
before it reached its target.
The intruder rushed forward, seizing Chant, and beneath
his grasp, white heat scorched the Lamp-lighter’s arms. Chant
pulled free, leapt to the gate and fled inside, drawing it shut
behind him. He secured the lock just before the Poetry Man
reached it. The intruder tore at the gate, vainly attempting to
pry it open.
“You cannot pass!” Chant cried. “Go back where you
came.” Though the low wall seemed a barrier even a child
could surmount, so long as the gate remained fastened the
wards of the house prevented any from entering.
“Oh no, friend! I’ll not leave this portal until it is tested in
fire.”
The flame from the Poetry Man’s mouth now flowed
continuously. It flickered around the grass, igniting it. The fire
ran along the ground with fantastic speed, licking at the low
wall and lapping against the gate. Still, the gate did not burn.
The wildfire spread toward the trees surrounding the
house. The blaze ran up the first trunk, an ancient oak; the
leaves caught all at once; the hoary titan burst into flame. The
fire spread from bough to bough.
The coattails of the Poetry Man caught next, the threads
burning, yet he stood unmoved. “Come in!” he cried, gesturing
wildly like a man standing in the waves of a sea. “Come in!
It’s fine.”
Chant retreated, hurrying from the arbor so he could see
over the low wall. The whole woodland beyond the house was
going up in a huge conflagration. The Poetry Man blazed, but
stood laughing, unharmed.
Chant drew close to the wall. The fire was so hot it melted
the lamppost, which bent over to kiss the scorched earth, but
no heat crossed the barrier.
The storm raged on, and at its center, where the poet stood,
a white gash appeared, as if the flame were hot enough to
scorch Existence itself, peeling it back like a wrinkling picture
on canvas.
The intruder screamed, a combination of ecstasy and
terror, as the white heat blotted out his form, leaving the gash
hanging suspended a foot off the ground, a blank hole into
emptiness.
Chant stood gaping as the fire spread around the house,
nursing burned arms that he, who had been given mastery over
fire, had thought no flame could scorch. If the poet had
reached the Yard, he would have surely destroyed the Inner
Chambers.
Doctor Armilus, rehearsing phrases from a pocket-book on
the Histian language to m
ake use of the time, passed over
wooden floorboards through a wide corridor like a vast
banquet hall. Stepping through a double-doorway, he found
himself in a courtyard beneath a midnight sky. A group of
towers stretched above him, the stars of the Milky Way
hanging like trinkets over them. The half-moon washed the
flagstones in white.
After some searching, he found the proper door. Though he
prided himself on his ability to pick a lock, he knew that
nothing save the single gold key he carried, a duplicate of the
one used by Enoch the Windkeep, could gain entrance. Its
theft had cost the lives of two of the three anarchists who had
removed it from a chalcedony box in the chambers of the
Locksmith of Loft. The beast beside the doctor whined softly
as he inserted the key. The lock opened with a soft click and
Armilus smiled in grim satisfaction.
He made his way up a sweeping stair. The creature
bounded behind him, hissing softly like grease on a hot pan,
taking the steps two at a time. Armilus searched the rooms,
one after another, until he came to the chamber of the Eternity
Clock, whose enormous face looked out from one wall. The
room itself appeared utterly mundane; a bed stood beside the
clock; sparse decorations hung on the wall; a few chairs lay
about.
“Lovely,” he said. “Simply lovely.”
The hands of the clock were set at three seconds after
11:50, but the second hand did not appear to move. From his
reading of The Book of Lore , he knew this to be an illusion;
the hands did progress, but too slowly to be seen. The book
claimed the clock was the mechanism that controlled time.
He stroked the hands, speculating with vast delight on the
paradox that might occur if he moved the time backward the
barest fraction. He applied light pressure against the second
hand, but it remained steadfast even as the book had foretold,
beyond the power of mortals to budge. He wished he could
spend a few hours experimenting with it.
“But,” he observed wryly to the beast, “I fear I lack the
time.”
He drew a prismatic vial from his black bag, held it
carefully beneath the second hand, and unstoppered it.
A sucking arose from within the bottle, barely audible at
first, but growing in intensity, until its resonance forced him to
clutch the container with both hands. Even then, his entire
bulk shook from the vibrations. He planted his feet wide,
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 15
