of their own? Or did they believe that doing so would
somehow help them spread their strange doctrine?
Mid-morning brought them to The Desolation. When
Carter had first returned from exile, the anarchists had opened
the Door of Endless Dark, releasing the Black River, which
had seeped into North Lowing, cutting a wide swathe through
several miles of the house. Carter had sealed the Darkness
Door and the Black River had dissipated, leaving nothing but a
smooth channel.
“Are you all right, Master Anderson?” Jonathan asked.
Carter laughed bitterly. “I hate coming here. This is just
one more result of my stealing the Master Keys. The enormity
of what I did, out of envy and petulance …”
“You were not the first to fight in a war without knowing
you were a soldier.”
“Small comfort, that.”
“To be sure, but the battle is always too grand for either the
infantryman or the great general to completely comprehend.
You think because the anarchists used such a small thing as
your jealousy, the consequences should not have been so
terrible. But there is no small jealousy, no tiny envy. The
world turns on acts of nature and acts of the heart. Thousands
can die in an earthquake; thousands can perish from the
actions of one person. Nothing is small. Your enemies have
been called renegades, anarchists, Architectural Reformers,
The Society for the Greater Good, the Extremists, the
Fundamentalists—a hundred other names, but always the same
danger—for every person, in his own way, is both anarchist
and agent of the law. Every Master, in some fashion, has faced
attacks upon the Balance. Rooms have changed, changing
worlds, and still the Masters struggle on. The battle is
ceaseless, the true enemy, Entropy, irresistible. Sooner or later,
it will prevail.”
“You make it sound hopeless.”
“It is not, Master Anderson. It is full of hope. It is hope
itself, for each minute of existence carved out of nothingness
is a triumph for life. This house, its great walls and golden
halls, will someday fall, and the last Master with it, but the
buildings of the heart, for good or ill, will remain.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s right,” Storyteller replied, “nor can any of us, for
we dwell in this house, this fragile home, and it is all we see.”
At the count of three, the eight men in dark suits and black
hats lifted the ebony casket and placed it in the back of a
narrow hearse designed to navigate the halls of Evenmere, a
carriage drawn by four pairs of black bicycles. Two women in
mourning dress drew dark veils over their faces, clutching
their handkerchiefs but shedding no tears.
“Now remember,” Heit Nizzle, the Comte de Cheslet, said
smoothly, as one of his followers opened the carriage door to
usher him and the women inside, “widows weep, but funeral
directors keep a tight smile on their faces, either in defiance of
the eternal darkness, or in exultation of a lucrative business
arrangement. Let us proceed.”
The men took their positions on the bicycles, and at the
command of the Lead Stroker, began pedaling steadily down
the opulent corridors of Ooz, a country of tall steeples, carved
putto figures, trompe l’oeil, wide ceiling frescoes and broad,
circular naves. The shutters were crimson with small carvings
of pelicans at their borders.
“Most excellent,” Nizzle said, addressing his remark to the
Contessa Angelina du Maurier immediately to his right. “We
had best settle in. The journey will be long.”
The contessa, a striking woman, tall and regal, blonde-
haired and green-eyed, currently served as his assistant. She
was the most ambitious person he had ever met. He suspected
he would eventually have to kill her.
She gave a smile anyone but Nizzle would have thought
genuine. Her voice, surprisingly low for a woman, had great
appeal. “The accommodations are excellent as always, Count.
A very comfortable coach. But how shall we while away the
time? Cecilia has brought cards. Perhaps a bit of whist? Or
you could tell more about what we are attempting.”
Nizzle glanced at their other companion, a ten-year-old girl
who was clearly terrified of her chaperones. He had not
wanted to bring her, but Armilus had insisted the disguise
would be incomplete without a child. How the doctor loved his
theatrical touches! Usually he was right, of course—the man
was as brilliant as he was merciless for the Cause, but it was a
bit wearing at times.
Nizzle returned du Maurier’s smile. “I fear these are not
matters to be discussed before the young one. Anyway, the
doctor’s orders were explicit. I am to disclose nothing until we
reach our destination.”
Angelina put on a pretty pout. “Not even a hint?”
“Ah, but wouldn’t that take the pleasure from our arrival?
You must leave me my little surprises. Whist will make the
time pass quickly.”
Actually, he despised cards, but the more the contessa
knew, the more dangerous she could become. For some
reason, Armilus trusted her. Perhaps he knew of some secret
crime she had committed.
The funeral party soon left Ooz behind. They followed the
Long Corridor most of the day before reaching double doors
leading into the northern portions of Nianar. Heit Nizzle grew
anxious; Prince Clive kept a strict watch along his borders.
Here was the first test of the anarchists’ disguises.
“Look sad, ladies,” he ordered. “Especially you, Cecilia.
Remember, you have just lost your father.”
Three soldiers dressed in blue armor met the carriage.
“Papers, please,” the sergeant in command ordered the
Lead Stroker, who produced forged documents.
A young soldier with crisp, intelligent eyes opened the
carriage door on Nizzle’s side.
“Your papers?”
Nizzle took a set of folded sheets from inside his breast
pocket. “All three are here, along with the burial permit.”
The soldier examined the documents. “And you are Louis
Castaigne, traveling from Ooz?”
“Yes,” Nizzle replied. “My brother spent much time in
Nianar as a boy. He always wanted to be buried in the
Quavering.”
The soldier eyed him carefully. “Is that where he usually
stayed?”
“No, in Lowlight District, but they visited the Quavering
often.”
“With which family did he stay?”
“The Barrie household.”
“I grew up in Lowlight,” the soldier said. “I don’t recall
this family.”
“He died without heir many years ago. He would have
been old when you were a boy.”
“Your face looks familiar,” the sentry said to the contessa.
“Have we met before?”
“I do not think so, sir.”
“Perhaps if you would lift the veil,” the sol
dier suggested.
“That will be enough, Private,” a voice commanded from
the opposite side of the carriage. Nizzle turned to see the
sergeant, his hand protectively covering Cecilia’s where it lay
on the coach rail. The girl had tears in her eyes. “The Barrie
name is an old and respected one, though your generation has
forgotten it. We will let these people pass.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier replied, handing the count back his
papers and stepping away from the hearse.
The sergeant, still patting the girl’s hand, gave her a sad
smile. “I am sorry for the inconvenience. And I am sorry about
your father.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cecilia said, her voice a gasp.
“You are very kind,” Angelina said, touching the
sergeant’s hand with her gloved fingers.
The doors to Nianar opened; the coach passed in.
Once they were out of earshot, Nizzle gave an exhalation
of relief. “As usual, the doctor was right. That man recognized
you. Only the girl saved us. An excellent performance, young
lady. The tears looked real.”
Cecilia wiped her cheeks. “I was being pinched.”
The contessa smiled sweetly, dabbing away her own tears,
which were entirely feigned. “I will buy you some sweets to
make up for my necessary cruelty.”
Nianar is a country of cupboards and wardrobes, with
Rococo carvings, vast arcades, and pleasant fauns grinning
down from the ceilings. It is ruled by its prince, acting under
the direction of a democratic body called the Lion Council.
Heit Nizzle unfolded a map from his pocket and studied it.
Leaning from the carriage, he called directions to the Lead
Stroker. They soon turned away from the main halls, moving
toward narrower passages. Finally, when the carriage could go
no farther, Nizzle ordered it abandoned.
The men unloaded the casket. Nizzle led down carpeted
halls, followed by the pallbearers, with Cecilia and the
contessa behind. They were soon met by an old man bearing
workman’s clothes and a pick-axe.
“Mr. Castaigne?” he asked.
“You must be Mr. Rebeck,” Nizzle said.
“Just so. Have you the proper papers from the Legatees of
Deucalion?”
This was the password, created by Armilus, to ensure the
men’s identities. Nizzle replied with the proper form, “Quite
legal, attested by no less than Doctor Coppinger himself.”
The two shook hands.
“So sorry to hear of your loss,” Rebeck said, smiling.
Nizzle, remaining in character, gave a stiff nod of his head.
“Yes, well, he journeys to a better place.”
The caretaker led the party down a side-corridor to a stone
door scarcely wide enough to accommodate the casket.
Passing through the portal, the company found itself facing a
sprawling cemetery in an outdoor quadrangle two miles
square. Evenmere rose four stories high on every side, gray-
brick walls without windows or balconies. Tall rowans, lonely
sentinels, shaded the gravestones. The sun shone gold from a
cloudless sky. A raven pecked its way along the grass.
“This way, please,” Mr. Rebeck said. “No other interments
are scheduled for today. You won’t be disturbed.”
A mausoleum stood in the center of the grounds, splotches
of moss greening its white stone. A grave lay open beside it.
Rebeck led the mourners into it. Before they had even crossed
the threshold, he had lit a lantern. Shutting the door behind
them, he led to the back of the structure, where he twisted a
stone angel, causing a section of the wall to open outward,
revealing a descending stairway.
More lanterns were lit and the company passed down the
stair. Rebeck, still standing in the mausoleum, called down to
them.
“I’ll keep watch from the cemetery grounds. Send word if I
can be of assistance.”
Nizzle offered no reply. The anarchists passed down
several flights. Carved gargoyles and gibbelins stared at them
from the newel posts. They reached a corridor at the bottom of
the steps. The air smelled of the dusty dead; mold blackened
the plaster walls. The contessa drew close to Nizzle’s side.
“How does Lord Anderson bear traveling through such
dank passages?” she asked, her nose curled in disgust. “If I
were he, I would have the walls painted and decorated,
adorned with bronze sculptures by Boris Yvain and oils by
Vielle. One could always dispose of the workers afterward to
maintain secrecy. Perhaps I would spare the decorator. Losing
one is always a disaster.”
“Such a statement is hardly a proper attitude for a member
of the Brotherhood,” Nizzle replied. “It discourages loyalty.”
She smiled sweetly. “It was but a jest, from a member of
the Brother and Sisterhood. How did you learn of the hidden
door?”
“Armilus, of course.”
“From the book he stole? I would like to have a glimpse of
it; wouldn’t you?”
Nizzle did not reply, having no wish to admit what the
contessa, who never asked an innocent question, really wanted
to know: how far the doctor had trusted him with the
information in The Book of Lore .
They wound through the passage, bearing their burden,
until they reached an empty room with a yellow door at its far
end.
“Contessa, you and Cecilia will remain here until we
return,” Nizzle ordered.
“The girl should stay, of course,” Angelina replied, “but I
must come.”
“It is dangerous and no place for a woman.”
“Doctor Armilus didn’t think so, or he wouldn’t have sent
me.”
“Doctor Armilus sent you only because he required a
widow in mourning.”
“My instructions are otherwise.” Her eyes were all
innocence.
Nizzle sighed. The contessa was undoubtedly lying, yet he
had no way to confirm that until he spoke with the doctor
again. If she were telling the truth, and he denied her, he
would be lowered in Armilus’ esteem, while the contessa
would be raised; if she were practicing deceit, the doctor
would admire her assertiveness. As she had doubtless
reasoned, it would be better for him not to mention the
incident at all.
“Each of us must follow orders,” he said smoothly. “After
you, my lady.”
He let the rest of the company proceed him through the
yellow door, then turned back to the girl. Taking her by the
hand, he gave her his pocket watch, saying gently, “You will
wait here until six o’clock this evening. If by that time we
haven’t returned, we are probably dead. You shall go back to
the cemetery and present yourself to Mr. Rebeck. He will see
you are fed and escorted home. Repeat back what I just said.”
When Cecilia had complied, Nizzle gave her an
encouraging smile and turned to follow the others, leaving her
alone with his watch and a lantern. He found his followe
rs
clustered together on a high balcony. Along one wall, narrow
stone steps lined with cracks led downward into absolute
darkness.
“Where are we?” the contessa asked, her voice a whisper.
“The Great Understair,” Nizzle replied, just as softly.
“Ratcliffe, you are the point scout, followed by those carrying
the casket. The rest in single file behind it. Keep sharp; keep
quiet. Try not to disturb anything. We are several hundred feet
in the air; if you go over the side you will not survive. When
we reach the bottom, touch nothing without my permission.”
The anarchists eyed the black void to their right, their faces
pale. Nizzle took some satisfaction in seeing a momentary hint
of fear in the contessa’s glance.
“There is still time to turn back, my lady,” he said,
adopting an attitude of concern. “Your dress will make the
going more dangerous.”
She mastered herself instantly, with a coolness he could
not help but admire and despise. “Women are used to the
difficulties of our apparel. It gives us the poise men lack.
Perhaps you would walk to my right, to lend an arm?”
He glanced at the open gulf and gave an innocent smile,
thinking how simple it would be to ease a man over the edge.
“Perhaps not.”
“Then let me take the rear, so someone heavier than I
won’t stumble and drag me down.”
“Very good.” Nizzle stepped forward, taking a position
behind the casket.
Ratcliffe moved forward, lantern held high. With the need
to maintain appearances gone, only four anarchists carried the
casket, the two men to the outside forced to walk perilously
close to the edge.
The descent made Nizzle’s calves ache; the time passed
dreadfully slow. He wished he had not given his watch to the
girl.
When they finally reached the bottom, they found
themselves in a long corridor ending at a single blue door. As
they approached, the door rattled, as if buffeted by strong
winds. Standing before it, Heit Nizzle spoke a peculiar phrase,
given him by Armilus from The Book of Lore .
“That should remove the ward of protection surrounding
it,” the count said. “But be certain, on peril of your life, not to
touch the knob.”
The count motioned to his followers, and Mr. Ratcliffe
lifted the coffin lid and retrieved quantities of dynamite from
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 18
