Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3)

by Stoddard, James

  within. At Nizzle’s command, the anarchists, mouse-careful,

  placed the explosives along the door hinges and withdrew,

  trailing a long fuse behind them. The fuse was lit; it burned

  hissing down the corridor. The contessa placed dainty fingers

  in her ears.

  The explosion rocked the walls. When the smoke cleared,

  the door swung wide on the surviving bottom hinge.

  “Hurry along,” Nizzle ordered.

  They stepped onto an open plain, a chamber of vast

  proportions beneath a gargantuan brass dome, lit by an

  overhead light as bright as the sun. It took time for their eyes

  to adjust to the sheer sweep of the countryside, which

  stretched mile upon mile before them.

  “Where are we?” the contessa asked. “Why is it so dis-

  orienting?”

  “Normally, because of the curvature of the earth, the

  horizon is only about three miles away,” Nizzle explained.

  “We are seeing much farther now. This is the Quadrangle of

  Angles, the foundation of Evenmere’s existence. The three

  dimensions of our universe emanate from the Cornerstone of

  the house, and are made manifest in the Quadrangle. Be

  careful as you walk. Distances can fluctuate and we need to

  stay together.”

  Despite his own warning, the count gasped as took a single

  step, for he seemed to travel miles. Glancing back, he spied his

  followers behind him on the distant horizon. One by one they

  moved forward, their legs stretching toward Nizzle, the

  bottoms of their boots appearing unnaturally large. Then they

  were beside him, gaping in astonishment. Only the contessa

  laughed when she reached him.

  “You find this amusing?” Nizzle asked.

  “I find it an adventure, but dislike having my figure thrown

  out of proportion. Where are we going?”

  “To find a bit of space. Together now, let us take a step

  forward.”

  Thus they made their way through the strange country, one

  step at a time, all trying to aim the same direction. Even so,

  they sometimes found themselves miles apart, and had to be

  constantly regrouping.

  Abruptly the effect ceased and their strides became more

  uniform, so that every step covered about a mile, making the

  landscape steadily rise before them.

  “We have passed through the Wavering Zone,” Nizzle said.

  “Be alert.”

  Beneath the bronze arch of the sky, they walked through

  green fields with clusters of grapes tall as a man, and trees

  small as a finger or so gigantic their height was lost in the sky.

  Nothing was proportionally correct. At any moment, they

  might find what they had thought a mountain to be an ant-hill,

  or a hillock a towering peak. Nizzle’s head began to ache.

  From a muddy pool, an enormous figure rose before them,

  an animal so dark that at first Nizzle thought it the Black Beast

  that accompanied Doctor Armilus. Yet, this was not the

  darkness of form, but the blackness of the Void. Within that

  emptiness glowed oceans of distant stars. A pair of red suns

  formed the creature’s eyes. Its lion’s body, ebony and

  wavering stars, stretched long and lean across the fields to the

  horizon.

  “What have we here?” the creature said, its eyes glittering

  down upon them, its voice distinctly female.

  “We have come to bargain for a bit of space.” Nizzle said.

  “I hope you brought a good container,” the creature said.

  “A box of iron,” Nizzle replied, “lined with equations,

  incantations, and feathers from phoenix wings.”

  “Speaking of boxing.” The Empty Beast gave a careless

  flip of her paw, sending seven of the anarchists sprawling. The

  blow missed the contessa, while Nizzle, a fencing master,

  ducked gracefully beneath it.

  The Empty Beast pounced on one of the anarchists,

  holding the shrieking fellow between her claws. She opened

  her mouth, revealing black fangs silhouetted against pulsing

  quasars.

  “I have a moment of time!” Nizzle shouted, waving a vial

  taken from his pocket.

  The Empty Beast paused. “Hmm? Say what?”

  “If you will put my colleague down, I said I have a vial of

  time.”

  “Time, you said? I like time. I like to run my paws through

  it. I like to feel its softness against my skin. You have the time,

  you say? I have the place. A little time, a little space, there’s so

  much I can do, so much I can create, given time. Could you,

  perhaps, spare me some time, then?” The creature’s voice

  exuded feline eagerness.

  “It is possible we might reach some arrangement.”

  “Where did you find the time?” the Empty Beast asked.

  “It was taken from the Eternity Clock.”

  The Empty Beast released her victim. “There aren’t many

  seconds left, that you should siphon one off. It’s difficult for

  space to spread without time, and my existence depends upon

  it.”

  “We took only a single second.”

  “Only one?” she said. “One time is never enough. I wish I

  had all the time in the world.”

  “I cannot promise you that,” Nizzle said smoothly, “but if

  you help us find a bit of space, a morsel of dimension, you can

  have half the time.”

  “Only half? I prefer the full time.”

  “Alas, that is impossible. I only brought half. The rest of

  the time was needed for other things. Part time or nothing.”

  She gave a kitten snarl. “Very well, I will help you, but it

  will be dangerous. I can’t protect you from everything. Come

  along.”

  They followed the Empty Beast, mile by mile, across the

  Quadrangle of Angles.

  “Now what sort of space are you looking for?” the creature

  purred. “There are many different kinds, more dimensions than

  you can imagine. Some say there are eleven, some twenty-

  seven, and some say millions. Others claim there are but three,

  not counting time, of course, which is the sauce on the soufflé.

  We are always short of time, but have every dimension here,

  the Baron of Angles not scrupling to forebear working with

  imaginary numbers.”

  “Three will be sufficient,” Nizzle said.

  “I know just the thing.”

  She led them to a city, sometimes towering, sometimes

  quite small, made of inches and cubits and meters and miles,

  flaring here and there into grand dimensions. They had some

  trouble passing through the gate, which sometimes became too

  narrow, but at last they walked the streets. Fine grains of gray

  dust covered the avenues.

  “You can pick up a bit of space here,” the Empty Beast

  said.

  “Where?” asked the contessa.

  “See the dust? That’s the three-dimensional material. It’s

  so common, it’s left lying around.”

  At Nizzle’s order, Ratcliffe produced the iron box, which

  was small enough to fit into a man’s hand. Nizzle opened the

  lid and withdrew a silver spoon.

  “My time first, if yo
u please,” the Empty Beast said.

  Nizzle removed a vial from his pocket, and spilled its

  contents onto a pocket handkerchief. The musky odor of time

  rose into the air. “Take your time.”

  The Empty Beast clutched the handkerchief between her

  paws, purred in pleasure, and rolled over on her back, the cloth

  draped over her nose, her eyes an ecstatic blue.

  “I can do so much with this,” she said.

  Nizzle knelt in the street and shoveled a few grains of

  Dimension into the iron box. Instantly, a loud cry filled the

  land. Shadowy forms wheeled overhead.

  “You may want to run,” the Empty Beast purred.

  “We had an agreement,” Nizzle cried.

  “I let you in,” the creature said, “but the Baron of Angles

  will punish to the full measure any who attempt to remove a

  single grain of dimension. He is coming now, and you do not

  want to meet him.”

  “Back to the door!” Nizzle shouted. Clutching the box, he

  sped away, not waiting for his minions.

  The city gate loomed before them. Nizzle increased his

  pace. As he crossed the threshold, he glanced back. To his

  surprise, the contessa was right behind him, sprinting like an

  athlete. All his followers, except for one, passed through the

  portal, but the gate shrank as the last reached it, and he struck

  his head against the lintel and tumbled to the ground. Before

  he could revive, a shadow from above covered him.

  Nizzle ducked low and ran faster, the man’s screams

  echoing at his back. Another shadow passed over his own

  form. Daring an upward glance he saw a creature like a great

  bat flapping above him, its talons extended. He drew his pistol

  and fired. The monster gave an grating scream and crashed to

  the ground.

  Ratcliffe, being younger and stronger, passed Nizzle, but

  was snatched up and carried into the sky.

  Somewhere to Nizzle’s left a distant gong sounded, and a

  face in a far mountain range turned to glare with accusing

  eyes. It lifted itself up, the boulders forming a body and limbs,

  the Baron of Angles coming to protect his kingdom. Clouds

  roiled overhead; shafts of lightning split the sky.

  They reached the Wavering Zone. Because of the varying

  distances brought by every footfall, Nizzle lost track of his

  fellows. Fortunately, being able to surmount miles at a time

  worked to his advantage. He saw the door ahead, framed

  within a dark blue wall, and had nearly reached it when

  another shadow crossed his own. Sharp talons tore at his back;

  he fell face-first to the earth, attempted to rise, and was

  knocked down again.

  A shot rang out; an animal shriek came from above. He

  looked up to see one of the bats spiraling away, blood coursing

  from its head. As he bounded to his feet, he saw the contessa

  standing at the doorway, a small pistol drawn.

  He glanced back once more. The Baron was almost upon

  him, a gray form towering into the sky, his hand reaching

  down, mile after mile, seeking the iron box.

  Nizzle ran. When he was still several feet away, the

  shadow of giant fingers darkened the sky above him. He leapt,

  stretching his form almost vertical, and crashed over the

  threshold.

  Without stopping, he rolled to his feet and sped after the

  contessa, who had already begun her retreat. He caught up

  with her, and together they rushed along the corridor and up

  the stairs, not pausing until they stood once more in the room

  occupied by young Cecilia. They leaned against the walls,

  breathless, their sides aching.

  “I said … it … would be dangerous,” Nizzle panted.

  “But you didn’t say … it would be … undignified,” the

  contessa replied. She laughed, her eyes brimming with

  excitement.

  Though they waited over an hour, none of the anarchists

  who had accompanied them appeared. Only later, when they

  were once more traveling through the corridors of Nianar, did

  Nizzle ask Angelina du Maurier why she had fired the shots to

  save his life.

  “Why, Heit Nizzle, you surprise me. Are we not comrades,

  all serving the Great Cause?”

  He grimaced, suspecting it had more to do with the fact

  that he had been carrying the iron box.

  “I wonder,” she said, almost to herself, “what it would be

  like to be the wife of the Baron of Angles?”

  Twilight descended in North Lowing, the sunlight

  abandoning the ceiling shafts one by one, turning the rooms to

  gray, sending the birds to their roosts.

  Carter and Storyteller had left The Desolation behind

  several hours before, and now approached a granite wall at the

  end of the chamber. The Dally bridge, also of stone, straddled

  the Fable where three branchings passed from the wall through

  a trio of archways, the river a rushing tumble where the waters

  conjoined. A single lamp burned on this side of the bridge.

  “Do you see anyone?” Carter asked, peering through the

  gloom. “There should be a company of the White Circle

  Guard. The Dally is strategically important. Armies passing

  from Loft have to come this way, and any Poetry Men

  journeying east might cross here.”

  “There is only one person on the bridge,” Jonathan said.

  “Someone with a good heart.”

  “I can’t make anyone out. You must have excellent

  vision.”

  “I do not see with my eyes, Master Anderson. I feel her.”

  “Her?”

  True enough, when they had drawn closer, Carter sighted

  the slender figure of a woman. The post-lamps at the bridge’s

  corners were unlit, but a lantern hung from a rail-post beside

  her, making her golden hair glisten.

  “Lizbeth?” Carter called. “Is that you?”

  The woman seized the lantern and hurried to hug Carter’s

  neck. “I have waited half the evening!” she said. “When I saw

  two where I expected only one, I wasn’t sure it was you. I

  wanted to hide, but there was no place.”

  “What are you doing out here alone? You should have an

  escort. This is unsupportable!”

  “Terrible things have happened in the last two days,” she

  replied. “I will tell you as we go. Who is this dark fellow?”

  “Jonathan T. Bartholomew, at your service.” The minstrel

  bowed low, dignified despite his tattered garb.

  “Are you a trustworthy person?” she asked.

  “Oh yes, lady,” Jonathan replied, grinning in delight.

  “You must forgive her,” Carter said. “This is my brother’s

  wife, Lizbeth. She can be quite direct.”

  Lizbeth’s blush was visible even in the lamplight. “Have I

  offended? I am sorry. I spent my childhood imprisoned by the

  anarchists. Etiquette sometimes escapes me.”

  “No, no,” Jonathan said. “Your question shows a woman

  without even a glimmer of guile. It is charming.”

  “Not always,” Lizbeth replied.

  They crossed the bridge, their steps resounding on the

  stones, the stream singing in the dimness b
elow. Carter

  glanced at his sister-in-law. She was more beautiful than ever:

  high cheekbones, a pert nose, eyes of the palest blue. The

  years of living with Duskin had been good for her, and in

  many ways she had adapted to her new life. Yet her expression

  remained haunted by her years of imprisonment. Adjusting to

  the role of a consul’s wife had been difficult for her. Sarah had

  taught her much, and Duskin had been patient, but there would

  always be a uniqueness about Lizbeth that was both her curse

  and charm.

  “Tell me what has happened,” Carter said. “Is Duskin

  well?”

  “I don’t know. I am frightened for him. We heard reports

  of the Poetry Men over a month ago, but did not realize how

  dangerous they were. When Marshal Inkling followed your

  orders and sent a battalion of the North Lowing Guard to

  protect the Tower of Astronomy, Duskin went with them. You

  know how he hates to miss out on that sort of excitement. But

  a company holding Lookfar Passage was wiped out this

  morning by uncanny energies. We had word you were

  traveling this way, and there was no one I trusted to send, so I

  came to await your arrival.”

  “Does Duskin know where you are?”

  “No one does. I thought if I told anyone they would try to

  stop me.”

  “Oh, Lizbeth,” Carter groaned. “The whole household

  must be in an uproar. If Duskin knew he would be furious.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Would he? I thought it the most

  expeditious course.”

  Carter had momentarily forgotten how volatile his sister-

  in-law could be. To stave off an outburst, he forced a smile and

  laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It was very brave,

  and the news is vital. I’m glad you came, but you must learn to

  trust those around you. There were plenty of men who could

  have met us with the message.”

  Her brow furrowed. “I will try to remember. Sometimes it

  is easier to do what must be done than to leave it to others.”

  Carter consulted his inner maps. A force planning to attack

  the Astronomy Tower might well come through Lookfar

  Passage. If that were the case, he needed to get to the tower

  before them, though he would have preferred to escort Lizbeth

  back to the safety of Lowing Hall first.

  They passed over the bridge and through an arched

  passage, leaving the canyons of North Lowing behind for gray

  stone corridors with carved gargoyles and dog-faced ghouls