The High House (25 page)

“I wish I had been there, instead of waiting for my leg to heal,” Carter said. “There’s proof this is a dream, by the way; my injury hasn’t bothered me during all this time. I should have realized it earlier. What happened next?”

“Once the anarchists were driven back, and our position reinforced, Glis led his men through the secret panel, following your path, and set about clearing the way to the Towers. He’s a brave man. But there is little you could have done if you had been there. Bringing Enoch was more important.”

They came to a door opening onto a wide banister, with balustrades on either side, carved with the slivered figure of the man in the moon, his nightcap on, looking out over the top steps. This was the beginning of the Long Stair, and it descended like a train tunnel, sporadically lit by lamps like porter’s lanterns trailing into the darkness. On the ceiling above the landing stretched a grand, stained-glass portrait of an angel, brother to the one in the room of the Book of Forgotten Things, though much larger. His hair was fire, his eyes night; his sword gleamed golden as he sat, hand on hilt, his gaze sweeping down the steps. And if he were the guardian of that way, Carter wondered that any evil dared pass.

“Quite splendid,” Hope muttered as they stumbled downward, craning their necks to see it.

They spent many hours descending, allowing themselves no rest or stops for food, for if they were truly dreaming, why would they require either? But their feet grew sore nonetheless, their legs and backs ached, and their stomachs began to grumble. After a time they grudgingly drew dried beef from Carter’s pack.

“This really isn’t a dream as we know one,” Hope said. “In a dream one can be frightened, and even have a similitude of running, but not this sort of weariness. And the detail is that of life.”

“It’s like another state of being, as if we have entered another dimension.”

“Perhaps we have. That might explain why the Bobby can’t control all of it; it takes on a life of its own.”

After nearly six hours, footsore and aching, they acquiesced to their situation and sat on the steps for a brief respite. As they ate dried fruit washed down with water, they noticed a peculiar smokiness to the ceiling not far before them, as if a low fog hung there.

“What do you think it is?” Carter asked.

Hope opened his mouth to reply, but the sound never came out. To Carter’s shock, the attorney grew transparent and vanished, a look of astonishment on his face. For an instant, through his weariness and loss, he could not think what had happened. Then he realized Mr. Hope had awakened. He pulled himself to his feet, feeling lonely and a little betrayed. There was no one to help him now.

He marched on, and reached the mysterious mist sooner than he expected, for it traveled toward him, and was soon passing above his head, billowing like a dark cloak, spectral in the lamplight. It became more dense, until it resembled storm clouds in summer. Wind tugged at his collar.

A fat drop of water struck his nose, harbinger to a heavy curtain of rain. He was soaked in seconds, and the wind rose to a hollow howl. Beneath the pelting deluge he stumbled like a sailor on a pitching ship, clutching the banister for support. He buried his face in his sleeve to avoid breathing water. His lantern went out, plunging the stair into darkness.

Water from above rolled down the steps in waves. He took several nasty spills, and was nearly swept away before he realized he could not continue. He pulled a bit of rope from his pack and tied himself to a railing to weather the tempest.

Whether he was there for minutes or hours, he could not tell, but he began to believe he would drown. The water ran in a stream down the stair, roiling around his thighs, and Carter expected it to inundate the entire stairwell. He could see absolutely nothing, hear only the rushing of the water; he remembered nearly drowning in the well as a boy, and fear gripped his heart. It appeared his enemies could do anything, command any force, yet he knew this to be untrue, else they would have simply killed him, or materialized on the stair and taken him captive.

Between shivering and struggling for breath, he found the courage to consider his encounters with both Chaos and Order. Each had sought to persuade him to join their side. Had Order wished, she could have killed him while he was in her chambers. Yet, she had not. Likewise, Chaos had been unable to access the secret panel to reach him. But the monster had known it was there, and the mechanism was simple. Had its pounding on the walls been only a display? If so, then Chaos and Order either did not wish to slay him, or were prevented. If the former, it was because they desired rather to use him; if the latter, then who or what restrained them? He was not the Master of the house, but he did hold some of the Words of Power. Did that somehow thwart their harming him?

He breathed a nose full of water and fell coughing against the banister.

The Bobby had certainly killed Brittle in the dream world; Carter believed he could have killed him as well. But the Bobby was surely answerable to different natural laws than those controlling Chaos and Order.

Who caused the storm, Chaos, Order, or the anarchists? Carter doubted it was the Bobby; in the library the anarchists had attacked directly. And this was not an orderly attack; Lady Order would have nothing to do with anything so untidy. It was Chaos that had threatened him; the Old Man was causing the deluge. If that was true, and if his assumption about their inability to slay him was also correct, this storm was but a diversion, meant to keep him on the stair until the anarchists came. With an aching heart he realized the storm might never end, that Chaos could hold him here indefinitely. He chided himself for not thinking of it sooner, but quickly realized it was because he was used to natural, not dream, terms; in the real world a storm eventually ceased.

After some thought he untied himself and began making his way downward once more, clutching the banister with all his strength. A barrage of water knocked him from his feet almost immediately, and he tumbled hard. For what seemed an eternity, he was beneath the waves, rolling down the stair. He panicked. This was the well once more, the water and the dark. He thrashed, pushed against the steps, slipped and fell again. Every bit of air was knocked from his lungs as he slammed against the banister, once, twice, then once more before he regained his grip and pulled himself above the surface.

Low sobs escaped him, the involuntary reaction to death. But as he came to himself, a new determination took him, a defiance of the forces and powers allied against him. Chaos could divert him, batter him, discomfort him, but it would not stop him. A low laugh crept from between his pallid lips.

He descended again, less fearful, and when he was washed from his feet once more, he rode the stream. Nonetheless, it was terrifying in the dark, unseeing, roaring down the waterfall, his back and head striking the stair, gasping every moment for air.

After long, hard minutes, he struck a wall. The impact rattled his bones, and he dog-paddled furiously before he realized the flood was only waist-deep even at the bottom, instead of wholly submerged as it would have been in the real world. He thrashed about until he found the door, but it was locked.

He struggled back to the stair, and pushed his way to the left banister post. Without light, finding the mechanism to open the secret panel was difficult, but at last he turned the valve and entered a passage where the rain did not follow; neither did the water rush through the opening as would have been expected.

He fell on his knees, gasping, too cold to feel relief, too weary to continue, and if his enemies could have taken him then, he would have been helpless before them. He had lost his pack with all his gear, but he found a handful of dried fruit in his pocket, which he stuffed in his mouth. He might easily have fallen asleep where he sat, water dripping off him, but he forced himself to rise, knowing he was nearly to his goal.

There was still no light to guide him, but he knew this corridor ran straight. He followed the left wall and came quickly to the secret panel behind the painting in the upstairs hall. The mechanism stymied him for a time, until he fumbled long enough to release it. The painting opened with a creak, and he stepped into lighted halls.

As he saw all the old, familiar things, he had to remind himself this was not his true home, but only a semblance in dream; he would find no Chant, no Glis, no servants to help him. The chambers were empty.

Though he sorely wished it, he did not stop to change garments, but made his way downstairs toward the library.

Halfway down, he saw Old Man Chaos standing at the base of the stairs, one yellow eye fixed upon him. Carter’s fear lasted only an instant, replaced by hot wrath at being bearded in his home after fighting through so much. He drew his gun and fired at close range, but Chaos only laughed. “I have brought all my forces, all my furies!”

A Word sprang to Carter’s mind, the Word Which Gives Strength. He spoke it at once, not knowing what its effect might be.
Sedhattee!
The stair shook even as he felt power rush through his limbs. He leapt toward Chaos, intending to rend it with his bare hands, but the Word had an even greater impact on the monster; horror danced through its sallow eyes; it threw its arms before its face, and then was gone.

Carter rushed down the banister and dashed toward the library. He flung the doors open and gave a shout of fear. The room, which lay in twilight, was filled with creatures from nightmare—witches and goblins, trolls and dwarves, wielding axes and swords, uttering spells and incantations. A hag rushed toward him, seeking to drive him back, but he dove to the left, firing his pistol into those who crowded nearest. He was glad indeed for the Word Which Gives Strength after that, for only it, and his anger, gave him the might to thrust his way past the rotting skulls, the vampire jaws, the hands that clutched and clawed. Perhaps the fury of his charge surprised even these vile monsters, or perhaps they truly had no power over him, but he drove them back and reached the door to the study of the Book of Forgotten Things.

He hurried in, and bolted it behind him. Unlocking the cabinet, he opened the book without ceremony and went directly to page seven, while the horde hammered and yowled beyond the door.

Immediately, the flaming Words appeared on the page, all seven together. He read the last three carefully, forcing himself to allow time for them to burn themselves upon his memory. As he did so, a new awareness came upon him concerning the purpose and meaning of the Words, and he knew that so long as a single Word of Power lay within him, Chaos and Order would find it difficult to slay him in the world of reality, and impossible in the land of dream, for they were subject to the Words, and the Words had been made to give the Master the power to maintain the balance between Order and Chaos. And now, with all seven Words in his possession, it was he who was their master.

Three words at once was a terrible trial, and when he stood moments later, his knees felt liquid.

He put the book away with deliberate slowness, trying to absorb his new understanding. Then he focused his thoughts on the one he needed, opened the door quickly, and spoke it.

“Ghandwin!”
he cried, and the Word Which Masters Dreams shook the library.

Chaos was suddenly there, standing before its witches, its warlocks, all its minions, but its jaundiced eyes looked uneasy. Carter raised his hands. “No more,” he spoke softly, but his voice rang through the room. “Begone.”

“The red robe in the gray pool!” Chaos cried. “The golden sun on the yellow buds! You will never defeat us!”

But Carter saw he had defeated it, for its minions were melting behind it, like wax candles left too close to the hearth, turning to puddles, writhing and swaying as they went, even more ghastly in their death cries.

Smoke rose where the minions had stood. Chaos itself looked smaller, almost shriveled. Carter strode to it. “Understand,” he spoke with soft authority, “the Words of Power are mine. You will no longer toy with me in the dream world, for I can master it, and you within it. And you will no longer disturb me in the real world, for I can master you there, as well. Do not speak, but go from me, and do not return here again unless I give you leave.”

No emotion passed across Chaos’s face, though it turned and slipped out the library door. Its movements were not those of a defeated foe, but rather, as a river diverted from its course continues on its way, or a mountain, blasted and tunneled by explosives, yet stands unperturbed—passionless force, given passion by the wiles of the Bobby. Was it so with Lady Order as well?

Carter shivered, then reached within himself and commanded his own wakening.

* * *

He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a cot staring at the ceiling of the attic room he had been investigating before weariness drove him to slumber. He sat up quickly and fumbled for his watch; if this was the same day he first fell asleep, he had slumbered less than three hours, not three days, as it felt to him. He was no longer wet, or sore, or even weary; all his adventures in the dream world he recalled through a haze, yet he knew they had been real. He strode to the corner of the room and verified the existence of the spy-hole, though he did not use the secret passage; he searched his memory and discovered he knew all seven Words of Power as well, so that learning the three and utilizing the one in the land of dream had cost him nothing in exhaustion in the waking world.

He rose and entered the main hall, where he heard soft scratching noises. The source proved to be a distant door, and he soon recognized furtive, muffled voices and the scraping of metal as someone tested key after key against the lock. He concealed himself behind a corner in the center section of the attic, and followed a wall away from the door, hoping to circle back around to the other side and return to the Clock Tower.

Though he could no longer see the door, he eventually heard it flung open and the scuffling of boots upon the boards. He drew his pistol and hurried, silent as he could, across the creaking floor.