The High House (38 page)

“This will be difficult,” he whispered. “The Curvings continue a floor above us and several corridors away. I don’t know what’s out there and we dare not use the lamp, but I think I can lead us even without light. Remember, we mustn’t be seen.”

Duskin nodded. Carter twisted the knob and the panel slid soundlessly to the side. Once in the passage, he fumbled several moments before locating the closing mechanism, a small knob at the bottom of the baseboard. Though blind, he knew they should be standing in a corridor with passages leading to either side and straight ahead, and that the next branch of the Curvings could be reached either by going forward or to the right. After some mental calculation, he took the right-hand way, a slightly shorter route.

Carter felt Duskin grasp the soft-leather edge of his Tawny Mantle for guidance. Though he had a clear mental map of the corridors, he did not know the furniture, and immediately banged his knee against a low table. He stifled a grunt of pain, and determined to stay arm’s length from the right wall, his fingers barely touching.

Thankfully, the corridor was carpeted, cushioning their footfalls. A breeze drifted from somewhere, smelling of roses and sweet showers. Within the Curvings they had been isolated from the noise of the storm, here they heard rolling thunder, the patter of rain, the water rilling down the eaves. He proceeded slowly, longing for silence, listening for voices, hoping he was not leading them into the hands of the anarchists. He knew the passage was long, with no doorways to either side, but it was difficult to estimate how far they had come. He counted his steps as he went.

It took over an hour to cross the corridor—the noise of the storm, the settling of the house, gave a hundred separate noises to spur his imagination, so that he paused often, straining to hear—and at its end he thought he detected soft, scraping sounds. He froze, certain it was simply a fancy, this low gurgling, but the longer he waited the more he believed it to be the soft buzzing of human voices, made unintelligible by the rain. He chanced another step forward.

Men were murmuring in the darkness, lurking in the absolute ebony. They could only be anarchists. Gradually, bitterly dismayed, with Duskin following, he retreated, recounting the steps, feeling his way, moving more swiftly. They returned to the intersection much sooner than he expected, and turned to follow the alternate path. If there were sentries down this corridor as well, he vowed to slip past them.

Again he kept to the right-hand way, arm’s length from the wall, counting the steps once more. This corridor was shorter, but he paused often to listen, made wary by the presence of the enemy. Eventually, they reached a turn to the right, and there they stayed a great while, attending every noise, straining to hear past the rhythm of the storm. When nothing extraordinary occurred, they moved around the corner, and almost immediately Carter felt a slight pressure against his shins. He stooped, feeling with his fingers until he discovered a thin cord stretched across the hallway, obviously either an alarm system or a trap. He dared not even whisper for fear of warning any anarchists lurking nearby, but took Duskin’s hand with infinite care, and placed the back of it against the cord. Alerted, Duskin ran his hand along its surface, examining it.

With his brother aware, Carter stepped slowly over the line, one foot at a time. Less than ten inches from the first, his left leg touched another.

He had to dare a whisper in order to warn Duskin, speaking as softly as possible directly into his brother’s ear, saying, “There are more.” Then he stepped over the second line while Duskin straddled the first.

Again Carter’s leg touched a cord, again he warned Duskin, this time by tapping his three fingers, one at a time, against his sibling’s hand. He stepped over the third.

When he discovered a fourth, he could have wept, imagining a corridor filled with trip strings, and anarchists at every side. He controlled his fear and helplessness with an effort , informed Duskin of the new danger, and stepped carefully over.

He moved forward by inches, feeling for another line, but found none. Duskin crossed the fourth cord.

Carter felt no relief; there might be many such snares before them. Slowly, deliberately, he groped his way, mentally ticking off each second. It was difficult to concentrate with nothing to see; bursts of color, deep emerald and crimson, flashed before him, hallucinations from eyes starved for light.

They met no more alarms, but an hour passed before they reached another intersection, where they turned back to the left. Only then did Carter feel any relief. Beyond doubt, they had passed within a few feet of one or more sentries, but only a short corridor lay between them and the stair leading to the secret panel that would bring them back to the Curvings. Once inside, they would be safe. With his newfound powers he also sensed two secret panels within that corridor.

As they felt their way down the passage, Carter perceived the secret doors to be along the right wall, though he could not be certain of their exact location. Yet, when they were past, he knew it, as if a heat that had been before him was now behind. He had sensed many such secret ways all along their journey, but had felt none so strong as those in this utter darkness.

They had gone nearly half the distance when a dim glow appeared before them, the light of a lantern, illuminating the floral prints and baseboards at the far end of the corridor, approaching from around the corner. They froze. Only a moment more, and they would stand revealed.

Carter thought desperately. He could not reach the stairs in time, but he might reach one of the secret doors. He turned quickly; by the dim light he saw the wall was paneled, with only two of the wainscots covered with carvings of bears, the nearest a few feet away. He strode to it quickly, with only an instant to locate the opening mechanism. A brazier hung on the wall nearby, and he grasped it, hoping he had chosen well, thinking the catch as likely to be hidden among the bears. But the brazier turned easily to the left, and the panel opened at once. He stepped in, Duskin behind him. An instant’s fumbling and the wainscot slid shut, leaving him staring out through a spy-hole.

The light had not fallen full upon the passage when the voices of the anarchists drifted to the companions’ ears.

“A lovely conundrum, strolling about with a lantern, hoping to catch skulkers, warning them of our approach at every turn. A marvelous plan for getting ourselves skewered.”

“Protestations are ineffectual,” the other replied. “You should have been in the Yellow Room Wars, back in ‘fifty-eight. I was at Dannershot when the tigers came; ghastly it was, all corridors and torches, and the big cats ambushing us from the dark. The Bobby wasn’t commander then; I don’t believe it would occur under his leadership. He is more circumspect.”

The full glow of the lantern lit the walls as the two anarchists passed before the spy-hole.

“Spare me the war stories. I only want to relieve the sentries so we can sit quietly in the darkness, where we won’t be targets.”

The footfalls continued down the corridor. The voices faded. When all trace of light had fled Carter opened the panel.

“Quick thinking,” Duskin whispered.

“The maps are so strong in me now, I seem to keep track of the secret ways even when I’m not thinking of them,” Carter replied. “But we better hurry; the sentries they are relieving will probably return this way.”

With the assurance that the corridor was deserted, they quickly found the steps, a narrow, servants’ stair. This, too, had to be traversed in darkness, and it protested their intrusion by creaking at every footfall. They covered two landings before reaching the top, where stood a full-length picture frame.

Carter discovered the secret stud behind its right side, and the latch clicked open as a light appeared at the far end of the corridor. But long before it revealed their position, they were back in the Curvings, the portal secured behind them.

Once down the way, they lit their lantern and settled wearily to the floor.

“That was a trial,” Duskin said.

“It was indeed,” Carter said. “Congratulations.”

“And to you.”

They suddenly broke into grins and shook hands. The meal was only dry biscuits and salted beef, but such was their relief that they ate it as if it were a victory banquet, and for a time Carter forgot the Room of Horrors. It strengthened them, and they followed the Curvings for another two hours, pausing occasionally to check the spy-holes. The anarchists seemed to be everywhere.

Eventually, they reached a series of landings leading down to an empty room, with fireplace brick leading up one wall. Carter quickly located a spy-hole, and finding their way unhindered, pulled a long lever on the floor. The fireplace swung inward, opening into the gray mist of the Long Corridor.

They came out from behind one of the mantels scattered all down the passage, and the entryway rolled silently back into place at the turning of a marble bust of a peculiarly coiffured noble identified by a placard as
Athammaus, Chief Headsman of Commoriom.

As ever was the way in that part of the Long Corridor, the mist, like fluffy clouds, obscured the source of illumination, which drifted down from the ceiling, and the gray walls and the gray carpet cast a gray silence all along the passage, leaving the men’s voices subdued, as if they stood by a bog.

“We go to the left,” Carter said. “We must make haste, lest we be seen.”

They followed the gentle curve of the passage, Duskin gripping his revolver, Carter with his hand on his Lightning Sword. Less than two hundred yards down the path they heard voices approaching before them. They exchanged glances, then retreated to a portal they had noticed earlier. No sooner had they found concealment than a pair of merchants strolled by, pushing a heavy cart before them, gossiping happily on the news of the house. Once the sounds of the cart wheels faded from earshot, the brothers returned to the corridor.

“At least they weren’t anarchists,” Duskin said.

“Quite right, but I don’t want to be seen by anyone. Who knows who may be in their service?”

They traveled the rest of the passage without incident, for they had to go only a few hundred yards before exiting through a doorway leading to a white stair, which they ascended into a hallway with a marvelous portrait of the winning of the lovely Zehowah by the genii, Khaled. This proved to be the entrance to another secret way, and Carter found the mechanism easily.

This passage, lit by opaque skylights, was wider and more cheerful than many of the hidden halls, but Carter looked upon it with trepidation, for it meant he was nearing the Room of Horrors. Besides his fear of the room itself, he knew the stairway leading to it would be guarded, and he could not conceive how they might pass. He intended to part company with Duskin before then, and that saddened him as well.

They journeyed an hour along the corridor before twilight paled the walls. Carter called an early halt, too weary, too apprehensive to go on; they ate in silence as night descended, and did not bother to light the lamp, but lay down immediately. Despite his fatigue, Carter slept fitfully once more, unmentionable dreams dancing across the borders of his slumber. The night lasted a lifetime, and they rose when the morning sun drifted through the skylights, disclosing dust motes spinning like remote galaxies. Breakfast was a morose affair; Carter’s bleak mood had subdued them both, and they departed at once.

Within half an hour they found an exit that brought them into a series of rooms, all painted drab-brown, with malachite green curtains, threadbare carpets, and an odd assortment of pummeled furniture. Cigars in the ashtrays and half-empty whiskey glasses showed signs of occupancy.

“Is this the lair of the anarchists?” Duskin asked softly. “I would have expected otherwise; laboratories for making bombs, posters, slogans and such. These rooms could belong to a Gentlemen’s Society.”

“They are far beyond guns and bombs,” Carter said, “though they can use them well enough. Evil is no less so for appearing civilized. We must move swiftly.”

They passed through a drawing room, a small library, and into a hall, where they made their way forward by concealing themselves behind a series of flying buttresses. Once, as they peered out, they saw an anarchist pass between two doors far down the corridor. When he did not return, they went on, until they came to a white door with a brass knob. Carter opened it gently, his hand at his sword. He heard the murmur of voices, though he saw no one.

His heart pounded as he led Duskin into a foyer, with doors standing ajar to the right and left and a stair leading upward straight before them, the voices ushering from behind the left door. They did not investigate, but climbed the stair, taking the steps two at a time, but softly. The gentle creak of the floorboards sounded to their ears loud as sawed lumber; Carter’s hands, slick with sweat, slipped on the banister.

The stairs extended to the floor above, where a gallery spread before them permeated with every manner of debris. They had no time to contemplate it, for no sooner had they rounded the banister when a voice called up: “Hello! Is anyone there?”

Numerous alcoves pocked the gallery, and they slipped quickly into the shadows of the nearest, even as the stairs groaned beneath a heavy tread. They stood pressed against the wall, their hands to their weapons, scarcely daring to breathe. It was hard to judge, but Carter thought the man had stopped halfway up the steps, and was looking between the rails. Finally, after what seemed a long age, they heard a sigh and receding footfalls.

They crept out. The stair was empty. They regarded the gallery, stacked high with books and old newspapers, boxes and trunks, machinery and chemicals, all covered with layers of dust from countless decades. A banister ran along the inside edge of the gallery, and by peering over a pile of vile forbidden volumes: the
Necronomicon
,
The King in Yellow
, the
Book of Eibon
, even the dreaded
Krankenhammer
, Carter saw three more floors below, each with its own gallery. A massive mosaic skylight provided light, depicting a skeletal, black-robed figure, his face hidden in shadows, holding in his hands a scroll with the words
Mundus vult decipi
emblazoned upon it, an inscription indicating the world wishes to be deceived. Despite the sunshine streaming through it, it was a grim portrait, all ashes and death.