The High House (41 page)

Far below him, a dim blue glow rose from the bottom of the shaft. He gave a sob of despair. Even if he could reach it, how could he open the door without the water pouring in? The horror of the well, of drowning, closed in upon him. The sides seemed to lean over, as if they would shortly draw closed, smothering him. This was death and he was not prepared.

Yet he saw he would soon perish anyway, that eventually he would slip into the water and drown. And perhaps whoever placed the hidden passage at the bottom of the well had provided some ingenious method of escape.

He took several deep breaths. Each passing moment lessened his strength. With a prayer on his lips he plunged beneath the surface.

Immediately, he realized how little of his vitality remained, how slowly his arms moved. The blue square was far away. He tried to swim with steady strokes, rationing his power and his air, but by halfway, he knew he would never return to the surface alive; either he would reach the opening and pass through, or he would drown.

His desperation gave him new resolve. He saw nothing but the light. It occurred to him that he was doing the one thing he feared the most; the irony of it beat through him, imparting a sliver of courage. He redoubled his efforts.

He found himself suddenly before the opening, but to his surprise he saw no panel. The light seemed to form a transparent barrier, covering an otherwise open portal that was only a shallow bowl. And lying within were the Master Keys.

Instinctively, he reached toward them. He had no more air; the opening could offer no escape, but he would touch the keys before he died. He would triumph in his own defeat, and the anarchists would find him clutching the bronze ring even in death.

His hand slid through the blue light as if it were no obstacle at all. He grasped the Master Keys.

And suddenly the well was gone, and the water with it. Sweet oxygen filled his lungs. He was lying on wooden floorboards, his lamp and his Lightning Sword beside him, the body of the Bobby to his left. Fearing his enemy still lived, he fumbled for the sword, but then saw the staring, dead eyes. The faceless mask was departed, leaving the pale features of an ordinary man, the man the Bobby must once have been, before he donned the role of Supreme Anarchist.

Carter looked around. He was in the Room of Horrors, but it was empty, its terror gone. And in his hand he still clutched the Master Keys.

He stood slowly, his benumbed brain trying to comprehend what had occurred. His clothes were dripping; the well had been no illusion, or at least, no more than any of the fears within the room. Yet by passing through the fear, he had stripped it of its power over him. At that moment, he did not think he would dread the water or the darkness ever again.

As he stumbled toward the lance of light that was the door leading from the room, he heard footsteps clambering down the stair. He clutched his sword. Even in his exhaustion, his enemies would not take him without a struggle.

A crowd of men rushed through the door, bearing lanterns and rifles. Arm trembling with weakness, Carter raised his sword.

“Carter!” a voice called, and he saw it was Duskin, leading a company of men to his rescue.

“You’re alive,” Carter muttered gladly as he fell into his brother’s arms. For he discovered he could no longer stand.

The Angel

Carter was kept quite busy in the days following his struggle with the Bobby, for now that the Master Keys were finally back in his possession there were doors to unlock, which never should have been locked, and doors to lock that never should have been opened. The Green Door was secured once more and the doors into the cellars of Naleewuath were unbolted, where the gnawlings dwelt. And shortly after, another hunt was organized, and the men and tigers drove into the depths and put an end for a time to the ravening of the chameleon beasts.

The worst task of all was the closing of the Door of Endless Dark, and it took all of Carter’s strength of will to order the river of blackness back to its proper place, for even it would obey him now. For two days it flowed into the basement, and Carter neither ate nor slept during all that while, and Duskin, Hope, Chant, and Enoch all took turns keeping vigil with him, preventing him from succumbing to slumber, lest the dark tide reverse itself.

At last, the task was done, and he slammed the door shut with a mighty heave, and the noise of its closing rang throughout the great house, so the very foundations shook. Afterward, Carter slept for a day and a night, and that was the end of it.

So he was finally Master of the High House and there was no one to gainsay him, for old Murmur had been found dead within the Room of Horrors, lying stiff before a tall looking glass, her eyes wide in terror. Whatever fears the mirror had shown her it no longer reflected even ordinary light thereafter, but showed an impenetrable gray, and Duskin smashed it with the handle of his knife.

They buried Murmur to the left of Carter’s mother, and erected a headstone in-between in honor of Lord Anderson, whose body was never found. This Carter did not mind so much, as in the end he had pitied the woman her petty evil, and because her death was a hard blow for Duskin.

Together, Carter, his brother, and Mr. Hope accompanied Captain Glis and his knights to those parts of the house hardest struck by the anarchists. Everywhere they went the people cheered the new Master, and he set all things in order, bringing comfort and aid where he could. And he made certain to bring his entourage to Kitinthim, to greet Spridel and thank him for feeding the brothers beneath the Kingdom Carving. The old burnisher stood stunned to discover that Carter’s claims had been true, and wept openly when the Master declared him before all men baron of that land.

As for the Society of Anarchists, with the loss of both the Bobby and the Master Keys, they fled the White Circle, and it was some time before they dared to rise again.

So the days fell into routine, with Chant lighting the lamps and Enoch winding the clocks. The sun shone on the yard, the beetles wandered the rim of the old well, and the servants went about their duties.

Carter found he liked to sit at the desk in the Room of Forgotten Things, though he never took the key from the drawer to unlock the case and open the book. He watched the patterns of sun upon the angel mosaic and he thought of all that had been. Sometimes Mr. Hope joined him, and they drank tea and discussed many things.

One day, in the midst of their conversation, the sunlight through the angel brightened, until it was nearly blinding, and a figure appeared in the shaft of brilliance. When the radiance waned they saw it was Brittle, standing before the door, looking no different than ever, except that his eyes were keen as swords and his smile bright as a country lad’s.

Both men sat speechless, until Carter finally rose and said, “Is it really you?”

“It is, young master,” Brittle replied. “Do not be afraid. Come, shake my hand, so you know I am authentic.”

They approached him unsteadily. His grip was solid, if somewhat warmer than might be expected. “But you were dead,” Carter said. “We saw the coffin.”

“I think of it rather as a promotion. But I can only stay a moment. I have other duties now.”

“Duskin will be sorry he missed you,” Carter said, his voice choking. “Of us all, he loved you best. We all miss you, of course. If I hadn’t abandoned you in the library you might live yet …”

“Let us speak only of happier things,” Brittle said. “I did my work here and it is completed. I have no regrets, nor should you. You have done a great task. When you restored the balance of the house all the universe was brought to equilibrium as well. Failing suns will flame brighter; planetary rotations will steady; catastrophes of cosmic import will be averted, all because you did the work for which you were meant.”

Carter stood astounded. “But how can that be? Are all the worlds, every creature, subject to the house? Are we mere puppets, our every action governed by forces beyond our ken?”

Brittle laughed. “Would you settle the question of volition and destiny in one hour, here in this room? I can’t give an answer you would understand. I will say only this: we are free to choose our way, yet all is foreknown.”

“But, what then is the High House?” Hope asked. “A mathematical concept as I once suggested? A physical manifestation of the entire universe? A cosmic blueprint? Which is correct? Did God really build it, as Enoch claims?”

“None, and all of these are correct. But, closest to anything you might comprehend, like all of existence, the High House is a parable. As for who built it, some say God is the Great Architect; some say the Grand Engineer.” Brittle gave his wry smile. “And some say He was once a carpenter as well. I can explain no better.”

“Is that why you have come, to tell us this?” Carter asked.

“No. I was sent, as messengers have been sent to those throughout the ages, because when certain men are appointed a great task, they need a moment of utter magic in their lives, a moment they can recall, to know beyond doubt that their mission, and their faith, is true. You have touched my hand; we have spoken together. Know that you are the Master of the High House, as your father before you, and that you, Mr. Hope, are its butler. For this work you were conceived.”

“And … is my father … with you, then?” Carter asked.

“Your father and your mother. You will see them in your time. Do not ask for that now! It is only by special permission I have come, and I must leave you. Just remember that they both love you. Go with God, Carter, and you, good William.”

“Good-bye, Brittle.” They shook hands once more, and through a mist of tears, Carter saw the light brighten again, and Brittle was gone.

“I think I should like some tea,” Hope said.