The High House (9 page)

He crept into the chamber. Lightning against the upper windows outlined the bookshelves, monstrous and hulking, grown clever from the knowledge resting on their shelves. He avoided looking upon them, but walked quickly to the four-paneled door beside the study. A thin lance of light slipped between the frame, causing him to think someone waited within, until he recalled that the lamps had been lit when he and his father entered long ago; perhaps they remained perpetually so. Still, he turned the knob half expecting to encounter an intruder, perhaps even the Bobby, sitting at the desk.

The door opened with a creak; the room lay empty. The buttercup lights burned their soft song and shadows slept where their rays did not reach. The room remained unchanged from his recollection of it: the royal blue carpet with gold fleurs-de-lis, the kidney-shaped desk, the leather chair. The stained-glass angel looked down from the ceiling, muted except when the lightning flashes revealed him as a fiery avenger, grown terrible in the midnight hour, his golden hair transformed to silver, his face like a son of God. Carter’s wonder of it had not abated with the years.

He ran his hands along the mahogany panels, over the white marble fireplace. Reaching into the desk drawer, he retrieved the skeleton key and opened the bookshelf doors; their blue, leaded glass glistened with the lightning. Slowly, reverently, he withdrew the leather book lined in gold leaf. Old memories rushed to him as he sat down in the chair and laid it upon the desk.

He feared this book. As he had grown older, when he thought of it at all, he had convinced himself that his first encounter had been a childhood illusion. Now, holding it before him, he was no longer certain. He exhaled softly and his hands trembled as he turned past the cover page. He thumbed through the leaves, but saw nothing until page six, where a picture faded into view of him and his father riding horses across the low hills. He wore red riding boots and an ivory jacket. Lord Anderson, going slightly before him, turned back and sent him a quiet grin.

“I had forgotten this day,” he murmured, smiling to watch the younger version of himself, riding beside his father, laughing, enjoying the wind and the rough clatter of the horse’s hooves. Almost, he felt the cool breeze upon his face.

The vision faded. Carter sat silent a moment, warmed by his father’s voice and the look of his eyes.

Recalling his mission, he reluctantly turned to the next page. There, written in gold, were the Words of Power, but to his surprise there were not seven, but only two.

He said the first one, softly, rolling the r’s across his tongue as his father had taught him.
Rahmurrim.
The gold letters burst into flame but were not consumed; the heat of the burning warmed his face. He spoke it again, slightly louder, and felt it brand itself into his mind. He would not forget.

He spoke the second,
Elahkammor.
Again, the letters flamed, again the majestic release of power flowed through him, and then the characters went cold, and he found himself utterly exhausted, filled with such weariness as if he had carried heavy sacks all day. The Words were there, but they had taken their toll.

He started to shut the book, but a strong desire to look upon the next page made him pause. It had been good to see his father again.

Slowly, he turned the page, not without effort, for it felt leaden. A vision came almost at once of great darkness. He was in a room, though he did not know how he knew, since it was completely obscured. From a long way off, a white figure approached, and a terror preceded it. Carter suddenly knew it had a face too horrible to look upon, so frightening he might die to see it. As it drew near he saw its head was shrouded in a white cloak, yet gradually, with studied movement, it removed the shroud and raised its visage toward the dim light. Though he did not want to watch, Carter could not turn away.

He gave a shriek and the vision vanished, leaving sweat beading his brows. “Room of Horrors,” he murmured, slamming the book shut.

“There is worse,” a voice beside him said.

He shouted and leapt up against the wall, clutching the book, ready to batter his way past whoever stood between him and the door.

“No need for violence,” the stranger said. “I saved you once, didn’t I?”

Carter hesitated, his fighting instinct nearly overwhelming his reason, until he recognized the figure as the Thin Man.

“What do you want?”

The ragged man moved away from the door to a less threatening position along the wall, his face submerged in shadow, always outside the circle of lamplight. “We need to speak. You barely escaped with your life before. If not for Brittle and myself …”

“I never thanked you properly,” Carter said.

The man raised a hand, almost violently. “Do not bother. It was probably wasted effort. You play the fool, coming into the library late at night, where your enemies have already struck once.”

“I assumed they had withdrawn.”

“Assume nothing!” the man cried. “A fine disaster, this, a boy made Steward, without training, without hope. They will tear you like wolves. If you value your rescue, then grant my request: leave this house, and take your half brother with you; he, too, is in danger. If you abdicate, another will be appointed. You do not have to follow this road.”

“How can I abandon my childhood home? The responsibility is mine. And more, I want to discover my father’s fate. I can’t leave. But what is your concern with this? Who are you?”

“For now, a friend. If you stay, I will oppose you if I can. Go away. Your father is dead. Go away.”

“You know this?”

“He is dead. Heed my warning. Leave Evenmere.”

Carter looked down at the Book of Forgotten Things. “How can you be certain he has perished?” But when he glanced up, the Thin Man was gone and the four-paneled door stood open just a crack. He flew to it and flung it wide, but could see nothing in the cavernous murk.

Thunder rolled overhead as he put the book back in its resting place, locked the cabinet, and dropped the key into the desk drawer. His candle had burned low; he had been within the book much longer than he imagined. Shaken, he made his way back into the library, resisting an urge to run as he crossed to the double doors. Down the transverse corridor he went, up the stair, and into his own room, where he bolted the door behind him. He sat down on the bed and shivered, awash in questions and doubts.

He slept poorly that night, and dreamed of the Thin Man and the Bobby chasing him through endless halls. But these dreams were no more than dreams, and he woke with the morning sun, thinking he had not slept at all.

When he made his way downstairs an hour later, he found Mr. Hope already awaiting him, looking as bleary-eyed as Carter felt. They dined together in the breakfast nook, on the round, claw-footed table with gulls carved around its border, on wooden plates and pewter goblets, with silver spoons etched with butterflies. The nook looked west through a long picture window, and there were patches of sunlight between the clouds; the rain had abated, though it appeared it might soon start again. Carter told the lawyer of his midnight trek to the library.

“The motives of this Thin Man bear studying,” Hope said. “He saved our lives, yet he threatened you. We should be wary of him. For myself, I’ve spent the night reading. After leaving the drawing room, I had Chant escort me to the library, where I found a few books large as houses on treaties and compacts. Duncan said there was an agreement between Evenmere and Naleewuath, so I thought I should look it up. Seems there are
hundreds
of treaties between Evenmere and Everyone. You, sir, are the Last Baron in the world, judging by it. Within those volumes I found oaths of fealty, treaties of mutual defense, trade agreements—all with places and peoples I had never heard of: Gwyve, Naleewuath, Keedin, Westwing, Aylyrium, Ooz—scores of others, some exotic, some not. It is like a secret kingdom, vast as all the world. But where are these places? Where is Naleewuath, in fact? You speak of dinosaurs in attics; I speak of nations.”

Carter raised his eyebrows. “It explains my father’s visitors all those years. But did you find the Naleewuath treaty?”

“I did. It is quite specific: we promise to come when called, and they agree to be part of the White Circle, a ring of defense surrounding Evenmere, comprised of kingdoms bordering the house, and participating in a mutual defense pact. The most interesting thing is that the treaties were signed not just by your father, but by Brittle as well.”

“Brittle?”

“There’s much you don’t know about the man. I had the opportunity to poke about when Enoch was helping to dispose of his personal belongings. He lived four lifetimes, at least, or I miss my guess. He held five degrees, was knighted by Queen Victoria, fought in two wars, was ambassador to Japan—the list goes on. If he was only a butler, I am a dentist.”

Carter leaned back in the chair, his breakfast growing cold. “I did not know. Brittle could be articulate when he wished. What do you propose? Should I consult Jormungand once more? The thought terrifies me.”

“I wouldn’t advise it, not yet. Let me attempt to research the dinosaur a bit before you risk your life. I think you should go to Naleewuath, to find out where in the world it is. The need is urgent, and Enoch has already said he knows the way. Meanwhile, I want to try to contact some of those in the White Circle, to see if they can protect us from whatever killed Brittle. Perhaps Chant can help with that.”

“So you won’t accompany me to Naleewuath?”

“I want to,” the lawyer admitted, his eyes shining. “It sounds exciting, but I should remain here. You need information and I feel pressed for time—whatever struck at us may return. At any rate, you have more the physique for hunting wild game, but eventually I would like to witness evidence of these wonders firsthand; the dream was convincing but something more tangible would be appreciated. Perhaps you could show me the dinosaur.”

“Perhaps,” Carter said, laughing, “though I fear he might eat you.”

* * *

After breakfast, Carter discovered preparations for his journey were already under way; it seemed several of the servants would accompany him as they said they had done with his father. Though Enoch would lead the way, he could not stay to help in the hunt, for he had clocks that would not wait. Carter was given a pearl-handled pistol unlike any he had ever used, a single-action similar to the designs of Mr. Colt but far heavier, so that it was necessary to grip it with both hands to contain the recoil; a heavy cloak, and a four-foot spear with wide, ornate guards meant to halt the charge of a wild beast.

“Will we carry rifles?” he asked.

“You will not go through wood or marsh,” Enoch said. “This is all close work. Jorkens knows his way about Naleewuath and will be your best guide.”

Enoch indicated a tall, slender man with a ruddy complexion, who was tossing gear into a pack.

“I am ill-equipped for this,” Carter said. “I have hunted small game on my foster parents’ land, but nothing of this sort.”

The burly man nodded heavily. “But don’t forget: it was in your father’s blood; it is in yours as well. And remember this is no sport, but to rid Naleewuath of the most terrible of beasts.”

They left soon after, a party of less than twenty, Enoch at the lead, Jorkens beside Carter, all marching swiftly to the back of the house. To Carter’s surprise they went directly toward the door beneath the servants’ stair. Chant waited for them upon the fifth step, and leaned over the balustrade to say, “
And sometimes for an hour or so, I watched my leaden soldiers go, with different uniforms and drills, among the bed-clothes, through the hills.
Good hunting, my lord. And remember:
The graves a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace
, so be careful.” He gave Carter a wave and a wink as the Steward followed Enoch through the door, into the room he had not seen in over a decade. As always, the lamp within was lit, and Enoch proceeded directly through the Green Door, which had apparently remained unlocked from the time Carter had taken the Master Keys those long years before. Tears of shame sprang unbidden to his eyes as he stepped through the portal and stood once more in the misty halls, as gray as he remembered them—the gray pictures of gray flowers on the gray walls meeting the gray carpet, the ceiling hidden in fog. It even smelled gray, like smoking ashes. Enoch led them to the right, down the wide corridor. Once again, as it had been those long years before, Carter experienced pain and shudderings all over his body, as if he were being remade. The grimaces of his companions showed they suffered as well, and all paused until the aching passed.

“This is the Long Corridor,” Enoch said.

“Well named,” Carter replied. “How far does it go?”

“How far does a circle go? It loops back upon itself and has no end,” Enoch replied. “Only it won’t always be so colorless. It connects all the members of the White Circle. We are in the Great Block of the house now; the smaller portion we left is called the Inner Chambers.”

“What lies beyond the White Circle?”

“Other kingdoms and countries, some loyal to Evenmere, others not. The White Circle is the heart of our strength.”

“And if the anarchists could seize the Inner Chambers?”

“It would still not be enough. Their road to power requires more. But the loss of the Inner Chambers would be a bad blow. It is the core of the High House.”

“Am I foolish to leave when we are so endangered?”

Enoch laughed softly. “And if you stay, what will you do? If you are to be the Master, you must act the part. And a Master is needed now; we have been too long without one.”

“Last night the Thin Man found me in the library, and warned me to abdicate my claims and leave the house.”

“You went to the library? Brave, but foolish after Brittle’s death. Who is this Thin Man to tell you your place? I do not know him; Chant does not know him. Why should we believe his words?”

“Was my father a happy man, Enoch? Would he have wanted me to be Master? I think his life was very hard.”

“Happy? He was a great man,” Enoch said. “Great men often suffer. Sometimes they fall the farthest. But he never turned from a task that was his. Neither would he want you to. If you do not try, if you turn away, you will sit in your dusty chair in your old age and say: ‘Ah, what could I have been? What did I miss?’ Evenmere is a grand adventure, after all, and you were ever curious, poking here and there, looking for who knows what. How could you leave?”