The High House (15 page)

“Your father’s old question!” Enoch said. “Who left the gate open to the yard?”

“Precisely,” Carter replied. “I will not voice my conjectures at this point, but we must all keep alert. Speak of this to no one else. We will discuss it further when I return. Are you ready, Mr. Hope?”

“I am.”

They bid Enoch farewell, delaying only long enough to speak with the other servants who had been wounded; neither were badly injured, a housemaid with a broken collarbone, trampled in the press, and a footman with a cut to the thigh, both quite happy to recount their part in the battle to their new lord. Before Carter and Hope departed, they were surprised to discover Chant meticulously removing shot from the shoulder of one of Glis’s men, working with a calm professionalism while the patient grunted in pain. The Lamp-lighter glanced up and gave Carter a wink with one rose-pink eye. “We’ll lose no more tonight.”

“You appear experienced,” Carter said, grimacing at the sight of the open wound.

“I hold a degree in medicine.
I had the eagle in my bosom erst: Henceforward with the serpent I am cursed.
A dreary business. I practiced a number of years until I found more useful work.”

“Amazing,” Hope said, and they left him to his task.

Back down the men’s corridor, up through the servery into the dining room they went, into the transverse corridor; the lamps were still lit, and two of the knights stood watch at the library doors, while servants hammered heavy lumber across the shattered opening. As they ascended the main stair, Carter glanced up at the carved eagle upon the banister, taloned power wrapped in the shadows of the upper reaches, sighting down its beak, merciless, murderous, a symbol of the hunter and the house itself; he gave an involuntary shudder.

“What is it?” Hope asked.

“I was thinking about the wounded. Why is blood so unmoving in a fireside tale, yet so dreadful in real life?”

“Because in real life it could happen to us.”

They reached Carter’s room, where they lit two lanterns. Carter peered out the window, but since Chant had been unable to light the lamps, he could not see if the Bobby still lurked beyond the house. Lightning thrashed across the sky, and he thought he detected a black form beside the lamppost, head tilted back, staring at their window. The flash passed too quickly for certainty, but he drew the curtains before turning to the fireplace.

He depressed the brick, half expecting the mechanism not to operate, but the entire mantel slid away with a groan, revealing the small room and the narrow stairway. As if in answer, the thunder rolled above the house, sounding like water poured across a hot pan, and the rain beat harder against the panes. The secret chamber stood foreboding as a tomb, the dust already obscuring the footprints from Carter’s previous visit.

“I must have been an unobservant child,” he said softly. “It’s remarkable that I never found this during all my boyhood.”

“More than remarkable if you played in your room much. I daresay you weren’t
meant
to find it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone speaks of the house as if it had a will. Perhaps, somehow, it does. Perhaps a “fate” is a better description. Shall we enter?”

As the two men left the bedroom and climbed the steps, the noise of the storm died into silence, as if they had entered another world. Carter supposed the high attic ceiling insulated against the din; in the hush their boots resounded heavily on the boards.

The bare steps, the unpainted walls, the space far above, the lantern light dancing, the fear of facing that which waited above, all sank into Carter’s soul, as if he walked once more in nightmare. He dared not consider the possibility of failure, lest it send him fleeing back down the stair. He kept his eyes focused at the edge of the light, fearing they might reach the top unexpectedly; as it was, it surprised him when they attained it so soon, the distance having shrunk as it does when the unknown becomes familiar. He ordered Hope to wait a few steps farther down while he ascended the remainder of the way. Bereft of the company of his friend, he felt the fear clamp over his heart.

He stepped forward slowly, raised his light to illuminate the ceiling joists, and gave what he intended to be a loud hallo, though his voice sounded thin and small in the expanse. Only dust, old toys, and silence greeted him.

He walked a dozen feet farther into the attic, called again, and heard a heavy exhalation behind him. He whirled and found two red eyes staring down at him from a great height. An involuntary cry escaped his lips, but he stood his ground. “Jormungand.”

The voice of the dinosaur rumbled above him. “The little steward has returned.”

Carter heard the hissing of the monster’s breath, the soft slapping of the heavy tail across the floorboards. The dinosaur stood like a stone gargoyle, all gray, his eyes lidding and unlidding rapidly, like the tongue of a frog taking prey. This close, the pungent smell of reptile was nearly overwhelming.

“I have come to ask your help,” Carter said.

“You have gained four Words of Power,” Jormungand said grudgingly. “I see them in you, floating like flies in soup. But not all seven. Perhaps I can eat you. Or at least chew on you a bit. The fare has been slight of late.”

The dinosaur moved closer, bending his slavering jaws down, his hot breath blowing on Carter’s face. He stood perfectly still, afraid to run, afraid to stay, his whole body trembling before those eyes, large as melons. “I am the Steward!” he cried, angry in his desperation. “I command the Words. Do you require further proof?”

For a long moment the dinosaur stared at him. Carter saw ages of wisdom and power, discernment beyond measure, and indifference toward men. Jormungand was like living rock, oiled with reptile sweat, teeth sharp as spears.

Slowly, condescendingly, the monster withdrew. “You
are
the Steward. Have you come for entertainment? Do you hope to place a hook in leviathan’s mouth; hoist me up by my tail so we can take a photograph together, me dead and you smiling? Later, dinosaur for dinner, leftovers for six weeks, and a Jormungand rug your children can run back and forth across on bare feet, to get the feel of real Jurassic leather? What do you want?”

Sweat beaded on Carter’s forehead. “I possess the Word of Secret Ways, and I need to use it to lead Enoch to the Towers. But where should I speak it?”

“You disturbed me for this? You should ask the skinny butler, Rattle, who used to accompany the Masters.”

“Brittle. He’s dead.”

“Ah. Already? I should have known. But it’s difficult to keep track. Men are like buzzing gnats, swarming on a summer day, burned by the sun before noon, mating and dying in the air, buried in the grass by sunset, their offspring rising with the morning light. The dust in this attic is older than you, and less ephemeral. But Jormungand has been since the beginning. As for your question: speak the Word of Power at the door leading to the stair of the Towers, and the hidden way will appear. But you should also use it at the bottom of
this
stair, to find passages that will bring you knowledge.”

“I also need to find my father’s Lightning Sword, his Tawny Mantle, all the old things which he once used, including the Master Keys which the anarchists possess.”

The dinosaur turned from side to side in contemplation. “And do I look like a crystal ball, mechanized fortune-teller bought for a pence, Ouija board tyrannosaurus, circus gypsy stored with the trunks, unwrapped like an old suit on All Hallow’s Eve, moth-eaten, ill-fitting, a comical diversion for the children? You tread a thin line. Is this the best you can ask?”

Carter felt his whole body trembling. “I believe so.”

“Very well,” Jormungand hissed. “A harder puzzle, at least. If I were to seek the old lord, I would go to Arkalen beside the Rainbow Sea. You might find his things there.”

“Do you know if he still lives?”

Jormungand shook his great head. “Nothing is certain, but being who he was and what he wanted, that is where I would look. He sought death, though he did not call it such. He yearned for someone from the Other Side, even as he looked for the Master Keys. Go to Arkalen. There you will also begin your search for the keys. Do you have a fourth question?”

“No.”

“Too bad. If you had asked another I would have been entitled to devour you. There is a balance, and a tally kept; no one ever asks more than three things at once of the Great Worm. You have passed a test, little steward, and you did not even know. Because of it, I give you a present. But first, tell me what you fear.”

Carter stood silent, but beneath those great eyes he found he could not dissemble, and the answer came unbidden from his lips. “Darkness and deep water. Closed places. I nearly drowned in a well as a child.”

“Yes. I see it within you. Then to find the Master Keys you must go through those things. Perhaps even to the Room of Horrors.”

Carter flinched. “No,” he said softly. “I will never go there again. This is a miserly present. You give me little comfort.”

“Comfort, you say? I should have bought you a banjo. One does not keep a dinosaur in the attic for comfort. Or merely to frighten away the birds. Did you come for packages wrapped in pink bows, so we could open them together, slap each other on the back, and squeal like girls? Where
have
I put my candy dishes? All out of bonbons. But there is always a price to speak to me, and the present and price are the same. Someday I will be released from this attic, for I am prepared for a time and a place, and a battle beyond measure. Perhaps a battle for the end of the worlds. I have seen much, but I am never pleasant to converse with. Go now, so I do not have to paw after the man who came with you, whose flesh smells a little like that of a lamb.”

“Thank you, Jormungand.”

“Oh, no. Thank you. I was waiting, bated breath, for your call.”

The behemoth sat back on his haunches, and curled up with his long tail about him, as if preparing for sleep. The red eyes closed, leaving darkness where they had been.

Hope and Carter walked back down the stair, silent until they reached the little room at the bottom, when the lawyer said, “Do you intend to do as he said? He gave me gooseflesh all over. Can he be trusted?”

“We will find out beginning now. I will use the Word of Secret Ways here, in this room, as he instructed. You might want to go downstairs, for your own safety.”

“I’d rather stay and see the show.”

“Very well. It will take a moment.”

Carter concentrated, recalling the Word, bringing it before his mind until he could see the flames dancing like sprites across the letters, each character standing bright upon blackness. He held it there, studying its majesty, absorbing its full meaning, the ponderous weight of its being. Its existence belied the words of Jormungand, suggesting that because the Word
was
, that men were more than dust, that there was Purpose, and perhaps, even, Justice. Carter could have remained there forever, mesmerized by that single Word, as a man in a hashish trance ceaselessly studies the lines of his hand, but the nature of the Word was either to action or quiescence; it could not be held long. Sensing he must use it or see it wither, he slowly opened his mouth, dragging the Word from his throat, sending it clawing into the world.

“Talheedin!”
Released at last, it roared into the small chamber. The room shook; Hope went pale. Carter found himself trembling. He looked around expectantly.

At first nothing occurred. Then, a dim rectangle of blue luminescence slowly appeared upon the east wall. He approached it warily, dropped to his haunches, and ran his fingers over its surface, but except for the unnatural glow, it remained unchanged.

“What do you make of it?” he asked.

“I … don’t see anything,” Hope replied.

Carter looked up, thinking he was joking, but the lawyer remained impassive. Carter described it.

“I can’t detect a trace,” Hope said. “But surely it’s the Word at work; there must be a hidden door. We simply have to find the mechanism.”

They began a thorough search and soon discovered a tiny button upon the top of the baseboard. At Carter’s touch, the center of the blue area rotated sideways on a metal rod, revealing a lightless passage wide enough for a single man.

Carter went first, slumping to avoid brushing the low ceiling. The smell of mold pervaded the corridor; the bare boards creaked beneath their feet. The walls curved gracefully to the left, smooth except where the plaster had fallen away, revealing the slats.

As they followed the curve, they saw a single shaft of light, no larger than the end of a finger, shining on the wall to the left. This they discovered to be a spy-hole, complete with a leather rest for the chin and forehead. Carter looked through it and found himself staring through strange glass into Mr. Hope’s bedchamber, the Rose Room.

“Here’s news,” Carter said. “Take a look. I could have spied upon you at any time.”

Hope pressed his eye to the glass and grinned. “Not that there is much to see, but it does speak unkindly of the architects. We are standing where the portrait hangs over the mantel, probably looking out from one of your ancestor’s eyes.”

“We should use my coat to shroud the lantern, in case we discover more of these peepholes. We don’t want our light to be seen through the glass.”

With the lantern partially mantled, an illumination crimson beneath the coat, only the nearest floorboards were lit. They advanced farther down the curving passage until they came to another spy-hole. Through the opening Carter saw Lady Murmur sitting at a low table, clothed in a yellow, silk day dress, studying her face in a mirror. Duskin sat to the side on a sofa. Carter could hear him clearly: “You should have let me go, Mother, to help defend the house. I’m sixteen, no longer a child.”

Murmur gave a low chuckle, but did not take her eyes from the mirror. “We cannot risk the future lord of Evenmere being injured in an absurd battle. War is for others; you were born to lead.”

“No leader was ever respected who wouldn’t command his men in war. I saw Carter in the very midst of it. If I didn’t hate him so, I would admire his courage.”