“What are you, who live in this attic?”
“At last, an engaging topic. I am glad you did not ask me what I eat. Isn’t the attic where the last of anything old goes? Brooms and dolls, old toys broken and discarded? All the old dinosaurs live in attics now. I spoke of Leviathan; once I was him, as well as dragons, and long ago, on a summer’s day when the flowers were pink, the monster who lived in the Loch. You could think of me as the inner manifestation of the Wise Man; the Devil’s Advocate; the four angels bound at the great river Euphrates, prepared for an hour and day and month and year to kill a third of mankind; or the Ultimate Evil Biting Through the Root of the World Tree if it pleases you. I prefer to consider myself a Jungian nightmare, a Freudian slip with jaws, waiting to be unleashed. I am as much a force of nature as the wind. All clear now?”
“I see,” Carter said, certain he did not. “Thank you. We will go to my room now.”
“Just don’t expect to use my attic anytime you fancy a shortcut. This is not the posy path. You are the Master; to some degree I will obey you. But understand, even so, you are never far from death when you speak to Jormungand, in ways you cannot even comprehend. And those who accompany you, even more.”
Keeping himself between the dinosaur and Duskin, Carter moved toward the stair, a path that forced him to walk right before Jormungand’s massive jaws. The red eyes followed them, the white teeth glistened. When they were nearly beyond his reach, there came a flash of movement, as the dinosaur’s head sprang past Carter and struck at his brother. Both men shouted; Carter heard a ripping sound and swung his sword, too late, connecting only empty air.
Jormungand lay back in his place, as if he had never moved at all, except that a dark material hung from his jaws.
Carter turned to his brother in wild fear, but Duskin stood whole, save only his coat had been deftly sliced from his back, leaving the pockets and sleeves. The pair bolted for the stair, while Jormungand roared his laughter, bellowing, “Only a quick movement of the head is required.”
Evasions
The brothers caused abundant wonder as they clambered down the stair, Duskin’s jacket in tatters, Carter’s clothes little better, both men uncombed, unshaven, utterly hall-worn, their hearts fluttering from their encounter with the dinosaur. One of the boys of the house spied them first; his eyes flew wide and he bolted through the transverse corridor crying, “Master’s back! Master’s back!” through every doorway, alarming the entire mansion, putting everyone astir. Hope strode from the drawing room, looking worried and annoyed, a reprimand upon his lips, but broke into an astonished smile when he saw them. He scurried to meet them at the bottom of the stair and gave a furious handshake to both. “Where in the heavens did you come from?”
The brothers exchanged glances. “Were we believed dead?” Carter asked.
“Or worse!” the lawyer said. “But we expected you to return using the passage from the Towers. Glis sent word of your journey to Arkalen, and we even received a report of your progress from Lady Mélusine, but after that, nothing. The last few days have been endless waiting.”
“Find us some decent food, and we’ll tell the whole story,” Duskin said.
“I’ll arrange it at once.”
The hall boy came rushing back just then, Chant and Enoch trailing behind him, and Hope sent the lad to alert the cook. Enoch embraced the brothers, but Chant stood aloof, saying softly, “
Home is the sailor, home from the sea
, but the Lion of Ithaca is Master no more.
Long live the King.
”
Then Carter realized the Lamp-lighter had recognized the Tawny Mantle and the Lightning Sword, and knew Ashton Anderson was dead. With Chant’s words, Enoch understood as well; a mist covered the Hebrew’s eyes, and for a moment he could not speak. Finally, he smiled and said in a hoarse voice, “But wouldn’t he be proud, to see his two sons standing side by side? And I see there is love between you now.”
“The journey was hard, but we passed the trials together,” Carter replied.
They told their tale over a veritable banquet, though how the chef prepared the meal so quickly Carter could not guess.
There was Russian-style sturgeon soup and freshwater fish cooked in Bordeaux wine, followed by ham roasted on the spit, covered in Madeira sauce, surrounded by entrees of steamed macaroni and grated cheese layered with forcemeat, a ring of coney-breast fillets, and stuffed chicken quenelles with béchamel sauce. They gorged themselves. For the first time since learning of Lord Anderson’s death, Carter felt a twinge of happiness, sitting in the black leather chairs, the heavy arch above the inglenook, the carved squirrels bounding round its borders, the oak panels on the wall, the cheerful fire, the Persian rugs, and his familiar friends. He was home again.
When their story was done, Enoch beamed at them. “Together you have done what neither might have alone. How you have both changed! Carter is the Master. But is there envy on Duskin’s face? No. Not even a trace. I, who have known him since a child, see only respect in his eyes. It shines from his heart. But your father’s ghost must have been very terrible.”
And Carter realized they had indeed both changed and that Enoch knew it was the Thin Man who had changed them.
“You will be comforted to know we’ve kept ourselves busy since you and I shared that wretched dream,” Hope said. “Glis has been in and out, and has restored our links with our allies by finding a shorter route to the White Circle. I’ve spent most of my time conferring with ambassadors and envoys. At Enoch’s urging I’ve assumed more authority than was given me, and you have every right to send me packing for promises made or implied.”
“He has devoured his fingernails lamenting:
‘I haven’t the right! I haven’t the right!’
up and down the halls,” Enoch said. “But who could make the decisions?”
“Too many decisions,” Hope said. “When news came of the burning of Veth, troops had to be dispatched. From what Duchess Mélusine told us, we were fortunate you arrived in time to put down the rebellion, or we might still be in battle. And that was but the beginning; the Bobby has sown discord throughout the White Circle. Since his theft of the Master Keys he has built his power, and many of his works are just now bearing fruit. In some countries he has even claimed to
be
the Master. All of his plans are intended to keep us off-balance while he consolidates his position. The Tigers of Naleewuath report a massing of the gnawlings; anarchists are seen everywhere, recruiting whoever they can. And in the west portion of the house, beyond the White Circle, darker, older creatures are stirring, creatures hoping to avenge themselves against the Masters who drove them out at the beginning of the world, into the black lands of Abchaz and Broodheim.”
“You have kept up your research, however busy you were,” Carter said.
“All part of the work,” Hope said. “I am forever scrambling back to some old volume to discern the importance of this diplomat or that lord, while they drum their fingers outside the door. I have several appointments this afternoon, which you might want to see. Your presence will add an assurance my words cannot.”
“If I’m to meet guests, a bath may be in order,” Carter said. “And a change of clothing. We’ve slept in these too long.”
“And I thought a rat had died beneath the table,” Enoch said.
Carter grinned. “Such cheek!”
“Your baths are being drawn even now,” Hope said. “And your garments will be ready. What do you plan to do next?”
“I need to rest today,” Carter said. “Tomorrow I will consult the Book of Forgotten Things. After that I must seek the Master Keys in the Room of Horrors.”
* * *
After refreshing himself, Carter spent the late afternoon hours in conference with various dignitaries; after days of wandering and peril, he found the work less tedious than he would have thought, though somewhat draining. Stepping from danger into the drawing room all seemed a bit unreal, but Mr. Hope sat beside him, steering the course of the conversation when necessary, offering suggestions and information, proving himself in all ways indispensable, thus allowing Carter to cover his lack of experience under the guise of a thoughtful Master, wise and slow to speak. He met two ambassadors from Himnerhin and the Bridle of Sooth, pleasant, grandfatherly gentlemen, who wished to renew ties with the house and the new lord; a fiery, red-headed farmer from Port Keen seeking aid against wolves—Carter promised to send help when he could, though he dared not yet go himself—and a petitioner claiming to be an exiled prince of Fiffing, deposed by his second cousin, who wanted Carter to declare him the rightful heir, and to send a battalion to support his title. Carter could do nothing until he finished his dealings with the Bobby, but vowed to soon review the history of Fiffing. The prince, deeply offended, stalked from the room in indignation, rattling the doors behind him.
“No wonder he lost his kingdom,” Hope said.
Carter arched his brow. “I hope his second cousin is more even-tempered.”
“Only one more today, if you have the strength.”
“I can manage. Who is he?”
“A messenger from North Lowing, a country lying south of Aylyrium, and a member of the White Circle. He came in while you were conferring with that last fellow. I don’t know what he wants. He seems very anxious. His style of dress is common to that people, so don’t be amazed.”
The man who entered the drawing room was thin, and red-faced and panting as if he had run all the way from North Lowing. His clothes were white, with black strips wrapped in a seemingly random fashion all around, as if he were a mummy or a tramp. His eyes were feverishly pale. He knelt on one knee at Carter’s feet, head bowed.
“Please, sir, you must come,” his voice like a pleading child’s. “You must come to North Lowing.”
“Rise, man, take a chair and tell me your story,” Carter said.
But the newcomer remained kneeling. “As it please you, sir, North Lowing was known as the land where the rivers run, a beautiful country, watered by streams coming down the mountains, all lowlands, and so its name.”
“You said ‘was,’” Carter said.
“The Black River has come there, flowing between the halls of the house, cutting its way to the deepest parts of Evenmere, and where it washes it destroys. You must help us.”
Carter sat silent, a quiet horror upon him. “I didn’t know it had gone so far,” he said. “Duskin and I saw it on our journey. How is it escaping the cellar?”
“We don’t know,” Hope said. “Not through the doors.”
“It seeps, my lord, it seeps,” the man said. “We have tried to contain it, but it eats whatever it touches, and it goes where it will, as if with mind and purpose. My people have become refugees. What can I tell them?”
Carter clenched his fists. “What kind of men are the anarchists, full of their own intentions, following their cause, and destroying the whole world with it? What kind of men?”
“I do not know, my lord.”
“Tell your people I will send what help I can, though it may be scant enough. Tell them I will not come myself—”
“But, my lord—”
“Tell them I go to stop the Black River. Tell them if I do not, it will be because I am dead. You have my word.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The man suddenly burst into tears.
“Hope, get him something to eat and a place to sleep if he will have it.”
* * *
Carter spent the evening brooding about the house, thinking before the fires, visiting with Chant and Enoch, and following the increasing ferocity of the storm. The clouds boiled; the rain pelted; the thunder rolled. The sky was ink. The Bobby was marshaling his power.
As he sat in a high-backed chair before the hearth, eyelids half-closed, he mentally rehearsed the Maps of Evenmere, his new talent granting internal visions of a unique duration and clarity, imparting an intimate familiarity with the house, as detailed as if he held the charts in his hands. He began to understand the power of the Master, to go where he would, to be wherever needed, daunting, outmaneuvering his enemies with his presence. But nowhere could he find the Room of Horrors.
Hope brought him tea in the drawing room at eight o’clock, but the lawyer seemed to sense his mood, and withdrew after only brief conversation, leaving Carter once more to himself. He became aware of his own weariness, and guessed he looked the part. The journey had been arduous, and its end, terrible. Surrounded by the old, comfortable things, he found he missed his father with a welling despair from the center of his chest, a passion so powerful he felt it must annihilate him, and he wept dragon’s tears into his steaming tea. And in his mind he followed his sire across the Sea No Man Can Sail, far beyond the rim of the horizon. He imagined Lord Anderson standing upon the boat, paddling, whistling as he often did, the wind upon his face, sailing into that multicolored sky … and to what end? Would he could have followed.
The rain fell and he rested, dozing in the chair, dreaming of that sea, and of Innman Tor, Jormungand, Duskin, the Porcelain Duchess, Spridel, all the small things he had done on the journey, his mind patching itself, sowing together the fabrics of his life, covering him with the blanket it made.
* * *
Despite his determination, two more days passed before he felt strong enough to face the Book of Forgotten Things, and he grew miserable applauding his wisdom while ruing his delay. Mornings he spent in further conferences, made mostly enjoyable by the often foreign, always intriguing nature of the inhabitants of the White Circle. He passed his afternoons with Mr. Hope, discussing strategies and old histories, and sometimes Duskin joined them, though boredom soon drove him away, for he was indeed yet a young man.
On the morning of the third day, the Bobby reappeared beside the lamppost, and Carter knew the anarchists no longer searched for him at Innman Tor, but had mysteriously learned of his return to the Inner Chambers. He determined to delay no longer, and after lunching on truffled roast chicken with Chant, Enoch, Hope, and Duskin, he went alone into the room beside the library, unlocked the bookcase, and drew out the Book of Forgotten Things.