Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “So are they,” I replied, darkly. Mary took my hand and squeezed it. “Why didn’t they burn you?”

  “They considered it, but burning a corpse involves planning if you want to do it right and don’t want to be interrupted.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Take me home. I want new knives and my ninja suit.”

  “Fair enough.” I swung left and headed for the highway. “Promise me you won’t start anything without me?”

  “Really? You want to come along?”

  “You’re going to start stuff. I’ll come out of my hole. For you.”

  “That’s the second-sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Really? What was the first?”

  “‘Louder, my dirty girl.’”

  I didn’t roll my eyes. I was driving.

  The trip back took longer. I didn’t have my foot on the floor nearly so often, since it’s impolite to disturb napping policemen twice in one night. They get cranky when they come roaring out from behind their billboard blinds only to find whatever it was is gone. Nevertheless, we reached the warehouse and took a few turns around it before going inside. As Mary put it, if someone stakes you through the heart and buries you at the crossroads, he might also put a bomb in your bathroom. It didn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but I couldn’t fault her thinking.

  Nothing untoward happened. We circled around from the loading dock to the garage door on the opposite side. I got out and raised it, sliding it up in its grooves, and Mary parked. There were a number of crates stacked in the warehouse area, delivered that day but not yet shifted across to Apocalyptica. After we locked the place up, I notified Diogenes and he triggered the cargo-room shift. Everything vanished. A few minutes later, once the robots in Apocalyptica cleared the cargo from the receiving point, Diogenes shifted the car back.

  Mary and I took the smaller shift-booth to Apocalyptica. Most of the cargo shifters go to Denver; the booths go to the residential complex. Mary immediately went to Wardrobe and started changing.

  “Anything I can do?” I wanted to know.

  “Not right now. I’m going to find out more about Salvatore and his involvement with vampires.”

  “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

  “I love you, but go away.”

  “Ah. I’ll be in the Manor, so I should be easy to find.”

  “That’s perfect. Thank you.”

  I slipped quietly away. Mary makes me nervous when she gets that grumpy look on her face.

  The Manor, Wednesday, October 11th, 1939

  I arrived yesterday in my shift-booth, grabbed my stuff, and drove down to Liverpool. Things to do, places to be, all that sort of thing. It takes about four hours to drive there in a car, which was one of the things I needed to know.

  Once I reached Liverpool, I spent way too much time there. I had to sort out Diogenes’ requirements for a shift-building. It’s not usually so much of a problem, but getting a building all to myself, then turning loose a couple of drones to analyze the space so he could duplicate it precisely—it’s not absolutely required, but the closer the match, the more efficient the transfer is—then plugging in my prepared enchantment modules, as well as wiring it all into the space-frame of the transport spell—without, let me add, using an electromagical transformer, since I didn’t think to bring one…

  It’s an involved process, that’s all I’ve got to say about it. And it’s not done, because I have to do the magical work on the other end, as well, and tie that portion into a physical switch so Diogenes can activate it. We’re getting there. Progress is being made.

  On the way back, I detoured through Maryport to find myself a small apartment—excuse me, a flat. It’s much closer to Applewood Hall, only about forty-five minutes away, the way I drive. Hopefully, I can use it as my secondary retreat. It’ll be my transport spot when I have to be gone longer than is plausible to be cooped up in my own little area of the house. Again, it’s not quite done. I have the closet on this side sorted out, but the closet on the Apocalyptica side has yet to be enchanted.

  By then it was nighttime, so I made a midnight tour of Maryport and looked for trouble. I must admit, England seems to have a better class of mugger than I’m used to. I wasn’t threatened, as such. I merely had a knife pressed against my back while he patted my pockets. He didn’t say anything, which wasn’t too polite, but I suppose conversational skills don’t count for much during a robbery-by-violence.

  Diogenes’ clone tanks keep my body fed. Devouring someone’s soul is very different and refreshing in other ways. I even left the body mostly intact.

  Back at my… my flat, I called Diogenes. Mary checked in, leaving a message to reassure me, but wasn’t done looking into matters. Fair enough. I wrote up some telegrams and letters for the next day. Mostly, they were instructions to bankers and solicitors about money, authority over money, payments, supplies, and other mundane stuff.

  Shortly after dawn, I hopped into the Vauxhall, sent out my correspondence, and drove to Applewood to check on their progress.

  The new building was going up rapidly. I was pleased. Between the big-top tents and the house, we almost had enough room for workmen, teachers, and staff.

  Foremost, though, were the kids. Kids everywhere. Kids in the main building, kids playing cricket on the lawn, kids in the carriage-house, kids in the stable, kids in the kitchen, kids in the library… it’s like I’m running a boarding school or something. They’re being taught, yes, and I’m pleased about that, but they’re also working. Some are learning to groom horses—a popular job—while others are helping with construction. Some of the older girls are in the kitchen with Mrs. Gillespie, stirring, baking, frying, and boiling things.

  Madeline, I noted, was not one of the kitchen volunteers. She kept busy by sitting quietly and drawing. I suppose her recent experiences in housework might have put her off. She wasn’t alone in artistic pursuits, either. Half a dozen other kids of various ages were sketching everything.

  It’s total chaos, but it’s surprisingly cheerful, well-managed chaos.

  As I drove up and circled under the portico, I saw flowerbeds along the sides of the house. Mr. Gillespie was out planting gillyflowers and supervising two young helpers. Trixie was nowhere to be seen, but no doubt she was pleased.

  There’s a fountain in the center of the circle drive. If I put a magical transformer in the thing, would it attract fairies? It’s either stone or some sort of concrete, and the pipes are bronze or copper. It should be fairy-friendly. Then again, the upper bowls already attract birds like a birdbath. Would the fairies and the birds get along, or would they fight over water rights?

  Before I could continue around to the carriage-house, I was intercepted by a young man of… fourteen, maybe? Too young to sign up for the Army, anyway. He wasn’t in a uniform, but he was clean and neat. When I stopped to ask him what he wanted, he opened the car door and stood aside, holding it for me. He kept glancing toward the house’s front door and Graves, the eldest of the three butlers. Graves nodded slightly at him.

  I took it in stride, hoping the kid could drive. He puttered away in the car without stalling the engine or over-revving it, so I assume he knew what he was doing.

  As I tromped up the steps, Graves formally greeted me while another young man opened the door. Graves wore what I think of as the typical butler uniform: Black coat, white shirt, white gloves, grey vest and pants. His shoes were remarkably shiny. His manner and bearing reminded me of John Gielgud. He offered to take my coat—I’m not sure if he meant he would do so personally or if the young man would do it, but I’m fuzzy on servant protocol—and asked if I required anything after my journey.

  “No, thank you. How are things here?”

  “Sir, on my own authority and subject to Sir’s dismissal, I have hired a number of necessary servants of various sorts. At Sir’s convenience, they will report for examination.”

  “Servants? Such as?”

  “Two footm
en, a groom, a cook, a nurse, three housemaids, a sewing maid, three laundry maids, two scullery maids, and another two maids-of-all-work.”

  “Do we need—no, wrong question. Will we need more?”

  “I believe not, Sir, if the number of workmen on the premises remains constant. However, I am uncertain as to Sir’s preference regarding his personal servants. Will Sir require a valet or batman?”

  “No, but I will require a change in the mode of address. Stop speaking in third person. I’m right here and you’re addressing me.”

  “Certainly, Sir, if that is your preference.”

  “It very much is.”

  “Very good, Sir.” He didn’t seem upset or annoyed by my correction. He simply noted it as a preference and adopted it. Diogenes couldn’t have done it more smoothly.

  “Where are the other two butlers?”

  “Cleeve and Jarvis are supervising others, Sir.”

  “Okay. Anything else to report?”

  “During your absence, there have been two accidents requiring medical attention among the children. Neither is serious and the physician in Keswick, a Doctor Bradfield, has seen to them. Also, Cleeve wishes to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

  “Any idea what he wants?”

  “I couldn’t say, Sir.”

  “Ah, but did he say?”

  “It might be best to hear it from him, Sir.”

  “One of those sorts of things, is it? All right. Consider it convenient. I’ll be in my study.”

  “Very good, Sir,” Graves replied, with a hint of a bow. I went to my chambers, unlocked the door, made sure nothing incriminating or weird was visible, and locked the other doors. With the room prepared, I settled in to wait for a sudden death round of the butler battle. It sounded to me as though Cleeve and Graves had a serious disagreement. It could prove disastrous for someone.

  Cleeve knocked perfunctorily and entered. He was in the same outfit as Graves, but his shoes told me he was a busy man.

  “Sir!”

  “Cleeve. How go things?”

  “Sir, with respect, I feel I must inform you of an atrocious level of decorum.”

  “Oh?” I steepled my fingers on the edge of my desk. “In what way?”

  “While these urchins overrun the house, it is impossible to maintain proper standards. An orphanage on the property is an act of civic-minded charity, of course, but to allow them to roam the halls at whim is highly disruptive to the organization of the staff.”

  “I see. Have you spoken to Professor Blake, the acting Headmaster?”

  “I have. In his opinion, the house would benefit from considerably more structure, as well.”

  “I see. Please be so good as to fetch him.”

  “Excellent, Sir.”

  Cleeve walked away quickly, reminding me of a cat in a hurry but refusing to run, his legs swishing back and forth at a frantic pace. I wondered if they were taught not to run in butler school, if there is a school for butlering. Cleeve returned quickly with Blake. We all sat down and discussed.

  As it turned out, Professor Blake did like the idea of more structure in the children’s daily lives. He also bowed to the inevitable. With the gradual addition of more children over time—Weatheral kept bringing them up, usually in sibling groups—there simply weren’t enough teachers to keep them occupied all day. As a result, they were permitted more free time. Even so, during that “free time,” they might as well be useful and maybe learn something practical.

  “I would dearly love to have more teaching staff and classrooms,” he concluded, “but I also recognize there’s a war on.”

  “I’m not sure where we would put them,” I admitted. “We need more space, first, and that means waiting on the construction.”

  “I’m still amazed you’re adding on to the estate simply to house refugees.”

  “You disapprove?”

  “Oh, I approve! I simply did not think anyone would go to such lengths.”

  “You’d be surprised. So, Cleeve. What do you suggest for curbing this intolerable chaos you and Blake have noticed?”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s intolerable, Sir,” Cleeve hedged.

  “You were quick enough to tell me Blake’s opinion.”

  “Obviously, I was mistaken.”

  “Obviously. Still, what measures would you take to curb the impetuous urchin horde?”

  “It’s not my place to say, Sir.”

  “No. No, it isn’t.” I turned to the headmaster. “Thank you for your input, Professor Blake. Would you excuse us, please?”

  “Of course.” He rose from his chair and left, closing the door behind himself. I focused on Cleeve.

  “Cleeve, what, exactly, have you been doing while I’ve been out?” He sat up straighter.

  “Attempting to maintain order and discipline within the household, Sir.”

  “Good. And, in conjunction with this ideal, how have you gone about it?”

  “Close supervision, Sir, of all the servants under the authority of the butler.”

  “Including the new servants Graves hired?”

  “Yes, Sir, although I was against his taking action without your approval.”

  “Well, it won’t be a problem again.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Sir.”

  “Pack up and get going. I’ll have your pay waiting for you at the door plus the price of a train ticket. Off you go.”

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked, forgetting to “sir” me.

  “Pack. Leave. You are not only dismissed, but dismissed from this house. Go. You are not employed here.”

  He rose, stiffly, and stalked away without a word. That suited me. Cleeve struck me as the sort who wouldn’t lift a finger to save his grandmother from the ravenous bugblatter beast of Traal without orders, but he might not insist they be signed in triplicate. There’s a big difference between a man who shows initiative—and takes responsibility for it—and a man who only does as he’s told.

  Graves came in as Cleeve exited.

  “Yes, Graves?”

  “I anticipated you might wish to see me, Sir, for one reason or another.”

  “Good man. Couple of questions, first. How old are you?”

  “Old enough to know my duties, Sir, and not yet too infirm to fulfill them.”

  “Well said. And what do you think of Cleeve?”

  “It is not my place to say, Sir.”

  “The door is closed, we’re alone, and I’ve asked your opinion. I don’t care if it’s your place to say.”

  “Very good, Sir. Cleeve is not, in my opinion, a butler. He is a lackey. While his training may allow him to pose as a butler, his character is such I would not trust him as a bootblack.”

  “Thank you, Graves. And Jarvis?”

  “Jarvis is butler material, Sir, but he is not, I feel, sufficiently experienced to take responsibility for a household as unusual as this one promises to be.”

  “It does seem to be shaping up that way,” I agreed. “Jarvis is only… what? Twenty-five?”

  “I believe he is twenty-three years of age, Sir.”

  “All right. Graves, I’d like you to take over as head butler. You be in charge. Train Jarvis until you feel you’re ready to let him take over, then you can retire here as the Butler Emeritus or something and continue to give advice while Jarvis runs the place. And I’m asking for your opinion, Graves, not laying down the law. What do you think of this arrangement?”

  “I am to determine when I should retire from the post?”

  “Yes. Then you can stay on indefinitely as an honored guest of the estate.”

  Graves’ eyebrows rose slightly—a greater expression of surprise than I expected, given his demeanor.

  “I believe it will be eminently satisfactory to all parties, Sir.”

  “Good. I’m expecting some documents in the mail—I mean, ‘the post’—and I’d like them left in the basket outside the door to my personal chambers. In the meantime, how much money do you
need to cover any debts, wages, or other expenses?”

  “I have discussed the matter with Mrs. Gillespie, Sir, since she currently controls the purse strings. The Hall is not yet in debt, as such, but certain bills are about to come due. It is not an issue with the merchants in the village and town. I am assured by all parties that it is an honor to extend credit to the Squire of Applewood Hall. Nonetheless, at our last accounting, we will require forty-three pounds or thereabouts. Mrs. Gillespie is most upset by this overspending, Sir, since you only recently enlarged the household budget.”

  “Make her feel better, please.” I opened a drawer in the desk and fished out a stack of five-pound notes. “Here. I’ll go over the books later. Right now, keep the Hall afloat.”

  “It will be my pleasure, Sir.”

  “I’ve also sent word to various money men. Their replies are in some of the documents I’m expecting in the post. I’ll need you to go over them with me and to sign some, accepting authorization to spend money on behalf of the Hall. I don’t know how such things are supposed to be done, but you do. Will that be a problem?”

  “I believe I can accept the responsibility in good conscience, Sir.”

  “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear it.”

  I spoke to the well-dressed foreman of the workmen, a Mister Hammond, to make arrangements for supply deliveries. He seemed surprised when I expected everyone to stay on and continue building.

  “I was under the impression we were only to build the one structure?”

  “What? One? No, no, no! Obviously, I haven’t gone over this well enough.” I produced the plans for the whole school campus. His eyebrows rose. If was the sort to wear a monocle, it would have fallen out.

  “I was not informed of the… extensive nature of the job,” he said, quietly. “I… Mister Kearne, my firm is quite capable of building any building you want. But you want,” he counted quickly, “sixteen buildings, not counting sheds and the like, and none of them small. It will take time, sir, and lots of it, for a little firm like ours.”

  “I apologize. I’ve been a bit rushed and I’m not used to it. Would it help if I had some additional labor brought in? Irish, Scottish, even American?”