Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “I suppose so, but, the price we negotiated—”

  “—was for this building,” I interjected. “If I like your work—and so far, I do—you’ll have right of first refusal on the contract for the rest of them. But you seem to know your work, you organize well, and your workmen appear to be doing a quality job. I like it when they take pride in their craftsmanship. It makes me want to give them more work. And, I might add, the money and materials for it.”

  Hammond did a turn around the sprawling, grassy lawn, eyes flicking back and forth, measuring, weighing, calculating. He studied the blueprints and compared them to the property, lips pressed tightly together.

  “It shan’t be quick,” he told me.

  “There’s a saying,” I told him. “You can have it good, fast, and cheap—but you can only pick two. I’ll take ‘good’ and ‘fast.’ I’m not concerned about cheap. We can do this building by building, if you want, but I’d rather lay foundations for everything and build them all at once. Can you do it if I give you enough money to hire the men?”

  “I—I believe I can, but the men… there may not be many available—”

  “Feel free to use the house phone. I’ll let Graves know.”

  “Oh. Yes, you have a telephone, don’t you? That should help. I also need to look over these plans and study them. I can’t give you a solid answer until then.”

  “That’s fair. Graves is the head butler, by the way, so if I’m not around you can let him know.”

  “He’s the older one?”

  “That’s him,” I agreed. Hammond sighed, relieved.

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Glad to hear it.” We shook hands and he rolled up the blueprints.

  “Mister Kearne, may I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why do want everything made without iron? I mean, brass taps, copper pipes, bronze nails and screws… isn’t that expensive?”

  “It is. But it’s also fairy-friendly.”

  “You believe in fairies?” he asked, startled.

  “I didn’t say that. What you don’t understand is my father. He fell in love with this place. He claimed he saw fairies here and made me promise to always be respectful of them.” I shrugged. “Whether he really did or not is not for me to judge. He said he saw them and he said so for the rest of his life, so I’m sure he believed it. Now, he’s dead and buried, but I gave him my solemn word. What else can I do but honor it, and his memory? It’ll cost, but a man who doesn’t keep his word because it’ll cost him something doesn’t value it much.”

  Hammond nodded, silently. He tucked the blueprints into their tube and went off to shout at people.

  In Karvalen, I’d simply lay out a pattern and ask the mountain to grow something. Then it would only be a matter of time—days, weeks at most—and there it would be. Could I specify something like the bridge across the Averill or my void-ship dock and have it make a seed? A highly-charged brick, maybe, that would grow into the ground and form a solid foundation? I’m sure I could, but how do I explain such a thing? The buildings I want coincidentally happen to have bedrock foundations exactly where I want them? No, that won’t do.

  Could I blame it on the local fairies? They’re all asleep, or something, but if I pretend to ignorance and fail to deny rumors about fairy assistance, what would it hurt? Besides, I’m not going to stay here much longer. I just want to get a school built, children settled, and so on. It’s not like this place makes for a good Mad Scientist Hideout anymore. Admittedly, I do have a death ray, but still…

  Once they get foundations laid, maybe I can bring over some charged rock seeds and put them down. They can grow through and under the foundations, deepening and strengthening them, and maybe even join them up with underground tunnels. I’m a fan of underground stuff; it keeps the sun off my face. Students will appreciate it, too, especially when it rains.

  While I considered all this, James ran up to me. I waited while he caught his breath.

  “Jenny,” he gasped. He pointed toward the manor. I turned him that way and we walked while he kept breathing.

  “Take a minute. We’re moving, so take some time, breathe, and figure out what you want to say.”

  Eventually, he found enough breath to talk.

  “Jenny’s found a fairy!”

  “Oh? Did she? And where is this?”

  “Back of the carriage-house, near the football pitch!”

  Football? Ah. Soccer. I’m still learning to speak British.

  We walked back and found Jenny playing with two other little girls about her age—between four and six years, I’d say. They were sitting in a triangle and tossing petals from gillyflowers into the empty space between them.

  It wasn’t empty. Trixie danced in the air, fluttering back and forth. She lifted a petal higher, ate it, and zipped down to grab another before it touched the ground.

  “Look!” James demanded, pointing.

  “I’m looking. They’re playing with flowers, James. There’s nothing wrong with it as long as they don’t go ripping up Mr. Gillespie’s hard work.”

  “But the fairy!”

  “Do you see a fairy, James?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good. Why didn’t you see the fairy before?”

  “I—what?”

  “When you thought Jenny was going mad, as you put it. Or are you the one going mad?”

  “But I see it!” he insisted, gesturing with both hands.

  “So? Good for you. Do you think you owe Jenny an apology for doubting her?”

  “Ohhhhh,” he said, wonderingly. “Is that why you told me to go look?” I put my finger to my lips.

  “Not everyone can see them,” I added, softly. “Not even when you look for them. Sometimes, not even when they want to be seen.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t believe her.”

  “I’m sure you are. Tell Jenny that, not me. And be nice to your sister—and to the fairies, especially this one. Her name—well, the name she uses—is Trixie. She has a real name, but I can’t warble it properly, so we settled on ‘Trixie.’ Ask Mrs. Gillespie to tell you some stories, sometime, about the fairy-folk.”

  I left him with that thought and went to ask Mrs. Gillespie to tell me some stories. Where did I put my notebook?

  Mrs. Gillespie didn’t have time to indulge my interest in local folklore. The kitchen was busy as a broker’s office on Black Thursday, only with less jumping out of windows. She and her assistants were feeding not only the other staff, but the children and the workmen. That takes more work and organization than simply upscaling the family dinner.

  On the other hand, it did give me ideas on how to help. Later.

  I didn’t insist on a full interview. I just wanted her to cast a glance over the symbols I’d copied from the murder scene. She nodded, mouth set in a tight line.

  “Aye, I’ve seen these,” she agreed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Gran taught ’em to me. They’re for protection, mostly. It’s asking the fair folk to be merciful, and a way of warding off the ones less fair. Always begging your pardon, young master, but may I ask where you saw these?”

  “Down in town. There was a murder, I’m told, and these were on the garden wall and the house.”

  “I’ll not say I’m surprised,” she sniffed. “Heard about that, I did. A grisly thing and no mistake.”

  “So, these symbols,” I pressed, “they’re signs to the good fairies that you mean them well and don’t deserve their anger, while these others are warding signs to keep the not-so-nice fairies away?”

  “So they say, yes, so they do say.”

  “Well, that’s interesting. I’ve heard a rumor among the children there might be fairies around the manor. Is there anything we should do to make sure they’re good fairies?”

  Mrs. Gillespie was startled and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Oh, there might be one or two small things. I’ll take care of it, if you like.”

  “That would be w
onderful. And could you have a word with Mister Gillespie about the grass around the fountain, in the roundabout?”

  “Aye, young master, if you like. What word?”

  I tapped the page of my notebook.

  “If he’s planting flowers, maybe he could lay out some flowers in a design around the fountain?”

  “Oh, I think he might, yes, indeed!”

  “I leave it in your hands, Mrs. Gillespie.” She bobbed her head and hurried back to her work. Now she wouldn’t feel so bad about hiding her little fairy-friendly gestures.

  I wonder if I should tell her I already get along with Trixie? No, probably not. I’d hate to get a reputation as a wizard.

  One of the more pressing matters, to me, involved writing even more letters. Having known in advance the general gist of how and when the war was coming, my investments were already arranged. However, paying for a wartime boarding school was not in the original plans.

  In most worlds, Mary and I start our money-making arrangements using some sort of commodity. Usually, it’s diamonds or other gemstones, spell-and-technology-grown in Apocalyptica. Sometimes, we use gold and other precious metals that have only moderate utility, but exceptionally high value at the destination. Once we have ourselves established with mundane identities, we invest some of the money and turn it into more money. After a while, we’ve boosted the local economy enough to start buying things for Diogenes. Even worlds where they don’t make anything useful, they can usually still supply raw materials.

  Fonzarelli is a good example. Diogenes doesn’t have any use for the technology of the 1950’s. The chemists in Fonzarelli know what ruthenium and iridium are, along with most of the rare earth elements, but haven’t worked out a whole lot of applications for them. They may be expensive, but they can be bought, at least in smallish quantities. Diogenes is saved the effort and time of digging up or salvaging the stuff himself whenever Mary brings back even an ounce of refined metal.

  In The Manor, investing in things that would skyrocket during the war—munitions, steel, fuel, food, you name it—would turn a massive profit. In similar fashion, we can supply materials purchased in whole other universes and sell at a reasonable profit—not a “war scarcity” profit. Copper, silver, and other “war metals” were cheap in Harper Valley, Fonzarelli, New London, even in Niedrigerstaat, but extremely dear in Manor, at present. After the war, buying raw materials would be simple and relatively cheap. The technology to produce them would be better developed.

  But the key in all places is to never be one of the big dogs. Huge corporations, mega-wealthy individuals—both attract attention from the people in charge and from the people who want a slice. Being massively rich is good, but being moderately rich and unnoticed is better. This limits the scope of our activities in any given world, but we walk a fine line between helping Diogenes and being inconspicuous while doing it.

  First, I needed a trust fund for The Manor. Something conservative and reliable to provide the estate with a steady income. Then some liquid capital to build the place up. Articles of incorporation to turn it into a private school, certifications, inspections, all the bureaucratic crap governments love to throw in the path of people trying to do something decent.

  My London lawyer was going to be busy. So were bankers on two continents.

  But, dammit, the school is all I’m going to do. I am not getting involved in this war!

  With my correspondence stacked, sealed, and ready for the mail—darn it, the post! It’s the post, not the mail!—ready for the post, I finally had some time to mind my own business instead of the business of the manor.

  What was I working on? Oh, right. The magical circuitry of a virtual power circle. Right. Time to see if I can improve on the third-generation prototype! If we install these things around specific areas, we can raise the magical concentration instead of just dumping power. Diogenes could have one in his main processor room and reduce the power requirement in his electromagical transformer. Another could go around the residence area. We probably need one for the fusion plant, too. It’ll raise the effective efficiency of the electromagical transformers and cut down on their power requirements.

  It’s a little bit like the difference between a stream-fed swimming hole and a swimming pool. The stream feeds into the swimming hole and flows out again. It takes a constant flow to do that. But the swimming pool holds a fixed amount of water, requiring only the occasional top-up from losses.

  Not my best metaphor, admittedly, but I think it gets the point across.

  Now here’s a new thought. Can I project one? Instead of centering it on the circuit board, can I aim it at a point, set a radius of action, and place it around that point? I could fire the thing up in my study, aim it at the fountain, and surround it with an invisible sphere of magical energy. Couldn’t I?

  Sounds like a nice puzzle. I’ll give it a try.

  The Manor, Thursday, October 12th, 1939

  I came out of my shower stall after the sunset, dressed, and heard this high-pitched, intermittent buzzing. At first, I thought it was some sort of flying insect. It was too rhythmic, though. I followed it, homing in on the sound, and found Trixie in her little home, asleep, curled up on her bed, cocooned in her wings amid a pile of flower petals.

  Trixie snores. It reminds me of the whirring whine of a tiny electric motor switched on and off. Well, she had finally has children to play with. I guess she has a right to be tired.

  Anyway, that was last night. My day started at dawn, as usual.

  Graves knocked on my sanctum door and I let him in. He had the morning post, today’s newspaper, and breakfast, all on a tray. I sat down and he placed everything on the table before me.

  “Anything happening in the house?”

  “Nothing of consequence, Sir. There are some questions among the staff regarding the new building.”

  “Such as?”

  “The question of servants’ quarters and such. May I ask who is to be housed in the new quarters?”

  “Graves, if we’re alone, I expect you to ask about pretty much everything. The new quarters are, hopefully, going to be teachers’ quarters—the manor is going to be the central building in a campus. Other buildings will be classrooms, an indoor gymnasium, and a bunch of other things, all surrounding Applewood Hall as the centerpiece. The servants will continue to live in the Hall and, eventually, the children will be mostly relocated to dormitories. For the duration of the war, however, we will have quite a number of guests too young to be put in a dorm, so we’ll be making do.”

  “Very good, Sir. May I ask your intentions regarding the juxtaposition of a school with the manor?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Is the manor to be a household, Sir? Or will it become an administrative center for a school?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “To the servants, Sir, the distinction is of vital importance.”

  “The manor will be a house. I may have considerable business conducted on the premises, but it is a house, first and foremost. I expect the servants to treat any student or teacher as a guest, not a resident. Although, just to be clear, I hope I may rely on the butlers of Applewood to always give the students a perfect example of decorum, dignity, and propriety, one they can reflect upon during their time here and learn from.”

  “I will see to it, Sir.”

  “Thank you, Graves. Now, is there anything that needs to be done to the Hall, itself? I know I had someone tasked to improve the water heaters and the electric lights. Do we need anything added to the servants’ quarters?”

  “Some additional heating would be very welcome, Sir, as well as electric lights.”

  “What? They don’t have electric lights?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Graves, I want this whole place—servants’ quarters, guest rooms, water closets, the works—brought up to speed with modern times. Tell Hammond I said so. I want to walk into any room in the Hall and flip a switch for light. I want to go
into any water closet and be able to flush, then wash my hands in hot water at the sink. And if there’s a room where it gets cold enough to freeze at night, we’ll either need an air duct for heat or a heater, whichever seems more feasible. Clear?”

  “Very clear, Sir.”

  “But emphasize to him I want the artistic and stylistic qualities of the Hall preserved wherever possible. I like the wainscoating and the plasterwork. I’d rather they weren’t harmed, but if they have to be, they need to be replaced.”

  “Of course, Sir. I will communicate your wishes.”

  “You know, I’m not too sure whether you approve or not. It’s hard to tell. Do you deliberately have a deadpan delivery, or is it just the way you speak?”

  “An interesting question, Sir. In my former employ, it was expected I would carry out my duties regardless of my personal opinions.”

  “Well, I’m an American and I’m doubtless going to do tons of improper things on any given day. I think I’ll rely on your sense of propriety while I’m in residence. If anything I’m doing—or failing to do—might be regarded as rude or impolite, please let me know.”

  “As you wish, Sir.”

  “And, as you’ve doubtless heard, there is a mistress of Applewood Hall.”

  “I have heard gossip to that effect, Sir.”

  “By and large, I believe she’ll be staying in Maryport when she’s in the country,” I added, quietly. It gave me a good excuse to be away from the place for longer periods. “Do you think that will be adequate to preserve at least the appearance of… what’s the word?”

  “Propriety, Sir? Yes.”

  “Good. Let me know if I’m being an uncultured barbarian, please. I may not know any better. Anything else I need to cover?”

  “There are a number of individuals wishing to make appointments for various reasons of their own.”

  “Such as?”

  “Mister Hammond was on the telephone well into the evening, Sir, and wishes to discuss with you the campus. Professor Blake wishes to entertain some matters of education and policy. A Councilman Weatheral would like to consult with you regarding the welfare of yet more children.”