him, Lord Anderson, perhaps fingering this while giving
commands that would change the course of the battle.
Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Truly extraordinary,” Carter said, while Mr. Hope nodded
gravely.
To the Master’s relief, before the bosun could launch too
far into the details of his hobby, Nuth returned hefting a heavy,
black book.
“Here it is, sir.”
“Ah, good.” Seizing the volume, L’Marius consulted the
index and thumbed his way deep into the pages. He glanced
up, beaming, his nose red with delight.
“It seems I’m still navigator enough to steer my way
through the shoals of my memory. This may be exactly what
you want! An extraordinary tale. Let me see. Let me see.”
He scanned the page. “According to this, over six centuries
ago, during the captaincy of Pilot Lessingham, John Kenton
was the Master of Evenmere. Though renowned for saving the
house during the Great Famine, Kenton was so overwhelmed
by his responsibilities he refused to marry, believing he had no
time for a family. He lived in terror of perishing prematurely
without passing his knowledge to his successor. Apparently his
butler was unreliable as well. At that time, some scholars
working out of the Mere were trying to catalog all the
knowledge of the house. Driven by obsession, Kenton gave
them maps of the Secret Ways. He told the uses of the Master
Keys, the location of the doors of Darkness and Entropy—all
the secret lore save the Seven Words of Power. The scholars
inscribed the information in a book and gave it into the
keeping of the Pilot of the Mere.”
“Dangerous knowledge, indeed,” Carter said.
“Shortly thereafter, the Master perished, as Masters
sometimes do. The new Master must have seen some use in
the book, for he sealed it in its hiding place with a Word of
Power, where it has remained ever since.”
“Does the account indicate the book’s location?” Mr. Hope
asked.
L’Marius placed his finger on a line of text. “It is a place
deep within the swamp.”
“Swamp?” Hope asked.
L’Marius strode to the map of the Mere. “The Mere is
divided into four quarters. The Cozy Rooms, where we are
now, are situated in the South and West. If you travel east or
north, you find The Waters. Journey far enough into The
Waters, and you reach the Thought Marsh. Beyond the marsh
is the underground sea, and beyond that none know. The Mere
has many unexplored regions, places even I daren’t go except
from dire necessity.”
“The Thought Marsh.” Hope said. “An odd name. Is it
really a marsh?”
“Indeed,” L’Marius replied. “No one knows how it got its
title, but there is an old saying that if you are lost in Thought
in the Mere of Books, you are lost in a real place.”
“Sounds like a dreadful pun,” Carter said. “Can you take
us to the book?”
L’Marius gave a grin. “Am I not the Bosun of the Mere? I
know the swamp better than any save the pilot himself. We can
go at once, if you’d like. I’ll have Nuth ready a boat. I only
wish I had time to show you more of my button collection.”
“Perhaps on our next visit,” Carter suggested.
They finished their tea and set out. L’Marius led them
through winding corridors lined with every sort of book, going
deeper into the Mere, finally following narrow, ill-lit passages.
Carpet gave way to cobblestone floors, wood paneling turned
to rough-hewn stones that made the corridor seem a cave. The
hollow echoes of the men’s footfalls fluttered between the
walls. A brackish odor filled the air. The bookcases were also
of stone, with shelves starting three feet off the floor.
After a full hour the passage began sloping downward, and
the travelers soon found Nuth waiting beneath the dull green
flames of a gas lamp, water glistening at his feet. A red boat,
scarcely larger than a canoe, lay by his side. The boy leaned
against a wall, reading a pamphlet. Noticing the travelers, he
quickly returned the tract to its place on the shelf.
“Is she prepared, lad?” L’Marius asked.
“Aye, sir. I’ve waders for each of you and a lunch basket at
the stern.”
As the men donned the heavy wading boots, Nuth lit a
lantern hanging from a pole at the boat’s bow and released the
vessel from its moorings. Despite his girth, L’Marius stepped
easily into the boat. Carter and Hope followed less gracefully,
their weight making the vessel stammer.
“Shall I come to row, sir?” Nuth asked.
“Not necessary, my lad,” the bosun replied. “I’ve stroked
many a mile. Let the second-mate know where I am gone,
though, so he doesn’t fret. A fretful man, the second-mate.”
“Aye, sir. And is that all, sir?”
“Hmm? Ah, just this,” L’Marius reached into his pocket
and tossed a coin the boy’s way. “A bit of reward for a job
well done.”
“Thank you, sir!” Nuth called enthusiastically, leaping
away up the passage.
Taking the oars from their locks, the bosun propelled the
boat with even strokes. The lantern’s glow revealed the rough
walls to either side, but beyond the circle of illumination the
water before the travelers lay in absolute darkness. The noise
of the oars echoed between the walls.
“I didn’t expect this ,” Hope said softly. “And see, there
are still bookshelves on both sides.”
“Mostly grim volumes here,” L’Marius said, “though none
so loathsome as those within the marsh itself, where you can
find not just the Krankenhammer and The Book of Eibon , but
the dreaded companion volume to The King in Yellow: Regrets
of the King . The Pilot carries a scar on his left thumb, seared
there from merely touching its spine.”
“Books housed in darkness with water all around?” Mr.
Hope asked. “How do they survive?”
“Through the work of the Book Dryers, whose task is to
preserve the publications within the Waters. We’ll probably
see one of their boats. But they handle only the volumes
outside the marsh; those within do not require any care, even if
men courageous enough to grasp them could be found. They
sustain themselves. ’Tis said the anarchists gained much of
their power reading those books.”
“Why not move them to a better place?” Carter asked.
“The Mere of Books isn’t like that, you see,” L’Marius
said. “It was above-ground in the beginning, a white-marble
fountain and pool surrounded by the library. Well-lit, no
darkness anywhere. ’Twas the darkness of men’s minds
created the marsh, and the books gravitate to the part of the
library that suits ’em.”
The walls abruptly fell away from the range of the lantern,
and the changing echoes told the men they had entered a large
cavern. The roof, now lower, was
visible in the lantern light.
“This is the actual Mere,” L’Marius said.
“Are all the books of a disturbing nature?” Mr. Hope
asked.
“Oh, no. There are lots of mysteries and adventure novels,
things like that. Some good reading, long as you don’t fare too
far into the marsh.”
“There are forces at work around us,” Carter said, the hairs
on the back of his arms standing up. “Chaos and Order, and—
most especially—Entropy. It is very strong here. The Mere has
more to do with the Balance than I ever imagined.”
“The human spirit,” L’Marius said, “that’s what it’s about.
Cities and countries, physical objects—these are ephemeral.
Words and ideas, they have a tangible reality. When towers
tumble, the words remain. Troy is gone, but Homer lives on.”
Carter glanced at the bosun. Sitting at the oarlocks, gazing
into the darkness, the man seemed more bard than sailor.
They soon spied a Book Dryers’ tubby craft, brightly lit
with seven orange lanterns, crewed by ten dryers in gloves,
helmets, and yellow slickers. As the vessel slipped slowly
along the wall, the dryers removed the books one at a time,
working in assembly-line fashion, the last man replacing each
volume on the shelf.
“I would like to see the process more closely,” Mr. Hope
said.
“I fear I am pressed for time,” the bosun said, giving a
careless wave to the members of the crew. “Other duties
require my attention. But perhaps if our mission goes well, we
can stop on our return.”
“It must be a miserable job,” Carter said, “spending so
much time in the dark.”
“It is oppressive, and their duties require deep
concentration. Theirs is a battle against Chaos. A book must
never be lost to the waters. They work in shifts, each man
laboring only every other day, three days per week, and are
well compensated.”
To quicken their pace, Mr. Hope manned an extra set of
oars, and thereafter he and Carter took turns rowing. The water
remained still, a stagnant, reeking pool. Moss hung along the
walls and from the stone roof. They passed intersecting
channels and followed tributaries of varying widths, twisting
and forking in many directions. Even with the help of his inner
maps, it would require hours of study for Carter to make sense
of it, yet the bosun navigated with obvious ease.
Black trees appeared, like cypress but with slimy leaves
white as mushrooms. Pale tangles of vegetation protruded
from cracks in the walls. Carter wondered how they survived
without sunlight. Featherless, eyeless birds, large as pelicans,
flapped silently between the branches.
“We are in the Thought Marsh now,” the bosun said.
“Keep your hands out of the water. The serpents are
poisonous.”
“Have I mentioned my dread of snakes?” Mr. Hope asked,
peering suspiciously along the gunnels.
“You wanted an adventure,” Carter replied.
“I want nothing serpentine. Is this the sort of thing you
normally do when you travel?”
“At times. The house is full of strange places. But I will be
glad to be done with this one. I don’t like the feel of it.”
“Perhaps I have undervalued the importance of research,”
the butler said. “I would prefer to be back in my office just
now; but I suppose I’m breaking some unspoken rule,
speaking of my terror. I will try to refrain.”
“There’s the spirit,” Carter said, giving an encouraging
smile. “An out-thrust jaw and a brave stance—you’ll feel
better for it.”
Inwardly, Carter felt no more courageous than his friend.
The darkness was nearly complete, though a foreboding glow,
like will-o-’the-wisps, danced in the distance. The only sounds
were the slapping oars and the unsteady drip of water from the
overhanging trees, a sticky dew that covered the travelers’
faces and garments.
As they moved farther into the marsh, a green scum
appeared upon the water, which the boat parted in its passing.
Bloated, bone-pale lily pads dotted the surface; blood-eyed
frogs peered between pallid rushes. Fire-flies, emitting a
ghostly green glow, drifted above the pool. Stinging gnats
swarmed the men’s faces, forcing Carter and Hope to
constantly defend themselves. The bosun, protected by an
ointment offensive to the creatures, gave no heed; nor did he
apologize for failing to provide protection for his guests, but
kept up a good-humored chatter about the marsh’s
eccentricities. With some irritation, Carter realized the man
was enjoying detailing its dangers.
Four oppressive hours later, they stopped rowing long
enough to eat a cheerless meal of cold beef and bread. After
swallowing a dozen of the gnats covering the food, Carter
tossed the remainder into the marsh, where something
immediately pulled it beneath the surface. Mr. Hope followed
suit, while L’Marius ate his with a good appetite.
“Adds protein, my good fellows,” the bosun said. “Adds
protein.”
They rowed on, Lord Anderson and Mr. Hope miserably
hungry, L’Marius humming a tune.
At last they came to a stone pillar rising from the water,
etched with the crest of the Inner Chambers: a triple-towered
castle with an armored hand wielding a sword rising from the
topmost turret. Beneath, half-hidden by moss, were inscribed
the words Gainsay Who Dare . The men rowed to an
embankment facing the edifice, which proved to be a stone
pier obscured by vegetation. L’Marius lit a second lantern, and
they scrambled onto the pier. Beyond it stood a granite door
with a rusty lock.
“I haven’t a key for that,” Carter said.
“I do,” the bosun said, withdrawing a large ring of keys
from his pocket. The lock turned remarkably easily, but it took
the strength of all three men to open the heavy door, and even
then they could draw it back only a few inches. Fetid air, the
scent of a crypt, struck Carter full in the face.
L’Marius led the way, forcing his bulk through the
opening. “This way, gentlemen.”
They stepped through a passage into a rectangular
chamber, also of stone, bare save for another door against the
far wall. Carter could feel energy emanating from the door,
warm as a flame against his face, a force which could only
have been created by a Word of Power.
“You were right,” Lord Anderson said. “This door is
sealed.”
“Can you get inside?”
“The question is, do I want to?”
“Isn’t that why you came?” L’Marius asked.
“Perhaps not. Since we now know the door is secured, our
best course may be to leave it alone.”
“Assuming the Poetry Men have no way to open it,” the
bosun said. “You said they’d discovered a new source of
power.”
“It would take pow
er indeed to overcome the Word Which
Seals.”
“I’m merely a bosun,” L’Marius replied, “ignorant of the
high matters of the Master, but I know there are many forms of
energy within Evenmere, and I give the devil his due. Evil can
be powerful.”
“There is another consideration,” Mr. Hope said.
“You’re thinking what I am,” Carter said. “You and I have
faced what Master Kenton most feared. Both my father and the
previous butler died without passing on the Master’s
knowledge.”
“If we had the book,” Hope said, “we wouldn’t always be
struggling to uncover the mechanisms of the house. It might
supply information that could mean the difference between life
and death.”
“We should at least investigate,” Carter said. “I suggest
you step out of the room, gentlemen, while I unseal these
doors. The manifestation of one of the Words can be
dangerous.”
After his companions departed, Carter closed his eyes,
seeking within himself with practiced ease, bringing his
concentration to bear. Gradually, the Word Which Seals, which
can also be used to unseal, rose from the darkness behind his
eyelids, the letters burning with fire in his mind’s eye. The
Word grew until it loomed before him, its heat pulsing against
his brow. He brought it to his throat, poising it there, releasing
it only when he could hold it no longer.
Nargoth !
It roared from his lips, filling the entire chamber. He felt
the seal on the door resist, then quaver and break.
He opened his eyes. A moment later, the bosun peered
cautiously into the room.
“Are you well, Lord Anderson? It sounded like the whole
world’s cannons firing at once.”
Carter swayed unsteadily. Sweat beaded his brow. “The
level of released power is variable according to the need. That
was a … particularly strong display.”
“It was, indeed,” Mr. Hope said, squeezing back into the
room behind the bosun. “You’ve cowed the entire swamp.”
“No more than I cowed myself. I’ve never tried to break
another Master’s seal before. Proof the Words of Power exist
outside the wielder’s will. Whoever secured the door may be
long dead; the Word he used isn’t. I think I should enter by
myself.”
“We can’t desert you now,” L’Marius said.
“Your bravery is appreciated, but there are times the
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 5