focused on both it and the struggle to move forward. He
finally drew it to him, lifted it to his throat, and sent it through
the air.
Nargoth !
The room shook. Carter gasped and clutched his temple as
a searing agony stabbed into his forehead. Momentarily, he
could neither breathe nor see. When the world swam again
into focus, he saw the Word had failed, and the failure brought
him to his knees.
“That which is opened by starlight is not so easily
contained!” the poetess cried. “Why do you fight me? Give in.
Give in.”
Phra seized Carter’s arm, steadying him until he could
regain his feet.
A noise, louder than the battle, thundered out of the
stairwell. Some disturbance had arisen behind the advancing
anarchists. Carter did not have time to see more, as bullets fell
thick around the company, forcing him to press close to the
shield.
Inch by inch they drew within a foot of the poetess, who
stood implacable. Carter saw her with minute clarity: the green
robe, the stitches of the sun sewn upon it; the green mist
covering most of her face, leaving glimpses of hair or cheek or
eye. A tiny lizard pendant, the same green as her garment,
stared out with black, unwinking eyes from her collar. She
held her hands up, palm outward, trembling as if she could
scarcely contain the power.
Carter stepped from behind Phra’s shield and struck with
his Lightning Sword. An emerald, rectangular barrier appeared
in the air between him and his adversary, blocking the stroke.
Phra attacked from the other side, and the barrier parried
again.
“I am not so easily taken,” she exulted. “I am the spring,
and you, the fading winter. Yield to the glories of the new
season.”
Carter drew back his arm and delivered a thunderous blow
against the barrier. The noise of it reverberated through the
chamber. Lightning licked its surface, but it held.
“Lady Hantish!” one of the anarchists shouted. “We are
attacked from below.”
Carter thrust against the barrier again, his sword’s energies
crackling across its surface. A tiny fissure appeared in one
corner.
“Phra, we must strike together,” Lord Anderson said.
The astronomer nodded.
The two men lifted their blades. Bullets sliced the air
around Carter’s head as he made his play.
They struck as one, starlight and lightning pouring from
their swords. The barrier broke into shards, leaving the poetess
clasping her empty hands. The mist around her face withdrew,
revealing eyes filled with a tormented fever.
“Fools!” she cried, her voice a puzzled agony. “I could
have given you the stars!”
They struck again, both together, cutting her down.
With the Black Beast at his back, Doctor Armilus crawled
on hands and knees along a dusty passage angling ever
upward, so narrow he struggled at times to squeeze his great
frame through. He brushed aside thick cobwebs woven by
black widow spiders.
An abominable end that would be, he considered, The
Supreme Anarchist slain by half a thimble’s worth of poison,
body never found, carcass left to rot in a secret passage.
Where’s the drama in that? Glad I thought to bring my gloves.
He thumped a spider from the center of her web, brushed
aside the filaments, and crushed her with the butt of his pistol.
The Book of Lore had revealed secret passages so old, even the
Masters had forgotten them. In all likelihood, this particular
way had never before been used. It would allow the doctor to
bypass the stair leading into the Central Astronomy Tower,
and take him past the Main Observation Hall into the upper
chambers.
Like much of what Armilus did, this was a gamble. Lord
Anderson could sense that there were secret corridors in the
Tower, and might have used the Word of Secret Ways to reveal
them so he could set sentries to keep watch. If so, and if the
guards were not too numerous, Armilus would try to eliminate
them. He hoped it would not come to gunplay, however. So
lacking in finesse.
He came to a spyhole. Peering through it, he saw an empty
corridor. A latch opened a hidden door in the paneling, and he
rolled nimbly to his feet, gun at the ready. The Black Beast
came to the opening, sniffed the air, and hopped down. The
pair proceeded along the passage, which intersected a hallway.
Down the length of this passage, Armilus heard the distant
sounds of combat.
He paused, momentarily confused. According to his
infallible memory of the maps he had studied, there should not
be a corridor at this point. It took him only an instant to
realize, with a shock, that this was one created by the poets.
He studied it. Both the walls and ceiling were carved oak,
with scarab beetles, lizards, snatches of poetry, and runes
throughout. Lambent light from tall braziers fell golden upon
the boards, making the entire lane shimmer like a heat-mirage.
He frowned, and as had become his habit, addressed the
beast. “Magnificent! This took enormous power. Our
opponents are immeasurably strong.”
Fortunately, none of the poet’s people were at this end of
the passage, else it might have ruined his plan. As it was, he
wondered how it would affect the counter-attack Heit Nizzle
was currently leading. A company of the doctor’s followers
should already be engaging the rear guard of the poetry forces
charging up the Central Tower stair. Neither Armilus, nor Lord
Anderson for that matter, could have anticipated the poets
creating a second front.
Armilus grimaced. He would have preferred to lead the
attack himself, especially considering that Nizzle, having
traveled all night to bring the doctor the iron box of
Dimension, was exhausted. But Armilus could depend on the
man; the devils that drove the count would never allow him to
do less than his best. Besides, the business at hand required a
certain boldness, a bit of flair. He couldn’t be everywhere at
once.
The beast growled, and Armilus shook his head to clear it.
He must hurry if his plans were to go well. It had been a risky
business from the start, menacing Lord Anderson’s son,
draining the man’s resources when he desperately needed to
stop the Poetry Men. The fanatics were the dangerous variable,
one the doctor had underestimated at the beginning, even as he
had used their threat to obtain The Book of Lore . But shifts in
power between factions always suggested opportunities for
advancement, and if Armilus could succeed in his plan, he
would be able to nullify both the Master and the poets. Even if
he failed, his truce with Anderson could not but help the
anarchist cause. Flexibility was so important in such
circumstances.
Despite the echoing gunshots and the cries of the wounded
&
nbsp; and dying, he strode past the poets’ corridor with almost
casual calm, until he stood before a large painting of nymphs
frolicking in a wood. Depressing the bottom corners of the gilt
frame caused it to pop open, revealing another secret passage.
With the beast at his heels, he slipped inside and closed the
door behind him, walling himself into absolute darkness.
After a bit of fumbling he struck a match, revealing a small
chamber with a wooden ladder leading upward. As he began
his ascent, the beast followed by transforming its paws into
hands. Armilus mentally added this previously unknown talent
to his list of facts concerning the creature.
The match burned his fingers before he was halfway up the
rungs, causing him to growl and fling it away, but having
already spied a circular trapdoor overhead, he did not light
another. It lifted with the turn of a handle. He had to contort
his frame to force his bulk through the narrow opening into the
upper room where Carter and Phra had looked at the stars.
After giving a cursory glance at the glass dome with the
three-dimensional star field, he withdrew from his jacket
pocket a small magnifying mirror, the iron box from the
Quadrangle of Angles, and a silk handkerchief adroitly
removed through the charms of the Contessa du Maurier from
the vaults of a minor prince of Moomuth Kethorvian. After
studying the room, he recognized the required mechanism, a
telescope of unusual design, with four sets of eye-pieces. He
scanned his memory for the list of operating instructions from
The Book of Lore , and after several moments of meticulous
fiddling, found the star he sought, a blue sun in Arcturus.
Using the mirror, he reflected the starlight from the lens onto
the silk handkerchief. Where the image touched the cloth, it
glowed the same color as the star. For precisely two minutes,
as judged by his pocket-watch, he allowed the rays to fall upon
the silk. He placed the handkerchief within the iron box of
Dimension, realigned the telescope to its former settings, and
hastily returned the mirror and box to his pocket.
The beast gave a low growl. Turning, he discovered two
women at the doorway. One he assumed to be the
astronomer’s wife; the other—Lizbeth Anderson—he had seen
years ago.
“Who are you?” the taller woman demanded. “What are
you doing here?”
“Ah,” Armilus said, touching his hand to his bowler. “You
must be Blodwen Phra.”
“I am.”
“Allow me to present my card,” the doctor reached into his
pocket and produced his pistol. “It is not my inclination to kill
women; however, in this particular case, unless I am permitted
to leave, I must make an exception.”
Blodwen stepped between the doctor and Lizbeth. “Pass
then. Whatever you have done, my husband will ensure you
answer for it.”
Armilus gave a slight bow while the animal at his feet
growled. “No, beast,” the doctor ordered. “These are too
lovely to be slain, and it makes no difference whether Lord
Anderson knows I was here. We have a pact.”
The hound whined in its longing to destroy, and with some
satisfaction Armilus noted the fear the creature brought to the
women’s eyes—its dreadful darkness, its horribly intelligent
gaze, its musky scent filling the room. They would have a
story to tell, at least.
Gun raised, Armilus led the animal past the women toward
the trap door. The beast growled again, as if in prelude to an
attack.
“No!” Armilus cried, so violently both Lizbeth and
Blodwen jumped. “I said no ! You cannot have these! It fits no
plan of mine.”
The creature slunk to the doctor’s feet. He opened the trap
door and ordered it down.
“Adieu, good ladies,” he said.
“How did you know of that door?” Blodwen asked.
Armilus gave a slight smile. “Wonderful, the things you
can learn by reading. Good evening.”
He exited, pulling the door closed behind him, hurrying
down the rungs in case the women found a weapon to use
against him.
When he stepped out of the secret panel, back into the
corridor, the sounds of battle had died away, leaving only the
noise of the wounded and of soldiers crying orders. Not
wishing to be seen without his followers to support him, he
ignored the corridor created by the poets and followed the
secret passage to the small room below the Main Observation
Hall, where he found Nizzle, haggard and triumphant, giving
orders to another anarchist.
“Doctor!” Nizzle cried, in high exultation. “You have
arrived. Excellent! We caught them between our forces and
Lord Anderson’s, exactly as you planned. Both poets were
slain. The Radicals did not surrender as logical men would
have done, but fought to the very last, shouting snatches of
poetry and incoherent slogans. It was a magnificent slaughter.
We are preparing to depart to avoid any difficulties with the
White Circle Guard, who may lack the proper degree of
gratitude.”
“Wait. There is someone upstairs I want to see. Come
along.”
“Is this wise?” Heit Nizzle asked, following behind. At his
gesture a handful of anarchists joined them.
Upon reaching the chamber above, Armilus called across
the room. “Ah, there. Master Anderson!”
“Doctor,” Nizzle protested. “The Master himself! We—”
Armilus raised his hand for silence. “Be calm. Keep your
place.”
Lord Anderson turned and approached the anarchists.
Immediately, several members of the White Circle Guard took
positions around him. The doctor strolled leisurely toward
him, halting only when they were ten paces apart.
“What do you want?” the Master asked.
Armilus gave his slight smile. “I trust your casualties were
low?”
“Much lower than they might have been.”
“We have been allies this day, Lord Anderson,” Armilus
said, “exactly as I told you. Seeing you standing there, I
cannot help but admire how imposing you look—tall,
dignified—so different from the young man who returned
from exile when I was but a junior member of the Council.”
“If you are looking for thanks, you will receive none.”
“Hah!” the doctor boomed. “Exactly right. We both
understand our own motives. I’m simply making an
observation. It seems to me that the anarchists have shaped
you. We haven’t meant to, but we have taken you through the
fire and produced fine work. Exactly the opposite of our
intentions.”
“I trust I have done the same for you.”
“Touchè. Worthy adversaries have that effect.”
“Do you have a point?”
“Only this. I did what I promised. Through it, we both
achieved victory. It is worth the sacrifice. Remember that. We
can be friends for a time.�
��
“We are never friends,” Anderson said.
Duskin appeared beside the Master, pistol raised, but Lord
Anderson pushed his wrist gently down.
“Carter,” Duskin said, “do you know who he is? This is
our chance!”
“This is not the time.”
“But—”
“No !” Lord Anderson said, lips taut.
Armilus gave a tight, satisfied smile.
“Remove yourself from the Tower of Astronomy,” the
Master ordered the doctor. “You have free passage. If any of
your men remain by the turning of the hour, they will be shot
on sight.”
The doctor placed his hand on his stomach and gave a half-
bow. “As you wish.” He turned to his followers. “Heit Nizzle,
assemble the men. Let us be off.”
The anarchists formed loose ranks and departed, Nizzle
hurrying them along with many a backward glance. Armilus
followed slowly behind, the Black Beast at his side.
He had enjoyed that small exchange. Besides reinforcing
Anderson’s promise, addressing the Master with familiarity
had raised the doctor’s prestige before his followers. It had
also placed a shade of suspicion on Anderson himself in the
eyes of his minions. One never knew when a slight detail like
that could pay off.
The doctor whistled off-key, then addressed the beast. “A
good day, overall. A very good day, though I think I must soon
find a way to kill one of these Poetry Men.”
“That … could … be … done,” the beast replied.
Armilus, eyes wide in amazement, hand suddenly
trembling, took a full minute before responding.
As soon as the anarchists had departed, Carter turned away
and nearly walked into Storyteller.
“Master Anderson.” The minstrel looked unusually grim.
“I saw you go down during the fight,” Carter said. “Are
you injured?”
“Not by any bullet. Like yourself, I am tuned to the
Balance. The appearance of the new corridor ran through me
like hot coals, but I am spry as a pup now.”
Carter studied the man’s face. A shadow of pain behind his
eyes suggested Jonathan was not as well as he pretended.
“It struck me hard as well,” Carter said. “I suppose being
aware of the Balance for so many centuries—”
“That’s right, Master Anderson, but there are always
troubles. Right now I am troubled by what the Supreme
Anarchist meant by his peacock gloating.”
Evenmere (The Evenmere Chronicles Book 3) Page 23