The High House (29 page)

Then Spridel spoke of the history of his race, and his pride in them made his speech long, so that he told of histories and legends, pointing out their depictions on the Kingdom Carving, and to Carter his words were sorrowful, for Kitinthim had been a Power once upon a time, but had fallen into disrepair over the years, as is the way of the kingdoms of men.

He ended with the story of Ithril, the last king of Kitinthim, who fought the Dark Beast and vanished thereafter. “He was the greatest of all his line. The legends say he will return someday and renew Kitinthim, raising it to a grand state once more, and he will make alliances with the Master of the house, and Kitinthim will be part of the White Circle as it was in the days of my grandfather’s father’s youth. But it’s only a tale. Some of the people still cling to it, and perhaps because of it, my guild is still given honor, for we control the palace. And on New Year’s Day, we all stand at the top of the White Stairs, light seven candles, and pray for his return.”

“Why do you do it,” Duskin asked, “if you don’t believe the legends?”

Spridel cocked one eye. “Well, it doesn’t hurt anything, after all. And it would be nice if he did come back. It would be real nice.”

“So you are the ruler of this country?” Carter asked.

Spridel gave a broad wave of his hand. “If one could call it that. I am guild leader for the polishers, and the dust-men answer to me. I live in the palace and my wife and I sleep in the chamber beside the old king’s room. If there is a quarrel I am called upon to solve it, and I negotiate for what we need. They don’t respect me much, of course, and we are few, but I am as much a leader as they need.”

“Bring me a sheet of paper,” Carter said.

Spridel raised an eyebrow, but called to Drath, and a rough-bound notebook was produced. Carter took it, and wrote with careful hand the words:
I, Carter Anderson, son of Ashton, who was Master of the High House, and I the Steward after him, do make covenant with Spridel, acting Lord of Kitinthim, and declare he and all his people friends of the Inner Chambers. I vow to do all within my power to return Kitinthim to the ranks of the White Circle, and I confer to him the title of Baron of Kitinthim in the absence of the true king.
Carter signed the document with a flourish, had Duskin witness it, and handed it over to Spridel.

The man looked the writing over slowly, irony and amusement on his face. “Why, thank you,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “It appears I have entertained angels, and starving ones at that.”

“We may seem like vagabonds,” Carter said, “but I would keep that safe.”

Spridel shrugged, still smiling, and stowed the paper in the inner pocket of his jacket. “In the old days it is said the Master came to Kitinthim often, and our kings sat as equals in conference with him, for our country was the bulwark of the defense of Evenmere, and no stranger crossed the northern hallways without our leave. Those were glorious times, but we won’t see them again. If you are ready, I will escort you to the border and set you on your way.”

Seeing the man remained unconvinced, Carter said no more, and Spridel led them along winding hallways for another hour, until at last he brought them to a gray door with a knob cast in the shape of a bear’s head.

“Beyond this door is the ring of the White Circle. Follow it until you reach Veth. Go through that kingdom, which isn’t large, and make your way into Arkalen. The people of Veth are kind, but shy; they won’t harm you. Arkalen is empty; you won’t like it. It gnaws the soul.”

They thanked Spridel and made their way through the doorway, leaving the man grinning and shaking his head at the deranged strangers who thought themselves the royal stewards of the High House.

Veth

Carter and Duskin made their way through the door out of Kitinthim, down a short passage that led directly into the Long Corridor, a comforting sight after their wanderings. They were far beyond the portion of the hall that was always gray; the zinnias on the wallpaper were orange, the carpet peach. The passage lay quiet. They proceeded to the right.

Almost immediately, they reached a fork, with a black, wrought-iron gate stretched across the left branching. A wooden sign hung on the gate, depicting a green tortoise with a brief inscription beside, which said:
Peaceful Travelers, Welcome to Veth, Country of the Porcelain Duchess. Let None Come Here in Malice.
Beneath, in small letters, was written:
Carved by Jasper, in the reign of Moompis.
The gate was secured by a rusty padlock on a rusty chain. Carter called for the watchman, but received no reply, so the men straddled the barricade, which was little taller than their waists, obviously intended to keep no one out.

Veth was a kingdom of small rooms and narrow corridors. It had been built by additions, for the style changed almost at every chamber, and sections of various woods: oak, mahogany, cherry, and beech trailed one another down the passageways, past wallpapers likewise divergent, so that the quarters were a crazy quilt of patterns. The sparse furniture wore the second hand expression of worn fabrics and scuffed legs. The doorknobs were dull, the baseboards lackluster from hard use followed by neglect.

They became lost almost at once, for many of the crooks and turns within the convoluted passages were not shown on the map, and they spent the afternoon tracing and retracing their route, each step won at the cost of unwinding the puzzle of the halls. The inhabitants they met were few, and curiously frightened by their coming, rushing to hide behind bolted doors. Only once did they see a child, a boy about eleven, but when they called to him, his eyes widened and he sprinted up a stair, screaming for his mother in a high voice.

Toward evening, frustrated from unraveling their course, with Duskin complaining of a headache, they tramped into a series of small, interconnected rooms, determined to go no farther that day, and discovered a fireman sitting on the hearthstone, polishing his black boots before the flames. Beneath his red, wide-brimmed helmet, his pale face was smudged with soot; his heavy gray jacket was smeared with charcoal. He was a man of singular appearance, his face pitted and worn as if smoky winds had scored it over centuries, his brow a beetled carapace, ponderous with the knowledge of cinders and sparks, kindling and combustion, embers and arson, pyres and pyromania. His nose was a hook like the end of a ladder. He looked thoughtful and wise, like a sleuth who could read a history from dying coals. His eyes, which smoldered in the firelight, widened in alarm upon seeing them, though he did not rise, but picked up the stout axe by his side.

“Hello,” Carter said.

The man looked down, then spoke in a deep voice that matched his face. “If you presume to kill me, I have neither food nor money, and I handle this axe well.”

“Why ever would I want to kill you?” Carter asked.

“Aren’t you some of Rooko’s lads?” The man squinted up at them.

“Never heard of him. We are traveling to Arkalen. We certainly mean no harm.”

The man sighed. “Good! I’m too tired to get up to defend myself, anyway. But you’ve come at a bad time. Fire has swept Veth; half the country is cinders. Women and children murdered. All because of Rooko. I am Nunth of the Firemen of Ooz. We have fought the blaze for three days and finally have it under control, assuming Rooko doesn’t start another.”

“Who is this Rooko?” Duskin asked.

“You must be strangers to Veth.”

“Carter Anderson,” Carter said, “and my brother, Duskin.” After Spridel’s scorn he had no inclination to identify himself as the Steward.

“Forgive me for not rising to shake hands,” Nunth said. “I am exhausted. As for Rooko, he is a native to Veth, but the people here say he joined the Anarchy Party two years ago. He was a rabble-rouser, going about making speeches, saying there would be no more Master. The younger men started listening to his anarchists’ jabber, about everyone being a leader, and no one at all. He had more supporters than anyone guessed, and last week, the Bobby himself showed up. Gave a rousing speech, but it was all a cover for Rooko to start the fires. Maybe they were intended to be small, to frighten people, but when we arrived from Ooz, the Bobby’s boys blocked our way. Half the kingdom is ruined, the duchess is hiding, and Rooko and his ruffians have taken Petite Hall and are calling themselves Masters of Veth.”

“Always the anarchists!” Duskin said. “We have to do something.”

Carter turned to his brother, surprised by his vehemence. “I hardly think we can. We haven’t any troops.”

“You are the Steward of the house,” Duskin said. “Father said the duty of the Master was to maintain the balance between Chaos and Order. Chaos is clearly on the offensive here, thanks to the Bobby. It is our duty.”

“But don’t we have a greater duty?” Carter asked. “The Inner Chamber is in danger—”

A clattering interrupted their discussion as the fireman rose stiffly, removed his helmet, then, joints popping, climbed down on one knee before Carter. With his eyes averted, he said, “I beg your pardon, sir. I did not know you were the Steward. This is wonderful news. We must take you to the Porcelain Duchess at once.”

Carter flushed and helped the man to his feet. “None of that, sir. You needn’t bow.”

There were tears shining in Nunth’s eyes. “But the Firemen of Ooz pledge fealty to the Master and his representatives. This is such an honor! They said there would be no more Masters, but I knew they were wrong. You must come, sir, and help the people. Many have died; many are injured; all need the hope you can bring.”

Carter looked helplessly at Duskin, who said with a grin, “Of course we’ll come.”

Despite his weariness, Nunth waddled off at a brisk pace through the narrow halls, his gear rattling. The men followed.

“Why did you volunteer our services?” Carter asked in a low voice.

“You may become the Master someday, but you’re still somewhat dense about it all,” Duskin said. “Don’t you see? This is what the Master does. We can’t leave them to suffer.”

“But what can we do? I know Father was asked to perform such acts, but he had the keys, the mantle, and the Lightning Sword. And we have little time. We could easily lose the war for the sake of a single skirmish.”

Duskin shook his head stubbornly. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“I suppose so,” Carter said, unconvinced and a little stung. Yet he saw in Duskin an idealism he himself had lost while away from Evenmere, and he admired his brother for it.

They began to smell smoke and water, and soon found puddles standing on the floorboards beneath scorched walls. They discovered a long firehose hooked into a wide pipe protruding slightly from the wall; Carter had seen many such in his journeys, though he had never known their purpose. In such a great house, where fire could be catastrophic, the Firemen of Ooz were undoubtedly indispensable.

They quickly reached the ruins swept by the conflagration. Steam rose from tepid puddles; the husks of furniture hung against the walls like scarecrows. Stairs were consumed, walls and ceilings collapsed, floors burnt through, leaving gaping holes. In those areas where the ceiling had held, they could see for yards across the gutted remains, the rooms enlarged by the destruction. Weary firemen shuffled about, axes and shovels in their hands.

With professional grace, Nunth led them across the wreckage, steering them away from dangers, moving obstacles with his axe.

They traveled through the ruins for over an hour, and as he followed the miles of devastation, Carter raged inwardly at the cold, calculating minds capable of plotting such pointless destruction. Duskin had been right; he had to stop the anarchists wherever they struck.

At last they came to corridors untouched by the flames, unscathed save for the smell of soot. Nunth led them into a cul-de-sac with doors on either side and knocked two longs and three shorts on the final entry to the right. A brisk shuffling came from the adjacent room, and after several moments, a stern, unshaven soldier opened the door, his pike before him. By the torn cloth of his uniform, he had recently been in a fight.

“Ah, it’s you, Captain Nunth,” the man said. “But who are these?”

“Someone the Porcelain Duchess will want to see,” Nunth replied.

“Hsst!” the guard warned. “No names here! Come in quickly.”

They entered a small room occupied by seven more soldiers, four standing, wielding pistols and swords, and three seated on strawberry couches. The identity of the duchess could not be doubted; she sat apart from the others, swathed in sky-blue robes, a tiny woman, with hands like a child and enormous blue eyes, resembling nothing so much as a porcelain doll, no older than fifty, but aged by the sorrow of the last few days. She stood when Nunth approached, an act of humility Carter found unusual for a woman of her station, and the fireman dropped to one knee until the duchess bid him rise. “How goes the fire?” she asked in a sad but unexpectedly low voice.

“Contained and extinguished, unless more are set,” Nunth said. “I have brought these two men to you, because I thought they might help your cause.”

The woman’s eyes were keen as she looked at the newcomers. “I am Mélusine. What aid can you offer my tormented kingdom?”

“Of that I am uncertain,” Carter said. “Nunth said we should come.”

“He is Carter Anderson, Steward of the house,” Nunth said. “And his brother, Duskin.”

Mélusine’s eyes lit, but then doubt glazed them over once more. “You do have the name of the old Master,” she said, after a moment.

“He is our father, and we came this way seeking him,” Carter replied.

The duchess studied them a moment. Despite her size, she was a sturdy woman with a fearless chin and laugh lines around her eyes, though she did not laugh now. “Why, I believe you are! I met Lord Anderson more than once, and there is indeed a resemblance. If so, you have arrived at a fortunate hour. Come with me.”

“For what purpose, my lady?” Carter asked. “What can we do that your soldiers can’t?”

The duchess gave him an odd look. “You need do almost nothing, sir. The fact you are here is sufficient. Nunth, as you go about your rounds be good enough to tell everyone you meet that the Steward has come to put down the rebellion.”