Chapter Twenty-Two

"Incredible house, lover."
"Tell me."
"Victorian Gothic by the look of it. Real big place. All towers, turrets, spikes and spires. Stained glass at some of the windows. Perched on the top of a high scarp that drops down sheer to the river. Must be five hundred feet if it's an inch. And there can't be more than a few yards between the house and the edge of the cliff."
"Like the House of Usher just waiting for the word to fall," Doc added.
"More like the Bates Motel in that old horror film," Mildred said.
"Defended?"
Through her hand on his arm, Ryan felt Krysty shake her head. "Can't tell from this far off. Not by moonlight. There's a steep snake-back trail leading up to it."
"Looks ghostly, Dad."
"No such things as ghosts, son. People mix them up with memories."


KRYSTY FINGERED the fire-opal pendant as they waited for the huge oak front door to open, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Mildred was doing the same with her small golden crucifix.
Close up, the building was even more impressive than it had been from below in the river valley. Krysty guessed that the cliff had been the result of one of the violent earth movements that had followed the bombardment of the country by thousands of nuke missiles. All over Deathlands, gorges had become mountains, lakes turned into deserts and towering mountains flattened and moved many miles.
Now, in the heart of the level lowlands of the Louisiana bayous, there was this razor-edged escarpment. She wondered whether the house had been built later in such a perilous position or whether it had always been there.
It looked so solid that it could have been there two or three hundred years.
Doc rapped on the door with the silver lion's-head hilt of his ebony swordstick, the echoes fading away. "Some hosts!" he snorted. "They invite us to bed and board bawdy beds and bawds that bore you Boarding schools and bedding plants. Ready beds and" He realized that his mind had done its familiar trick of slipping a few notches sideways. "My apologies, gentles all, for my addled pate."
"Don't worry, Doc," Ryan said. "Any sign of lights anywhere in the place?"
Jak answered. "Plenty. Most windows got light. Lamps in porch overhead. Oil, not electric."
"Feel anything, lover?" he asked.
Krysty was silent for a few moments. "Yeah. There's some people around, all right. Quite a few. But there's also No, I don't get it."
"Get what?" Forde asked. Behind him the two horses were restless in the shafts of the wag, shuffling and whickering uncomfortably.
"Just there's a kind of feeling that I've never known before. Can't spell it out."
"Why're your animals spooked, Forde?" Ryan asked. "Cougar close by?"
"Could be anything. Wolves, mebbe. Mebbe bein' out so late at night. Normally bedded down long before now."
"What's the time, J.B.? Feels to me something like nine or ten o'clock."
"Close," the Armorer replied. "Twenty after ten. Hey, sounds like someone's coming."
Krysty, still holding Ryan by the arm, looked up, struck once more by the peculiar size of the door. It was solid oak, with bars of iron running across it and dozens of heavy iron studs dotting its surface. It looked strong enough to resist a direct attack by anything short of a nuke gren.
Now Krysty looked at the rest of the building, noticing that all the windows were covered with thick bars of cold gray iron, some with oaken shutters.
"This place is like a fortress, lover," she said quietly, giving him quick whispered details.
Meanwhile, there was the heavy, sonorous sound of massive bolts being drawn and the tumblers of sec locks being turned. But the door still remained firmly closed.
"Come on," Dean moaned. "I can feel my backbone rubbing on my belly."
"Probably all the food's gone," Mildred teased. "They'll have gotten tired of waiting."
"Oh, no."
The door began to move, very slowly, soundlessly, on oiled hinges.
"Shouldn't we be on red?" J.B. whispered to Ryan.
"Bit late for that."
The voice was light and feminine. "You are the outlanders from Bramton. We have been expecting you for some time. We heard of the accident to you, Ryan and Krysty, so we knew that you would be somewhat tardy."
Krysty leaned close to Ryan so that he could feel her sweet breath in his ear. "Little guy in rich velvets and faded brocades with a frizzed up mane of white hair. Looks to be around eighty. Very delicate, and I'd guess that he pitches and bats, as well, if you know what I mean, lover."
"Guessed that from the voice."
"Come in, come in. My name is Norman and I am butler to the Family."
"How about the rig and the horses?" Forde asked. "You got stabling?"
"You are the man with the magic lantern, are you? Delighted, Mr. Forde. Just leave everything as it is. It will all be taken care of. Now, follow me."
Ryan stumbled on the raised step as Krysty led him forward, but kept his balance. The door closed softly behind them, and he was aware of a strange stillness in the air.
Almost like that inside a tomb.
"Dinner will be served in the main dining room, which is halfway along the hall to your right. You will find your names printed upon cards."
"Where's Elric and the rest of the Family?" Mildred asked. "They eating with us?"
Norman's answer came as smooth as cream. "I regret that most of the Family have medical conditions that necessitate their having special diets. Vegetarian and that sort of thing. I'm sure you understand. They prefer to dine alone so that their 'special' needs don't spoil the pleasure of dining for others. But I believe that Master Elric may join you later."
Ryan's auditory senses were confused. He could tell that they were in a high, vaulted hallway, yet there was none of the echo that you might expect.
"Are there heavy drapes around the ceiling?" he asked Krysty. "Something's muffling the noise."
"No, nothing, lover."
The butler had caught the whispered exchange. "Is there a question?"
Krysty laughed. "No. Just telling Ryan what a chore housework must be in a place this size."
The man gave a lilting giggle. "Oh, dear, madame. I must tell you what I tell all of the ladies. The good news about housework. The gospel according to Norman. Don't bother dusting, and after three years the dust stops getting any thicker."


THE FOOD WAS ONLY a little better than adequate. The vegetables were considerably overcooked, leaving them limp and soggy.
"Bit like Norman," had been Dean's bad-taste joke on the subject.
By contrast, the meat was served almost raw, the chill of the abattoir barely removed.
"This bloody?" Ryan asked, struggling to cut through a piece of what Krysty assured him was lamb. It came with bullet-hard roast potatoes, watery cabbage and mushy peas. And a delicious and delicate mint jelly.
"Red as Jak's eyes," J.B. replied.
Ryan leaned to be closer to Krysty, pitching his voice low. "What's the sec side of the ville look like?"
"Not many servants, and not one of them carrying any kind of weapon. Most of them are bringing in the food and stuff like that, looking as if they've been at the loco weed. Or been doped up on jolt for the last two years."
"Weapons?"
Krysty was cutting up some of the meat for him. "Apart from some blunt knives and forks, not a lot. Haven't seen a blaster in the place. Yet. Actually the cutlery is kind of ornate." She paused. "Yeah, it's silver. Patterned with an acanthus pattern on the handles and engraved on the blades."
"Rather old and rather fine, if I'm any judge," Doc offered. "Possibly an English design. And the plates are certainly from England. Wonderful predark quality, Royal Doulton. Look at the detail on the flower paintings."
"Wish that I could, Doc," Ryan said, unable to stop his bitterness.
"My dear fellow, I do apologize. Thoughtless of me, in extremis . Yes, mea culpa, Ryan, old friend."
Ryan shrugged, one hand knocking into Krysty, sending the forkful of lamb clattering onto the floor.
"Forward!" Norman clicked his fingers, calling out to the servants in his fluting voice.
The meal dragged slowly on.
"Got some fruit juice smeared on your chin, lover. Let me wipe it." She leaned closer to him, her face close to his, dropping her voice. "Being watched. Gallery around the hall at second-floor level. Think it's what they called a minstrels' balcony. Very shadowy up there."
"Danger?" His hand dropped to find the comforting butt of the SIG-Sauer.
"Can't tell. I think" She leaned across the table. "Jak, you got good vision in dark places. Take a look up in the black spaces between"
"Elric Cornelius. Been watching eight minutes. Hasn't moved once."
"Anyone else?" J.B. asked, his glasses glinting in the light of the polished brass oil lamps.
The albino teenager glanced up again, looking all around the vaulted gallery. "Nobody. Haven't seen sign anyone looked like sec man."
Ryan sat in his own darkness, absently chewing a gristly piece of meat, pondering what he'd been told about the fortified mansion of the Family servants that seemed like they were drugged, all except for the little butler, Norman; surprisingly poor food for a baron's home; no members of the baronial family coming to greet their guests, except for the snow-headed Elric, who was lurking in the balcony. And no sec men.
That was strangest of all.
Over the years of his life in Deathlands, Ryan had to have visited hundreds of villes, and met most of the barons who ruled them. Though he scratched hard at his memory, he couldn't recall a single case where a baron managed without any members of a security force.
Some barons ruled with terror. Some with brutal power. Some were comparatively kind and decent toward the people of their domain.
But not one could have slept easy in his bed at night without the sure and certain knowledge of the blasters that defended him.
It was a common fact that few barons in Deathlands lived out a natural span close to the biblical three score and ten. It was also well enough known that most were murdered by wives or mistresses. Next came sons or daughters, then brothers or sisters. You went way down the butchery tables to find barons who'd been deposed and slaughtered by their own sec chiefs or men.
He wondered how the Cornelius Family kept its grip on the people of Bramton and the surrounding lands if they had no sec men. It didn't make sense.
"Sec men must be out of sight, out of the way," he whispered to Krysty.
"They do not exist, Ryan Cawdor. We do not need them." The answering voice came from high above his head, making him jump, confirming his suspicion that Elric Cornelius had to have preternaturally keen hearing to have caught his muttered words from way up in the galleryunless there was some cunning trick of the acoustics that carried sound around a building. Ryan had heard of such things.
Ryan stared blankly up. "Friend of mine used to say that a man who said he never needed help was already way beyond any help," he called.
A light laugh hung in the air.
There was the faintest whisper of feet on stone steps, then Elric was among them.
"I see that the food we prepared was not much to your liking," he said, glancing around at the plates, most of which carried the piled detritus of the disappointing meal.
"Long on quantity and perhaps a little short on quality," Doc replied.
"If you stay awhile with us, then you must instruct us on how to improve. Guests from the outlands are rare here. And food such as this" he swept out a long arm, ending in pale, bloodless fingers, "is not what we choose for our own pleasures. Not at all."
Ryan hesitated, wanting to ask the man what they ate for their own pleasure. But there was something about being blind that held him back. Cornelius had already shown himself capable of anger, and without being able to see the man's face, Ryan felt himself unable to judge what his reaction might be.
"Have you done with the food?" Elric was moving around the room and had come to a halt directly behind Ryan, increasing his discomfort.
"We have," Krysty replied. "It's been a heavy day, especially for Ryan and me. I think we'd all like to get ourselves some rest now. If that's all right with you."
"But, of course. Norman will show you to the rooms that have been set aside for you. They all have running water and all facilities. It will not be "necessary" for anyone to leave his, or her, room during the night."
The threatening stress on "necessary" was unmistakable, and J.B. responded to it first.
"You saying harm might come if we don't stay in our rooms? What kind of harm would that be?"
Ryan heard the smile from Cornelius. "You make it sound as though you worry that your lives might be threatened, John Dix. This is a large and rambling house, and we would not wish any of you to come to harm. That is all. Norman, you may take over, and I wish all a good night."