The Talisman

34

Anders

1

Jack suddenly realized that, although he was still running, he was running on thin air, like a cartoon character who has time for one surprised double-take before plunging two thousand feet straight down. But it wasn’t two thousand feet. He had time—just—to realize that the ground wasn’t there anymore, and then he dropped four or five feet, still running. He wobbled and might have remained upright, but then Richard came piling into him and they both went tumbling.

“Look out, Jack!” Richard was screaming—he was apparently not interested in taking his own advice, because his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. “Look out for the wolf! Look out for Mr. Dufrey! Look out—”

“Stop it, Richard!” These breathless screams frightened him more than anything else had done. Richard sounded mad, absolutely mad. “Stop it, we’re all right! They’re gone!”

“Look out for Etheridge! Look out for the bugs! Look out, Jack!”

“Richard, they’re gone! Look around you, for Jason’s sake!” Jack hadn’t had a chance to do this himself, but he knew they had made it—the air was still and sweet, the night perfectly silent except for a slim breeze that was blessedly warm.

“Look out, Jack! Look out, Jack! Look out, look out—”

Like a bad echo inside his head, he heard a memory of the dog-boys outside Nelson House chorusing Way-gup, way-gup, way-gup! Pleeze, pleeze, pleeze!

“Look out, Jack!” Richard wailed. His face was slammed into the earth and he looked like an overenthusiastic Moslem determined to get in good with Allah. “LOOK OUT! THE WOLF! PREFECTS! THE HEADMASTER! LOOK O—”

Panicked by the idea that Richard actually had gone crazy, Jack yanked his friend’s head up by the back of his collar and slapped his face.

Richard’s words were cut cleanly off. He gaped at Jack, and Jack saw the shape of his own hand rising on Richard’s pale cheek, a dim red tattoo. His shame was replaced by an urgent curiosity to know just where they were. There was light; otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to see that mark.

A partial answer to the question came from inside him—it was certain and unquestionable . . . at least, as far as it went.

The Outposts, Jack-O. You’re in the Outposts now.

But before he could spend any time mulling that over, he had to try to get Richard shipshape.

“Are you all right, Richie?”

He was looking at Jack with numb, hurt surprise. “You hit me, Jack.”

“I slapped you. That’s what you’re supposed to do with hysterical people.”

“I wasn’t hysterical! I’ve never been hysterical in my l—” Richard broke off and jumped to his feet, looking around wildly. “The wolf! We have to look out for the wolf, Jack! If we can get over the fence he won’t be able to get us!”

He would have gone sprinting off into the darkness right then, making for a cyclone fence which was now in another world, if Jack hadn’t grabbed him and held him back.

“The wolf is gone, Richard.”

“Huh?”

“We made it.”

“What are you talking about—”

“The Territories, Richard! We’re in the Territories! We flipped over!” And you almost pulled my damn arm out of its socket, you unbeliever, Jack thought, rubbing his throbbing shoulder. The next time I try to haul someone across, I’m going to find myself a real little kid, one who still believes in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

“That’s ridiculous,” Richard said slowly. “There’s no such thing as the Territories, Jack.”

“If there isn’t,” Jack said grimly, “then how come that great big white wolf isn’t biting your ass? Or your own damn headmaster?”

Richard looked at Jack, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He looked around, this time with a bit more attention (at least Jack hoped so). Jack did the same, enjoying the warmth and the clarity of the air as he did so. Morgan and his crowd of snake-pit crazies might come bursting through at any second, but for now it was impossible not to luxuriate in the pure animal joy of being back here again.

They were in a field. High, yellowish grass with bearded heads—not wheat, but something like wheat; some edible grain, anyway—stretched off into the night in every direction. The warm breeze rippled it in mysterious but rather lovely waves. To the right was a wooden building standing on a slight knoll, a lamp mounted on a pole in front of it. A yellow flame almost too bright to look at burned clearly inside the lamp’s glass globe. Jack saw that the building was octagonal. The two boys had come into the Territories on the outermost edge of the circle of light that lamp threw—and there was something on the far side of the circle, something metallic that threw back the lamplight in broken glimmers. Jack squinted at the faint, silvery glow . . . and then understood. What he felt was not so much wonder as a sense of fulfilled expection. It was as if two very large jigsaw-puzzle pieces, one in the American Territories and one over here, had just come neatly together.

Those were railroad tracks. And although it was impossible to tell direction in the darkness, Jack thought he knew in which direction those tracks would travel:

West.

2

“Come on,” Jack said.

“I don’t want to go up there,” Richard said.

“Why not?”

“Too much crazy stuff going on.” Richard wet his lips. “Could be anything up there in that building. Dogs. Crazy people.” He wet his lips again. “Bugs.”

“I told you, we’re in the Territories now. The craziness has all blown away—it’s clean here. Hell, Richard, can’t you smell it?”

“There are no such things as Territories,” Richard said thinly.

“Look around you.”

“No,” Richard said. His voice was thinner than ever, the voice of an infuriatingly stubborn child.

Jack snatched up a handful of the heavily bearded grass. “Look at this!”

Richard turned his head.

Jack had to actively restrain an urge to shake him.

Instead of doing that, he tossed the grass away, counted mentally to ten, and then started up the hill. He looked down and saw that he was now wearing something like leather chaps. Richard was dressed in much the same way, and he had a red bandanna around his neck that looked like something out of a Frederic Remington painting. Jack reached up to his own neck and felt a similar bandanna. He ran his hands down along his body and discovered that Myles P. Kiger’s wonderfully warm coat was now something very like a Mexican serape. I bet I look like an advertisement for Taco Bell, he thought, and grinned.

An expression of utter panic came over Richard’s face when Jack started up the hill, leaving him alone at the bottom.

“Where are you going?”

Jack looked at Richard and came back. He put his hands on Richard’s shoulders and looked soberly into Richard’s eyes.

“We can’t stay here,” he said. “Some of them must have seen us flip. It may be that they can’t come right after us, or it may be that they can. I don’t know. I know as much about the laws governing all of this as a kid of five knows about magnetism—and all a kid of five knows on the subject is that sometimes magnets attract and sometimes they repel. But for the time being, that’s all I have to know. We have to get out of here. End of story.”

“I’m dreaming all this, I know I am.”

Jack nodded toward the ramshackle wooden building. “You can come or you can stay here. If you want to stay here, I’ll come back for you after I check the place out.”

“None of this is happening,” Richard said. His naked, glassesless eyes were wide and flat and somehow dusty. He looked for a moment up at the black Territories sky with its strange and unfamiliar sprawl of stars, shuddered, and looked away. “I have a fever. It’s the flu. There’s been a lot of flu around. This is a delirium. You’re guest-starring in my delirium, Jack.”

“Well, I’ll send somebody around to the Delirium Actors’ Guild with my AFTRA card when I get a chance,” Jack said. “In the meantime, why don’t you just stay here, Richard? If none of this is happening, then you have nothing to worry about.”

He started away again, thinking that it would take only a few more of these Alice-at-the-tea-party conversations with Richard to convince him that he was crazy, as well.

He was halfway up the hill when Richard joined him.

“I would have come back for you,” Jack said.

“I know,” Richard said. “I just thought that I might as well come along. As long as all of this is a dream, anyway.”

“Well, keep your mouth shut if there’s anyone up there,” Jack said. “I think there is—I think I saw someone looking out that front window at me.”

“What are you going to do?” Richard asked.

Jack smiled. “Play it by ear, Richie-boy,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been doing ever since I left New Hampshire. Playing it by ear.”

3

They reached the porch. Richard clutched Jack’s shoulder with panicky strength. Jack turned toward him wearily; Richard’s patented Kansas City Clutch was something else that was getting old in a big hurry.

“What?” Jack asked.

“This is a dream, all right,” Richard said, “and I can prove it.”

“How?”

“We’re not talking English anymore, Jack! We’re talking some language, and we’re speaking it perfectly, but it’s not English!”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Weird, isn’t it?”

He started up the steps again, leaving Richard standing below him, gape-mouthed.

4

After a moment or two, Richard recovered and scrambled up the steps after Jack. The boards were warped and loose and splintery. Stalks of that richly bearded grain-grass grew up through some of them. Off in the deep darkness, both boys could hear the sleepy hum of insects—it was not the reedy scratch of crickets but a sweeter sound—so much was sweeter over here, Jack thought.

The outside lamp was now behind them; their shadows ran ahead of them across the porch and then made right-angles to climb the door. There was an old, faded sign on that door. For a moment it seemed to Jack to be written in strange Cyrillic letters, as indecipherable as Russian. Then they came clear, and the word was no surprise. DEPOT.

Jack raised his hand to knock, then shook his head a little. No. He would not knock. This was not a private dwelling; the sign said DEPOT, and that was a word he associated with public buildings—places to wait for Greyhound buses and Amtrak trains, loading zones for the Friendly Skies.

He pushed the door open. Friendly lamplight and a decidedly unfriendly voice came out onto the porch together.

“Get away, ye devil!” the cracked voice screeched. “Get away, I’m going in the morning! I swear! The train’s in the shed! Go away! I swore I’d go and I will go, s’now YE go . . . go and leave me some peace!”

Jack frowned. Richard gaped. The room was clean but very old. The boards were so warped that the walls seemed almost to ripple. A picture of a stagecoach which looked almost as big as a whaling ship hung on one wall. An ancient counter, its flat surface almost as ripply as the walls, ran across the middle of the room, splitting it in two. Behind it, on the far wall, was a slate board with STAGE ARRIVES written above one column and STAGE LEAVES written above the other. Looking at the ancient board, Jack guessed it had been a good long time since any information had been written there; he thought that if someone tried to write on it with even a piece of soft chalk, the slate would crack in pieces and fall to the weathered floor.

Standing on one side of the counter was the biggest hourglass Jack had ever seen—it was as big as a magnum of champagne and filled with green sand.

“Leave me alone, can’t you? I’ve promised ye I’d go, and I will! Please, Morgan! For yer mercy! I’ve promised, and if ye don’t believe me, look in the shed! The train is ready, I swear the train is ready!”

There was a good deal more gabble and gobble in this same vein. The large, elderly man spouting it was cringing in the far right-hand corner of the room. Jack guessed the oldster’s height at six-three at least—even in his present servile posture, The Depot’s low ceiling was only four inches or so above his head. He might have been seventy; he might have been a fairly well-preserved eighty. A snowy white beard began under his eyes and cascaded down over his breast in a spray of baby fine hair. His shoulders were broad, although now so slumped that they looked as if someone had broken them by forcing him to carry heavy weights over the course of many long years. Deep crow’s-feet radiated out from the corners of his eyes; deep fissures undulated on his forehead. His complexion was waxy-yellow. He was wearing a white kilt shot through with bright scarlet threads, and he was obviously scared almost to death. He was brandishing a stout staff, but with no authority at all.

Jack glanced sharply around at Richard when the old man mentioned the name of Richard’s father, but Richard was currently beyond noticing such fine points.

“I am not who you think I am,” Jack said, advancing toward the old man.

“Get away!” he shrieked. “None of yer guff! I guess the devil can put on a pleasing face! Get away! I’ll do it! She’s ready to go, first thing in the morning! I said I’d do it and I mean to, now get away, can’t ye?”

The knapsack was now a haversack hanging from Jack’s arm. As Jack reached the counter, he rummaged in it, pushing aside the mirror and a number of the jointed money-sticks. His fingers closed around what he wanted and brought it out. It was the coin Captain Farren had given him so long ago, the coin with the Queen on one side and the gryphon on the other. He slammed it down on the counter, and the room’s mellow light caught the lovely profile of Laura DeLoessian—again he was struck with wonder by the similarity of that profile to the profile of his mother. Did they look that much alike at the beginning? Is it just that I see the similarities more as I think about them more? Or am I actually bringing them together somehow, making them one?

The old man cringed back even farther as Jack came forward to the counter; it began to seem as though he might push himself right through the back of the building. His words began to pour out in a hysterical flood. When Jack slammed the coin down on the counter like a badman in a Western movie demanding a drink, he suddenly stopped talking. He stared at the coin, his eyes widening, the spit-shiny corners of his mouth twitching. His widening eyes rose to Jack’s face and really saw him for the first time.

“Jason,” he whispered in a trembling voice. Its former weak bluster was gone. It trembled now not with fear but with awe. “Jason!”

“No,” he said. “My name is—” Then he stopped, realizing that the word which would come out in this strange language was not Jack but—

“Jason!” the old man cried, and fell on his knees. “Jason, ye’ve come! Ye’ve come and a’ wi’ be well, aye, a’ wi’ be well, a’ wi’ be well, and a’ manner a’ things wi’ be well!”

“Hey,” Jack said. “Hey, really—”

“Jason! Jason’s come and the Queen’ll be well, aye, a’ manner a’ things wi’ be well!”

Jack, less prepared to cope with this weepy adoration than he had been to deal with the old depot-keeper’s terrified truculence, turned toward Richard . . . but there was no help there. Richard had stretched out on the floor to the left of the door and had either gone to sleep or was giving a damned good facsimile thereof.

“Oh shit,” Jack groaned.

The old man was on his knees, babbling and weeping. The situation was rapidly passing from the realms of the merely ridiculous into those of the cosmically comic. Jack found a flip-up partition and went behind the counter.

“Ah, rise, you good and faithful servant,” Jack said. He wondered blackly if Christ or Buddha had ever had problems like this. “On your feet, fella.”

“Jason! Jason!” the old man sobbed. His white hair obscured Jack’s sandaled feet as he bent over them and began to kiss them—they weren’t little kisses, either, but good old spooning-in-the-hayloft smackers. Jack began to giggle helplessly. He had managed to get them out of Illinois, and here they were in a ramshackle depot at the center of a great field of grain which wasn’t quite wheat, somewhere in the Outposts, and Richard was sleeping by the door, and this strange old man was kissing his feet and his beard tickled.

“Rise!” Jack yelled, giggling. He tried to step back but hit the counter. “Rise up, O good servant! Get on your frigging feet, get up, that’s enough!”

“Jason!” Smack! “A’ wi’ be well!” Smack-smack!

And a’ manner a’ things wi’ be well, Jack thought crazily, giggling as the old man kissed his toes through the sandals. I didn’t know they read Robert Burns over here in the Territories, but I guess they must—

Smack-smack-smack.

Oh, no more of this, I really can’t stand it.

“RISE!” he bellowed at the top of his voice, and the old man finally stood before him, trembling and weeping, unable to meet Jack’s eye. But his amazingly broad shoulders had come up a bit, had lost that broken look, and Jack was obscurely glad of that.

5

It was an hour or better before Jack could manage a coherent run of conversation with the old man. They would begin talking, and then Anders, who was a liveryman by trade, would go off on another of his O-Jason-my-Jason-how-great-thou-art jags and Jack would have to quiet him down as quickly as he could . . . certainly before the feet-kissing started again. Jack liked the old man, however, and sympathized. In order to sympathize, all he had to do was imagine how he would feel if Jesus or Buddha turned up at the local car-wash or in the school lunch line. And he had to acknowledge one other clear and present fact: there was a part of him which was not entirely surprised by Anders’s attitude. Although he felt like Jack, he was coming more and more to also feel like . . . the other one.

But he’d died.

That was true; undeniably true. Jason had died, and Morgan of Orris had probably had something to do with his death. But guys like Jason had a way of coming back, didn’t they?

Jack considered the time it took to get Anders talking well spent if only because it allowed him to be sure that Richard wasn’t shamming; that he really had gone back to sleep again. This was good, because Anders had a lot to say about Morgan.

Once, he said, this had been the last stage depot in the known world—it went by the euphonious name of Outpost Depot. Beyond here, he said, the world became a monstrous place.

“Monstrous how?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know,” Anders said, lighting his pipe. He looked out into the darkness, and his face was bleak. “There are stories about the Blasted Lands, but each is apt to be different from each, and they always begin something like ’I know a man who met a man who was lost on the edge of the Blasted Lands for three days and he said . . .’ But I never heard a story that begun ’I was lost on the edge of the Blasted Lands for three days and I say . . .’ Ye ken the difference, Jason my Lord?”

“I ken it,” Jack said slowly. The Blasted Lands. Just the sound of that had raised the hairs on his arms and the nape of his neck. “No one knows what they are, then?”

“Not for sure,” Anders said. “But if even a quarter of what I’ve heard is true—”

“What have you heard?”

“That there are monstrosities out there that makes the things in Orris’s ore-pits look almost normal. That there are balls of fire that go rolling across the hills and empty places, leaving long black trails behind them—the trails are black in the daytime, anyway, but I’ve heard they glow at night. And if a man gets too close to one of those fireballs, he gets turrible sick. He loses his hair, and sores’re apt to raise all over his body, and then he begins to vomit; and mayhap he gets better, but more often he only vomits and vomits until his stomach ruptures and his throat bursts and then . . .”

Anders rose.

“My Lord! Why d’ye look so? Have y’seen something out the window? Have y’seen a spook along those double-damned tracks?”

Anders looked wildly toward the window.

Radiation poisoning, Jack thought. He doesn’t know it, but he’s described the symptoms of radiation poisoning almost to a T.

They had studied both nuclear weapons and the consequences of exposure to radiation in a physical science mod the year before—because his mother was at least casually involved in both the nuclear-freeze movement and the movement to prevent the proliferation of nuclear power plants, Jack had paid very close attention.

How well, he thought, how well radiation poisoning fit with the whole idea of the Blasted Lands! And then he realized something else, as well: the west was where the first tests had been carried out—where the prototype of the Hiroshima bomb had been hung from a tower and then exploded, where any number of suburbs inhabited only by department-store mannequins had been destroyed so the Army could get a more or less accurate idea of what a nuclear explosion and the resulting firestorm would really do. And in the end they had returned to Utah and Nevada, among the last of the real American Territories, and had simply resumed testing underground. There was, he knew, a lot of government land out there in those great wastes, those tangles of buttes and mesas and crenellated badlands, and bombs were not all they were testing out there.

How much of that shit would Sloat bring over here if the Queen died? How much of that shit had he already brought? Was this stageline-cum-railhead part of the shipping system for it?

“Ye don’t look good, my Lord, not at all. Ye look as white as a sheet; I’ll take an oath that ye do!”

“I’m fine,” Jack said slowly. “Sit down. Go on with your story. And light your pipe, it’s gone out.”

Anders took his pipe from his mouth, relit it, and looked from Jack to the window again . . . and now his face was not just bleak; it was haggard with fright. “But I’ll know soon enough if the stories are true, I suppose.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I start through the Blasted Lands tomorrow morning, at first light,” Anders said. “I start through the Blasted Lands, driving Morgan of Orris’s devil-machine in yon shed, and carrying God alone knows what sort of hideous devil’s work.”

Jack stared at him, his heart pumping hard, the blood humming in his head.

“Where? How far? To the ocean? The big water?”

Anders nodded slowly. “Aye,” he said. “To the water. And—” His voice dropped, became a strengthless whisper. His eyes rolled toward the dark windows, as if he feared some nameless thing might be peering in, watching, eavesdropping.

“And there Morgan will meet me, and we’re to take his goods on.”

“On to where?” Jack asked.

“To the black hotel,” Anders finished in a low, trembling voice.

6

Jack felt the urge to break into wild cackles of laughter again. The Black Hotel—it sounded like the title of a lurid mystery novel. And yet . . . and yet . . . all of this had begun at a hotel, hadn’t it? The Alhambra in New Hampshire, on the Atlantic coast. Was there some other hotel, perhaps even another rambling old Victorian monstrosity of a hotel, on the Pacific coast? Was that where his long, strange adventure was supposed to end? In some analogue of the Alhambra and with a seedy amusement park close at hand? This idea was terribly persuasive; in an odd, yet precise way, it even seemed to pick up the idea of Twinners and Twinning . . .

“Why do ye look at me so, my Lord?”

Anders sounded agitated and upset. Jack shifted his gaze away quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking.”

He smiled reassuringly, and the liveryman smiled tentatively back at him.

“And I wish you’d stop calling me that.”

“Calling ye what, my Lord?”

“My Lord.”

“My Lord?” Anders looked puzzled. He was not echoing what Jack had said but asking for clarification. Jack had a feeling that if he tried to push on with this, he would end up in the middle of a “Who’s on first, What’s on second” sort of sketch.

“Never mind,” Jack said. He leaned forward. “I want you to tell me everything. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try, my Lord,” Anders said.

7

His words came slowly at first. He was a single man who had spent his entire life in the Outposts and he was not used to talking much at the best of times. Now he had been commanded to speak by a boy whom he considered to be at least royalty, and perhaps even something like a god. But, little by little, his words began to come faster, and by the end of his inconclusive but terribly provocative tale, the words were nearly pouring out. Jack had no trouble following the tale he told in spite of the man’s accent, which his mind kept translating into a sort of ersatz Robert Burns burr.

Anders knew Morgan because Morgan was, quite simply, Lord of the Outposts. His real title, Morgan of Orris, was not so grand, but as a practical matter, the two came to nearly the same. Orris was the easternmost cantonment of the Outposts, and the only really organized part of that large, grassy area. Because he ruled Orris utterly and completely, Morgan ruled the rest of the Outposts by default. Also, the bad Wolfs had begun to gravitate to Morgan in the last fifteen years or so. At first that meant little, because there were only a few bad (except the word Anders used also sounded a bit like rabid to Jack’s ear) Wolfs. But in later years there had been more and more of them, and Anders said he had heard tales that, since the Queen had fallen ill, more than half the tribe of skin-turning shepherds were rotten with the sickness. Nor were these the only creatures at Morgan of Orris’s command, Anders said; there were others, even worse—some, it was told, could drive a man mad at a single look.

Jack thought of Elroy, the bogeyman of the Oatley Tap, and shuddered.

“Does this part of the Outposts we’re in have a name?” Jack asked.

“My Lord?”

“This part we’re in now.”

“No real name, my Lord, but I’ve heard people call it Ellis-Breaks.”

“Ellis-Breaks,” Jack said. A picture of Territories geography, vague and probably in many ways incorrect, was finally beginning to take shape in Jack’s mind. There were the Territories, which corresponded to the American east; the Outposts, which corresponded to the American midwest and great plains (Ellis-Breaks? Illinois? Nebraska?); and the Blasted Lands, which corresponded to the American west.

He looked at Anders so long and so fixedly that at last the liveryman began to stir uneasily again. “I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Go on.”

His father, Anders said, had been the last stage driver who “drove out east” from Outpost Depot. Anders had been his ’prentice. But even in those days, he said, there were great confusions and upheavals in the east; the murder of the old King and the short war which had followed it had seen the beginning of those upheavals, and although the war had ended with the installation of Good Queen Laura, the upheavals had gone on ever since, seeming to work their way steadily eastward, out of the spoiled and twisted Blasted Lands. There were some, Anders said, who believed the evil had begun all the way west.

“I’m not sure I understand you,” Jack said, although in his heart he thought he did.

“At land’s end,” Anders said. “At the edge of the big water, where I am bound to go.”

In other words, it began in the same place my father came from . . . my father, and me, and Richard . . . and Morgan. Old Bloat.

The troubles, Anders said, had come to the Outposts, and now the Wolf tribe was partly rotten—just how rotten none could say, but the liveryman told Jack he was afraid that the rot would be the end of them if it didn’t stop soon. The upheavals had come here, and now they had even reached the east, where, he had heard, the Queen lay ill and near death.

“That’s not true, is it, my Lord?” Anders asked . . . almost begged.

Jack looked at him. “Should I know how to answer that?” he asked.

“Of course,” Anders said. “Are ye not her son?”

For a moment, the entire world seemed to become very quiet. The sweet hum of the bugs outside stilled. Richard seemed to pause between heavy, sluggish breaths.

Even his own heart seemed to pause . . . perhaps that most of all.

Then, his voice perfectly even, he said, “Yes . . . I am her son. And it’s true . . . she’s very ill.”

“But dying?” Anders persisted, his eyes nakedly pleading now. “Is she dying, my Lord?”

Jack smiled a little and said: “That remains to be seen.”

8

Anders said that until the troubles began, Morgan of Orris had been a little-known frontier lord and no more; he had inherited his comic-opera title from a father who had been a greasy, evil-smelling buffoon. Morgan’s father had been something of a laughing-stock while alive, Anders went on, and had even been a laughing-stock in his manner of dying.

“He was taken with the squitters after a day of drinking peach-fruit wine and died while on the trots.”

People had been prepared to make the old man’s son a laughing-stock as well, but the laughing had stopped soon after the hangings in Orris began. And when the troubles began in the years after the death of the old King, Morgan had risen in importance as a star of evil omen rises in the sky.

All of this meant little this far out in the Outposts—these great empty spaces, Anders said, made politics seem unimportant. Only the deadly change in the Wolf tribe made a practical difference to them, and since most of the bad Wolfs went to the Other Place, even that didn’t make much difference to them (“It fashes us little, my Lord” was what Jack’s ears insisted they had heard).

Then, not long after the news of the Queen’s illness had reached this far west, Morgan had sent out a crew of grotesque, twisted slaves from the ore-pits back east; these slaves were tended by stolen Wolfs and other, stranger creatures. Their foreman was a terrible man who carried a whip; he had been here almost constantly when the work began, but then he had disappeared. Anders, who had spent most of those terrible weeks and months cowering in his house, which was some five miles south of here, had been delighted to see him go. He had heard rumors that Morgan had called the man with the whip back east, where affairs were reaching some great point of climax; Anders didn’t know if this was true or not, and didn’t care. He was simply glad that the man, who was sometimes accompanied by a scrawny, somehow gruesome-looking little boy, was gone.

“His name,” Jack demanded. “What was his name?”

“My Lord, I don’t know. The Wolfs called him He of the Lashes. The slaves just called him the devil. I’d say they were both right.”

“Did he dress like a dandy? Velvet coats? Shoes with buckles on the tops, maybe?”

Anders was nodding.

“Did he wear a lot of strong perfume?”

“Aye! Aye, he did!”

“And the whip had little rawhide strings with metal caps on them.”

“Aye, my Lord. An evil whip. And he was fearsome good with it, aye, he was.”

It was Osmond. It was Sunlight Gardener. He was here, overseeing some project for Morgan . . . then the Queen got sick and Osmond was called back to the summer palace, where I first made his cheerful acquaintance.

“His son,” Jack said. “What did his son look like?”

“Skinny,” Anders said slowly. “One eye was afloat. That’s all I can remember. He . . . my Lord, the Whipman’s son was hard to see. The Wolfs seemed more afraid of him than of his father, although the son carried no whip. They said he was dim.”

“Dim,” Jack mused.

“Yes. It is their word for one who is hard to see, no matter how hard ye look for that one. Invisibility is impossible—so the Wolfs say—but one can make himself dim if only he knows the trick of it. Most Wolfs do, and this little whoreson knew it, too. So all I remember is how thin he was, and that floating eye, and that he was as ugly as black, syphilitic sin.”

Anders paused.

“He liked to hurt things. Little things. He used to take them under the porch and I’d hear the most awful screams. . . .” Anders shuddered. “That was one of the reasons I kept to my house, you know. I don’t like to hear wee animals in pain. Makes me feel turrible bad, it does.”

Everything Anders said raised a hundred fresh questions in Jack’s mind. He would particularly have liked to know all that Anders knew about the Wolfs—just hearing of them woke simultaneous pleasure and a deep, dully painful longing for his Wolf in his heart.

But time was short; this man was scheduled to drive west into the Blasted Lands in the morning, a horde of crazy scholars led by Morgan himself might burst through from what the liveryman called the Other Place at any moment, Richard might wake up and want to know who this Morgan was they were discussing, and who this dim fellow was—this dim fellow who sounded suspiciously like the fellow who had lived next door to him in Nelson House.

“They came,” he prompted, “this crew came, and Osmond was their foreman—at least until he was called away or whenever he had to lead the devotions at night-chapel back in Indiana—”

“My Lord?” Anders’s face was again ponderous with puzzlement.

“They came, and they built . . . what?” He was sure he already knew the answer to this, but he wanted to hear Anders himself say it.

“Why, the tracks,” Anders said. “The tracks going west into the Blasted Lands. The tracks I must travel myself tomorrow.” He shuddered.

“No,” Jack said. A hot, terrible excitement exploded in his chest like a sun, and he rose to his feet. Again there was that click in his head, that terrible, persuasive feeling of great things coming together.

Anders fell on his knees with a crash as a terrible, beautiful light filled Jack’s face. Richard stirred at the sound and sat sleepily up.

“Not you,” Jack said. “Me. And him.” He pointed at Richard.

“Jack?” Richard looked at him with sleepy, nearsighted confusion. “What are you talking about? And why is that man sniffing the floor?”

“My Lord . . . yer will, of course . . . but I don’t understand. . . .”

“Not you,” Jack said, “us. We’ll take the train for you.”

“But my Lord, why?” Anders managed, not yet daring to look up.

Jack Sawyer looked out into the darkness.

“Because,” he said, “I think there’s something at the end of the tracks—at the end of the tracks or near the end—that I have to get.”