Taltos (29 page)

He went right past them, ignoring their indignant and imperious voices, moving through the bedroom and then seeing the perfect cutout of a doorway in the paneling, the unmarked door itself pushed only a few inches ajar. He shoved it back. There was the stairway! Damn!

“Where’s he gone to meet Yuri?” he shouted to Ansling, who had only just entered the room.

“Get away from that passage,” Perry said. “Get out of this bedroom now. You don’t belong in the Superior General’s bedroom.”

“What’s the matter with you, Marklin!” said Ansling. “The last thing we need now is insubordination. Go back to the council room at once.”

“I asked you a question. I want to know where my tutor has gone.”

“He didn’t tell us, and if you’d shut up and stayed out of this, I might have gotten it out of Yuri Stefano myself.”

Marklin stared at the two angry, frightened young men. Idiots, he thought, idiots. I hope they blame you and your sniveling, subservient kind for everything. I hope they expel you. He turned and went down the hidden stairs.

A long, narrow passage wound round the corner before leading to a small door. It opened directly to the park, as he knew it would. He had never even noticed this door! There were so many. A few scattered stepping-stones led off across the lawn in the direction, more or less, of the garage.

He broke into a run, but he knew it was useless. When he reached the cars, the attendant was on his feet.

“They’ve asked everyone to stay in, sir, until the meeting’s over.”

“Stuart Gordon. Did he take a staff car?”

“No, sir, his own, sir. But his orders were that no one else should leave without express permission, sir, that’s what he said.”

“I’m sure!” said Marklin furiously. He went directly to his own Rolls, and slammed the door on the attendant who had followed him. He hit thirty before he reached the gates.

On the highway he quickly accelerated to sixty, then seventy, eighty. But Stuart was long gone. And he could not know whether Stuart had even taken the highway—whether
it was to Tessa or to Yuri that Stuart had gone. And since he had no idea whatsoever where Tessa was, or Yuri, he was following nothing and no one!

“Tommy, I need you,” he said aloud. He reached for the car phone and, with his thumb, punched in the number of the secret digs in Regent’s Park.

No answer.

Tommy might have already disconnected everything. Oh, why hadn’t they made a plan to meet in London? Surely Tommy would realize the error. Surely Tommy would wait there.

The loud screech of a horn startled him. He slammed down the phone. He had to pay attention to what he was doing. He floored the accelerator and passed the truck in front of him, pushing the Rolls to its top speed.

I
T WAS AN
apartment in Belgravia, not far from Buckingham Palace, and expertly fitted with everything he required. Georgian furnishings surrounded him, a great deal of fine new white marble, and soft shades of peach, lemon, oyster white. A staff of expert clerks had been retained to do his bidding, stringently efficient-looking men and women who set to work immediately preparing the fax machine for him, the computer, the phones.

He saw that the near-unconscious Samuel was put to bed properly in the largest of the bedrooms, and then he took possession of the office, seating himself at the desk to read through the papers quickly, and absorb whatever he could of the story of the murder outside London, the man who had been strangled by a mysterious intruder with very large hands.

The articles made no mention of his height. Curious. Had the Talamasca decided to keep this secret, and if so, why?

“Surely Yuri has seen this,” he thought, “if Yuri is functioning at all normally.” But then, how could he know whether or not Yuri was?

Messages were already coming in from New York.

Yes, these were things he had to attend to. He couldn’t pretend even for one day, really, that the company could run without him.

The young Leslie, who apparently never slept, looked radiant as she waited upon him, receiving yet another few pages from a clerk, and placing them to one side.

“Your lines are connected, sir,” she said. “Anything else?”

“Dearest,” he said, “see that a great roast is prepared in the kitchen for Samuel. He’ll be a bear when he opens his eyes.”

He was already punching in the direct line to Remmick in New York as he continued speaking to her.

“See to it that my car and driver are ready for me whenever I need them. Fill the refrigerators with fresh milk, and buy some cheeses for me, soft double- and triple-cream cheeses. All manner of the best Camembert and Brie that you can find. But you must send out for all this. I need you here. Tell me immediately if Claridge’s calls with a message, and if you don’t hear from them, call every hour on the hour, you understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Ash!” she said zealously, and at once began to scribble everything on a notebook which she held two inches from her eyes.

In a twinkling, she had vanished.

But he was to see her rushing about with marvelous energy every time he glanced up.

It was three o’clock when she came to the desk, with all the enthusiasm of a schoolgirl.

“Claridge’s, sir, they want to talk to you personally. Line two.”

“Excuse me,” he said, pleased to see that she at once backed away.

He picked up the lighted line.

“Yes, this is Ashlar, you are calling me from Claridge’s?”

“No. This is Rowan Mayfair. I got your number from Claridge’s about five minutes ago. They said you’d left this morning. Yuri is with me. He’s afraid of you, but I have to talk to you. I have to see you. Do you recognize my name?”

“Absolutely, Rowan Mayfair,” he said softly. “Will you tell me where I can meet you, please? Yuri is unharmed?”

“First tell me why you’re willing to meet me. What precisely do you want?”

“The Talamasca is full of treachery,” he said. “Last night
I murdered their Superior General.” No response from her. “The man was part of the conspiracy. The conspiracy is connected with the Mayfair family. I want to restore order to the Talamasca so that it will go on being the Talamasca, and also because I vowed once that I would always look out for the Talamasca. Rowan Mayfair, do you know Yuri is in danger? That this conspiracy is a threat to his life?”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“I haven’t lost you, have I?” he asked.

“No. I was just thinking about the sound of your voice.”

“The Taltos you bore did not live past infancy. His soul had not been at peace before he was born. You cannot think of me in those terms, Rowan Mayfair, even if my voice reminds you of him.”

“How did you kill the Superior General?”

“I strangled him. I did it as mercifully as I could. There was a purpose to what I did. I wanted to expose the conspiracy to the entire Order, so that the innocent might know, as well as the guilty. However, I do not think the problem involves the whole Order, only a few.” Silence. “Please let me come to you. I will come alone if you like. We can meet in a crowded place. Perhaps you know you’ve reached me in Belgravia. Tell me where you are.”

“Yuri is meeting with a member of the Talamasca right now. I can’t leave him.”

“You must tell me where this meeting is taking place.” Quickly he stood up and motioned to the doorway. The clerk appeared immediately. “I need my driver!” he whispered. “Now!” He lifted the mouthpiece again. “Rowan Mayfair, this meeting could be dangerous to Yuri. It could be a very, very bad mistake.”

“But that man too is coming alone,” said Rowan. “And we will see him before he sees us. His name is Stuart Gordon. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“I have heard the name. The man is very old, that’s all I can tell you.”

Silence. “Do you know anything else about him, anything that would make it likely that he would know about you?”

“No, nothing,” he said. “Stuart Gordon and other members
of the Talamasca do go from time to time to the glen of Donnelaith. But they have never seen me there. Or anywhere. They have never laid eyes upon me.”

“Donnelaith? You’re sure it was Gordon?”

“Yes. I am very sure. Gordon used to appear there often. The Little People have told me. The Little People steal things from the scholars during the night. They take their knapsacks, or whatever they can snatch in a moment. I know the name Stuart Gordon. The Little People are careful not to kill the scholars from the Talamasca. It makes trouble to kill them. They don’t kill the people of the countryside, either. But they kill other people who wander in with binoculars and rifles. They tell me who comes to the glen.”

Silence.

“Please trust me,” said Ash. “This man I killed, Anton Marcus, he was corrupt and unscrupulous. I never do these things on impulse. Please accept my word that I am not a danger to you, Rowan Mayfair. I must talk to you. If you will not let me come—”

“Can you find the corner of Brook Street and Spelling?”

“I know where it is,” he said. “Are you there now?”

“Yes, more or less. Go to the bookshop. It’s the only bookshop on the corner. I’ll see you when you arrive there, and I’ll come to you. Oh, and do hurry. Stuart Gordon should be here soon.”

She rang off.

He hurried down the two flights of steps, Leslie following, asking all the requisite questions: Did he want his guards? Should she go along?

“No, dear, stay here,” he said. “Brook and Spelling, just up from Claridge’s,” he told the driver. “Do not follow me, Leslie.” He climbed into the back of the car.

He did not know whether he should take the car to the very meeting place. Surely Rowan Mayfair would see it and memorize its license, if such a thing was even necessary with a Rolls-Royce stretch limousine. But why should he worry? What had he to fear from Rowan Mayfair? What had she to gain from hurting him?

It seemed he was missing something, something extremely important, some probability that would make itself
known to him only with pondering and time. But this line of thinking made his head ache. He was far too eager to see this witch. He would go the way of the child.

The limousine bumped and shoved its way through the busy London traffic, arriving at the destination, two busy shopping streets, in less than twelve minutes. “Please stay here, near at hand,” he said to the driver. “Keep your eyes on me, and come to me if I call you. You understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Ash.”

Fancy shops dominated the corner of Brook and Spelling. Ash got out, stretched his legs for a moment, walked slowly to the edge of the corner, and scanned the crowd, ignoring the inevitable gawkers and the few persons who made loud, good-natured remarks to him about his height.

There was the bookshop, catercorner from him. Very fancy, with polished wood window frames and brass fixtures. It was, open, but there was no one standing outside.

He crossed the intersection boldly, walking against the traffic, infuriating a couple of drivers, but he reached the other corner, naturally, unharmed.

There was a small crowd inside the bookshop. None of them witches. But she had said that she would see him and that she would meet him here.

He turned around. His driver was holding the position, in spite of the traffic going around him, with all the arrogance of a chauffeur at the wheel of a monstrous limousine. That was good.

Quickly, Ash surveyed the shops on Brook to his left, and then, looking across, down the length of Spelling, taking the shops and the passersby one by one.

Against the crowded window of a dress shop stood a man and woman. Michael Curry and Rowan Mayfair. It had to be.

His heart quite literally stood still. Witches. Both of them.

Both of them were looking at him, and they had witches’ eyes, and they gave off that very faint sheen that witches always possessed in his eyes.

He marveled. What was it that made the sheen? When he touched them, if he did indeed do that, they would be
warmer than other humans, and if he put his ear to their heads, he would hear a low, organic sound that he could not detect in other mammals or people who were not witches. Though occasionally, very occasionally, he had heard this soft, whispering murmur from the body of a living dog.

Good God in heaven, what witches! It had been so long since he had seen witches of this power, and he had never seen witches with more. He didn’t move. He merely looked at them, and tried to pull loose from their staring eyes. No easy thing. He wondered if they could tell it. He remained composed.

The man, Michael Curry, was Celtic to the core. He might have been from Ireland, and not America. There was nothing about him that was not Irish, from his curly black hair to his blazing blue eyes and the wool hunting jacket, which he wore for fashion, obviously, and his soft flannel pants. He was a big man, a strong man.

The father of the Taltos, and its murderer!
He remembered it with a dull shock. Father … killer.

And the woman?

She was very thin and extremely beautiful, though in a completely modern way. Her hair was simple, yet lustrous and alluring, around her narrow face. Her clothes, too, were seductive, calculatedly skimpy, indeed almost flamboyantly erotic. Her eyes were far more frightening than those of the man.

Indeed, she possessed the eyes of a man. It was as though that part of her face had been removed from a male human and put there, above the soft, long, womanish mouth. But he often saw this seriousness, this aggressiveness, in modern females. It’s just that this was, well, a witch.

Both were enthralled.

They did not speak to each other, or move. But they were together, one figure slightly overlapping the other. The wind didn’t carry their scent to him. It was blowing in the other direction, which meant, strictly speaking, that they ought to catch his.

The woman suddenly broke the stillness, but only with the slight movement of her lips. She had whispered something
to her companion. But he remained silent, studying Ash as before.

Ash relaxed all over. He let his hands hang naturally at his sides, which he seldom did, due to the length of his arms. But they must see he concealed nothing. He walked back across Brook Street, very slowly, giving them time to run if they wanted it, though he prayed to God they would not.