American Craftsmen (13 page)

At the door, Scherie stared at me, and though fear in itself isn’t a letter
F
in Morton craftsight, I could still see the new fears in her eyes. Fear for herself, sure, but also a more intense fear of me, and another anxiety that I couldn’t read.

Without warning, she grabbed me in a quick hug, fierce enough to drive my breath out. “Be careful, Morton,” she said. Then she was out the door and gone.

Did she somehow, after all she’d seen, actually care about me?

Soon.
The Left-Hand voices bided their time.

*   *   *

Calling the H-ring a “ring” was a euphemism. CRFT-CEN’s corridors formed the star of an off-center pentacle below the Pentagon’s central courtyard. Only the inner corridors of the star formed another pentagon. Weathermen and odd alchemical brass-colored tubing and drains made the water want to be elsewhere, despite the contrary disposition of the surrounding land. Unlike the concrete of the walls above, the Center was made of stone from every state, all supercharged with the nation’s craft.

The triangular extensions from each face terminated in five round offices, the five prestige spaces. Each triangle was color-coded with one of the Tantric primaries, three of which were the patriotic red, white, and blue. Except with unusual specific abilities, craft did not divide by service, regardless of the nominal uniform of the practitioner. Craft was too rare an asset with too general a use. The five points were the five major areas of expertise:

• military farsight or PRECOG (black),

• weathermen and nature control or WENA-CON (blue),

• enhanced combat or ENCOM (green),

• countercraft ops or C-CRT (red),

• black ops: special craft operations forces or SCOF (the ironic white of Melville’s whale).

All very clear, efficient, military.

Below the fearful symmetry of H-ring’s inner pentagon lay Chimera, like a spider trapped in a hypergeometric web. Those who knew of Chimera sometimes called his room the “ninth circle.” An airlock door, always guarded, allowed access to this master oracle’s domain.

The general occupied the point office for C-CRT, and Endicott’s was a convenient few doors down. C-CRT’s distinction from black ops was the former’s disdain for Left-Hand tactics. Endicott admired his father for preserving this distinction at any cost.

When the general came over again to his office for a report, Endicott had something to tell him. “He’s definitely leaving town,” said Endicott. “He’s not even trying to hide it. He’s throwing a damned party, then he’s going to leave town.”

Unlike someone who had been told he was right, the general frowned. “Language, Major. You’re certain?”

“He’s set up an escape,” said Endicott. “Car, papers, everything.”

“I suppose we have to take it seriously then. What do you plan to do about it?”

“Arrest him,” said Endicott. “For starters.”

“There’s nothing in his discharge about parties,” said the general.

“Yes, but…”

The general’s lips tightened into a regulation smile. “That’s a joke, Major. But he may be collaborating with others we don’t know yet. They will approach him. We can learn much. Let him have his party. Afterward, bag him and anyone else suspicious.”

“Sir,” said Endicott, “regarding suspicious, we still haven’t found Colonel Hutchinson.”

“Sakakawea can’t find her?” asked the general.

“And she’s got Carson and Bumppo with her. They’re confused—maybe some form of craft camouflage.”

“Our best are confused,” said the general, eyes looking heavenward. “Give them whatever support they need. I want Hutchinson found before this party.”

“I’ll also need a team for the party,” said Endicott. “Craft-friendly muscle, with one advance man to make sure Morton isn’t going to spring a trap on us.”

“A dangerous job for the advance man,” said the general. “I’ll consult Chimera on the op, and you’ll get your personnel.”

A knock, and the same middle-aged tech as before interrupted them with a sheet of paper. The general took it. “It seems that Chimera is already on top of the situation. Chimera suggests that Morton will try to disrupt your communications and other equipment. So I’ll give you technical support as well. You.” He pointed at the technician. “Be ready to ship out with the major.”

“I’m ready, General,” said the technician.

*   *   *

With our escape plan in place, I turned to the possibility of a last stand. If Sphinx or significant opposition showed up for my party, I wouldn’t be leaving the House alive if I could take them down with me. If they only sent a proxy, I would have to fight, then flee. The very idea raised a twinge of pain—mere preparation for combat would cost me.

Any assassin or assassins wouldn’t wait for me outside. They didn’t know my escape route, but they would know that I had one. The design of the grounds of the estate and its walls made a clean long-range shot with a bullet too unlikely to rely on; the House’s power made a craft shot equally difficult. They would have to come in to get me.

Sensing that I was deep in thought, Grandpa appeared in the fishing garb that went with his family-proverb-spouting mood. “This House and everything in it, and every object in this very room, is a weapon.”

I appreciated the reminder. Grandfather had sometimes made the dark gothic mansion seem more like a practical joke than a twisted weapon.

“House, are you awake?”
There was Morton blood in the ground beneath my feet, Morton ashes in the mortar. I pricked my finger and offered up a few drops to the hardwood floors, to remind the House of who I was, to wake it up completely.

“House, I need to tell you what’s going to happen. You’ll have to be fully visible and lower your resistance to dangerous guests.
”

Drop?
whispered the House.

“No
,” I said, “
just enough for them to feel a little resistance. Just enough to keep out the uninvited mundanes. And later, you’ll have to let the Left Hand out.”

Mistake
, whispered the House.

“Necessary
,” I said. The Left Hand would escape anyway, if my sacrifice became necessary.

And then?
whispered the House.

I told the House what would happen if my primary adversary appeared. The small crack that ran through the House from earth to sky shifted, and the wood groaned.

The day before the party, I spent long hours whispering spells to the remote control for my TV and stereo while I packed heirlooms for storage. That evening, I sat in the deep chair, eyes closed, a wine glass threatening to drop from my dangling hand, the House’s oak beams softly moaning, the warring voices whispering in my brain. After all my work, an indolent despair threatened to overwhelm me. Dying young was a Morton tradition, but dying foolishly was not. I hadn’t killed since the desert, and still wasn’t sure I could.

The sadness of the House was a violin lullaby, I was falling, falling …

“Dale? Are you awake?”

“What?” I dropped the wine glass, and Scherie caught it. She was standing in front of me, life amidst the old dead things.

“Sorry. I brought some things for the party. I knocked and rang, but you didn’t come. Then I thought I heard you call. The door was open.” Gently, Scherie placed the glass on a table. “You’re in no shape for this party.” She smiled. “It’ll be suspicious.”

“Nothing I can do about it,” I said.

She said, “I can help.” She moved behind me and began to massage my shoulders. Her long delicate fingers were surprisingly strong; her touch was electric.

She unbuttoned my shirt to work her hands further down over my tired frame. Her face bent down next to mine. “Better?”

I could try to blame the excitement before combat, or the fear that in a day I might be dead. But those would be lies. I knew it was the worst possible idea, and I did it anyway. I kissed her.

With a slow, fiery inevitability, we progressed out of our clothes and up the stairs. Having held back completely for so many days, we had no restraint now. The House sang in triumph, its heart pounding like a heavy-metal drummer.

If I used some craft, it wasn’t anything that would concern my government. The most joyful magics aren’t unique to craftsmen.

When we were completed, exhausted and renewed, Scherie cried, perhaps suspecting that this first time was also our last. Certain that it was, I fought to hide my heart.

*   *   *

In the morning, as if as eager as I was to avoid postcoital conversation, Scherie left early to say farewell to her parents before her “vacation.” I checked and rechecked my weapons; I readied my mind to exceed the limits of my craft.

The slide-slam of a van door jolted me to attention. It echoed my memory of a helicopter’s door and my descent into the desert. My hands shook, ready for a fight and flight miles away and months past. A craft invective nearly came to my lips. No, steady. Whether it was the curse or simple PTSD, I wouldn’t give into it.

The van belonged to the caterers. I stepped out to my back driveway to greet them. The pavement felt soft in the heat.

The caterers resembled Central American guerrillas that I had once chased into a pre-Mayan tomb, now rounded out and placid, their AK-47s beaten into plows. Steady. The head caterer shook my hand, looking up into my face with concern. “Big storm tonight, sir. And awful hot before that.”

I gritted my teeth, then nodded at the caterer. Despite Scherie’s tender therapy, I felt unwell, and it must have shown. Unconscious oracles annoyed me; I knew which way the wind blew. “Please set up in the yard, as planned.” I wouldn’t leave the local weather to chance, and I didn’t want a Kurosawa film fight.

Time for a security check—an unavoidable use of craft energies. My enemies might sneak in as workers to get the jump on the competition. I closed my eyes and thought,
Show their sins
. Then I studied the letters of the catering staff. I saw the usual small
t
’s and
a
’s. Nothing to worry about.

Then, a more muscular man came from behind the van, bearing a keg in his massive arms. Through the keg, his
M
flashed slow red like a coroner’s siren.

I wanted to spit at their insult of sending someone with so obvious a record. Then, my hands started to shake again. For the first time since the desert, I would try to kill.

CHAPTER

NINE

I blinked the sins out of my eyes. I spoke to the head caterer loudly enough for “M” to hear. “I’m going upstairs to see about the weather.”

I went inside. M followed, violating the threshold. The House exhaled in a draft of frustrated hate.
Probably has a knife
, I thought. A knife would be quiet, and it went with the cover of caterer.

M stepped with a feline’s soft pads, more like a lover than a hulking assassin. I kept walking, eyes ahead, leaving my back open, betting my life that the first blow wouldn’t come yet. Slowly up one flight of steps, then another to the third floor. M remained a flight behind.

At the last stair, I stopped. M’s quiet steps ceased, holding back on the second-floor landing. I glanced over my shoulder. “The bathroom is straight down the hall.”

I continued down the third-floor hall, then turned on my heel into Grandfather’s room. M strode past as if really seeking a toilet. This must be where he wanted me, cornered and out of sight, so what was he waiting for?

I didn’t waste the windfall of time. In the far corner past the shuttered window, a wooden cane gathered dust.
Every object in this very room, a weapon.
I snatched up the cane, and swung it around toward the door. No one there yet. The dust shook loose, uncovering intricate carving in old-growth oak, American Indian geometries interwoven with English paganism into an Art Nouveau whole that looked fragile. But I had been thwacked with this cane more than once, and knew it wasn’t soft.

Now for a defensive position. In front of the window was this floor’s iron plate, where Grandfather had tapped into the ancestral power. I stood on the plate and gave silent thanks again to my native land.

A toilet flushed. Was I being paranoid? Might as well go all the way. I visualized the coming battle, preparing my mind for whatever craft might assist me.

Then I saw myself killing M, and the curse hit me. I fell back against the shutters. My body gasped for air, fighting to hyperventilate and pass out and die an easy death.
I can’t do this.
My grip loosened on the cane.

M rushed in, KA-BAR blade drawn. Then he slowed and smiled at me. “Just like they said.” Leisurely, he shut the door behind him. “Pathetic.” M brought his knife up to bury in my exposed chest.

No.
The Left-Hand voices screamed with outrage. The House thrummed with my heart. The good and evil of this place would not let me die. Four centuries of power welled up through my feet. My mind went, and training took over. In a swift arc, I brought the cane up and parried M’s downward slash.

I grabbed M’s arm, using his momentum to rattle him against the shutters. But M spun free. He must have wards that made him slippery to such blows. M crouched with a new respect. I side-stepped off the plate, falling short with another cane stroke.

I moved toward the center of the room, always facing M as he circled. Time crawled, but not through craft. M rotated his knife in one hand, and made strange mudric gestures with the other. Not just thug, but thuggee? Bullshit—more fake than fakir. I ignored the theatrics and followed M’s movements, testing the heft of the cane.

Then, with a disciplined grace more inexorable than M’s, I strode straight at my opponent, whirring the cane from hand to hand like a spinning wheel. I spun the wood clockwise into M’s body with a thud, stopped, and spun it counterclockwise back, looking for a new opening. M slashed with the KA-BAR, nicking the cane, nicking my arm. But I parried again and again, while my free arms and legs delivered select punches and kicks into M’s stomach and face, all aimed for the control of my opponent that my native martial arts training prized.