A Night in the Lonesome October (11 page)

    
I went out last night and sniffed around the ancient manse.
 
There were signs of recent work on the place, smells of fresh-cut lumber, of paint, of roofing, but it was locked up tighter than a canopic urn, and I couldn't tell whether there was anyone about.
 
I walked home, still feeling relieved that I was done with my corpse dragging.
 
The wind whistled and dry leaves blew by me.
 
There were flashes of lightning from off in the Good Doctor's direction.

    
The Thing in the Circle said, "French poodle?" when it saw me enter.

    
"Not today."

    
"Anything else?
 
Anything at all?
 
I'd sure like to get out and kill and rend.
 
I'm feeling stronger all of a sudden."

    
"Your time will come," I told it.

    
The Thing in the Steamer Trunk had poked a small hole in the front.
 
An enormous yellow eye regarded me through it.
 
It didn't make a sound, though.

    
Snoring noises emerged from the wardrobe in the attic.

    
I paused before the mirror in the hall.
 
All of its Things were clustered again, rather than slithering, and a close inspection showed me that they had positioned themselves before a small flaw in the glass which I hadn't noted earlier.
 
Had they found a way to create such dimensional flaws in their prison? Still, it was too finite to be of much use to them.
 
I resolved to keep an eye on it, though.

    
I awoke to the crunching sounds of wheels, the clopping of horses' hoofs, and the sounds of several voices, one of them singing in a foreign language, from the road out front.
 
Stretching, and stopping for a quick drink of water, I let myself out to see what was going on.

    
It was a fine, crisp morning, of sunlight, breezes, and leaves crunching beneath my feet.
 
A line of caravans was passing on the roadway, men in sashes and bright headcloths, Gipsies, all, walking beside or driving, headed, I guessed, for one of the open areas between us and the city, off in the direction of Larry Talbot's place.

    
"Good morning, Snuff," came a voice from the roadside weeds.

    
I walked over and investigated.

    
"'Morning, Quicklime," I said, when I spotted his dark sinuosity there.
 
"How you feeling?"

    
"Fine," he replied.
 
"A lot better than the other day.
 
Thanks for the advice."

    
"Any time.
 
You headed anyplace in particular?"

    
"I was following the Gipsies, actually.
 
But this is far enough.
 
We'll get word where they camp, by and by."

    
"You think they'll be stopping near here?"

    
"Without a doubt.
 
We've been expecting them for some time."

    
"Oh?
 
Something special about them?"

    
"Well. . . . It's common knowledge now that the Count's in the area, so I'm not talking out of class.
 
The master spent a lot of time in Eastern Europe, where he learned something of his ways.
 
When the Count travels, he's often accompanied by a band of Gipsies.
 
Rastov thinks he came here in a hurry when he determined where the locus would be, then sent for his band."

    
"What function will they serve here?"

    
"Now we're past the death of the moon, with the power rising, things get dangerous.
 
Everybody seems to know where the Count's residing, unless he's established a few more, uh, residences.
 
So someone with a fence picket who's decided the Game would be better off without him could end his eligibility.
 
He likely wants his Gipsies about to guard his quarters by day...”

    
"Good Lords!" I said.

    
"What?"

    
"I hadn't even thought of the possibility of a player's having more than one residence.
 
Do you realize what that would do to the pattern?"

    
"Damn!
 
No, I hadn't!
 
This is bad, Snuff.
 
If he's got another grave or two somewhere that throws all the calculations off!
 
It's good you thought of it, but what'll we do?"

    
"My first impulse was to keep it to myself," I said.
 
"But then I realized we'll have to cooperate on this.
 
We'll have to set up a schedule, take turns watching him come and go every night.
 
If he's got another place, or places, we've got to find them."

    
"Maybe it would just be easier to stake the guy."

    
"That wouldn't solve the problem, though.
 
It would just make it harder.
 
And if he happens to be your ally, or mine?
 
You could be sacrificing someone who'd make the difference."

    
"True.
 
True.
 
I wish I knew which side you were on. . . ."

    
"I'm not so sure that would be a good idea just yet.
 
We may work together better for not knowing it."

    
"'Work together. . . .' On the guard duty business, you mean?"

    
"I had a little more in mind, for us, right now, if you've got a little time."

    
"What do you have in mind?"

    
"I'll have to tell you a little of my calculations, but that's all right.
 
Rastov has probably duplicated them by now...”

    
"_You_ are the calculator in your pair?"

    
"That's right.
 
Now, I propose telling you something, and then we'll go and check it out.
 
No matter what we find, we'll learn something from it which will put us a little ahead."

    
"Of course I'll come."

    
"Good.
 
My calculations show that one possible center of manifestation is that ruined church near where the Count is making his quarters.
 
I don't know whether this is by accident or design.
 
But either way it means that we can only check it by daylight.
 
We'd better do it now, though, if there are going to be Gipsy guards around later."

    
"What exactly do you want to check?"

    
"I want you to slither down into the place and see whether it's suitable or whether there's not enough left for it to be our center.
 
I'm too big to fit down the opening.
 
I'll stand watch above and let you know if anyone comes by."

    
"I'll do it," he hissed.
 
"Let's be on our way."

    
We started out.

    
"And you'll have to use your imagination, too.
 
It may look bad, but if it could easily be enlarged by a few men with picks and shovels, tell me."

    
"Does this mean that Larry Talbot is a player?"

    
"It doesn't matter," I said.
 
"It's one of the places it might be."

    
"What are the others?"

    
"Let's not get greedy," I said.

    
We made our way through the wood.
 
When we reached the clearing there were no Gipsies about, nor anyone else.

 
   
"Check the crypt first," I said.
 
"You've gotten me wondering whether he's still using it."

    
Quicklime slithered into its opening.
 
A little later he returned.

    
"He's there," he reported, "and so's Needle.
 
Both of them are asleep."

    
"Good.
 
All right.
 
Try the church now."

    
I paced about, sniffing the breezes, watching the trees.
 
No one was near, no one approached.

    
In a little while Quicklime emerged.

    
"No," he said.
 
"It's a complete disaster, filled with dirt and rocks.
 
Nothing's left.
 
We'd have to start over again and rebuild."

    
I approached the opening, forced myself in as far as I could.
 
It narrowed quickly to the crack down which he had taken his way.

    
"How far back in that crack did you get?"

    
"Ten feet, maybe.
 
There were two side ways off of it.
 
Neither goes as far."

    
I believed him, from what I could see.

    
"So what does it mean?" he asked.

    
"That this isn't the place," I replied.

    
"Then what is?"

    
I thought quickly.
 
I didn't like giving anything to the competition.
 
But in this case one real fact could be misleading; and it was a fact he'd learn sooner or later, anyhow.

    
I backed out of the opening, turned toward the woods.

    
"Vicar Roberts," I said, "has a good disguise as a fanatic churchman. . . ."

    
"What do you mean?"

    
"He's a player."

    
"You're joking!"

    
"No.
 
He holds midnight services to the Elder Gods, right there in the church."

    
"The vicar . . . ?"

    
"Check it out," I told him.

    
"What does that do to the pattern?"

    
"I've calculated that if we count the vicar and drop Larry Talbot that places the vicarage and the church at the center of the pattern.
 
This isn't final if the Count is moving around, of course, but that's how it looks right now if we figure it this way."

    
"The vicar . . ." he repeated.

    
We entered the woods.

    
"So," he said after a while, "if the Count has a home away from home, or two, we need to find out whether they were established before or after the death of the moon."

    
"Yes," I agreed.
 
Everything was frozen at that point.
 
Death, relocation, withdrawal of a player, all of these shifted things about only before that time.
 
Afterwards, we could kill each other or move about as we wished without disturbing the geometry of the business.
 
"If there were a way of getting Needle to talk, we could find out."

    
"Hm," said Quicklime.

    
It occurred to me as we passed among the trees that I could be wrong, that I had just given him the correct information.
 
But it seemed to me that the weight of Larry's presence, along with that anticipation business he spoke of, made him too big an influence on the game _not_ to count him as a player, whether he collected ingredients and wove dueling spells, protections, opening spells, closing spells, or not.
 
With him included, along with the vicar, it had to be that old manse rather than the church.
 
And the oft-restored place looked as if it went back far enough to have a chapel around somewhere, or something that had once been a chapel.

    
Besides, it wasn't really a bad thing to reveal the vicar for what he was.
 
The others would start doing things to skew his efforts once the word was out.

    
"So what about watching the Count's comings and goings?" I asked.

    
"Let's hold off on it, Snuff," he hissed.
 
"No need to bring the others into this yet.
 
I've a much better idea for finding out about the Count's doings."

    
"Even with the Gipsies about?"

    
"Even so."

    
"What've you got in mind?"