Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (46 page)

 
          
"What
about the books I'm working on now?" he asked.

 
          
Daggonet
shrugged. "Anything that's already in production, fine, but nothing new.
We'll need to get together in January after I've talked with the lawyers, but I
wanted to give you as much warning as possible."

 
          
"I
appreciate it," Colin said. He shook Daggonet's hand. "My best to
Barry."

 
          
"You'll
have to come by the place for a drink," Daggonet said. His voice was
hollow. Alan Daggonet was a gentle man, and hated to be the bearer of bad news.

 
          
"Sure,"
Colin said. "And do try to have a Merry Christmas, Alan."

           
So. Perhaps I should look into
that Taghkanic thing Michael mentioned after all,
Colin thought to himself
as he reached the street. He'd always known that Selkie Press wasn't something
meant to last forever, but getting his walking papers so abruptly was still
something of a shock. Still, he was willing to bet he didn't feel half as bad
about things as Daggonet did.

 
          
And
Colin had much bigger fish to fry at the moment.

 
          
By
now it was nearly
noon
, and Colin's stomach was reminding him that he'd missed
breakfast. He was on
York Avenue
in the upper eighties;
hardly an area in which he was likely to find an open pizza joint. Still, there
ought to be a coffee shop somewhere in the area where he could snatch a quick
bite.

 
          
He
was just crossing
Park
Avenue
when he felt a sudden
tugging,
as precipitously as if someone were
plucking at his coat. He glanced around, trying to see what had summoned his
attention.

 
          
Across
the street, he saw a building of professional suites nestled between two old
dowagers of apartment buildings. It stood out sharply to his schooled
perception, as though it was illuminated by a separate light.

 
          
When
the traffic light changed, he crossed the street and inspected the building's
entryway more closely. None of the names on the brass plates
—
Clinton, Wynitch, Barnes
—
were particularly familiar
to him, though Wynitch woke a vague spark of recognition in his mind. Oh yes.
An ugly little scandal a few years ago, when a boy he was treating committed
suicide.

 
          
Someone
in there needs help.
Of this, Colin was quite certain.

 
          
But
not now. Not yet. He had another errand to run first.

 
          
Blackcock
Books' offices were located on the sunny side of
Park Avenue South
, down in the thirties.
Though small by the standards of older publishing firms, their offices still
took up an entire floor of their building, including a stylish foyer
containing the company logo, executed in brushed aluminum and mounted on the
fabric-covered wall behind the receptionist's desk. A tinsel-cloaked Christmas
tree stood in the corner of the foyer, testament to the season.

 
          
Blackcock
published paperback originals exclusively; it was one of the publishing houses
that had sprung up like mushrooms in the last thirty years to handle what had
been (at the time) a new, low-cost format that no one had really thought would
ever endure. But these days, over half of all new books weren't even published
in hardcover anymore, but only in the cheap disposable paperback format. Only
one of John Cannon's vast and varied output
—
The Occult History of
the New World
—
had ever seen hardcover publication, and it hadn't been
Blackcock that had published it.

 
          
Several
of his other books, however, made up a lurid display on the wall behind the
chair where Colin MacLaren was sitting.

 
          
He
had identified himself to the receptionist and asked to speak to James Melford.
As he'd surmised, the next person he saw was not Melford, but a pretty young
woman in a very short skirt who introduced herself as Peggy Kane and identified
herself as James Melford's assistant. She, too, asked his business, but when
Colin told her that his business was private, she had accepted that with a
good grace and disappeared once more.

 
          
He'd
been waiting now for more than an hour, and was wondering if they simply hoped
he'd go away, when Ms. Kane returned again. Colin followed her through the door
into the Blackcock offices.

 
          
This
close to the holiday, most of the staff was on vacation, and the bareness of
the desks in the little cubicles along the hallway reflected that fact. But
despite the barrenness of the office, it had a slovenly, unkempt look that went
far beyond the normal chaos of editorial offices. Potted plants had been
hastily righted, but the dirt spilled when they'd been overturned had only been
hastily and sketchily tidied.

 
          
It
was a calculated risk, Colin knew, to come to Cannon's publisher on such an
outlandish mission as this. But Cannon's last manuscript, like a literary
Typhoid Mary, would continue to spread death and destruction in its wake so
long as the black coven was trying to suppress it.

 
          
Ms.
Kane stopped outside a door and knocked perfunctorily before opening the door
and ushering Colin inside.

 
          
James
Melford was a man in his early forties. His curly light brown hair
—
worn long in the fashion of
a man who was late for a haircut
—
curled over the collar of his striped
Oxford
shirt. His jacket was
tossed over the back of his chair, and the room was filled with boxed
manuscripts and other publishing ephemera, including two framed awards and
something that looked like a comic-strip spaceship cast in bronze. Its display
stand had been cracked
—
Colin was willing to bet recently. The sense of
derangement in this office was, if possible, even stronger than that in the
hall outside. He stood when Colin arrived.

 
          
"Mr.
MacLaren. How are you? You're a friend of Jock's, aren't you? I remember him
mentioning you to me a few months ago. I don't know quite how to bring this up,
but
—
"

 
          
"I
know that Cannon's dead," Colin said. "And how he died. In a way
that's why I'm here. Mr. Melford, I've come to see you about John Cannon's last
book
—
"

 
          
He
was entirely unprepared for Melford's reaction.

 
          
"Get
out!"
James Melford roared, rising to his feet.

 
          
It
took Colin several tense minutes to convince Cannon's editor that he was not a
minion of the black coven that had been harassing Cannon
—
and had broken into
Blackcock's offices just last night in search of the publisher's copy of the
manuscript.

 
          
Unfortunately,
that was the only thing that Colin managed to convince Jamie Melford of, and by
the time he left the office half an hour later, he wasn't completely sure that
Melford didn't believe that Colin was, if not somehow connected to the group
that had murdered Cannon, at the very least an unwitting dupe of their schemes.
He had certainly not convinced Melford to either suppress the manuscript or to
let him have a look at it.

 
          
Still,
perhaps the seeds he had sown here today would bear wholesome fruit in the
future. And at least he now knew how determined the black coven was. Murder by
magick was one thing
—
a wholly physical break-in was quite another, and in one
sense, far more menacing.

 
          
For
a moment, Colin wondered what secret they could have that they would have
revealed to an outsider
—
John Cannon
—
and yet still go to such lengths to protect. Colin himself,
oddly, had more reason to wish to suppress such a book as
Witchcraft: Its
Power in the World Today
than they did. Based on his recollection of
Cannon's lecture, the manuscript undoubtedly provided a detailed occult
workbook for the mentally unbalanced.

 
          
"Would
you give a baby a loaded gun?"
Colin had asked Jamie Melford in their
interview, but he knew that Melford had not grasped the analogy. Melford was an
editor, a man whose business was books
—
yet at one and the same time
he could believe that there was nothing more powerful than the written word and
that written words could do no harm. Colin prayed that Melford would never
discover differently
—
though he had failed to protect Cannon, Colin vowed he
would not fail twice. Even without gaining access to the manuscript, Colin
still had one lead.

 
          
The
so-called black coven Colin was after was composed of Satanists, not witches.
He could only hope these Satanists were highly traditional in their practices
—
if they were, they had very
particular requirements for the practice of their Black Art, including that
their conventicle be led by a Catholic priest. And Cannon had mentioned a
Father Mansell.

 
          
A
quick call to the diocesan offices netted him the information that there was a
Father Walter Mansell, but that he had been
laicized
—
defrocked, in the old
terminology
—
over ten years before, and thus the diocese no longer kept
track of him.

 
          
Colin
hesitated for a long moment, then dialed a second number.

 
          
"Can
I help you?" The familiar voice was efficient, neutral, and crisp.

 
          
"I'd
like to speak to Father Godwin, please," Colin told the housekeeper.

 
          
"Who
is calling, please?" Now the voice was decidedly cooler, betraying an
undertone of an accent. English was not Frau Keppler's first language, and her
devotion to Godwin was intense. Few callers got past her dedicated protection
of his privacy.

 
          
"This
is Colin MacLaren," Colin said. He switched to an accentless German.
"How are you, Inge?"

 
          
"Very
well, thank you, Herr Doktor." Her voice warmed slightly, taking on a note
half prim, half playful. "You are playing a very dangerous game these
days,
nicht wahr?"

 
          
Colin
did not waste time wondering how she knew what he'd been up to. Frau Keppler's
intelligence-gathering service was still one of the best he'd ever seen.

 
          
"I'm
afraid so. Will it be possible to speak to the good father?"

 
          
"He
has not been well, lately. But if you must see him, be so good as to come
around four. I believe he can give you a few minutes then."

NEW YORK
,
FRIDAY,
DECEMBER 23,  1972

As an unperfect actor on the stage,

Who with his fear is put beside his part,

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart

—
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

 
 
          
FATHER
ADALHARD GODWIN LIVED IN AN IMPOSING BROWNSTONE IN THE East Fifties. The
building had been the gift of a grateful client, and Father Godwin, who took
his vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience with absolute seriousness, had
donated the property to the Church. In turn he had been granted a lifetime
tenancy. Since his retirement fifteen years ago at the age of eighty, he'd
lived here, compiling the notes for a book he would never write.

           
Colin presented himself on the steps
of the brownstone at precisely
four o'clock
. Frau Keppler inspected him
through the peephole for almost a minute before she relented enough to open the
door and let him in. She guarded her charge with the maternal ferocity of a
lioness, and did not feel that Colin was a good influence on Father Godwin.

 
          
Colin
stepped into the hallway and waited as Frau Keppler bolted the door behind him.
It slid back into place with the sound of a bank vault closing
—
the door was sheathed on
both sides with thick steel plates against the enemies Godwin had made in the
course of a long and turbulent life.

 
          
The
young man in the dark suit and clerical collar
—
as much a fixture of the
house in the east fifties as Frau Keppler herself
—
watched Colin with a fixed,
pale-eyed stare until he had satisfied himself, then withdrew through the
doorway and closed the door behind him. Colin had made many visits to this
house in his life. The identity of the young man in the foyer changed frequently,
but Colin had never exchanged a word with any of them. He'd never even heard
any of them speak.

           
Frau Keppler conducted Colin to the
ornate elevator at the far end of the hall and slid its telescoping bronze
gates closed. The small cage made its slow progress four floors closer to the
angels, stopping at the top floor. Frau Keppler slid the doors open and
stepped out.

 
          
"You
will not tire him?"

 
          
"I
would not have come at all, Inge, if the matter weren't urgent. You know
that."

 
          
She
sighed, giving up. "He is in the solarium," she said.

 
          
What
had once been an open patio on the top floor of the building had since been
glassed in with thick, triple-paned windows. Even on this bitter December day,
the room was tropically hot, and the pale winter light turned golden as it
shone through the shelves and tables covered with plants. Colin could almost
feel the pulse of vegetable life here in this place.

 
          
"I
take such pleasure in watching the plants grow. There's such reassurance to be
found in nursing them from cutting to bloom, each always the same, according
to its nature; each blossom producing more of its own kind . . ."

 
          
"Hello,
Adalhard," Colin said.

 
          
The
old man got slowly to his feet
—
Colin knew better than to help him
—
and turned around, wiping
his earth-stained hands on his apron. His skin had the porcelain translucency
of age, and his thick white hair was still cut in a military brush.

 
          
"Ah.
It is bad tidings when you come to see me, my stormcrow. Which of my fallen
angels concerns you?"

 
          
"I'm
not even sure
—
" Colin began.

 
          
"Tut."
Father Godwin held up a minatory finger. "Let us not fence, you and I. We
both know what you have come for. But I will give you a few moments to gather
your resources. Youngsters your age have no stamina," he added with a
twinkle in his eye.

 
          
Father
Godwin crossed to the intercom and pressed a button. "Sherry and biscuits
in the solarium, if you would, Mrs. Keppler," he said, and turned back to
his guest.

 
          
"It
becomes awkward. I hardly know how to address my dear housekeeper these days.
Is she a 'Mrs.'? Or must I stoop to calling her 'Miz' as the liberationists
would have us do? It is a larger problem than mine, of course, and will not be
solved in my lifetime, but once more
Holy Mother
Church
is being asked why it is
that women cannot administer the sacraments." He lowered himself into a
chair with a sigh. "And of course we have no good answer for them, since
we must all restrict ourselves to the domain of the strictly rational."
Father Godwin snorted derisively. "If we were all rational beings in a
materialistic world, what need would men have for the Church, or She for
them?" he asked. "Or the Good Lord for any of us?"

 
          
For
eighteen years Father Godwin had been an exorcist, one of less than two dozen
men worldwide empowered by the pope to perform the Ritual of Exorcism for the
Catholic Church. Calls for his services had come from all over the world. If
the case satisfied the
Vatican
's strict requirements for
intervention, Father Godwin had interposed himself between an embattled soul
and the blackest forces of Hell itself.

 
          
An
exorcism could take months
—
even years
—
to complete, and the work destroyed its instruments
quickly, taking their health, their strength, and their sanity. At last Father
Godwin's superiors had forbidden him the work, but in his retirement he had
found another way to continue the fight.

 
          
"Men
always have need of the Light," Colin said.

 
          
Father
Godwin nodded. "Most of all when they least think so. Ah, Mrs. Keppler.
Here you are with something to tempt our palates."

 
          
"The
doctor says you should not drink," Frau Keppler said, whisking a white
linen cloth over a table with one hand and then setting the tray carefully
upon it. Working methodically, she emptied the tray of a decanter half-filled
with ruby liquid, glasses, and a plate of cookies that smelled as if they were
still warm from the oven.

 
          
"When
the doctor has reached my advanced age," Father Godwin said with some
spirit, "I shall be delighted to entertain his suggestions. Until then, we
must presume that what I have eaten for the past ninety-five years will not
kill me in the ninety-sixth."

 
          
Frau
Keppler sniffed audibly.

 
          
"Go
on, go on," Father Godwin said, taking a linen napkin from the table and
waving it at his housekeeper as if she were a wayward crow. "And tell
Donald that he might smile more if he took a glass of wine occasionally."

 
          
Frau
Keppler left.

 
          
"I
ought not to tease her
—
or that terribly serious young man who has come to learn
all that I can teach him before he must walk these dark roads alone. I shall
have to apologize to the Lord when I speak with Him this evening."

 
          
"I'm
sure it's good for them," Colin said mildly, pouring two glasses of sherry
and handing one to Father Godwin.

 
          
"Ah,
yes . . . certainty. One of the cleverest pathways to damnation," Godwin
said softly. "No man can know with certainty what is best for another, yet
God has called us to be the shepherds of His people and to choose their path.
..."

 
          
His
voice subsided, and he sat silently for some minutes, his sherry un-tasted.
Colin was about to attempt to attract his attention when Father Godwin roused
and lifted his glass.

 
          
"One
of the penalties of a long life, Colin. So many memories
—
and so much experience that
each choice becomes a dilemma. But you did not come today to hear a lecture
upon the horrors of age. You've come about a spoiled priest, have you
not?"

 
          
Father
Godwin still used the older term for a laicized member of the Roman Catholic
clergy. Many who left the priesthood left the Church as well, but Father Godwin
never gave up hope of returning them to the fold. He had made these men his
special vocation in his retirement, watching over them as tenderly as a mother
hen over her chicks
—
though some of those he watched over would have cursed his
name had they known of his concern.

           
"Yes. A Father Walter
Mansell," Colin said. "I was hoping you could give me some
information about him. His name came up in rather . . . odd circumstances."

 
          
Father
Godwin chuckled dryly. "You should give up trying to spare my feelings,
Colin. Walter is a Satan-worshiper. He was excommunicated for it, as well as
laicized. Even after Vatican II, the Church retains some standards, though She
makes many foolish compromises. I pray for him every night, that poor dear
tormented soul." There was no irony at all in Father Godwin's words.

 
          
"May
he find the Light," Colin agreed quietly.

 
          
Father
Godwin gathered himself together with a sigh. "But you won't have come to
tax me with my failures. I was his counselor before he left the priesthood, did
you know? This was some few years after my retirement, but the bishop kindly
allows me to keep my hand in. I think His Grace and I both suspected the
direction that Walter's curiosity would take. And so it became necessary to
... do what was done."

 
          
"The
Church excommunicated Walter Mansell for heresy?"

 
          
"The
Cathar heresy, to be precise; an old and pernicious one, but there's a dance in
the old girl yet, as the actress said to the bishop. You'll be familiar with
it, of course. It holds that Satan is coequal with God, and is the supreme
ruler of the Material Realm." Godwin sighed, as if suddenly weary.
"Now, tell me what your interest is in him."

 
          
"A
friend of mine has died," Colin said. "He mentioned Mansell's name as
if he might be involved with the Black Order my friend was investigating. I
don't know if he is
—
or even if it's the same group that I have reason to believe
has ended the lives of three people in the last year
—
but I do know that I want to
talk to him."

 
          
Father
Godwin shook his head sadly. "Oh, Walter, I warned you. And instead I
seem to have flung you directly into their embrace."

 
          
"You
can't blame yourself," Colin said. Father Godwin glared at him, his
normally mild brown eyes suddenly blazing.