Black House

“Yes,” Parkus agrees, “but not just mind readers. Precognates. Teleports—world jumpers like old Travelin’ Jack here, in other words—and telekinetics. Mind readers are the most common, telekinetics the rarest . . . and the most valuable.”

“To him, you mean,” Jack says. “To the Crimson King.”

“Yes. Over the last two hundred years or so, the abbalah has spent a good part of his time gathering a crew of telepathic slaves. Most of them come from Earth and the Territories. All of the telekinetics come from Earth. This collection of slaves—this gulag—is his crowning achievement. We call them Breakers. They . . .” He trails off, thinking. Then: “Do you know how a galley travels?”

Sophie nods, but Jack at first has no idea what Parkus is talking about. He has a brief, lunatic vision of a fully equipped kitchen traveling down Route 66.

“Many oarsmen,” Sophie says, then makes a rowing motion that throws her breasts into charming relief.

Parkus is nodding. “Usually slaves chained together. They—”

From outside the circle, Wendell suddenly sticks his own oar in. “Spart. Cus.” He pauses, frowning, then tries it again. “Spart-a-cus.”

“What’s he on about?” Parkus asks, frowning. “Any idea, Jack?”

“A movie called Spartacus,” Jack says, “and you’re wrong as usual, Wendell. I believe you’re thinking about Ben-Hur.”

Looking sulky, Wendell holds out his greasy hands. “More. Meat.”

Parkus pulls the last grouse from its sizzling stick and tosses it between two of the stones, where Wendell sits with his pallid, greasy face peering from between his knees. “Fresh prey for the news hawk,” he says. “Now do us a favor and shut up.”

“Or. What.” The old defiant gleam is rising in Wendell’s eyes.

Parkus draws his shooting iron partway from its holster. The grip, made of sandalwood, is worn, but the barrel gleams murder-bright. He has to say no more; holding his second bird in one hand, Wendell Green hitches up his robe and hies himself back over the rise. Jack is extremely relieved to see him go. Spartacus indeed, he thinks, and snorts.

“So the Crimson King wants to use these Breakers to destroy the Beams,” Jack says. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s his plan.”

“You speak as though of the future,” Parkus says mildly. “This is happening now, Jack. Only look at your own world if you want to see the ongoing disintegration. Of the six Beams, only one still holds true. Two others still generate some holding power. The other three are dead. One of these went out thousands of years ago, in the ordinary course of things. The others . . . killed by the Breakers. All in two centuries or less.”

“Christ,” Jack says. He is beginning to understand how Speedy could call the Fisherman small-fry.

“The job of protecting the Tower and the Beams has always belonged to the ancient war guild of Gilead, called gunslingers in this world and many others. They also generated a powerful psychic force, Jack, one fully capable of countering the Crimson King’s Breakers, but—”

“The gunslingers are all gone save for one,” Sophie says, looking at the big pistol on Parkus’s hip. And, with timid hope: “Unless you really are one, too, Parkus.”

“Not I, darling,” he says, “but there’s more than one.”

“I thought Roland was the last. So the stories say.”

“He has made at least three others,” Parkus tells her. “I’ve no idea how that can be possible, but I believe it to be true. If Roland were still alone, the Breakers would have toppled the Tower long since. But with the force of these others added to his—”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Jack says. “I did, sort of, but you lost me about two turns back.”

“There’s no need for you to understand it all in order to do your job,” Parkus says.

“Thank God for that.”

“As for what you do need to understand, leave galleys and oarsmen and think in terms of the Western movies your mother used to make. To begin with, imagine a fort in the desert.”

“This Dark Tower you keep talking about. That’s the fort.”

“Yes. And surrounding the fort, instead of wild Indians—”

“The Breakers. Led by Big Chief Abbalah.”

Sophie murmurs: “The King is in his Tower, eating bread and honey. The Breakers in the basement, making all the money.”

Jack feels a light but singularly unpleasant chill shake up his spine: he thinks of rat paws scuttering over broken glass. “What? Why do you say that?”

Sophie looks at him, flushes, shakes her head, looks down. “It’s what she says, sometimes. Judy. It’s how I hear her, sometimes.”

Parkus seizes one of the charred greensticks and draws in the rocky dust beside the figure-eight shape. “Fort here. Marauding Indians here, led by their merciless, evil—and most likely insane—chief. But over here—” Off to the left, he draws a harsh arrow in the dirt. It points at the rudimentary shapes indicating the fort and the besieging Indians. “What always arrives at the last moment in all the best Lily Cavanaugh Westerns?”

“The cavalry,” Jack says. “That’s us, I suppose.”

“No,” Parkus says. His tone is patient, but Jack suspects it is costing him a great effort to maintain that tone.