He had wanted to wait, wanted to let her finish, but the sword, Sacnoth, would not wait. It entered her throat, more eager even than he, and emerged spent and swimming in scarlet blood.
The faceless Randolph Carter rose from the table. “Your seat, young man,” he said through no mouth. “I’m merely the marker whom you have followed.”
AFTERWORD
There is a daydream, I believe, common to all of us who read mysteries. We are in a small group that is somehow isolated. A member of our group is murdered, and it is we who determine the identity of the killer.
In the course of a life that has now grown lengthy, I have known three people who have actually been murdered. In one case, an old schoolmate was shot by her third husband. In another, a wealthy young woman who often came into my father’s cafe was murdered. Her husband was tried, acquitted, and subsequently murdered himself. The third was so fantastic that were I to describe it you would feel sure I was lying. There is a book about it:
You see that I have excuses for my interest in murder, but if I had none I would be just as interested. At one time, I considered designing a board game based on serial murders; that game never really took shape, but this story came out of the idea.
AND WHEN THEY APPEAR
Now Christmas is come,
Let us beat up the drum,
And call all our neighbors together,
And when they appear,
Let us make them such cheer,
As will keep out the wind and the weather.
—WASHINGTON IRVING
C
oncerned about Sherby, and himself as well, House sent forth both Kite and Mouse.
If you had seen Mouse, you would have seen nothing. That is to say, you would have told yourself, and quickly convinced yourself, that you had seen nothing, so swift did Mouse scurry over the snow. You were not present, but an owl saw Mouse and swooped down upon her, huge winged and silent as death, for owls are too wise ever to tell themselves that their eyes did not see what their eyes have seen. Its talons closed about Mouse, and a thin blade shot out. The blade was intended for fingers, but it worked well on talons. The owl shrieked, and flapped away upon wings that were silent still, leaving a claw-tipped fraction of itself bleeding on the snow.
Mouse squeaked (a sound too faint for human ears) as the blade retracted; this was the first time that it had been used since Mouse had been made, and the selflubricating bearings it pivoted on were dry.
Kite soared higher than the owl ever had, so high that he saw Lonely Mountain whole. He saw the tracks of cars and people in the snow where a bridge crossed the Whitewater, and directed Mouse toward the great, domed doughnut that was the Jefferson house. That was how Mouse found Kieran Jefferson III (principal operating officer of the Beauharnais Group) dead next to his Christmas tree with his brand-new Chapuis express rifle still in his hands. Mouse told House about it right away.
“I have decided to have a Christmas party,” House told Sherby. “I’ve thought the whole thing over, and decided it is the right thing to do.”
“I’d like to see my mom and dad,” Sherby told House. Not because it had anything to do with the party, but simply because the thought, filling his mind, had popped from his mouth as soon as he opened it. Sherby was still in his yellow pajamas, having worn them all day.
“And so you shall,” House assured him, knowing full well that what it meant had nothing to do with what he meant.
“Not holos.” Sherby could not read House’s mind, but he had known House all his life; if he had been able to read House’s mind, it would have made no difference.
Nor could House read Sherby’s.
“You must write the invitations,” House told Sherby. “I can’t manage that. I think we should invite Santa Claus first of all. That will get things off to a fine start.”
“I didn’t see Santa Claus last night,” Sherby objected. “I don’t think he’s real.”
“You fell asleep,” House explained gently, “and since he’s very busy on Christmas Eve, and had dropped in without an invitation, he didn’t awaken you. His busiest day is over now. He always relaxes on Christmas Day. He sleeps until dark, then eats a big dinner. He will be in a relaxed mood, and may very well come.”
“All right.” Enthusiasm comes easily at Sherby’s age, and often arrives unbidden; Sherby’s showed plainly on his face.
“You mustn’t expect more presents,” cautioned House, who had no more. “Santa gave away all the toys he had yesterday.”
“That’s okay,” Sherby said. “I like real things better than toys anyway.”
Then he went into the Learning Center, where House showed him how to make the letters, sometimes projecting hard ones (like
“That’s a good one,” House told him, “and while you were writing it I had another good idea. Let’s invite all the rest of the Christmas people too. There are a great many of them, live toy soldiers, the Nutcracker, and countless others.”
Sherby looked down sadly at the light pen, which felt very heavy in his fingers. “I don’t want to write a whole bunch more of these,” he said.
