The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [480]
As it was the theatre of manoeuvre – the three dry topmost floors and the wet ‘floor of boats’ (where the coloured craft of the carvers sped to and fro, or lay careening beneath great mantelpieces, or tied up to the banisters of forgotten stairways, cast their rich reflections in the dark water) – these theatres of manoeuvre – the three dry levels and the one wet, were not the only areas which had to be considered in the drawing up of the Master Plan. The Countess also had to remember the isolated outcrops of the castle. Luckily most of the widely scattered and virtually endless ramifications of the main structure of Gormenghast were under water, and consequently of no use to the fugitive. But there were a number of towers to which the young man might well have swum. And there was also Gormenghast Mountain.
As far as this latter was concerned, the Countess was not apprehensive of his having escaped there, not merely because she had checked the boats each evening, and was satisfied that there had been no thefts but because a string of boats, like coloured beads, was at her orders in perpetual rotation around the castle summits, and would have cut him off by day or night.
The core of her strategy hinged upon the fact that the young man must eat. As for drink, he had a wet world brimming at his mouth.
That he might already be dead from accident or from starvation was ruled out by the body that on this very day had been discovered floating face downwards alongside an upturned coracle. The man had been no more than a few hours dead. A pebble was lodged in his forehead.
The headquarters of the Countess was now in a long, narrow room that lay immediately and somewhat centrally above the ‘floor of boats’.
There she received all messages: gave all orders: prepared her plans: studied the various maps and gave instructions for new ones to be rapidly prepared of the unplotted districts so that she should have as powerful a grasp upon the smallest details as she had upon the comprehensive sweep of her master-plan.
Her preparations completed she rose from the table at which she had been sitting, and pursing her lips at the goldfinch on her shoulder she was about to move with that characteristically heavy and ruthless deliberation towards the door when a panting messenger ran up to her.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘Lord Titus, my lady … he’s …’
‘He’s what?’ she turned her head sharply.
‘He’s here.’
‘Where?’
‘Outside the door, your ladyship. He says he has important news for you.’ The Countess moved at once to the door and opening it, found Titus sitting upon the floor, his head between his knees, his sodden clothes in rags, his legs and arms bruised and scratched, and his hair grey with grime.
He did not look up. He had not the strength. He had collapsed. In a confused way he knew where he was, for he had been straining his muscles with long and hazardous climbs, struggling shoulder deep through flooded passageways, crawling giddily over slanting roofs, intent upon one thing – to reach this door under which he had slumped. The door of his mother’s room.
After a little time he opened his eyes. His mother was kneeling heavily at his side. What was she doing there? He shut his eyes again. Perhaps he was dreaming. Someone was saying in a far away voice ‘Where is that brandy?’ and then, a little later, he felt himself being raised, the cold rim of a glass at his lips.
When he next opened his eyes he knew exactly where he was and why he was there.
‘Mother!’ he said.
‘What is it?’ Her voice was quite colourless.
‘I’ve seen him.’
‘Who?’
‘Steerpike.’
The Countess stiffened at his side. It was as though something more of ice than of flesh was kneeling beside him.
‘No!’ she said at last. ‘Why should I believe you?’
‘It is true,’ said Titus.
She bent over him and taking his shoulders in her powerful