Still, until he'd had Roland to complete him-to make him greater than his own destiny, perhaps-Walter o' Dim had been little more than a wanderer left over from the old days, a mercenary with a vague ambition to penetrate the Tower before it was brought down. Was that not what had brought him to the Crimson King in the first place? Yes. And it wasn't his fault that the great scuttering spider-king had run mad.
Never mind. Here was his son with the same mark on his heel-Walter could see it at this very moment-and everything balanced. Of course he'd need to be careful. The thing in the chair looked helpless, perhaps even thought it was helpless, but it wouldn't do to underestimate it just because it looked like a baby.
Walter slipped the gun into his pocket (for the moment; only for the moment) and held his hands out, empty and palms up. Then he closed one of them into a fist, which he raised to his forehead. Slowly, never taking his eyes from Mordred, wary lest he should change (Walter had seen that change, and what had happened to the little beast's mother), the newcomer dropped to one knee.
"Hile, Mordred Deschain, son of Roland of Gilead that was and of the Crimson King whose name was once spoken from End-World to Out-World; hile you son of two fathers, both of them descended from Arthur Eld, first king to rise after the Prim receded, and Guardian of the Dark Tower."
For a moment nothing happened. In the Control Center there was only silence and the lingering smell of Nigel's fried circuits.
Then the baby lifted its chubby fists, opened them, and raised his hands: Rise, bondsman, and come to me.
TWO
"It's best you not 'think strong,' in any case," the newcomer said, stepping closer. "They knew you were here, and Roland is almighty Christing clever; trig-delah is he. He caught up with me once, you know, and I thought I was done. I truly did." From his gunna the man who sometimes called himself Flagg (on another level of the Tower, he had brought an entire world to ruin under that name) had taken peanut butter and crackers.
He'd asked permission of his new dinh, and the baby (although bitterly hungry himself) had nodded regally. Now Walter sat cross-legged on the floor, eating rapidly, secure in his thinkingcap, unaware there was an intruder inside and all that he knew was being ransacked. He was safe until that ransacking was done, but afterward-
Mordred raised one chubby baby-hand in the air and swooped it gracefully down in the shape of a question mark.
"How did I escape?" Walter asked. "Why, I did what any true cozener would do in such circumstances-told him the truth!
Showed him the Tower, at least several levels of it. It stunned him, right and proper, and while he was open in such fashion,
I took a leaf from his own book and hypnotized him. We were in one of the fistulas of time which sometimes swirl out from the Tower, and the world moved on all around us as we had our palaver in that bony place, aye! I brought more bones-human ones-and while he slept I dressed em in what was left of my own clothes. I could have killed him then, but what of the Tower if I had, eh? What of you, for that matter? You never would have come to be. It's fair to say, Mordred, that by allowing Roland to live and draw his three, I saved your life before your life was even kindled, so I did. I stole away to the seashore-felt in need of a little vacation, hee! When Roland got there, he went one way, toward the three doors. I'd gone the other, Mordred my dear, and here I am!"
He laughed through a mouthful of crackers and sprayed crumbs on his chin and shirt. Mordred smiled, but he was revolted. This was what he was supposed to work with, this? A cracker-gobbling, crumb-spewing fool who was too full of his own past exploits to sense his present danger, or to know his defenses had been breached? By all the gods, he deserved to die!
But before that could happen, there were two more things he needed. One was to know where Roland and his friends had gone. The other was to be fed. This fool would serve both purposes.
And what made it easy? Why, that Walter had also grown old-old and lethally sure of himself-and too vain to realize it.
"You may wonder why I'm here, and not about your father's business," Walter said. "Do you?"
Mordred didn't, but he nodded, just the same. His stomach rumbled.
"In truth, I am about his business," Walter said, and gave his most charming smile (spoiled somewhat by the peanut butter on his teeth). He had once probably known that any statement beginning with the words In truth is almost always a lie.
No more. Too old to know. Too vain to know. Too stupid to remember. But he was wary, all the same. He could feel the child's force. In his head? Rummaging around in his head?
Surely not. The thing trapped in the baby's body was powerful, but surely not that powerful.
Walter leaned forward earnestly, clasping his knees.
"Your Red Father is... indisposed. As a result of having lived so close to the Tower for so long, and having thought upon it so deeply, I have no doubt. It's down to you to finish what he began. I've come to help you in that work."
Mordred nodded, as if pleased. He was pleased. But ah, he was also so hungry.
"You may have wondered how I reached you in this supposedly secure chamber," Walter said. "In truth I helped build this place, in what Roland would call the long-ago."
That phrase again, as obvious as a wink.
He had put the gun in the left pocket of his parka. Now, from the right, he withdrew a gadget the size of a cigarettepack, pulled out a silver antenna, and pushed a button. A section of the gray tiles withdrew silently, revealing a flight of stairs.
Mordred nodded. Walter-or Randall Flagg, if that was what he was currently calling himself-had indeed come out of the floor. A neat trick, but of course he had once served Roland's father Steven as Gilead's court magician, hadn't he? Under the name of Marten. A man of many faces and many neat tricks was Walter o' Dim, but never as clever as he seemed to think. Not by half. For Mordred now had the final thing he had been looking for, which was the way Roland and his friends had gotten out of here. There was no need to pluck it from its hiding place in Walter's mind, after all. He only needed to follow the fool's backtrail.
First, however...
Walter's smile had faded a little. "Did'ee say something, sire? For I thought I heard the sound of your voice, far back in my mind."
The baby shook his head. And who is more believable than a baby? Are their faces not the very definition of guilelessness and innocence?
"I'd take you with me and go after them, if you'd come," Walter said. "What a team we'd make! They've gone to the devar-toi in Thunderclap, to release the Breakers. I've already promised to meet your father-your White Father-and his katet should they dare go on, and that's a promise I intend to keep. For, hear me well, Mordred, the gunslinger Roland Deschain has stood against me at every turn, and I'll bear it no more. No more! Do you hear?" His voice was rising in fury.
Mordred nodded innocently, widening his pretty baby's eyes in what might have been taken for fear, fascination, or both.
Certainly Walter o' Dim seemed to preen beneath his regard, and really, the only question now was when to take him-immediately or later? Mordred was very hungry, but thought he would hold off at least a bit longer. There was something oddly compelling about watching this fool stitching the last few inches of his fate with such earnestness.
Once again Mordred drew the shape of a question mark in the air.
Any last vestige of a smile faded from Walter's face. "What do I truly want? Is that what you're asking for?"
Mordred nodded yes.
"'Tisn't the Dark Tower at all, if you want the truth; it's Roland who stays on my mind and in my heart. I want him dead." Walter spoke with flat and unsmiling finality. "For the long and dusty leagues he's chased me; for all the trouble he's caused me; and for the Red King, as well-the tmeKing, ye do ken; for his presumption in refusing to give over his quest no matter what obstacles were placed in his path; most of all for the death of his mother, whom I once loved." And, in an undertone:
"Or at least coveted. In either case, it was he who killed her. No matter what part I or Rhea of the Coos may have played in that matter, it was the boy himself who stopped her breath with his damned guns, slow head, and quick hands.
"As for the end of the universe... I say let it come as it will, in ice, fire, or darkness. What did the universe ever do for me that I should mind its welfare? All I know is that Roland of Gilead has lived too long and I want that son of a bitch in the ground. And those he's drawn, too."
For the third and last time, Mordred drew the shape of a question in the air.
"There's only a single working door from here to the devartoi, young master. It's the one the Wolves use... or used; I think they've made their last run, so I do. Roland and his friends have gone through it, but that's all right, there's plenty to occupy em right where they come out-they might find the reception a bit hot! Mayhap we can take care of em while they've got the Breakers and the remaining Children of Roderick and the true guards o' die watch to worry about. Would you like that?"
The infant nodded an affirmative with no hesitation. He then put his fingers to his mouth and chewed at them.
"Yes," Walter said. His grin shone out. "Hungry, of course you are. But I'm sure we can do better than rats and halfgrown billy-bumblers when it comes to dinner. Don't you?"
Mordred nodded again. He was sure they could, too.
"Will I play the good da' and carry you?" Walter asked.