Lodge flashed V’s-for-victory and car-salesmen grins (NIXON/LODGE, BECAUSE THE
WORK’S NOT DONE, these read). John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson stood with their
arms around each other and their free hands raised. Below their feet was the bold
proclamationWE STAND ON THE EDGE OF A NEW FRONTIER .
“Any idea who won?” Roland asked over his shoulder. Susannah was currently riding in
Ho Fat’s Luxury Taxi, taking in the sights (and wishing for a sweater: even a light cardigan
would do her just fine, by God).
“Oh, yes,” she said. There was no doubt in her mind that these posters had been mounted
for her benefit. “Kennedy did.”
“He became your dinh?”
“Dinh of the entire United States. And Johnson got the job when Kennedy was gunned
down.”
“Shot? Do you say so?” Roland was interested.
“Aye. Shot from hiding by a coward named Oswald.”
“And your United States was the most powerful country in the world.”
“Well, Russia was giving us a run for our money when you grabbed me by the collar and
yanked me into Mid-World, but yes, basically.”
“And the folk of your country choose their dinh for themselves. It’s not done on account of
fathership.”
“That’s right,” she said, a little warily. She half-expected Roland to blast the democratic
system. Or laugh at it.
Instead he surprised her by saying, “To quote Blaine the Mono, that sounds pretty swell.”
“Do me a favor and don’t quote him, Roland. Not now, not ever. Okay?”
“As you like,” he said, then went on without a pause, but in a much lower voice. “Keep my
gun ready, may it do ya.”
“Does me fine,” she agreed at once, and in the same low voice. It came outDoes ’ee ’ine,
because she didn’t even want to move her lips. She could feel that they were now being
watched from within the buildings that crowded this end of The King’s Way like shops and
inns in a medieval village (or a movie set of one). She didn’t know if they were humans,
robots, or maybe just still-operating TV cameras, but she hadn’t mistrusted the feeling even
before Roland spoke up and confirmed it. And she only had to look at Oy’s head,
tick-tocking back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather clock, to know he felt it, too.
“And was he a good dinh, this Kennedy?” Roland asked, resuming his normal voice. It
carried well in the silence. Susannah realized a rather lovely thing: for once she wasn’t cold, even though this close to the roaring river the air was dank as well as chill. She was too
focused on the world around her to be cold. At least for the present.
“Well, not everyone thought so, certainly the nut who shot him didn’t, but I did,” she said.
“He told folks when he was running that he meant to change things. Probably less than half
the voters thought he meant it, because most politicians lie for the same reason a monkey
swings by his tail, which is to say because he can. But once he was elected, he started in
doin the things he’d promised to do. There was a showdown over a place called Cuba, and
he was just as brave as…well, let’s just say you would have been pleased to ride with him.
When some folks saw just how serious he was, the motherfucks hired the nut to shoot him.”
“Oz-walt.”
She nodded, not bothering to correct him, thinking that there was nothing to correct, really.Oz-walt. Oz. It all came around again, didn’t it?
“And Johnson took over when Kennedy fell.”
“Yep.”
“How didhe do?”
“Was too early to tell when I left, but he was more the kind of fella used to playing the
game. ‘Go along to get along,’ we used to say. Do you ken it?”
“Yes, indeed,” he said. “And Susannah, I think we’ve arrived.” Roland brought Ho Fat’s
Luxury Taxi to a stop. He stood with the handles wrapped in his fists, looking at Le Casse
Roi Russe.
Two
Here The King’s Way ended, spilling into a wide cobbled fore-court that had once no
doubt been guarded as assiduously by the Crimson King’s men as Buckingham Palace was
by the Beefeaters of Queen Elizabeth. An eye that had faded only slightly over the years
was painted on the cobbles in scarlet. From ground-level, one could only assume what it
was, but from the upper levels of the castle itself, Susannah guessed, the eye would
dominate the view to the northwest.
Same damn thing’s probably painted at every other point of the compass, too,she thought.
Above this outer courtyard, stretched between two deserted guard-towers, was a banner
that looked freshly painted. Stenciled upon it (also in red, white, and blue) was this:
WELCOME, ROLAND AND SUSANNAH!
(OY, TOO!)
KEEP ON ROCKIN’ IN THE FREE WORLD!
The castle beyond the inner courtyard (and the caged river which here served as a moat)
was indeed of dark red stone blocks that had darkened to near-black over the years. Towers
and turrets burst upward from the castle proper, swelling in a way that hurt the eye and
seemed to defy gravity. The castle within these gaudy brackets was sober and undecorated
except for the staring eye carved into the keystone arch above the main entrance. Two of
the overhead walkways had fallen, littering the main courtyard with shattered chunks of
stone, but six others remained in place, crisscrossing at different levels in a way that made her think of turnpike entrances and exits where a number of major highways met. As with
the houses, the doors and windows were oddly narrow. Fat black rooks were perched on the
sills of the windows and lined up along the overhead walkways, peering at them.
Susannah swung down from the rickshaw with Roland’s gun stuffed into her belt, within
easy reach. She joined him, looking at the main gate on this side of the moat. It stood open.
Beyond it, a humped stone bridge spanned the river. Beneath the bridge, dark water rushed
through a stone throat forty feet wide. The water smelled harsh and unpleasant, and where
it flowed around a number of fangy black rocks, the foam was yellow instead of white.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“Listen to those fellows, for a start,” he said, and nodded toward the main doors on the far
side of the castle’s cobbled forecourt. The portals were ajar and through them now came
two men—perfectly ordinary men, not narrow funhouse fellows, as she had rather
expected. When they were halfway across the forecourt, a third slipped out and scurried
along after. None appeared to be armed, and as the two in front approached the bridge, she
was not exactly flabbergasted to see they were identical twins. And the one behind looked
the same: Caucasian, fairly tall, long black hair. Triplets, then: two to meet, and one for
good luck. They were wearing jeans and heavy pea-coats of which she was instantly (and
achingly) jealous. The two in front carried large wicker baskets by leather handles.
“Put spectacles and beards on them, and they’d look exactly like Stephen King as he was
when Eddie and I first met him,” Roland said in a low voice.
“Really? Say true?”
“Yes. Do you remember what I told you?”
“Let you do the talking.”
“And before victory comes temptation. Remember that, too.”
“I will. Roland, are you afraid of em?”
“I think there’s little to fear from those three. But be ready to shoot.”
“They don’t look armed.” Of course there were those wicker baskets; anything might be in
those.
“All the same, be ready.”
“Count on it,” said she.
Three
Even with the roar of the river rushing beneath the bridge, they could hear the steady
tock-tock of the strangers’ bootheels. The two with the baskets advanced halfway across
the bridge and stopped at its highest point. Here they put down their burdens side by side.
The third man stopped on the castle side and stood with his empty hands clasped
decorously before him. Now Susannah could smell the cooked meat that was undoubtedly
in one of the boxes. Not long pork, either. Roast beef and chicken all mingled was what it smelled like to her, an aroma that was heaven-sent. Her mouth began to water.
“Hile, Roland of Gilead!” said the dark-haired man on their right. “Hile, Susannah of New
York! Hile, Oy of Mid-World! Long days and pleasant nights!”
“One’s ugly and the others are worse,” his companion remarked.
“Don’t mind him,” said the righthand Stephen King look-alike.
“ ‘Don’t mind him,’ ” mocked the other, screwing his face up in a grimace so purposefully
ugly that it was funny.
“May you have twice the number,” Roland said, responding to the more polite of the two.
He cocked his heel and made a perfunctory bow over his outstretched leg. Susannah
curtsied in the Calla fashion, spreading imaginary skirts. Oy sat by Roland’s left foot, only looking at the two identical men on the bridge.