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.
"That way you don't have to change to your spider-self. Ugh!
Not a shape 'tis easy to love, or even like, I must say."
Mordred was holding up his arms.
"Won't shit on me, will you?" Walter asked casually, halting halfway across the floor. His hand slid into his pocket, and Mordred realized with a touch of alarm that the sly bastard had been hiding something from him, just the same: he knew the so-called "thinking-cap" wasn't working. Now he meant to use the gun after all.
THREE