The Indigo King

by James A. Owen

  Reynard bowed again as he spoke, but the companions realized that as respectful as he was, he was not altogether pleased that they were there.

  “Please, come inside,” said Reynard. “The show is about to begin.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Infernal Device

  The main houses of Sanctuary were familiar in an unfamiliar way. It was as if Oxford had been built for use by scholars three to four feet tall, who may or may not have had prehensile tails. The construction, decor, and layout were practically Edwardian, but allowances were made for those who were actually in residence.

  The hallways were lined with doorways far too small for the companions to use. Possums, groundhogs, hedgehogs, and squirrels, all dressed nattily, were scurrying back and forth, seemingly absorbed in the business of the evening. Few if any gave more than a single startled glance to the strange visitors before going on about their business.

  There were other doorways, much larger, that would have easily admitted John, Jack, or Chaz, but Reynard discreetly closed these as they passed.

  Uncas and Fred were right at home, quite literally, and strode along behind Reynard with an assurance Jack and John had seldom seen in the badgers. It occurred to them that this might be how they had appeared to their students at the colleges. They were all permitted to be there; but some were more permitted than others.

  Jack was abuzz with a thousand questions, all of which Reynard answered patiently. Despite the flashes of reluctance he showed at having them on Sanctuary, he was an exceptional and gracious host.

  John asked fewer questions, if only because he was still trying to process everything that was happening.

  Only Chaz had remained completely silent since their arrival on the island, which everyone else attributed to sulking. Only after they’d passed a number of animals in the corridors did John realize the truth: The man was terrified.

  Another creature, a ferret wearing a pince-nez, paused and squinted at the companions before snorting huffily and scampering off in the other direction.

  “It’s odd that we aren’t attracting more attention,” noted Jack, “seeing as there are seldom any humans admitted on the island.”

  “It’s not a matter of inattention,” Reynard said blithely. “More an excess of it. We’ve been preparing for you a long while.”

  “That’s our understanding,” said John, who was carrying the bag Bert had given them and could feel the slight pressure of Verne’s skull against his hip. “What can you tell us about Jules Verne, Reynard?”

  “The Prime Caretaker?” said Reynard. “What would you like to know?”

  “For one thing,” Jack answered, “why he’s called the Prime Caretaker.”

  The fox stopped and looked at Jack as if he’d asked why water was wet. “Because that is what he is,” Reynard said. “He is the Caretaker of us all. Is he not, even now, guiding your path to do what must be done?”

  “Guiding or manipulating,” said John. “I can’t decide which.”

  Reynard nodded. “We had similar concerns, when he first came to us. Had it not been for the blessing of Ordo Maas, his coming here would not have been allowed.”

  “Fourteen years ago?” asked Jack.

  Reynard gave him another look. “Fourteen centuries ago, give or take. As I said, we’ve been preparing for you a long time.”

  “It is a remarkable place you have here,” John said. “Very civilized. More so than the rest of Albion, that’s for sure.”

  Reynard shuddered. “The Winterland, yes. When he who calls himself the king began to sweep across the world, we closed ourselves off, even from the Archipelago. And when we again ventured outside, we realized we were all that was left.”

  “The animals?” John asked.

  “The Children of the Earth, yes, but we here on Sanctuary were also all who were left to oppose him,” said Reynard. “The king had either slaughtered or enslaved the Sons of Adam and the Daughters of Eve, and when they ran in short supply, he turned his attention to us.

  “There was a great rebellion, and there were many terrible battles. All the larger creatures were slain. Many more of us smaller animals were lost as well. Some, to our great sorrow, chose to side with him—and in doing so, became truly beasts. These he shaped through his dark arts into terrible, terrible creatures.”

  Reynard shuddered with the thought, then went on. “Those who could escape him, even temporarily, fled to the edges of the Earth. But even there, in those havens, they will eventually be found, and used—although it took him centuries to realize our fiercest warriors were those closest to the earth.”

  “The houses,” Jack said, snapping his fingers. “That’s why most of the houses were on stilts, to raise them up off the ground.”

  “Human arrogance,” Reynard said, nodding, “to think that we are limited to crawling on our bellies in the dirt. To do otherwise was among the first things taught to us by Ordo Maas.”

  In unison, the fox and two badgers stood at attention and began to recite:

  “Not to go on all fours, not to suck up drink; not to eat flesh or fish; not to claw the bark of trees; not to chase other creatures, to willingly cause them harm. For all those of the earth are bright and beautiful; all creatures, great and small; all beasts are wise and wonderful; for the Lord God made them all.”

  “Coleridge?” Jack asked.

  “Cecil Alexander,” said John. “Mostly, anyway. Coleridge may have been a Caretaker, but he was never that sentimental, or poetic.”

  “Pardon,” said Reynard. “A Caretaker of what?”

  “The Imaginarium Geographica, of course,” said Uncas. “The great book, with all the maps of …”

  He stopped, and his eyes widened in realization as the fox looked at them all with a blank expression. The rest of them realized it too.

  In this place, in this timeline, there was no Geographica. There had been no Caretakers, no Coleridge. All that existed was a single map, one that had never been a part of the atlas to begin with—and the sole Caretaker who had been known by that name was only a skull in John’s bag.

  “Never mind,” said John, patting Uncas comfortingly. “We’ll fix that soon enough.”

  Reynard led them to an ornate hallway, which ended in a great carved door. It was elaborately decorated with sculpted cherubs and angels and, reassuringly, dragons. Inset at the center of the door, on a shield held within a dragon’s claws, was the symbol π—the mark of the Caretaker Principia. John’s mark.

  Jack caressed the surface of the door and exhaled heavily. “As happy as I was to see the Dragonship,” he said with a broad grin, “I’m almost happier to see this. It tells me we’re on the right path. I don’t recognize the dragon, though.”

  This was the first remark any of them had made that seemed to rattle Reynard. “You actually know a dragon?” the fox said, mouth agape. “Really and truly?”

  “We know many dragons,” said Jack. “I’m surprised you don’t know them yourself.”

  The fox shook his head. “Not in many, many centuries. They were the guardians of the Archipelago, but something happened to them when the Winter King ascended. After that, there was no one left who could appoint them.”

  “Appoint them?” John said in surprise. “Isn’t a dragon simply a dragon?”

  Reynard looked puzzled for a moment, then brightened. “Oh, I see. You misunderstand. No, a dragon isn’t the name of the creature—although most of them were the great sky-serpents you’re thinking of. ‘Dragon’ is the name of the office they hold, and it is a title given only by appointment.

  “Now,” he said, turning back to the door before the companions could ask more questions, “which among you has the Golden Ticket?”

  “The what?” said John.

  “Golden Ticket,” Reynard replied. “This room has been locked for almost fifteen hundred years. Only my distant ancestors, who helped to build it, and the Prime Caretaker himself have ever been inside. And the door can only be opened he
re,” he said, indicating a slit beneath the mark on the shield, “by inserting a Golden Ticket.”

  John sighed. “I’m sorry, Reynard, we don’t—”

  “But we might,” Jack interrupted. “You’ve forgotten the box.”

  They opened the bag John had been carrying and removed the Serendipity Box, careful to keep it out of Uncas’s reach.

  “Could it be that simple?” John said, turning the box over and over in his hands.

  “It can’t hurt to find out,” said Jack. “At worst, we’ll end up with more crackers.”

  “I only get to open it once,” said John. “Do we really want to risk it to gain a ticket? What if we need something more pressing in the future? What if someone’s life may depend on when we choose to use it?”

  “I think someone’s does,” Chaz blurted out. He glanced meaningfully down at Verne’s skull and gulped hard.

  “Good enough,” John said. He closed his eyes and lifted the lid.

  “Darn,” said Uncas. “I was really hopin’ f’r crackers.”

  * * *

  The ticket slid smoothly into the slot and engaged a mechanism inside the door that whirred and clicked and hummed like one of the principles the animals drove. Finally a series of bolts slid back inside the door frame, and the door slowly swung open.

  Inside was a postcard-perfect Victorian theater in miniature. There were two dozen lushly appointed chairs upholstered in red velvet, and elegant gas lamps placed artfully along walls embroidered with elaborate patterns. The ceiling was pressed tin and reflected the light evenly throughout the room. At the front, a curtained stage extended from one side to the other, and in the rear was a small booth, also curtained, and a table.

  The table was the only anomaly in the room. It was metallic and round and slightly concave. On it was a golden ring four inches or so in diameter, and a note written on the cream-colored paper that seemed to be favored by all the Caretakers. It read, simply, Spin me.

  “You’re the Caretaker Principia,” Jack said, gently shoving John toward the table. “You spin it.”

  John picked up the ring and examined it, then chuckled and gave it a twirl on top of the table.

  The ring spun about in a blur—but instead of slowing down and losing momentum, it began to spin faster, circling the rim of the table in increasingly smaller circuits. When it reached the center, a voice projected from the ring, loud enough for all of them to hear it clearly.

  “This is Jules Verne speaking.

  “If you three—John, Jack, and Charles—are hearing this recording, then I am in all likelihood dead, or worse.”

  “Worse than dead?” Chaz snorted. “He’s loopy, he is.”

  “Shush,” said John. “We need to hear this.”

  “What has been closed, may be opened again,” the voice continued. “What has been written, may be rewritten. You have already been given warning of your adversary—now I give you the means to defeat him.

  “I have become learned in many means of travel through time and space. And I have found that certain boundaries must not be crossed—not if we are to emerge victorious against our enemies.”

  “Enemies, plural?” Jack groaned. “Great. Just great.”

  “I have left you the means to the end you must reach,” Verne’s voice went on, “through the use of what our friend Bert called the ‘Infernal Device.’ It is the most specific of the devices I use, and also the most fragile.

  “You must discover our adversary’s name. His true name.

  “I have left you five slides for use in the Lanterna Magica. Each corresponds to a key moment in his history, and each will afford the three of you the chance to find him. Each slide may be used only once, and the portals they create will remain open for only twenty-four hours, and no more. If you do not return to Noble’s Isle within that time, you will be trapped there, and all our efforts will be for naught.

  “Only thus, by seeking him out, naming him, and Binding him, may he be defeated. But remember: Our adversary may not be whom you expect. Be wary. Be watchful. And remember your training. All things come about, in time.

  “Answer the question unanswered for more than two millennia, and perhaps you may yet restore the world.”

  The golden ring began to slow, and with a soft clattering, it fell still and silent on the table.

  * * *

  The companions tried to spin the ring again, to see if there was any further information to be gleaned, but it simply repeated what they had heard the first time.

  “Let’s have a look at this lantern, then,” Jack said. “In for a penny, in for fifty pounds.”

  “It’s here,” said Reynard, gesturing to the small booth near the table. There on a small platform sat an unusual if not extraordinary device.

  “To leave a message, he can use a magic ring,” said Jack, “but for time travel, we need an antique projector. Splendid.”

  John ignored his friend’s sarcasm and set about examining the machine. The slides were already set into a rotating frame in the center, and where the original gas lamp had been in the back there was an incandescent bulb. Below it an electric cord snaked down and across the floor to an outlet.

  “Not entirely antique,” John said appraisingly. “Shall we give it a go?”

  “Not yet,” Jack replied, turning to face Chaz. “You’re going to stay here, where you won’t cause any trouble.”

  “Fine by me,” Chaz said, plopping himself heavily into one of the chairs. “Nothing to do with me, anyroad.”

  “Wrong,” said John. “Verne said all three of us were meant to do this. And even Mordred himself said in the prophecy that we three—”

  “Not we three,” Chaz shot back. “You, him, and some bloke called Charles, who I in’t. I won’t be going anywheres with you lot. I’m fine right where I be.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” John said. “Uncas! Stop that!”

  While the humans were arguing, the badgers had switched on the Lanterna Magica and were using the light projected through one of the empty frames to make shadow puppets on the wall.

  “Look!” said Uncas. “It’s a rooster.”

  “Quit playing with the time machine,” John said sternly. “Remember what happened with the door.”

  “Sorry,” said Uncas.

  “Since it’s already on,” John said as Jack continued glaring at Chaz, “we might as well see what we’re in for.”

  At his signal, Fred scurried over to the Lanterna Magica and rotated the disk that held the five slides. The first frame had been empty and simply projected a pool of light against the curtains. But the next contained a slide—a landscape of some kind. And as they looked, it seemed that the images projected through the stationary slide …

  … were moving.

  “Here,” Reynard said, pulling on the draw for the curtains. “Perhaps this will help.”

  Instead of a screen or sheet, behind the curtains were layers of a gossamer substance, very much like theatrical backdrops. The image from the projector passed through some layers, but not others. It was like watching a film painted on smoke.

  The landscape in the projection was unmistakably Greek. There were temples and great statues of ancient gods visible, all entwined with grapevines and at the bases, olive trees. Farther back, they could see a large group of people gathered in a small amphitheater, listening to a man who stood in the center. The details were sharp and clear, and to the companions it seemed as if they could reach in and touch one of the stately columns.

  Then there was a gust of wind in the projection, and one of the grape leaves twisted off its vine and twirled through the air to land in the room at Reynard’s feet.

  “Dear God,” John breathed. “It does work. It will work. Just like the doors.”

  “But with a time limit, remember,” said Jack.

  Just then a rumble of thunder shook the room, and the projection wobbled. Reynard looked visibly alarmed, and with no comment, hurried from the room.

  �
��A storm must have come up,” said Jack. “Funny. It was clear out before.”

  “That’s not thunder,” said John. “That’s an impact tremor. Something massive just stepped onto the island.”

  They looked at one another in alarm. It could only be the giants. Mordred had discovered their escape from Bert’s shack and had sent his largest servants to reclaim them.

  “Oh, that’s capital,” groaned Jack. He turned to Chaz, teeth clenched and his temper rising. “You had something to do with this, didn’t you?”

  Chaz stood up defensively. “I been with you the whole time! And I got no loyalty to him! Not now!”

  “You mean after he betrayed you the way you betrayed us?” snapped Jack.

  “I’m sorry!” Chaz said. “I … I didn’t know.”

  Reynard ran back into the room as another footfall rattled the island. “The giants have come, friends of the Caretaker. And it is time for you to leave.”

  “What about you?” Jack said. “We can’t abandon you!”

  The fox shook his head. “We have an understanding with the giants. They only want you. If you are not here, they will leave us be. It doesn’t matter where else you go, or,” he said, gesturing suggestively at the projection, “when.”

  Uncas and Fred both agreed with Reynard—they would be safe. So John grabbed the bag with their scanty supplies and stepped quickly between the chairs to the screen, gesturing to the others as he did so. “Jack! Charles! No time to debate! Let’s go!”

  “I am not Charles!” Chaz exclaimed over the din. “I shouldn’t be allowed!”

  Jack merely shook his head in disgust and stepped into the projection. John turned around and faced Chaz.

  “Perhaps not in this place,” he said through the crashing sounds that were now all around them, “but in another place, another dimension, you are our friend Charles, and I would not think of leaving you behind.”

  He reached out his hand, imploring the confused man to take it.

  “Chaz!” John beckoned. “Come with us! Now!”