The Indigo King

by James A. Owen

  “Mordred’s mark?” asked Chaz.

  “Arthur’s mark,” said Jack. “Different king, but the Cartographer was just as trapped.”

  “What for?” asked Chaz. “What did he do t’ piss someone off?”

  John shrugged. “No one’s ever said. I’m not sure if anyone really knows. None of the Histories ever mentioned it, that’s for certain.”

  “Mayhap we should consult th’ Little Whatsit,” offered Uncas. “There be lots of unique knowledge there that even some scowlers may not know.”

  “Thank you, Uncas,” John said gently, “but this is bigger than just healing blisters or making magic darts.” He sat in the chair next to the badger and looked at the projector. “I wonder if we shouldn’t turn it on and have a look at the next slide? That way we can equip ourselves ahead of time for wherever and whenever it lands us.”

  “Do we really want to do that?” asked Jack. “We can’t afford to use up the hours. Once we turn it on, we have twenty-four hours maximum before the slide burns out. And we’re going to need every second to convince the Cartographer to join us against his brother.”

  “You’re probably right,” said John. “We became acclimated pretty quickly in Miletus, and Chaz was useful in helping us blend in. Perhaps this really will just be a leap of faith.”

  John’s sentiment was punctuated by a loud boom from outside and a faint tremor which shook the room.

  “Oh, no,” Jack groaned, slapping his forehead. “Here we go again.”

  “Wait,” Reynard said, rushing from the room. “Let me see for certain.”

  Any doubt they felt as to what had made the noise was dispelled a moment later when the voice of the giant filtered through the walls of the building. “Jaaackk,” it said, menacing and persuasive all at once, “Jaack … wee have a preeesent for youuu.…”

  There was a crashing somewhere outside the house, and a cacophony of animal noises, then silence.

  “They’re being a bit more restrained than the last time,” John observed. “That can’t be good.”

  Chaz agreed. “They’s up t’ summat, for sure.”

  A moment later the fox reentered the room.

  “I have good news, and bad news, and worse news,” Reynard announced. He was trembling. Whatever had just transpired outside had rattled the fox to his core.

  “What’s the good news?” Jack said.

  “The giants will honor the king’s covenant with the Children of the Earth,” Reynard answered. “They will not cross our boundary and step onto Sanctuary.”

  “Excellent!” Jack exclaimed. “We’ll be safe here, then.”

  “Trapped, y’ mean,” Chaz said glumly. He looked at the fox. “They in’t going anywhere, is they?”

  Reynard shook his head. “They are at the four points of the compass—one each at north, south, east, and west. They will not permit you and your fellows, or indeed, anyone else to leave Sanctuary while you are here.”

  “I’m guessing that’s the bad news, then,” said John. “Should we dare ask what the worse news is?”

  Reynard leaned back and motioned for the large jackrabbit that waited in the hall to come into the projection room. The animal was carrying a small burlap sack, tied with a ribbon and bearing a card. The rabbit set the bag on one of the chairs, then hopped quickly away.

  John stepped forward and looked at the card. It read simply, To complete the set.

  He frowned and undid the tie on the bag, which dropped open.

  The badgers gasped and turned away, and Jack covered his eyes with his hands. Chaz reacted even more strongly, cursing and clenching his fists in anger. As for John, he simply closed his eyes and murmured a hasty prayer before retying the bag that held his old mentor’s head and setting it reverently in one corner of the room.

  John turned to Reynard, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “There’s no more time to waste,” he said as boldly as he could manage. “Let’s see the second slide.”

  * * *

  The companions prepared for the second jaunt through the Lanterna Magica’s projections while trying to ignore the frequent taunts of the giants, and even more so the grisly present in the burlap bag.

  John decided against including the hourglass in their supplies, making the argument that it could too easily be lost, broken, or upended. “No,” he said, “I think what happened before is really our ideal. Uncas and Fred will be our timekeepers. You’re both safe here on Sanctuary anyway, and you can come fetch us as the time grows short.”

  “They were able to do that last time because I, ah, were passin’ by the portal,” said Chaz. “How will they find us this time around?”

  “We’ll have to be aware of the time ourselves as best we can,” said John, “and try to keep a bearing on the position of the portal so we’ll be nearby.”

  “Don’t worry, Scowler John,” Uncas stated with a salute. “Th’ Royal Animal Rescue Squad will not fail you.”

  “I know you won’t, Uncas,” John said, resisting the urge to pat the badger on the head while he was being stately. “The son of Tummeler would never let us down.”

  Uncas looked so proud at the compliment that John thought he might burst into tears. “Ready?” he said to Jack and Chaz.

  Chaz yawned and nodded. “Enough, I guess.”

  “Ready,” agreed Jack.

  “All right,” John said, signaling Reynard. “Light it up.”

  The fox pressed the switch that rotated the disc of slides, and the next image slid smoothly into view. John, Jack, and Chaz stepped aside to better get a view of the slide, and Uncas and Fred dutifully turned over the hourglass.

  As before, the multiple layers that were projected on the wall gave everyone a slightly disoriented feeling. It took a few moments for their vision to adjust to the shifting perspectives, and then they could see what was on the slide.

  In front of them, perhaps thirty feet distant, was the elaborately decorated entrance to a mosque, or perhaps a temple. The architecture was more advanced than what they had seen in the previous projection, but harder to place.

  “Persian?” Jack murmured.

  “No,” said John. “More Egyptian, I’d say.”

  The wall they faced was dominated by a great arched doorway, in front of which was a broad pedestal. On it was an immense horned owl, which was clutching a piece of chalk in one clawed foot and seemed to be using it to scribble on a piece of slate.

  “What do you make of that?” John asked.

  “The bird?” said Jack. “I think it’s an owl.”

  John groaned. “I know it’s an owl!” he whispered back. “I mean that!” He pointed behind the bird.

  Jack gasped, as did Chaz. Behind the pedestal, engraved into the door and embellished with golden ornaments and designs crusted with jewels, was the image of the Holy Grail, the same one that was on the cover of the book back at Magdalen College.

  “So we’re definitely into Anno Domini,” Jack said. “Past the time of Christ.”

  “Or within it,” said John, as a man, absorbed in whatever work he was attending to, passed by the scene in front of them. He wore sandals and a simple robe with a sash. “I can’t tell from the attire. First century? Second, maybe? We’ll have to suss it out for certain once we’ve crossed over.”

  “Good enough,” said Jack. “Who wants to go first?”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Chaz. “You two are the ‘Scowlers.’”

  “It doesn’t need to be a debate,” John said. “We’ve done it before.”

  “You couldn’t tell from all the bickering,” said a trilling voice that was airy and condescending at the same time. “If you asked me, I’d say you’re all scared to death.”

  John and Jack stared at each other in surprise. The voice had spoken in Greek—but it had come from the owl.

  “What?” the owl asked. “Cat got your tongues?”

  The three companions all stepped through the portal and into the hallway they’d been watching. If
they were going to converse with a giant bird, John figured it would be less conspicuous to do so in person than to risk anyone seeing the owl verbally upbraiding a blank wall.

  “Not scared,” Jack said in response to the owl’s comment. “Just cautious.”

  “Caution, fft,” the owl scoffed. “That’s not really the attitude to have if you want to take over the world, now, is it?”

  “Why would I want to take over the world?” asked Jack.

  “Why else would you come to Alexandria?” the owl replied. “All the fashionable would-be world conquerors do.”

  Alexandria. So, John realized, they were in Egypt, but at the edge of the influence of the Greek world. And certainly later than the common era they’d been to in the other projection.

  “It’s simpler than that,” Chaz said in surprisingly passable Greek. “We just need to find someone.”

  “Mmm,” said the owl, obviously losing interest. “And what is this someone’s name?”

  “We’re not really sure,” Jack admitted.

  “That would make it harder, wouldn’t it?” the owl replied with no trace of sympathy.

  “What’s your name?” Chaz asked.

  The owl preened. Apparently he wasn’t asked his name very often. “Archimedes,” he replied. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

  “Archimedes? Like the mathematician?” asked John.

  The owl hopped up and down in irritation. “Why does everyone ask me that? Why does no one ever think that a bird can’t also be a mathematician?”

  “Sorry,” said John. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

  The owl scowled. “Pythagoras should have built me as an eagle instead of an owl. No one ever questions an eagle.”

  “A clockwork owl?” Jack whispered. “Intriguing.”

  “What are you working on, Archie?” asked Chaz, looking at the slate. “Looks complicated.”

  Any irritation the owl might have felt at being called “Archie” was set aside by the chance to discuss the notations on the tablet.

  “It’s a math problem,” he said, giving John a poisonous look, “for the trials. You know about the trials, do you not?”

  “We’re strangers here,” John began, before Archimedes cut him off with a disgusted noise.

  “I know you’re strangers here,” the bird said. “I just watched you walk through a wall. Locals don’t really do that much. And you aren’t here as conquerors, or if you are, you’re the most ill-prepared conquerors I’ve ever seen.”

  “We’re not conquerors,” Jack confirmed.

  “You’re the funny one in the group, aren’t you?” asked the bird.

  “It depends on the day,” said Jack.

  “People come here for only two reasons,” Archimedes continued, “to start an insurrection to try to unite the world, or to prepare for the trials.”

  “Trials for what?” asked John.

  “To become Caretakers, of course.”

  “Caretakers? Of the Imaginarium Geographica?”

  “The what? No,” the bird replied, exasperated. “Of the Sangreal.”

  “The Holy Grail?”

  The bird glared at him. “Why do you repeat everything I say? You must be the stupid one of the group. Which isn’t saying much, is it?

  “Yes,” Archimedes said as he went back to his equations. “The trials are to test those who would become Caretakers—of the Holy Grail.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Imaginary Geographies

  The three companions retreated a few feet away to confer privately, while the owl went back to its figures and calculations.

  “That seals it,” whispered Jack. “It’s no coincidence we came here now. The Grail has to figure into our mission to find Myrddyn and Madoc.”

  “I can’t see how,” said John, “unless they’ve become somehow entwined with the Grail lore this far back. Remember, we’re still centuries from where Hugo ended up.”

  “Perhaps he discovered that somehow,” suggested Jack, “and that’s why he included it in the message to us.”

  John rubbed his forehead and chewed on his lip. “No,” he said finally, “I can think of another reason they’d be here now. They’ve come for the trials. Remember what they claimed they wanted to do, back in Miletus?”

  Chaz nodded. “They wanted t’ find a way t’ get back to th’ Archipelago.”

  “Right,” said John, “and to do that, they needed a route, and directions, and something else—an object touched by divinity that would allow them passage through the Frontier. And at this point in history, can you think of any other object that fits the description better than the cup of Christ?”

  The companions turned and went back to the owl, who sighed dramatically. “Now what? I have work to do, you know. The trials won’t write themselves, and I only have until tomorrow.”

  “The Grail trials are math problems?” asked John.

  “Yes, oh master of the obvious,” retorted the owl. “Or a part of them, anyway. The trials judge one’s worth, through tests spiritual, physical, and intellectual. I’m in charge of the intellectual part.”

  “We’ll leave you alone to work, we promise,” John said. “We’d just like to ask some directions.”

  “Oh?” said Archimedes. “To find your nameless friend?”

  “We’re looking for someone who likes t’ make maps,” said Chaz. “Y’ know anyone like that?”

  “I do, actually,” Archimedes replied, still distracted by his equations. “Go north three hundred paces, then open the second door. That should be the man you seek.”

  “Thanks, Archie,” said Chaz, turning to the others. “Time’s a-wastin’. Shall we go?”

  “Wait,” John said, still flabbergasted at having somehow become the third wheel of the trio. “He’s here? In this very building?”

  “Well, where else would someone who’s anyone be?” Archimedes asked without looking up. “If you aren’t working at the library, you aren’t worth paying attention to, anyway.”

  John and Jack exchanged knowing glances. Of course. The seat of learning, the crossroads of culture for the entire civilized world, wouldn’t just be the city. It would be the Library of Alexandria itself.

  Heartened by the progress they seemed to be making, the three companions followed the owl’s directions down the passageway and opened the door.

  They were looking into a broad, high-ceilinged room that was essentially one great, global map. The walls and ceilings were festooned with drawings, and all across them were lines that even connected across the floor, which was also covered with illustrations. The effect was not unlike stepping inside an immense transparent globe.

  “Impressive, I know,” a voice said from somewhere across the expanse of parchment that lined the tables and shelves scattered about the room. “I call the lines drawn across the maps ‘latitude’ and ‘longitude.’ Forgive me if I’ve forgotten a meeting. I’m not expected to present my discoveries in the rotunda until next week, but they’re taking all my attention at present.”

  A short, pleasantly anxious man stepped around a tall papiermâché globe he was constructing and offered them a hand in greeting.

  He was olive-skinned, and he spoke with an accent that demonstrated both travel abroad and great education, but his mannerisms were those of a tailor who can’t decide between creating a more finely cut suit, or a more satisfied customer. He wore a round cap and breeches that seemed to be Persian, or perhaps Egyptian. And shoes, rather than the sandals they’d seen the others wearing through the projection. They’d expected to go straight from Archimedes to one or both of the twins, and so they had not procured any appropriate clothing. However, their unusual dress seemed not to matter at all to the man, who was dressed even more oddly than they were.

  John took the man’s hand, which was sticky with paste, and shook it firmly.

  “Oh! I’m very sorry,” the man said, just realizing what he’d done. “Can you forgive?”

  “Don’t worry about it,”
said John, wiping his hand on the back of his trousers and smiling. “I’m John.”

  “Claudius Ptolemaeus. Call me Ptolemy,” the man replied. “Did we have a meeting today?”

  “We’re just here for the trials,” Jack answered. “To become Caretakers of the, uh, Grail.”

  Ptolemy squinted, as if he was having trouble with Jack’s accent. “Oh!” he said finally. “Of course! The trials. Yes, a sorry business it is.”

  “The trials?”

  “No,” said Ptolemy. “The need for a new Caretaker. One of them—one of the best we’ve had, in fact—tried to …”

  He paused and cupped his hands around his mouth, as if he didn’t want to be heard speaking the words. “He tried to take the Grail. For himself. And he was caught and shall be executed soon. That’s the reason I’m behind schedule,” Ptolemy explained, gesturing at the room full of maps. “The betrayer was my own understudy, and perhaps the most talented map-maker I’ve ever known.”

  John, Jack, and Chaz all stiffened at this, but it was a testament to the swift self-control of all three men that Ptolemy never noticed their reactions.

  “I was mocked in other places, other libraries,” Ptolemy continued, using a small stepladder and a pointer to tap out some locations high on the southern wall. “Here, and here, and, uh”—he turned, pointing east—“and over there. I always believed that imagination plays as crucial a part in the making of maps as education. After all, how else is one to test the spatial boundaries of the world, if one cannot first imagine them?”

  John pursed his lips. “That’s a great argument, Ptolemy. Is it a viewpoint your understudy shares?”

  The mapmaker nodded and climbed down the ladder. “Yes,” he said morosely, folding his hands behind his back. “It is. That man has such a mind, such a mind, it’s a wonder. And such talent! Just look at these works!”

  “These are his?” Jack asked, leafing through some sheets of parchment. “Not yours?”

  “Some are mine, some his,” Ptolemy admitted. “Our studies we work on together. But our principal works we have done separately—the better to test their merits against each other’s work.”

  Ptolemy pushed his way through two shelves laden with tools and buckets and retrieved a large folio. It was bound in leather and contained sheets of parchment.