The Indigo King

by James A. Owen

  “Normally,” he said, placing the book in front of them, “I’d just be drawing the maps on scrolls, as scholars always have done. But keeping the latitudes straight in particular necessitated that they be cut into squares and bound thusly.”

  “These are maps of the entire world?” John asked as Ptolemy began to display his work to them.

  “Much of it, yes,” he answered. “From the Blessed Isles, here, to Thule, here, and Meroë and Serica, here.” He tapped the map proudly. “Pretty good, yes?”

  “It’s remarkable,” John agreed.

  “Breathtaking,” said Jack.

  “The parchments are very clean,” observed Chaz.

  “I’d worked out most of ‘latitude’ myself,” said Ptolemy, indicating the horizontal lines drawn across the maps. “But ‘longitude,’” he added, noting the vertical lines, “didn’t really come together until my understudy arrived. He showed me ways to use some underlying cartological principles that haven’t been used since the philosopher Anaximander’s time to clarify my own measurements. You’d be surprised at how clearly he could articulate them.”

  “I’ll bet,” John said dryly.

  “I just wish he’d been cleverer,” said Ptolemy. “If not too clever to steal, at least too clever to be caught.”

  “Why is that?” asked Jack.

  Ptolemy closed the book and dusted off the cover. “We finished my Geographica,” he said sadly, “but we’ll never have the chance to finish his.” He put his book on a wide shelf and removed a second one, which was similar in size and shape but vastly more familiar to John and Jack—even in its much earlier state.

  “He calls it his Imaginary Geography,” Ptolemy said. “It contains maps to places that no one has seen, and now,” he added with a sigh, “perhaps no one ever will.”

  The Imaginarium Geographica, the earliest version of it at least, was right there in front of them. It was all John could do not to grab the book and start hugging it.

  “I’m happy to see it too,” Jack whispered, having noted the flare of joy in his friend’s eyes, “but remember—this is not our Geographica. Not yet.”

  Jack was right. As Ptolemy paged through the scant few completed maps, some were familiar, others not so much. Some of the islands of the Underneath were there: Aiaia, and Lixus, and the Island of Wandering Rocks. A few were unmarked, but several others bore annotations.

  “An addition of my own,” Ptolemy said proudly. “I felt it was essential to know something more about the lands in a Geographica than just how to get there.”

  “We appreciate that a lot,” said John. “More than you can know.”

  Chaz scratched his head. “How d’you annotate a map t’ an imaginary place?”

  “Just the idea was mine, not the writing itself,” Ptolemy said. “But even so, how could you go wrong writing a description of an imaginary land? All that would matter is whether or not you believed in it yourself.”

  “Ptolemy,” John said, “we need to see your understudy. Can you take us to see him?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the mapmaker said. “He’s already condemned and in his cell, awaiting execution. I couldn’t—”

  “Please,” John implored. “It’s important.”

  “Well, if I were to help …,” Ptolemy began, tapping at his chin. “How might I benefit by it?”

  Jack answered, turning to Ptolemy with a determined look on his face. “If we give you something of great value, will you help us?”

  Ptolemy folded his arms. “What are you offering?”

  “What if I can show you a land, a new land that really exists, but that no one knows about yet?”

  Ptolemy’s arms dropped to his sides. “A new land? A real one?”

  In reply, Jack took a stylus from a table, then grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment from a nearby stack and began to sketch. A couple of times he stood back, appraising, then kept working. Once John realized what Jack was doing, he picked up another stylus and began to add topographical details, and even a fish or three swimming in the water. When they had finished, Jack handed the sheet to Ptolemy. “There. What do you think of that?”

  “Amazing!” Ptolemy exclaimed. “Where is it?”

  Jack pointed to John’s notations. “Here—it lies far south of Chi—uh, Sinae.

  “We call it ‘Australia.’”

  “You’ll have to wait until dark,” Ptolemy explained as he traced out the route the companions needed to follow. “There will be guards attending to him through the evening, but you should be able to sneak past if you use the corridors I’ve marked. You don’t plan to kill anyone, do you?”

  John was aghast. “Of course not!”

  Ptolemy took this with aplomb. “Oh, I wouldn’t take issue if you really needed to. I just want to know if I have to plan ahead for anyone’s replacement.”

  “Why would that be your worry?” asked Chaz. “Are you some sort of supervisor here at the library?”

  “Actually,” Ptolemy whispered, again with the hand cupped to his mouth, “I’m the king. Of Alexandria.”

  Chaz started to ask the obvious question: Why did they have to resort to sneaking and subterfuge to see the prisoner, if Ptolemy was in a position to simply order it?

  John quickly looked at the others with a slight head shake. If Ptolemy was speaking the truth, he could be helpful; but if he was just a crazy geographer, engaging him more fully in their quest could just complicate things.

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Okay,” he said to Ptolemy. “We appreciate your help.”

  The three companions shook hands with the geographer king and started tracing the labyrinthine path he’d marked for them, which wound through the warren of rooms. They moved from corridor to corridor, each one taking them to progressively larger rooms, most of which were filled with racks and shelves laden with scrolls. It was more than tempting for John and Jack to reach out every so often to touch one of the scrolls.

  “Why so delicate?” Chaz asked. “Paper don’t break.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” John replied, still eyeing a set of scrolls that bore Egyptian seals as they passed to the next room. “This library, and everything in it, represents a collection of knowledge more complete than the world will ever see again. It’s tempting to just stay and read. To men like us, this is holy ground.”

  “Right,” said Chaz, who was clearly unimpressed. “If it was so great, what happened to it?”

  “The usual,” said Jack. “Catastrophe, followed by a couple thousand years of regret.”

  In the adjacent structure they found the cluster of rooms where Ptolemy said his understudy was being held.

  The hall was lined with identical doors set into stone. “Which one?” Jack asked. “They’re all the same. It’ll take all night.”

  “That one,” Chaz said, pointing. “It’s the only one with a guard.” Without further discussion, he slipped around to the next corridor and disappeared. A moment later a second guard stopped in front of the cell door and spoke briefly to the first, who got up and began to walk directly to John and Jack’s place of concealment. The other went back the way he had come.

  The first guard didn’t even have time to call out before John clocked him hard on the chin. The guard fell and slumped against the wall, and Jack grabbed him under the arms and dragged him to a less conspicuous spot. Just then, Chaz appeared at the other end of the corridor and trotted to them.

  “What happened to the other guard?” John whispered. “I thought there were two.”

  “There were,” Chaz whispered back, “but he couldn’t handle his wine.”

  “You got him drunk? That fast?”

  “Nah,” said Chaz, pointing to his forehead. “Hit him with th’ bottle.”

  Jack came back just in time to overhear them. “You know, Chaz,” he said, only half joking, “for a thief and a traitor, you’ve turned out to be really useful.”

  “I resemble that remark,” said Chaz.

  “Fair enough,” Ja
ck declared. “I got the keys from the guard. Let’s go see who we find.”

  Jack fumbled a bit with the keys, so Chaz offered to try. The third key he put into the lock worked, and the door swung open with a gentle push.

  The cell beyond was rectangular and made entirely of stone. There was a small window on the far wall, but it was blocked by wooden beams just outside. John saw at once that this room had never been intended for use as a cell at all; it had to have been a storeroom of some kind, only recently converted to hold a prisoner.

  Even so, it was a cell in name only, and distinguishable from other rooms at the library solely because of the lock on the door and the guards in front of it.

  There was a solitary desk and a chair, but the only light came from a small oil lamp that hung near the door, and a second positioned over the desk. In many ways, the room bore a strong resemblance to Ptolemy’s workshop. Every surface was covered with maps, and there were globes and statuary scattered throughout. As they stepped over the threshold, the lamp at the door seemed to brighten, and it cast their shadows deep into the room.

  “Hello?” John said cautiously. “Is someone there?”

  At the desk, a man raised his tousled head up from the work he was concentrating on, and eyes that were more distracted than curious peered at them.

  “Is it time already? I still have work to do, and I was hoping for a little more sleep before morning so my eyes wouldn’t be puffy when you lop off my head.”

  “We’re not here to execute you,” said Jack. “We’re here to, uh …” He looked at John, who shrugged. What were they here to do? Rescue him?

  “We’ve got a couple of questions,” said Chaz. “If you please.” The man at the desk perked up. “Three visitors, and three voices I haven’t heard in oh so long,” he said, standing and straightening his clothes. “You’ve picked a good time to visit. Another day and I’d have been unable to answer.”

  “So we heard,” said Jack. “My sympathy would be greater if you hadn’t tried to poison us, then chase us with a sword the last time we met.”

  “Last time, or first?” came the reply. “Not that I really care, mind you. For what it’s worth, I do regret trying to poison you. It was a different time then, and I was a different man. What are your questions?”

  As he said this, he stepped farther into the lamplight. He hadn’t aged much but was perhaps shorter, as if gravity had noticed him more than before. Still, they couldn’t quite tell if he was Myrddyn or Madoc.

  John suddenly realized that the answer to one question was literally right in front of them. This was Ptolemy’s understudy. Whichever of the twins this was would be the Cartographer.

  “What’s your name?” asked Chaz.

  The man’s smile was warm, but slightly weary also. “I’ve had many names, but at present I am called Meridian.”

  John’s mouth twitched imperceptibly, as he tried not to sigh in relief. Meridian was the name of a line of longitude. This was the Cartographer.

  “What brought you here?” asked Jack.

  “I first traveled here when it was still called Rhakotis, before Alexander transfigured everything in his own image,” Meridian said, pacing back and forth in front of them, so that he constantly passed between light and shadow. “That Alexander should later come here to establish a great center of learning in the same place can be called an accident of family, I suppose.”

  “You’re related to Alexander?” John said in surprise.

  “A cousin,” replied Meridian. “We descendants of the Argonauts are an ambitious lot, it seems. World conquest is in our blood. At least,” he added quickly, “for some of us.”

  “You’re not interested in conquering the world, Myrddyn?” John asked, remembering more about the twin they were facing as they conversed.

  The mapmaker raised a hand. “Please. I have not gone by that name in almost two hundred years. Meridian suits me better, I think.”

  “And your brother?” John asked, noting that Meridian hadn’t actually answered his question. “Has he changed as well?”

  “Madoc is still Madoc, in name and temperament,” said Meridian. “He has chosen his path, and it differs from mine. Why do you ask?”

  John looked first at Jack, who nodded his assent, then at Chaz, who chewed his lip for a few seconds, looking hard at Meridian, before he also agreed.

  “We have some things we need to tell you,” he began slowly, “things that may seem impossible to believe. But believe them you must. And when we have finished, we’re hoping that you can help us find a way to solve our problem …

  “… without killing your brother.”

  PART FOUR

  The Iron Crown

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Betrayal

  By early afternoon, Hugo Dyson and King Pellinor had arrived at the place Pellinor called “Camelot.” Whatever Hugo had initially envisioned on hearing the name vanished as the cart crested the hill overlooking the shallow valley that was their destination.

  Camelot was not a city, or even the castle Hugo had been half hoping to see. Instead they looked out over a broad valley ringed about with low hills and a scattering of scrubby trees. In the center stood a number of upraised stones and a granite stairway that wound its way up a grassy mound, ending at a great stone table.

  Throughout the valley were camped the various travelers Hugo had observed from a distance as they rode south. There were mud-and-wattle huts and silken tents, along with a more common scattering of simpler tents and enclosures. But in front of each encampment was a banner representing the champion who had come to compete in the tournament.

  To the right, Hugo saw a flag emblazoned with a scarlet roc; and beside that, one bearing a golden griffin. To their left, he saw an immense banner crested with ships and an embroidered fish. In the distance, he could even make out one that seemed simpler, as if it had been sewn for a blanket rather than a war banner; it bore the image of a white pig.

  “So,” Hugo said jovially, “uh, have we got a banner to fly?”

  Pellinor raised an eyebrow at him, then lifted his foot and booted Hugo out of the cart.

  The scholar rolled clumsily for a moment before righting himself, spitting and brushing dirt off his clothes. “I say,” Hugo said indignantly. “What’s that all about?”

  Pellinor shrugged and tossed the crumpled photograph at him. “I was asked to pick you up and then deliver you here. I’ve done that, done. And now I’ve my own business to attend to.”

  Without another word, Pellinor clicked his tongue at the old horse and wheeled it around. In minutes he’d disappeared amongst the other carts and horses and tents filling the small valley.

  Hugo blinked a few times, then began to assess his situation through clear eyes for the first time. This was no joke, no illusion. And he was far out of his depth in whatever it was that was happening around him.

  As if to compound his concern, a knight dressed in armor and a green-gold tunic noticed him sitting on the hillside and began walking directly toward him.

  The knight stopped, towering over the scholar, who was growing more anxiety-ridden by the second. “You look as out of place as I feel,” he whispered to Hugo in perfect, unaccented American English. “And that’s saying a lot.”

  “Wh-wh-what?” Hugo stammered. This was unexpected, even after the ride with Pellinor.

  “Hank Morgan,” the knight said, removing his helmet. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Are—are you here to fight in the tournament?” asked Hugo, eyeing the dress and armor. “Whatever this tournament is supposed to be?”

  “I’m here as a watcher only,” Hank replied. “I’m to observe and record, but never interfere.”

  “And who are you watching for?” Hugo asked.

  Hank blinked in surprise. “Weren’t you sent here to watch too?” he asked. “By the Caretakers?”

  Hugo brightened, slightly relieved. This might be a friend. “No, I wasn’t,” he said, proffering his hand. “Hu
go Dyson, newly itinerant friend of the Caretakers. I’m here by accident, I’m afraid.”

  Hank’s eyes narrowed at this. “By accident?” he said, repeating Hugo’s words as they shook hands. “By accident?How is that possible? I thought I was the only one that had happened to. Usually these jaunts into zero points are too well-planned for someone to come ‘by accident.’”

  Hank turned away from Hugo, muttering and grumbling under his breath. He removed the heavy gauntlets he’d been wearing and pulled a small, leather-bound notebook out of his tunic. He flipped through the pages, occasionally making a notation with a stub of a pencil, and less occasionally, glancing back at Hugo with a halfhearted smile.

  Finally Hank finished checking whatever he’d needed to find in the notebook and pulled a silver pocket watch out of a pocket sewn into his sleeve.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Hugo, “I need to let someone know about you, posthaste. You see, I don’t think you’re supposed to be here at all.”

  Hugo swallowed hard. “I keep getting the same feeling, Mr. Morgan, the same feeling exactly. The problem is, I can’t decide if I’m in someplace strange, or if this is a joke of some sort, or if I’m only in a dream.”

  Hank laughed and clapped him on the back. “I know just how you feel. The first time I ‘went out,’ I’d been conked in the noggin by a fellow called Hercules in a factory back in Hartford. When I woke up, I was here. Well,” he added, scratching his head and examining the watch, “not ‘here’ here, exactly. More like thirty years from now, give or take. But one thing I came to realize was that it wasn’t a dream. And you’d best realize that too, if you want to keep your head on your shoulders.”

  Hugo gulped hard again and fingered his collar.

  Hank smiled drolly. “I’m only half-joking,” he said, “but I’ll do my best to see you’re taken care of until we’re done here, and then we’ll see about getting you back when you belong.”

  “Where I belong, you mean?” said Hugo.