“Well,” Quixote said jovially, “at least those particular wards no longer function as they’re supposed to.”
“No,” Aristophanes said, turning around. “The wards are still up.”
“But,” Uncas said, looking back at the doorway, then at their guide, “we walked right through th’ door, no fuss, no muss. And I certainly never kilt my parents.”
“Nor did I,” said Quixote as he also looked intensely at Aristophanes. “But if the wards are still up . . .” The sentence trailed off into the stillness of the tower.
The Zen Detective met their questioning look with a steady glare of his own—but said nothing. After a long moment, he turned and disappeared up the stairs.
Quixote and the badger both swallowed hard; then, after another moment, followed.
“I think,” Uncas whispered to the knight, “that I might have preferred running into th’ cannibobbles.”
“I recognize the dragon on the right,” said Quixote, indicating the design of one of the friezes.
“As do I,” Uncas said, his tone one of reverence. “As would any animal from the Archipelago. He’s the Lightbringer. The great red Dragon. Th’ wisest and oldest of all the creatures, an’ th’ protector of all the lands that are.”
“Do you know the other one?” asked Quixote. “The green-gold Dragon?”
“I don’t know,” said Uncas. “They seem to go together, judging by the carvings in this tower, but I have no idea who that is s’pposed t’ be. An’ I thought I knew all th’ great Dragons.”
“She does look familiar to me, though,” Quixote said, scratching at his beard. “Something about the way the light falls on the sculpted features . . .”
Suddenly his eyes grew wide, and he moved closer to better examine the frieze. “Does she look like the Sphinx?” he asked Uncas. “The one we brought Master Verne last year?”
“Naw,” Uncas said. “That’d be too unlikely t’ believe.”
“If you’re done interpreting the art on the walls,” said the detective, “I could use a little help here. I’m stuck. Stumped. Don’t know what to do next.”
“But,” Quixote interjected, thinking about the blood at the entryway, “haven’t you had business here before?”
“Yes,” Aristophanes replied, disgruntled, “but on the fifth tier. I haven’t had to open anything on the third tier before. I don’t know how to resolve the cipher.”
“Ahem-hem,” Uncas said, clearing his throat. He removed a small parcel from his pocket. “This is, I believe,” he said with a slightly puffed-out chest, “the very reason you brung me. Bringed me. The reason I’m here.” He opened the Little Whatsit and, humming a little badger tune, began thumbing through its pages.
Aristophanes leaned in to ask a question, and the badger scowled. “Give me some room,” he said without looking up from his task. “I’m workin’ here.”
The Zen Detective held up his hands in surrender and retreated to the far end of the room.
“It’s some combination of pictographs and Aramaic,” Aristophanes whispered to Quixote. “It’s pretty unlikely that he’ll find any reference to those languages in his little handbook, don’t you think? Shouldn’t we consider—”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Uncas murmured, still absorbed in his task. “If only you had the faith of a mustard seed, oh, the mountains you could move.”
Aristophanes snorted. “Now he’s going to quote scripture at us? And badly at that.”
Uncas turned and looked at the detective, one eyebrow raised. “Scripture?” he said. “Naw—I’m quoting Gran’ma Badger. Moved a mountain t’ plant her mustard seeds. Made th’ best mustard in th’ whole of the Archipelago. Can’t eat potatoes without it.”
He turned back to the frieze and, with no hesitation, swiftly touched five spots on the pattern. A foot above his head, a heavy stone slab slid open to reveal a hidden chamber. Inside, pulsing with an unearthly red light, were the Ruby Gauntlets.
“Don’t underestimate Gran’ma Badger’s mustard,” Uncas said, pointing a claw at Aristophanes, “and don’t be disrespectin’ th’ Little Whatsit.”
“Unbelievable,” said the detective.
“That’s my squire,” Quixote said proudly.
At the Ring of Power on Corinth, the companions stood in stunned silence and disbelief at the terrible act Aristophanes had just committed.
He wiped the blade on the regent’s cloak, then moved back to stand behind Medea.
“Why?” Rose cried.
“I made a deal,” he said simply. “Medea meant to feed me to the fishes, but she said that if I were to win your confidence and your trust, and discover what you were doing here, she would free me.
“Then he asked to come here, and she warned me what might happen—but said I could repay my blood-debt by slaying the regent. And so I have.”
“I thought we could trust you,” Charles said dully. “We did trust you—have trusted you, far more than you realize.”
“Of course you can trust me,” Aristophanes replied. “Right up until the point where you can’t.”
Of all the pieces of the Ruby Armor found thus far, the comb was the easiest to locate—a fact that both delighted and vexed the Zen Detective.
The sixth oracular parchment and the corresponding map pointed them to a place called Taprobane, which was a densely wooded island at the mouth of the Indus River. Aristophanes told Uncas and Quixote that he had often heard the island referred to as “Tanelorn,” and that deep within the forest there was supposed to be an impossibly old city. Fortunately, they did not have to venture that deeply—the box containing the comb, a smooth black stone, and a human finger bone was buried underneath a stone marker on the edge of Taprobane’s northern shore.
A marker that bore the sign of a Caretaker.
“Which one?” Aristophanes asked.
“My old friend, Cyrano de Bergerac,” answered Quixote. “Interesting that he should have come here, but not recorded it in any of the Histories.”
“Maybe he took the record with him,” suggested Uncas, “before he got lost riding that comet.”
“Before what?” Aristophanes asked as he pocketed the comb and closed the box.
“Long story,” said Uncas. “Six down, one to go.”
The final objects they needed to complete the Ruby Armor were the shoes. The last of the oracular parchments led them to a place that had no map, because no map was necessary. It was in London, in the secret subbasement of the Natural History Museum.
Unlike some of the other Soft Places, it could be gotten to without a slide, or a trump, or by other mystical means. But like Lower Oxford, the entrances to the secret level were all but impossible to see for most people, who weren’t looking to begin with.
The lower levels of the museum were already a treasure trove of Egyptian artifacts and fossilized dinosaur bones, but the real worth of the collection was to be found farther down.
A docent called Trent, who appeared to be of Elven descent, met them at the reception desk and listened to their request for the shoes with a growing look of incredulity.
“I can’t sell you the shoes,” he said flatly. “The Board of Regents would simply never stand for such a thing. I’d be dismissed, and they’d be very, very vexed. As it is, they’re still in a bad mood after someone managed to steal our Sphinx last year.”
“That’s a shame,” Quixote said, reddening. “These things happen.”
“I’ve dealt with regents before,” Aristophanes muttered under his breath. “This could take a while.”
Uncas, however, noticed that the docent had taken a keen interest in Don Quixote, and decided that they might have more leverage than they thought.
“How would the board feel about a trade?” Uncas offered. “The helmet of Don Quixote de la Mancha, in exchange for the Ruby Shoes of . . . uh . . .”
“Marie Antoinette,” said the docent, who seemed to be considering the offer. “She apparently couldn’t get them on in time
and . . .” He made a chopping motion with his hand. “Well, you know.”
“My helmet?” whispered Quixote. “I’ve had it for centuries—it’s just now broken in.”
“Shush,” said Uncas. “We’ll get you a new one, with a phoenix feather or something.”
“Deal,” said Quixote.
“Deal,” said Trent. “I’ll get the shoes. But,” he warned, “be careful with them. You don’t have to be wearing them to use them—just in contact with them. We’ve lost three janitors, a schoolboy from Surrey, and a beagle that way.”
“I have to tell you,” Aristophanes said as they opened the trunk of the Duesenberg, “you’ve been the most unusual, helpful, and irritating clients I’ve ever had. And despite my initial reservations, I’ve actually enjoyed working with you.”
“Thanks,” said Uncas. “I think.”
“Here,” the detective said to the others. “Gather up the ends of that tarpaulin, will you?”
Together the three of them made a makeshift sack out of the tarp, which held all the ruby objects, as well as the Infernal Machine. Aristophanes lifted it out of the car and slung it over his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” asked Quixote. “Aren’t we taking all this back to Tamerlane House?”
“We have one more little trip to take,” said the detective. He unwrapped the Ruby Shoes and slipped them into his pockets—then took hold of Quixote’s arm.
“Uncas,” he said, “please take my arm.”
“Okay,” said the badger. “But . . .”
In a trice, the trio vanished, leaving the empty Duesenberg sitting outside the museum.
“. . . whyfor?” Uncas finished, as the three companions reappeared on the grassy slope of an island that was definitely not England.
“Well,” said Quixote. “At least now we know the shoes work.”
“Where have you brought us to?” Uncas said, looking around in wonder. In the distance, they could see the mist-shrouded statues, great elongated heads, that stood along the paths of the island as silent sentries.
“This is the only actual island of the Archipelago that stayed on this side of the Frontier,” said Aristophanes. “Welcome to Easter Island.”
“Fascinating!” said Quixote. “I’ve always wanted to come here. Although,” he added, “all the giants are long gone.”
“Yes,” the detective said. “They are.”
“Maybe we should come back on a different day,” said Uncas. “After we’ve taken the Ruby Armor t’ Scowler Verne.”
Aristophanes sighed, deeply and long. He turned to the badger and the knight, his expression a mix of regret and resolve. “Have I ever told you that you shouldn’t trust me?”
Quixote and Uncas looked at each other, puzzled, then back at the detective. “No,” Quixote said slowly. “I don’t think so. And we haven’t felt the need to ask—not for quite a while, anyway.”
A pained look crossed Aristophanes’s features. “Well then,” he said abruptly, “I’m sorry to tell you this—but you shouldn’t have trusted me.”
Uncas’s face fell. “Are you going t’ keep th’ armor for yourself, then?”
“No,” Aristophanes said as he drew the dagger from its sheath, “we’re going to deliver it all to my client. My true client.”
Uncas let out a strangled squeak when he saw the dagger. “We aren’t taking this back to Jules Verne, are we?” he asked, whiskers drooping.
“No,” said the detective. “We’re going to take it all, every piece, to Dr. Dee.”
PART SIX
Mysterious Islands
“If you want to surrender gracefully now, Dee . . .
no man will think the less of you . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The House on the Borderlands
Dr. Dee stood at his window in London, watching as Benjamin Franklin and the magistrate exchanged pleasantries outside before continuing on their respective paths. He wondered, not for the first time, whether Franklin would be worth recruiting into the ICS—and then, as before, pushed the thought out of his head. Something about the American gave him a terrible sense of déjà vu—and that was not just a feeling, but a caution. Especially for one who travels in time.
Since formally leaving his position with the Caretakers, he had accelerated his plans for the Imperial Cartological Society. And, as the Caretakers became more and more obsessed with imaginary geographies and protecting the past, Dee had concerned himself with the substance of the real world, and the possibilities of the future.
Working with William Blake, he had all but perfected the Anabasis Machines, incorporating spatial transportation abilities that none of the Caretakers had even begun to suspect were possible. That meant that his travel in the Summer Country was all but unrestricted, and his ability to leap back and forth in time, even more so.
It amused him to realize that it had been his younger self who last met with the Dragon Samaranth not far from this place, but a century in the future. To be older, and now standing in his own past, was something that would have clouded the minds of lesser men—but he had never been that kind of a man, not even centuries earlier, when he first proposed the founding of the ICS to Queen Elizabeth.
It had taken him many years to establish it as an organization separate and apart from that of the Caretakers—and those they rejected from their membership had made excellent candidates for his. Especially the learned barbarian, Burton. Yes, Dee thought. That one has potential. He could even be my successor—if, that is, I ever intend to step down from my position. So, Second in command, then. Burton would have to be satisfied with that—as would Dee. None of the other recruits were even close to being in Burton’s league.
As if in response to Dee’s unspoken thoughts, there was a knock at the door. He turned to see Daniel Defoe walk in, wearing a cunning smile.
Defoe approached his master and quickly whispered his report. Dee frowned at first, and then, slowly, began to smile as broadly as his protégé.
“At Franklin’s, you say?” he said, mentally checking the box that said his intuition was sound. “And they carry the watches, as we do?”
“And the Imaginarium Geographica ,” said Defoe. “The real one. They are Caretakers, I’ve no doubt.”
Dee turned and looked out the window again. He knew that the Caretakers had blundered badly in the future, and that the Archipelago was no longer connected to the Summer Country. More, he knew that the Keep of Time had fallen, and with it, their ability to use the Anabasis Machines.
He reached down and stroked the large, leather-bound book on his desk. It was only the maps he had recorded within, the maps of time, rather than space, that had preserved the ability of the ICS to travel in time—and the Caretakers had no Chronographer of their own. So if they were here, in Revolution-era London, he mused, then they must have found a way to begin to reweave the threads of time. And that could not be countenanced.
“I don’t know who all the men are,” Defoe was saying, “but they also have several animals with them—talking animals—and three children. Two girls, one of whom can fly, and a young boy.”
“And why is this of interest to me?” asked Dee.
“The second girl,” said Defoe, “has no shadow.”
“Hmm,” Dee said. “That is interesting.”
There was another knock at the door, and Dee gestured for Defoe to leave, but not before giving him instructions. “Find out all that you can about them,” he said firmly. “Do not come back until you have.”
Defoe stepped out of one door as another of Dee’s associates entered through the first. “Greetings, Doctor,” Nikola Tesla said. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re right to wonder about the girl.”
“Who is she?”
“Rose Dyson,” Tesla answered. “The Grail Child.”
Dee whirled on his colleague. “The Grail Child! Here? Then the Caretakers who are with her . . .”
Tesla nodded. “Two of the three Caretakers of pr
ophecy,” he said, “and several others—including Burton, and the End of Time.”
The Chronographer frowned and put his hand to his chin, stroking it in thought.
“Burton . . . ,” he said at last. “That . . . is an unexpected defection. We should keep a tighter rein on him. But he’s not my immediate concern—it’s the End of Time who could discern our true natures. Have him dealt with as quickly as possible. I’ll brook no delay in this, Nikola.”
“Fine,” Tesla said, chagrined at the other’s tone. “And the girl?”
“Defoe said she has no shadow,” he said at last. “This is an opportunity, Nikola. One we should not miss. Do we have a spare we could use, back at the House? Lovecraft’s, perhaps?”
Tesla shook his head. “We have assigned that one to Defoe. We do have Crowley’s, though.”
“Fine,” Dee said, waving his hand. “They are at Dr. Franklin’s—have the Lloigor fit her with the Shadow, as soon as possible. It will take time to corrupt her fully, if it can be done at all.”
The other shrugged. “She lost her own shadow,” he said blithely. “That is not coincidental. There is one other thing, Doctor. The boy—he is special.”
“How so?”
“Here,” Tesla said, holding out his ebony-colored watch. “Look for yourself.”
Dee examined the display on the watch for a moment, and a look of astonishment suddenly blossomed on his face. He looked at Tesla in disbelief, then took out his own watch to verify the other’s findings. They were correct.
“He has no zero points,” Dee murmured, “no life-thread binding him to this time, or any other. How is this possible?”
“He’s from a might-have-been,” said Tesla. “A possible future. That’s the only reason there are no zero points connected to him. They haven’t happened yet. But that isn’t the most significant thing about him.”
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