Dee waited. “Well?”
“His aiua,” Tesla said, smiling. “It’s almost identical to the Grail Child’s. His lineage is the same. So I thought he might be a candidate—”
Dee silenced him with a gesture. “Don’t even say the word,” he said sharply. “We put too much weight on Mordred as a candidate, and now he is forever out of our reach. I won’t make that mistake again.”
He turned back to the window. “Keep an eye on Defoe. Have the cat deal with Burton’s guide, the Time Lord. And learn all you can about this child.”
“And if he is what he appears to be?” asked Tesla. “Do we bring him here, or . . .” He paused. “Kill him?”
“No,” said Dee. “They found him in a future, so we should hide him in the future . . . in a might-have-been. The Caretakers are far too enmeshed in the past—they will never think to look for him in a past that hasn’t happened yet. Have Defoe do it—he’s reliable, and expendable.
“And,” Dee continued, more to himself than the other, “when the time is right . . .
“. . . what is theirs will become ours. And this boy may be the key to winning it all.”
The open secret that was Verne’s Mystorians became much more open with the destruction of the Hotel d’Ailleurs, and the subsequent evacuation to the refuge that he had prepared for them.
It was a smaller place than the hotel, but it didn’t need to be larger than it was. It was built on one of the smaller of the Nameless Isles, just to the east of Tamerlane House. The island was also ringed about with rune stones, but these were not merely protective. They were essential.
Evacuating the still-living members of the Mystorians was not a problem—but moving out those who were ghosts took much more preparation. Their new home had to be identically prepared with the markings that allowed the ghosts to manifest, and Verne’s special trump had to be used to allow them to pass. Kipling activated it just in time, and nearly didn’t make it through himself before the hotel roof collapsed in flames.
At Verne’s behest, the Caretakers Emeriti had gathered together to hear Kipling’s report. The tulpa had survived the flames but was not unscathed—his jacket was terribly scorched, and his hair and mustache were singed badly.
“And everyone is now safely here?” Verne asked when Kipling had finished.
“Almost,” he replied. “Young Joseph Merrick stayed the longest, to make certain everyone else was safe. But I didn’t see him come through the trump, and he has not as of yet manifested again at Haven.”
Verne dropped his head and sighed. “I see.”
“Is it the principal duty of the Prime Caretaker to form secret organizations?” asked an angry Alexandre Dumas. “And to keep it from his colleagues?”
“The principal duty of the Prime Caretaker,” Verne said slowly, “is that of finding, and training, the Imago—the one who will become the protector of this world.”
“Pfah,” Leonardo da Vinci snorted. “That is a myth.”
“It is not,” said Verne. “Rose may be such a being, but the lost prince may be also. That’s why the Cabal wanted him—and why we have sought him.”
“To use him for ourselves?” asked Dumas.
“No,” said Geoffrey Chaucer, in a tone that said he would brook no dissent. “To prevent the Cabal from turning him into the Archimago—the destroyer of worlds.”
“In the days before the Caretakers,” said Verne, “there were those of wisdom and learning who were asked by the Dragons to perform the same function. The greatest of these whom you may know of was Chiron.”
“The centaur?” Jack asked. “Achilles’s teacher?”
Verne nodded. “And the teacher of many, many others—most of the great heroes, in fact. He was the great-umpty-great grand-sire to your friend Charys, I believe.
“He also taught those who were to become the protectors of the Archipelago, including Jason. But Medea’s betrayal prevented that, and the Silver Throne sat empty for almost three thousand years. When John Dee became a renegade, his primary purpose—we thought—was to create and control a king of the Archipelago. But we now know it is much worse—he intends to create the Archimago and open our world to the Echthroi.”
“How is it that a renegade Caretaker knows so much that he can cause us such great trouble over and over again?” John said, exasperated. “Not even Burton gave us as much grief as John Dee!”
“Burton never even became a full Caretaker,” Twain said, answering before Verne could reply, “but Dee was. And more than that, for many years he was the most significant one.”
“Oh, dear,” said Jack. “You mean . . .”
“Yes,” Twain said. “Before my apprentice, Jules Verne, was appointed to the position, the office of Prime Caretaker was filled by Dr. Dee.”
“So what do we do now?” asked John. “I hope you have some sort of plan.”
“I always do,” Verne said as he removed a trump from his breast pocket. “Gather close, and listen in. The endgame is about to start.”
There was nothing Uncas and Quixote could do except follow Aristophanes up the hill on Easter Island. He was walking toward a massive, dark house, which was too Gothic to have belonged there. With a chill, Quixote realized that their detective was not lying—he had been working for another client the whole time, and this edifice they were approaching was the House of Dr. Dee.
“You’ll serve Dee, and betray th’ Caretakers?” Uncas asked. “Shame, Steve. Shame, shame on you.”
“I have been in the service of the Caretakers for over two thousand years,” Aristophanes said, his voice gone low and menacing, “and it was not by my own will, but out of necessity—just as it was a necessity to ask for your help to find the Ruby Armor. You needed my machine, but I needed your maps.”
“And th’ Little Whatsit,” said Uncas. “We did a lot more than read maps. We were your gosh-darn partners, Steve!”
The unicorn detective took a deep breath. “Aye,” he admitted. “You were. But now that time is done.”
Several men were walking from the house to meet them on a broad field. Quixote only recognized John Dee, but Uncas knew the others from his son’s enthusiastic descriptions of them, as Fred was a voracious reader of fantastic fiction. Many of his favorite writers—several of whom were dead—were standing before them now.
“Scowlers Lovecraft, Tesla, Cabell, and Chesterton,” said Uncas, “John Dee, and Aleister Crowley. And,” he added, frowning, “Daniel Defoe.”
Defoe bowed and smiled at the badger. “I’ve met your offspring, I believe,” he said with a smirk. “He looked like he’d make good eating. So do you.”
“Try if you like, but you’d better do it quick,” Uncas said, looking at his watch. “Your dinner bell is about to be rung, you self-righteous—”
Defoe scowled and turned to Dee. “What did we need to bring them here for? Couldn’t the unicorn just kill them and be done with it?”
“I brought them,” Aristophanes said as he showed them the tarpaulin containing the Ruby Armor, “so they wouldn’t go running off to tell their Caretaker friends what I was really up to. And I didn’t kill them, because that’s not what you paid me for.”
“That can be rectified,” said Defoe.
“Bring it on,” said Uncas.
Lovecraft laughed and walked forward. “Brave words, little badger, when you’re surrounded by the enemy.”
“Tell you what,” said Uncas. “If you surrender now, I’ll put in a good word for you with th’ Caretakers.”
“Surrender?” an astonished Lovecraft asked as he stopped in front of Uncas. “Are you insane?”
“You’re a storyteller, ain’tcha, Mr. Lovecraft?” Uncas asked. “Well, this is that part of the story where th’ heroes snap their fingers and th’ cavalry rides to th’ rescue.”
“Except,” said Lovecraft, “you are on an island in the middle of the greatest ocean on Earth, and there is no one who even knows where you are, much less how to ride to your rescue.
Face the facts, little animal.” He bowed low to look the badger in the eye. “We hold the upper hand. And you have no cards left to play.”
“Oh, I gots one,” Uncas said, stepping backward as he reached into his jacket. “But it’ll do th’ trick, I think.”
It was a trump. Jules Verne’s own trump to Tamerlane House.
“You get all that, boss?” Uncas said into the card.
“Perfectly well,” said the voice of Jules Verne. “Bring us through, Uncas.”
“It’s one of Dee’s cursed cards!” Crowley snarled. “And it’s open!”
Before any of the Cabal could stop him, the badger had concentrated on the card, which began to grow. In seconds it was a full-size portal between Easter Island and the Nameless Isles, where, as Uncas had said, the cavalry was waiting to cross over.
“Greetings and salutations,” Nathaniel Hawthorne said as he stepped across the boundary of the card. He was carrying a sledgehammer, and he hefted it with purpose. “I’m in the mood for popcorn and cracking skulls. And I didn’t bring any popcorn.”
Behind him were John, Jack, and Verne, followed closely by Dickens, Twain, Irving, the badger Fred, and Laura Glue, all bearing drawn weapons.
“Keep the portal open,” Verne said to Uncas. “More will be coming through in a moment. The advantage is ours.”
“It’s still Dee’s battlefield,” said John.
“You have your warriors, and I have mine,” said Dee. “I see that you have brought samurai swords. Shall we settle this in the old samurai way, then?”
“What is he talking about?” asked John.
“There’s an old story,” Verne said, not taking his eyes off Dee and the Cabal, “about two samurai who met on a bridge. Neither one would give way to the other, and so they drew their swords—and instead of attacking, froze. Every little while, one of them would change position, and the other would change his to match.”
“A battle of perceived skills, not actual combat,” said Hawthorne. “I remember the tale.”
Verne nodded, still watching Dee, who seemed only too content to listen in with the rest. “Each was assessing the other’s abilities, and they were each so skilled that a single pose revealed a lifetime of training. So each would pose, and the other would assess, and counterpose.
“Finally, after nearly a day and a night, one of the samurai finally realized that he would be beaten, and he bowed, sheathed his katana, and stood aside to let the other pass.”
“So was it the good samurai or the bad samurai who won?” asked John. “We’re dealing with a good-versus-evil matter here, and it would be nice if you’d clarify.”
“I can’t remember,” said Verne. “That was not the point of the story.”
“Which is?”
“That assessment of your opponent can also be a weapon,” said Dee, “and may decide the battle, all on its own.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” Jack said as he drew a second blade. “We can take them, Jules. That’s my assessment.”
“Ah,” said Dee, “but all the pieces are not yet on the board.” He raised a finger, and a door on the house behind him opened. Three William Blakes strode out and joined the members of the Cabal. “Your move.”
Verne smiled and cleared his throat. Three more William Blakes appeared in the trump portal and stepped through to join the Caretakers.
Dee frowned. “Matching bishops, then.”
“Not quite,” said Verne. He waved at the Cabal’s William Blakes, and they walked across the field to join the Caretakers. “Sorry,” they said in unison.
“I told you not to trust him!” hissed Tesla. “I mean, them. Him. Whatever it is.”
“Six Blakes will not defeat us,” said Dee. “What else do you have?”
“We have the resources of every Caretaker who has ever lived, as well as every worthy member of the Imperial Cartological Society who was wise enough to leave,” said Verne.
“Point,” said Crowley.
“Oh, shut up,” said Tesla.
“I have the Ruby Armor of T’ai Shan,” said Dee. “Every weapon in the world that can defend against or be used to attack an Echthros is mine.”
“Actually,” Aristophanes said, “in point of fact, it isn’t.”
Before any of the Cabal could react, the Zen Detective swung the tarpaulin full of armor over his shoulder and quickly crossed over to stand beside Verne.
“Well, I’ll be dipped,” Uncas said, squinting up at Quixote. “I though we wasn’t supposed t’ trust him.”
“I still don’t know that you can,” Aristophanes said with a sigh. “I’m not a very trustworthy guy. But I’d like to think I’ve learned a few things in the last couple of millennia, and one thing I try to do is not be on the wrong side of a battle. They,” he finished, gesturing at Dee, “are definitely the wrong side.”
“You’ve always served us well,” Verne said, “and I for one have always had faith in you, Steve.”
It wasn’t possible for the detective’s skin to redden, but it was obvious he was uncomfortable with the compliment. “I made a bad choice a long time ago,” he said brusquely, “and I’ve worn the punishment on my skin ever since. That’s a difficult weight to carry without some kind of remorse.”
“We have a contract, detective,” Dee hissed.
“You never paid me,” Aristophanes shot back, “and the Caretakers made me an offer you can’t match. No deal.”
“If you were on our side all along,” said Uncas, “then why did you let them think you were on their side a’tall? And why bring us here?”
“Because,” said Verne, “we really did need Steve to find the armor, and Dee would never have let that happen if Blake hadn’t convinced them that he would do it for the benefit of the Cabal. And he brought you here, so you could bring us here.”
“That’s pretty smart,” said Uncas.
“Thanks,” Verne and Steve said together.
Verne turned back to Dee. “Your move.”
In response, Dee raised his hand, and suddenly the doors of his house all opened at once. The fields behind the Cabal were flooded with every manner of foul creature who had ever haunted children’s nightmares: the half-men Wendigo; the skull-headed Yoricks; and a dozen other kinds of monstrous beings who had been collected from the Archipelago years earlier. Now they were led by Dee’s new lieutenant, William Hope Hodgson.
“I have an army,” said Dee, “and I have your people to thank for it. Burton gathered them, and Kipling led them. They may have defected to your side, but the army is still mine.”
“And I,” Verne said, “have goats. If you want to surrender gracefully now, Dee, I’m sure no man here will think the less of you for it.”
Without waiting for a response, Verne opened a second trump—this one to Lake Baikal, where three of the Caretakers were waiting to step through.
Kipling, Houdini, and Conan Doyle came through the portal, then clambered for safety atop the rocky ledge as a wave of armor-clad battle goats swept past, heading straight for the enemy.
“Hello, Hodgson,” called out Houdini. “I see you’ve finally found your proper position in life.”
“Hello, you hack,” Hodgson replied. “You still cheating people with the milk can trick?”
“I never . . . !” Houdini began.
“Save it for another time,” said Conan Doyle.
“He can’t be serious!” Crowley exclaimed. “Goats? He actually thinks we’re going to be afraid of goats?”
“I don’t know,” Defoe said, hesitant to voice his skepticism. “Those badgers don’t look like much either, but give them some stale baked goods and they can take you out at a hundred paces.”
“And we hear pretty good too,” Fred called out, gesturing for Defoe to cross the field. “C’mon, you dragon turd,” he said defiantly. “I’ll be your blueberry.”
The goats lined up across the battlefield in front of the Caretakers in one long column, three rows deep.
“Help me, help me, Dr. Dee!” Crowley cried in mock terror. “Jules Verne is here, and—and—he’s pointing a bunch of goats at me!”
Verne’s response to the mockery was to raise a finger and gesture to one of the goats. A shaggy, potato-colored goat in heavy armor clanked her way over to the Prime Caretaker.
“My war leader, Elly Mae,” he said to the others by way of introduction. He scratched the goat behind the ears and pointed at one of the smaller iconic statues, which stood only twenty yards off to the left.
“Elly Mae!” he commanded the war leader. “Bonk! Bonk the noggin!”
Elly Mae bleated an acknowledgment and darted off toward the statue, picking up far more speed than any of them would have expected in a goat.
She lowered her armored head and struck the statue with a tremendous bonk that threw her back on her haunches.
“Hah,” said Crowley. “That’s just—”
“Wait,” said Verne.
With a great noise that sounded like an enormous tree splitting, a crack ran up the height of the statue, and it shattered into a dozen pieces.
“Shades,” hissed Tesla.
“I’m in awe,” said Jack.
“Meh,” said Elly Mae, and ambled her way back to rejoin the ranks of the battle goats.
“Cavorite armor, laced with runic silver,” Verne said, smiling broadly. “We’ve been working on it for years, and the goats know how to use it. Nothing your creatures of Shadow have can penetrate it. And now the goats are angry. You shouldn’t have made them angry, Dee.”
“You can still rejoin us, Kipling,” Dee said, moving his attention to a different kind of attack. “What Burton once offered you is still there to be taken. Your son can still be returned to you.”
For the briefest of instants, Kipling seemed to hesitate before steeling himself and shaking his head.
“Why not?” Dee exclaimed, the slightest tinge of frustration starting to creep onto his voice. “Isn’t it what you want? To have your son again, living and whole?”
“My son died honorably,” said Kipling, “and my time with him is cherished—but past. To try to reclaim it would be to mock those memories. And while you are right, that I do long to be reunited with him, I have learned something from these men.” He looked at John and smiled. “Sometimes there are things that are more important to the world than what I want.”
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