The Indigo King (14 page)

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,” Jack 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. “Hugo 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.

Hank frowned. “You really don’t know what’s going on, do you?” he asked rhetorically. “When do you think you are?”

“It’s the twentieth of September, 1931,” Hugo replied.

Hank didn’t reply to this but squinted at the silver watch and turned two of the dials set in its side. The watch began to chime, then buzzed harshly. He tapped it on his armor, then shook it. “Dratted machine,” he complained. “Something’s off. I don’t think I can get a message to anyone much earlier than about a decade and a half before your prime time, but that ought to give them sufficient notice to set things aright before you leave.”

He said all this as if it would mean something to Hugo, then realized that the scholar hadn’t comprehended a word of it. “Never mind,” Hank said with a wave. “Just wait here and try to stay out of everyone’s way. I’ll send the message for you and see if the Frenchman can’t help somehow, and then I have to finish my report for Sam. And I can’t do either out in the open.”

With that, he began to stride off, leaving the hapless Hugo sitting in the grass, holding his helmet and gauntlets. “But wait!” Hugo called. “Who’s Sam?”

“The man who sent me here to begin with,” Hank answered over his shoulder without turning around. “Samuel Clemens, the Caretaker Principia of the
Imaginarium Geographica
.”

John and Jack took turns telling Meridian why they had come to Alexandria, with occasional contributions from Chaz. He seemed to have thoroughly mastered Greek far more quickly than they had thought possible, but however he’d done it, they were grateful. He had a keener sense than they did of which topics should be avoided and when, cutting in if he suspected they were saying too much.

The two Caretakers might have set aside the poisoning attempt in Miletus, but Chaz had not. And they didn’t have Fred around to sniff out a second try.

When they had finished, Meridian sat at the table, thinking. A minute passed. Then another. Then five more.

“If all you have said is true,” Meridian finally said, measuring out his words carefully, “then I have been working in error for my entire life.”

“What error?” asked John. “Trying to steal the Grail?”

“That would only be the least, and most recent, of my mistakes,” Meridian replied, “if it had in fact been I who deigned to take it.”

“You didn’t try to steal the Grail?” Jack asked.

“Of course it wasn’t me!” Meridian exclaimed angrily, stopping so his face was half in shadow. “I have my work laid out to do. I’m not interested in some relic that may or may not have belonged to a false god over a century ago! Why would I risk so much, especially with my position here at the library, to gain so little?”

“Historically speaking, it’s worth a great deal to many, many people,” John said in answer. “Even now, you can see how it’s regarded. This entire institution has been retooled to its service. And we in fact do believe it has value to you—because we know you still want to return to the Archipelago.”

“What does that have to do with the Grail?”

Jack gave John a look of caution; this was a crucial piece of information to be sharing with a still uncertain ally. John shared the concern, but he was running out of options—and arguments.

“To cross the Frontier,” he said, “you need to carry with you an object that has been touched by divinity. For this reason alone, I think you would desire the Grail.”

Meridian narrowed his eyes, then snorted disdainfully. “Divinity? Hardly. I was a thousand years old before he was even born, and his mother was never touched by any of the gods I know. The fact that his story has become a myth believed by many people doesn’t make anything he touched divine.”

“It might if it’s a true myth,” John countered. “Ordo Maas crossed the Frontier because he carried the Flame of Prometheus—but most scholars would agree that Prometheus was only a myth.”

Meridian’s eyes flared at the mention of Prometheus, or so it seemed. He smiled patiently, as if he were explaining a lesson to a slow student. “Most scholars aren’t descended from him,” heretorted, “and if you want to believe in a new, modern god, that’s your business, not mine.”

“I don’t, really,” said Jack. “I believe in a God, but not necessarily in the Christ myth any more than I believe in Prometheus.”

“And yet,” Meridian continued, “you have crossed the Frontier yourselves, have you not? So you must believe in
something
.”

That was an issue Jack wasn’t prepared to tackle. And neither was John. Chaz broke the moment with another question.

“Mebbe
you
don’t believe,” he said pointedly, “but what if your brother does?”

“Yes,” Meridian replied. “That would seem like a reason for his actions, to ones such as yourselves. But it would not have been mine, even if it was Madoc’s. But he could not have meant to use the Grail in the way that you suggest, to cross back to the Archipelago.”

“Why not?”

“Simple,” Meridian replied. “We never knew that’s how it was done.”

John and Jack both groaned inwardly. This might be the Cartographer, but it was a gamble telling him as much as they had. The problem was, the stakes were still unknown.

Meridian smiled. “Don’t worry. I reconciled myself to being here in Odysseus’s world a long time ago. If—no, when—I do return to the Archipelago, it shall be in the proper time, after the proper order of things.”

“One more question,” said Chaz, who had clearly taken the lead in the discussion. “Why were you and Madoc exiled from the Archipelago?”

Meridian started, and actually put out a hand to steady himself against the desk. This was not a question he had anticipated, and it seemed to rattle him deeply.

“We made a mistake,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “We tried to become more than we were, to become great, but we wanted to take a shortcut. We tried to open a door that was not meant to be opened, and we were caught, and punished. And that’s all I can say. I shall not speak of it again.”

Chaz looked at the others. All three were making their choice—whether to trust this man before them, or not. There was no way to be sure that they could. The only thing they could be certain of was that they needed to stop his twin. That was their first priority, above all.

“We wanted to know for sure it was you we were dealing with before we liberated you,” John said. “No offense intended. But we had to know you were the man we could trust.”

“And how do you know I am?” argued Meridian. “We’ve met twice now, skipping over centuries, and for less than a day each time. And, as you pointed out, I tried to have Anaximander poison you in Miletus. So why trust me now?”

His face was an open book. This was no subversion, John realized. Meridian really wanted to know.

“We trust you,” John said, “because we know the man that you will one day become. Not as friends, really, but not as adversaries. And one of the reasons we’re here now, the main reason, really, is that we were told by someone we do believe in that the future’s sake depends on the Cartographer. So we will trust in that. And in you.”

Meridian stepped between John and Jack, past Chaz, and into the empty corridor. “The Cartographer, you say? I’ve been called worse, but few have called me better.”

“So you’ll help us?” Chaz said plaintively. “You’ll help us stop your brother?”

“You all have my gratitude,” Meridian replied, smiling broadly and nodding. “That should mean something.”

Jack quietly closed the door behind them, and it locked with a soft click. Meridian shuddered.

“I think if I’d had to spend one more day confined inside that wretched stone room,” he said, with a somewhat restrained tone, “I’d have gone mad. I was grateful that Ptolemy permitted me the materials to continue my work, but I was actually starting to look forward to my own execution, just to escape.

“Now,” he finished, rubbing his hands together, “let’s deal with Madoc.”

With Meridian leading the way, they wound back through the rooms and corridors with greater speed than before. John paced alongside him, asking questions about the rooms they passed, while Jack kept a watchful eye out for other guards, but they moved through undisturbed.