“Okay,” Charles said as he straddled the bike and lifted the lid on the wicker basket. “Hop in, Rover.”
“This is very humiliating,” said Fred as he clambered into the basket.
“Better than taking on another one of the witches, or something worse,” said Charles. “Hold on—I’m going to attempt a takeoff.”
He started pedaling and found he had to hold the handlebars tightly to counter the wobble from one of the bent wheels. He had no idea if a damaged wheel on the ground would have any effect on the contraption’s ability to fly.
It didn’t. With a few shaky hops, the bicycle bounded into the air. Pedaling furiously, Charles had cleared the rooftops in a matter of seconds, and soon they were high enough to see all of Abaton.
They were still on the eastern edge of the town, which sprawled all across the hilltops and into the valley below. They could see clusters of flying bicycles, but none near enough to cause immediate alarm.
There were several fires burning throughout the town, and the smoke obscured much of the sky. But it was clearer to the west, and Charles and Fred realized in the same instant that the western edge of the valley was where they needed to go.
There, in the distance, was the unmistakable form of a tower, stark and black against the twilight.
It was the Keep . . . remade as a patchwork
lighthouse . . .
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Construct
The council of war at Tamerlane House looked as if a library of fairy tales had collided with a library of literary biographies, and someone had turned the result into a full-color, three-dimensional frieze.
The king and queen sat opposite Edgar Allan Poe at one end of the table; Charys, the centaur, sat between Mark Twain and Charles Dickens; Rillian, the unicorn mouse, sat on the table in front of Washington Irving; and Stephen, in full Golden Fleece regalia, sat next to his mother across from Geoffrey Chaucer. The Valkyrie Laura Glue, her wings discreetly folded behind her, was standing behind John and Daniel Defoe, and the improbable young Nemo stood next to her; while the Elf King Eledir, the Dwarf leader, Falladay Finn, and several surly fauns stood behind the rest of the Caretakers. It was, to put it simply, a remarkable group.
“Geoff,” John said, still assimilating the recent events, “where should we begin?”
They had already decided to conceal the covert operation Fred and Charles were engaged in. If there was still a traitor among the Caretakers, serving him a play-by-play summary of their own efforts wouldn’t be helpful.
The Last Book was already a secret from almost everyone— and so it would be difficult to express the concern the Caretakers were feeling at its loss.
Thus, once Bert, Artus, and Aven had addressed the group and detailed the events that had occurred on Paralon, the next order of business became the Prophecy itself.
“We believe that the Chancellor has spies within these walls,” said Chaucer, “and so we must prepare for the inevitable. We will be attacked. And I believe that it will happen sooner rather than later.”
“I concur,” said Bert. “To move so in Paralon itself, he must be exceptionally confident.”
“With good reason,” said Artus. “He’s been amassing power and influence for a long while. His allies will be our former allies— and so this will not be a war of armies. It will be a last stand.”
“What Artus is trying to so cheerfully get across,” said Aven, “is what my father was explaining earlier—this is not a new battle, as far as the Prophecy is concerned. This is the endgame.”
“Oh, that was much more cheerful,” said Defoe. “We have the Caretakers and the knight—when do we acquire the weapon the girl is supposed to use against the Winter King? Or Chancellor? Or whatever we’re supposed to call him.”
“The Shadow King,” said Poe. “The Winter King is no more, and the Chancellor is a fiction. We are dealing with a Shadow King, and we will prevail. I have seen it.”
“How do you know this?” asked Eledir.
“Because,” said Poe, “in the future, there are still pistachio nuts.”
“I’m going to assist Quixote and Rose,” said Bert, “in their efforts to acquire the weapon. Artus and Aven have asked Jack to assist the captains in fortifying the Nameless Isles in preparation for the Shadow King’s move against us. And John and Stellan are going to continue in the effort to learn more of what our adversary is planning.”
“We should have someone trying to suss out other spies,” Defoe said with a sideways glance at Jakob Grimm. “Whoever they might be.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Chaucer. “Will you take charge of that, Daniel?”
Defoe nodded. “I will.”
“Excellent,” Chaucer said. “Then for the moment, we’ve work to do.”
Jack realized that being in charge of the war preparations meant that he was going to have to speak to the young Nemo. The appearance of the youth and the gleaming Dragonship was not as unusual to those in the Archipelago as it was to him. There had been numerous events caused by the Time Storms that had changed many things in the lands. But this was a harder thing to process. After having caused the older Nemo’s death during the great battle at the Edge of the World, Jack made sure to visit Nemo’s grave every time he’d come to the Archipelago, and he always had plenty to say. But now, with a young Nemo in the very next room, alive, he realized that he couldn’t find any words.
Jack’s musing was interrupted when a strong hand clapped down on his shoulder.
“When first we met,” Charys said, “you were a student who was playacting at being a warrior. Now you are a teacher. And as a descendant of Charon himself, I can truly say there are few callings more noble.”
“A teacher, yes,” Jack replied. “But still playacting at being the warrior, I’m afraid.”
At this the centaur grew serious. “Not playacting, Caretaker. Your deeds are well known throughout the Archipelago, and your bravery and skill are without question. The Far Traveler himself told me that you were a soldier of note in the Summer Country as well. Is that true?”
Jack nodded. “It is. But I’m afraid I didn’t fare much better there than I did here. I still failed to protect the ones who depended on me.”
“We are all here of our own choosing,” Charys countered. “None among us has been coerced, or compelled against his will. Nemo knew what he was doing, and he knew, as do I, the day of his death.”
“I know, and I accepted that, long ago,” Jack said with a fleeting glance over at the young captain he was avoiding. “But I was hardly prepared for . . . for this.”
“I have some of my own troops to attend to,” Charys said as he wheeled about on his hind legs, “but consider this, Caretaker: What if you are the one who makes Nemo into the warrior he becomes? What if this is the opportunity to teach him what he needs to know to truly be a good man?”
“But for what?” Jack said, protesting. “We know what happened to him in the end.”
“If for no other reason,” Charys called back over his shoulder, “teach him well, so that when the time comes in his own future, he will be prepared to pass on what it means to be a man . . .
“. . . to you.”
Charles and Fred landed well short of the tower. They concealed the bicycle in a thicket a few hills to the south of it, then stood up to take stock of their target.
Charles let out a long, slow whistle. It was the Keep of Time, remade as a patchwork lighthouse comprised of doors, rough-hewn stones, and creaky scaffolds. The space between the doors was only broad enough to allow one to open without compromising those adjacent to it, and there were few landings on the stairways—as if the opportunity to pause between doorways were an unthinkable folly.
Unlike the authentic keep, wherein the stairways were on the interior and the doors opened out into whatever time they were anchored to, this construct was exactly the inverse. The structure was built as a hollow tower, and the doors were then inserted into frames, which
allowed them to open inward.
“That can’t be safe,” Charles murmured. “It’s practically insane.”
“Why?” asked Fred.
“Because all of the doors are linked to some point in the past,” Charles whispered. “Just harnessing that kind of energy is almost impossible to conceive. But at least in the real keep, the doors opened out—that let each portal have its own space, so to speak. But if the doors open inward . . .”
“There’s no space,” said Fred. “They’ll all be jammed in together.”
“That’s my worry,” said Charles. “I don’t think anything good can come of this.”
The tower was all but impossible to approach. It was positioned high enough that any two guards could see everything approaching in any direction, and that would have been hard enough to bypass. The tower’s scaffolding was a beehive of activity, with workers shoring up the base, adding to the top, and building new frames for doors to be set into.
Even worse, two more men approached the tower from the west, dragging another door behind them. Charles had briefly entertained the idea of disguising himself as a laborer, but there was also the possibility of running into Burton, who would easily recognize him. These two new arrivals tripled the odds of that happening.
“Houdini and Conan Doyle,” Charles whispered. “The rogue Caretakers.”
“I’ve heard tell of them,” said Fred. “That’s why I signed their names when we got here—although just mentioning them makes Bert very sad.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Charles. “They’re worthy men—they’ve just made some very poor choices.”
They watched as the Magician and the Detective carried the door to a frame that was built in a nearby field and placed it upright. Another man was called over from the tower to examine it, and Charles shuddered in recognition.
“And there he is,” he hissed. “Burton. All the players but one have come to the stage.”
Burton opened the door and looked inside. From their position, Charles and Fred couldn’t see what he was looking at, but he seemed to declare it satisfactory, as two other workers came over to help carry it up to the top of the winding scaffolding.
“Do you think they’re arranged the same way as they were in the real keep?” Charles wondered aloud. “Oldest at the bottom, and getting younger as they rise?”
“That would make sense,” said Fred, “if they have been harvesting them as they fell. They would want to fix each door in place as they brought it here.”
“I agree, apprentice,” said Charles. “We’ve got to get over to that tower for a closer look. They’re building it for some purpose, and we must discover what it is.”
“Someone’s coming this way,” said Fred, pointing.
A very familiar-looking figure came clomping along the cobblestones. He was muttering to himself and walking with a strange, clumsy, high-footed gait.
As he came closer, they could see why. Bags, which were leaking sand in copious amounts, were bound around each of his feet and were tightly bound mid-calf. With every step he took there was a whumping sound and a small cloud of dust.
The figure stepped under one of the lights, and Charles swore softly and rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“Why am I not surprised in the least?” he said under his breath. “If there’s something shifty or untrustworthy to be done, it’s a level bet that Maggot is somewhere about.”
Fred squinted to see better. “The Green Knight, you mean? He’s a maggot?” He frowned. “He doesn’t look like a maggot.”
“You’d be surprised,” Charles replied. “There’s nothing under that armor but slime.”
“Then how did he get to be the Green Knight?”
“It’s supposed to be a penance.”
Fred looked over the crates again. “Well then, he’s doing it wrong.”
Charles grinned. “We’ll fix that. Follow me.”
The Caretaker and his apprentice slipped silently along the tree line just on the outer edge of Abaton’s southernmost wall, mirroring Magwich’s movements along the cobblestone path. When he came to an entrance into the town itself and turned his back to them, they leaped out and seized him, dragging him back into the bushes.
At first Magwich thought he’d been grabbed by a witch and an overly large familiar, but then Charles pulled off the hat and shawl and revealed his identity to the hapless knight.
“Eeep!” Magwich shrieked. “What—what are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to be here!”
He stopped and looked at Charles more closely, puzzled. “You’re dressed like a witch,” he said, fear giving way to curiosity. “What’s that all about?”
“I’m in disguise,” said Charles.
“It works for you,” said Magwich.
“Oh, shut up,” Charles fumed. “How were you able to leave Avalon?”
In answer, Magwich pointed to the bags strapped to his feet. “In point of fact, I haven’t left, not really. These bags are full of beach sand from the island. That means I can go anywhere I want to. I’m finally free of that stupid, empty, lonely island!”
“Your job wasn’t done, Maggot,” said Charles. “You abandoned your post.”
“What post?” Magwich retorted. “After the Morgaine left, there was nothing left there to guard.”
“You’re wrong,” said Fred. “There was a lot left.”
“What is he chattering on about?” asked Magwich.
“Where’s the spear?” Charles asked. “The spear that has been carried by all the other Green Knights in history?”
Magwich’s jaw dropped open, and his eyes grew wide. “I—I couldn’t say,” he finally answered. “I must have lost it.”
“Lost it, or sold it?”
“I wouldn’t sell it!” Magwich exclaimed. “Burton would have had my head if I’d—”
Too late he realized his slip.
“He isn’t too bright, is he?” asked Fred.
“That’s a major understatement,” said Charles. He grabbed Magwich by the breastplate and pulled him close. “Listen, Maggot,” he said in as threatening a tone as he could manage, “we need to know what’s going on here. We need to know what Burton’s doing with the tower, and with the spear. And we need to know right now.”
“You can’t scare me!” Magwich retorted. “I have rights, you know. And when the Chancellor finds out what you’ve done, there’ll be consequences, I promise you!”
“The Chancellor will never know,” said Charles, drawing him closer. “Do you know what happened to the last Green Knight who tried to leave Avalon?”
Magwich gulped and swallowed hard, shaking his head.
“He set foot on a boat,” said Charles, “and his arms and legs caught fire. And then his chest exploded.”
Magwich’s eyes were huge.
“Then,” Charles went on, “insects began to nest in his chest cavity, where they laid eggs. Eventually the eggs hatched into worms—and the worms burrowed their way up his neck and into his head, and he got to watch the entire time. And the last thing he saw before he perished in terrible agony was the worms eating into his eyeballs. That’s what happened to him.”
“I—I don’t believe you!” Magwich stammered.
“It doesn’t matter if you believe me,” Charles said with finality, “but if you don’t tell us what we want to know, we’re going to take those bags off your feet, and you can find out the truth for yourself.”
Magwich paused to consider whether he was serious, and on cue, Fred reached out with a sharp claw and snicked open one of the straps that held the bags in place.
“All right, all right!” Magwich yelled. “I’ll tell you everything!”
And he did. It took only a few minutes, but when he was through, all the blood had drained out of Charles’s face.
“We’ve got to get back right now,” he said to Fred. “This is too important to wait.”
Fred tied Magwich’s hands and legs and gagged him. They threw him over the han
dlebars of the bicycle and tied him down; then Fred climbed into the basket as Charles began to pedal.
It was much harder to take off with the added weight, but Charles did not want to risk leaving Magwich behind. It took several tries, but finally they became airborne. Once they were at altitude, it was much easier to navigate the bicycle, and they set course for the Trump portal that lay past the eastern gate of Abaton.
“Uh-oh,” Fred said as he peered through the weave of the basket. “There’s trouble a’ coming’.”
Flying straight toward them were three witches, also on bicycles.
“I hope the disguise works,” said Charles.
“So do I,” said Fred. “I don’t have any more tapioca.”
The witches stopped in midair and greeted Charles. “Hello, sister,” said the first witch. She pointed at Magwich. “What have you got there?”
“Uh, lunch,” Charles said in a terrible falsetto.
“Lunch?” said the second witch. “He’s a Green Man. You can’t eat a Green Man, even in Abaton.”
“We’re going to use him to start the fire,” said Charles.
“That’s just asking for trouble,” said the second witch. “The rest will burn us out if you do that!”
“Hey,” said the third witch, who had flown around to look at the wicker basket. “What have you got here?”
“It’s, ah, my dog,” said Charles.
“Woof,” Fred said helpfully.
“It’s the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen,” said the witch. “It looks more like a badger.”
“That’s very rude,” said Fred.
“Oh dear,” Charles said before the witches could react. “Hold on tight, Fred!”
Pedaling as if the devil himself were at his heels, Charles put the bicycle into a steep dive and aimed for the eastern gate. He had almost reached the tattooed man when Fred pointed out that the witches were right behind them.
Charles grimaced. Of course they were. The witches were better bicyclists than he was—or at least they were much more experienced—and they weren’t carrying a badger with lousy self-control and a Green Knight made of wood.
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