“I learned the art of diplomacy in Alexandria,” said Madoc, “and I know when to use it. But there is a time to talk, and a time to act. And we are going,” he finished, winking at Laura Glue, “to get my daughter.”
“You’re the best of us all,” Jack said to the small company as his eyes welled with tears, “and you are the last children of the Archipelago. Be strong. Be brave. And never forget . . .”
“Believing is seeing,” Fred said as the small craft lifted up into the air. “Don’t worry, Scowler Jack,” he added as the ship disappeared through the gate. “We got this.”
The speaker was sitting on a dais at the center . . .
Chapter SEVEN
The City of Jade
It was the first city that was, and as such, it had no need of a name—but things that are made must also be named, for that is the way of the world. And so, as travelers came from the distant parts of the earth, to seek knowledge, and trade, and in some cases, redemption, they named the city, and carried those names back with them when they returned home.
To the younger races, it was called Atlantis. To the Children of the Earth, who had assisted in its construction, it was called the Dragon Isle. Some named it for the builder who first deigned to create something great in the world, and they called it the City of Enoch, but it was not his city they saw, not truly—and those who had created and named everything else the city is, was, and would yet become simply called it the City of Jade.
When the Cartographer Edmund McGee drew the city on parchment, to use as a chronal trump for himself, Rose Dyson, and the Caretaker Charles, and later, when he duplicated the drawing as a bronze engraving to leave in the Sphinx for the Caretakers to find in the future, both renderings were based on descriptions and memories provided to him by the legendary Gilgamesh. The great king had seen the city in his youth, and his recollections of it were strong enough that Edmund could duplicate it in line with great fidelity. But as fine as the renderings were, there was simply no comparison between viewing a simple drawing and being in the presence of a city that had been designed and built by angels.
The place where Rose, Edmund, and Charles had appeared was a grassy hill on the other side of the estuary that separated the island where the city stood from the mainland. A conversation with a passing angel called Nix had some unusual results: First, Charles was mistaken for a Seraphim, which was not necessarily a bad thing; and second, when they asked for further information about the city, and the summit that was to take place there, Nix instructed them to seek out what he referred to as a minor angel with the unlikeliest of names.
“Samaranth?” Charles said for the umpteenth time. “That just can’t be a coincidence. It can’t be.”
“I agree,” Rose said as they walked down the path taken by Nix, but at a discreet distance. They had decided that following someone who was attending to official city business would be the most direct route into the city, but they preferred not to arouse his suspicion any further than they already had. “He may be the reason this is a chronal zero point. After all, the trump could take us to the city, but something else had to influence the reason we arrived at this specific point in time—and Samaranth’s presence might be it.”
“We had some help, remember?” Edmund interjected. “The old man, in Platonia. He has involved himself in things before, to help you out. He must have known.”
“He knew something, that’s for certain,” Rose answered as they approached the bridge. It was made of the same glowing green material as the city and was several hundred yards wide. At both ends and at several points across the width of the entrance were guard towers manned by watchmen who were paying scant attention to most of those crossing—almost all of whom seemed to be boylike angels like Nix.
As the companions approached, Edmund and Rose whispered back and forth about what possible ruse they could use to pass, but the guard in the nearest tower simply looked up, nodded at Charles, then went back to his other work.
“Interesting,” Charles murmured as they passed. “I would have at least expected to be stopped and questioned.”
The guard overheard this and leaned out of his tower, shaking his head. “You are Seraphim, are you not?” he asked.
“Er, ah, yes,” Charles said hesitantly. “I am.”
“Then you are Named,” the guard replied, “Naming is Being, and there is no need to ask about your business.”
The three companions walked past, and for a moment, it seemed to the guard as if the girl’s shadow was moving independently of the person casting it. He watched a moment more, then shook it off. After all, there were no shadows in the City of Jade that the Makers did not intend to be there—not even those that moved of their own accord.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Back there, on the hill,” Rose said to the others as they crossed the bridge, “when Nix asked if you were Nephilim, and you said you were Seraphim . . . You Named yourself, Charles.”
The Caretaker and the Cartographer both nodded in agreement. “I think you’re right,” said Charles. “Somehow, how I identified myself is reflected in my countenance. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t identify myself as an editor or an author. We’d probably have been taken prisoner and put to work in a labor camp somewhere, just out of compassion.”
There were no other guards, and no gates to pass through on the other side of the bridge—simply open boulevards between massive buildings and towers, all of which were buzzing with activity. There were angels like Nix walking to and fro, all focused on whatever was on the tablets they carried. Above their heads were other beings the companions assumed were also angels, but these creatures had wings and were flying between the great towers.
Also walking the streets were humans, who were distinguishable from the angels by the fact that they were more elaborately dressed and carried the burden of aging more obviously.
Humans could grow old, it seemed. Even in Atlantis.
Another personage paused and turned to look at the companions as they passed. He was tall, taller than anyone they had yet seen in the city. He was silver-haired and wore a silver tunic that was shot through with a streak of crimson that matched the glowing red of his eyes.
In response, Rose took both Charles and Edmund by the arms and led them around a corner, out of his sight.
“What’s wrong?” asked Charles. “Who was that?”
“I’ve met him before,” Rose answered, still hurrying them along, “twice. The first time, he said he was a star named Rao, and he had been banished to a Ring of Power on an island past the Edge of the World. And the second time,” she added, unable to suppress a shudder, “was when he destroyed Paralon and revealed himself to be a Lloigor in service of the Echthroi.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Having avoided a possible confrontation with the future renegade star, the companions realized that there would be no way to locate Samaranth without asking for help. They tried asking some of the passing angels, all of whom responded politely as soon as they noticed Charles, but waved the question away as basically meaningless the moment Samaranth’s name was mentioned.
“I thought he was the most respected creature in the Archipelago,” Edmund said, “and everyone we’ve approached has mentioned his being among the oldest angels here. So why are they so quick to dismiss him as irrelevant?”
“It’s the way of the world,” Charles lamented. “Youth never trusts or respects the wisdom of age and experience until they are aged and experienced themselves, and by then, it’s usually too late.”
“Not every culture is like that, surely,” said Edmund. “I was raised to respect my elders.”
“So was I,” said Rose.
“The exceptions that prove the rule,” Charles said. “Let’s go ask that fellow, there.”
He was indicating a tall, finely dressed man who was writing with a stylus on parchment instead of using one of the tablets the angels all seemed to carry.
“Why him?” asked Rose.
The man listened politely as they explained whom they were seeking, and as opposed to the angels’ deference to Charles the Seraphim, seemed more taken by Rose.
“Yes, I can help you,” he said when they’d finished. He turned and took a few steps into the street. “There,” he said, pointing at a broad, squat building in the distance. “All the minor guilds are ensconced there, in the Library. It keeps them out of the way of all the others, who are certain they are doing more important work.”
Charles caught the hint of derision in the man’s voice and couldn’t help himself. “What work do you believe is more important?”
The man smiled wryly. “You have the countenance of a Seraphim but the manner of a scholar. The work of a scholar is to seek after knowledge—and there is always something new to learn.”
He turned to Rose, more serious now. “The summit is coming to an end soon, and changes will be coming. Find your minor angel, and then leave. The City of Jade may not be as welcoming to you tonight as it was to you today.”
The man spun on his heel and began to walk away. “Good luck to you, scholars,” he called back. “Hermes Trismegistus wishes you well.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The Library was easy enough to get to, but impossibly large, which required a few more inquiries. Eventually the companions were directed to what was essentially the basement, where a large door separated in the center and slid open at Rose’s touch.
“Come in, if you must,” said a thin tenor voice, “but please make haste. I have a full schedule of Naming today, and a thousand and one things must be recorded for the book if I’m to be allowed into the summit.”
The companions entered the vasty, tall room and gasped at the size of it. They knew that it was a lower level in the Library, but to all appearances it seemed nearly endless inside, and there was no ceiling, save for distant abstract geometric shapes set among a field of twinkling lights.
“Yes, yes,” the voice said again, “it is small and rather cramped—the Guild keeps all its unfinished concepts here, and they take up more room than you’d think—but there’s space enough for me to do my work, and that suffices.”
The speaker was sitting on a dais at the center of the room, working on one of the tablets all the angels seemed to carry. That much was not a surprise. What was a surprise was that Nix had described the angel before them as being one of the oldest among all those in the city—but the face that peered sideways at them as they approached was that of a young man, barely out of school.
He blew a wayward strand of reddish hair out of his face and scowled at the visitors. “Well? Are you going to tell me what business you bring, or do I have to Un-Name you to get your attention?”
“Well,” said Charles, “that sure sounds like Samaranth.”
“Of course,” the young man said primly. “I am he. I am Samaranth. Who,” he added, eyes glittering, “are you?”
♦ ♦ ♦
The companions stared at the angel with undisguised shock. This was not what they’d expected to see, and this small, twitchy, suspicious, childlike creature bore almost no resemblance to the great, regal Dragon they had known. No resemblance, save for . . .
“His eyes,” Laura Glue said softly. “He has Samaranth’s eyes.”
The angel snorted. “Of course I do. Am I not Samaranth?” He stood and stepped down from the dais to approach them. He was barely as tall as Rose, and several inches shorter than Edmund. “I am the fifth assistant Namer from the nine hundred and second Guild of Namers, of the fifty-first Host of Angels of the City of Jade.”
“Nix said he was one of the oldest of them,” Rose whispered to Charles, “but he doesn’t appear to be any older than I am, if that.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Charles whispered back, “but as I recall, you’re fairly advanced in years yourself, even though you don’t look it.”
“Oh, I am one of the eldest of the Host,” said Samaranth, who apparently could hear just fine. “At least, among those assigned to this world. And,” he added thoughtfully, “I might actually be younger than you, ah, what did you say you are called?”
“I’m Rose,” she said, “and this is Charles, and Edmund. Just how old are you?”
Samaranth answered without hesitation. “According to the Chronos time established by Sol when this world was set into motion, I am approximately two billion, three hundred seventy-nine million, one hundred fifty-two thousand, four hundred and ninety-seven years old, give or take.”
“Give or take?” asked Edmund.
Samaranth nodded. “It’s difficult to figure precisely, because of a few things that have already been Named and Placed, like the ‘Mayan conundrum’ and something called a ‘leap year.’ It makes the calculations especially difficult, because we don’t even have a name for the process of, ah, figuring yet. It involves numbers, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
Charles sighed in sympathy. “I can relate. Trouble with math is one reason I became a writer.”
“Hmm. Math,” said Samaranth. “I like that. That could work.” He jotted down a note on his tablet. “Math. Yes. Very good. You could be a Namer yourself, you know. If you weren’t a Seraphim, that is.”
“Ah, yes, about that,” Charles began before Edmund elbowed him in the ribs.
“Don’t say it,” the Cartographer hissed. “If you can Name yourself, who’s to say you can’t Un-Name yourself just as easily?”
Hearing this, Samaranth turned his full attention to them for the first time, and his expression was dark.
“That is not something to be spoken of in the City of Jade,” he said softly. “Things that are made may be Named, and sometimes, may also be Renamed, when they must choose a different path. But to be . . . to be Un-Named is something entirely different.”
He set aside his work and stepped closer to Charles. “You are not Seraphim, are you? You bear the countenance, but I sense you are also Other.”
“He is a Caretaker,” Rose said quickly. “That is the most important job there is.”
Samaranth considered this as he walked back to the dais. “A Caretaker, you say? Hmm. Someone who Takes Care. Yes, I understand. That is good.” He made some notations on a tablet. “I shall remember that, thank you.”
A chime sounded in the air somewhere above them, and the angel’s expression suddenly changed. “Oh, by the Host—it is nearly time. I must prepare to finish here so I might attend the summit.” He looked at the three of them as if they’d just walked in. “Have you been fed?”
“Please, Samaranth,” Rose asked, “can you tell us what this summit is about? Everyone in the city seems to be involved somehow.”
“Everyone is involved,” he replied. “There is nothing more important than what will be determined here today, after debating for so many years. The younger principalities believe that almost everything that can be created in this world has been created, and in this, they are quite nearly correct. However, they also think that now there will no longer be a great need for Makers, there will also be no need for Namers either.”
“Namers like yourself,” Charles noted drolly. “Just saying.”
“I speak to be understood, not out of vanity,” said Samaranth, “and they believe they will have little need of me, even though there is still a tremendous amount of work to be done. There will always be some need for Makers—but Naming is far more valuable, because to Name something is to give it meaning. Simply being created is not enough.”
“Everything has been made?” Edmund said, gesturing out the window. “Even there?”
He was looking to the west, toward the Archipelago—or at least, where the Archipelago should have been. But there was nothing except darkness there. And not the storm-cloud darkness of the Frontier, but the darkness that Rose had seen only once before, when she and her friends sailed past the waterfall at the Edge of the World and into the darkness beyond, t
o find her father.
Samaranth looked at him in surprise. “That is the Un-Made World,” he said as if his visitors should have known already, “and it remains Un-Named, until the Word chooses a time and a place to make it and Name it. There is nothing there except darkness, and stone, and . . .”
“And the keep,” said Edmund. “The Eternal Tower. Isn’t that right?”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Samaranth actually looked frightened. “Are you Nephilim?” he asked, his voice steady, but the fear still evident in his expression. “Have you come to Un-Name me?”
“No, we aren’t Nephilim, and we haven’t come to Un-Name anyone,” Rose quickly assured him. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because,” Samaranth replied, “only a few among the Host, the eldest of us, even know the tower exists. We have traveled to it. We know how to use it. And of us all, I alone deduced how important it is to this world and the Un-Made World both. They were not always severed. And someday, they may be made whole again. This is the secret we have kept for eons. The secret worth . . . killing for. So, I must ask you again—have you come to Un-Name me?”
An elderly man . . . led the procession . . .
Chapter EIGHT
The Steward
“They did what?” John exclaimed, incredulous. “You helped them to do what?”
“Calm down, John,” Jack said soothingly, “and I’ll explain everything.”
“Calm down?!?” John sputtered, almost too furious to speak. “You’ve just betrayed everything we believe in!”
Jack scowled. “No, I haven’t,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “We just believed that—”
“We?” John exclaimed. “You mean there were . . .” He stopped, thinking, then spun around, pointing an accusing finger at Shakespeare.
“I’m surprised at you, Will,” John said. “They could not have done this without your help. You should have come to me.”
The First Dragon (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica, The) Page 7
