“Maybe,” said the detective, “but not about that. I’m a unicorn—we can’t be possessed by Shadows, nor can we lose our own. It’s one of our more useful features.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Quixote. “So that’s why Verne trusts you.”
“No,” Aristophanes corrected. “That’s why Verne uses me. He sent you two along precisely because he doesn’t trust me. And, it appears, neither do you.” Without waiting for a response, he got up and opened the tent flap. “I’m going to go stretch my legs. I’ll be back later . . .
“. . . partners.”
The way he said that last word left Uncas and Quixote both flustered enough that they couldn’t say anything. Worse, they realized there wasn’t much they could say. Aristophanes was right. They didn’t trust him. They hadn’t trusted him from the beginning.
“But Verne didn’t . . . doesn’t,” said Uncas. “Is it really any wiser of us if we chose to, just to avoid hurting his feelings?”
“Something I have learned in my long years as a knight,” said Quixote, “is that everyone rises to the level of trust they earn. Your part in that is to simply give him a chance to rise or fall as his actions dictate.”
The little mammal’s whiskers twitched as he looked from the knight to outside the tent and back again. At last he smacked his badger fist into the other paw. “Then I’ll do it,” he declared. “I’m going to trust him.”
Quixote nodded approvingly as his little companion busied himself with getting their bedrolls ready to sleep for the night—but inwardly, he felt a twinge of regret. Not that the little badger was so willing to be trusting, but because, in Quixote’s experience, such trust could be easily justified . . .
. . . and just as easily betrayed.
Outside, there was a flash of light, followed by a low rumble of thunder. Moments later the first drops of rain began to speckle the ground outside.
“Looks like Steve was right about the storm,” Uncas said as he rolled over to sleep. “G’night, sir.”
“Good night, my little friend,” Quixote replied as the rain began falling harder, and a second burst of lightning illuminated the tent.
The knight could see that outside, silhouetted against the firelight, the detective had once again donned his hat. The rain didn’t seem to be bothering him, so Quixote decided that rather than press the issue, he’d just follow Uncas’s example and go to sleep. The detective could do as he wished.
Quixote wondered as he blew out the light which choice Aristophanes might make, to justify or betray the trust the badger—the trust that both of them—were giving to him. And he wondered what Uncas was going to feel if they were proven wrong.
He was still wondering when, finally, he drifted off to sleep. It was still raining.
The Cabal seldom met in full quorum . . .
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Cabal
“I hope you’re ready for another shock, young John,” Verne said as he put his arm around the shoulders of the man who had entered with Wells. “This is the true leader of the Mystorians, and the one without whom the Caretakers would have been lost long ago.
“John,” Verne continued in introduction, “I’d like you to meet William Blake.”
Almost involuntarily, John jumped backward, ignoring the man’s outstretched hand.
“Blake?” he exclaimed angrily. “John Dee’s right-hand man? The second great betrayer of the Caretakers?”
“My right-hand man,” said Verne, “and the one who has given us what few actual advantages we have over the Cabal.”
“I understand your misgivings, John,” Blake said, unruffled by the younger man’s reaction, “but what I’m doing is very similar to Kipling’s own covert missions among the ICS—I’m just playing a deeper game.”
“It’s the idea that it is a game at all that bothers me,” John said testily. “Our circumstances are far more serious than that.”
“It is exactly that degree of importance that makes it a game worth playing,” Wells cut in. “The Little Wars, the small games of conflict, and one-upmanship, all add up into history. The timeline of the world has ever been nothing but games.
“And,” he added, “as Heraclitus said, those who approach life like a child playing a game, moving and pushing pieces, possess the power of kings.”
“Is that what the Mystorians are?” John asked. “Kings playing games?”
“No,” Wells replied. “The Caretakers are the true kings. We’re just the ones who make sure no one removes you from the board.”
John sighed and turned to Verne. “I can see why he’s your secret weapon. He’s smarter than we are.”
Verne laughed, as did Blake. Wells merely smiled and removed his coat, nodding in greeting to the other Mystorians.
“It was always my strategy to use those whom I recruited only in their own Prime Time,” said Verne, “but then as events started to accelerate, I realized the value of having them available to consult with, and so in secret, we established the hotel, and this room, to better serve the cause.”
“Thereby having the help of men like Dr. Franklin both in life and in death,” said John. “I understand that. But why, ah, continue to work with them as ghosts, rather than create portraits, as with the Caretakers?”
“The portraits only work within the walls of Tamerlane House,” said Verne. “Outside, they would only last a week. And we needed to preserve the secrecy of our operations.”
John chuckled. “It almost seems like cheating,” he said blithely. “To continue to draw on all these great minds, after their deaths.”
“How is that any different from influencing the minds of those who read our books?” Carroll asked. “Or our overinflated autobiographies, in some cases.”
“Noted,” said Franklin.
“Your books are full of thoughts you’ve already, ah, thought,” said John, “but everything you’re doing here is . . .”
“New?” said Franklin. “So our influence should end, just because our earthly lives have?”
“I suppose if I really believed that,” John admitted, “I wouldn’t be a Caretaker.”
“As I told you, our adversaries were no longer playing by the rules,” Verne said, “so I started changing a few rules myself.”
“How is it that they haven’t suspected you before now?” John asked Blake. “Especially after the defection of Burton, Houdini, and Conan Doyle?”
“You’re confusing the frosting with the cake,” Blake replied, “if you think the Imperial Cartological Society had anything to do with Dee’s Cabal. He founded the ICS, sure—but only as a cover for his true goals. Burton, however, really believed in what the ICS set out to do, and that made his transition back to the Caretakers much easier.”
“Easier for you, maybe,” said John. “He put us through a lot of grief before coming back over. He—”
John stopped, and watched, dumbfounded, as a second William Blake, and then a third, walked out of one of the back rooms and began conversing with Sir Isaac Newton.
“Blake perfected the creation of tulpas,” Verne said, amused at John’s shock, “and he liked himself so much, he made more.”
“How many more?”
“We call them Blake’s Seven,” said Verne, “although in point of fact, there are now only six of you, aren’t there?”
“Yes, six,” Blake acknowledged as if he were tallying bags of flour instead of tulpas. “We lost the one on that ill-advised trip past the Edge of the World. From what I understand, he was turned to solid gold, or some such.”
“And losing yourself doesn’t, ah, bother you?” John asked. “I would think you’d be slightly more put out. If it was me, I’d be rather traumatized.”
“There are no limitations on those who are serving the cause of the Echthroi,” said Carroll, “so why should we have limitations on those of us who are in the service of the angels?”
“I wouldn’t mind a few of the angels themselves popping in to lend a hand now and again,” m
urmured Macdonald.
“There must be some limitations, er, ah, Doctor,” said Baum, “or else what’s to keep us from becoming them?”
“There are some limitations,” said Wells. “Just enough.”
“So what are the Mystorians working on?”
“The problem the Caretakers haven’t yet taken the time for,” said Jules. “They’re trying to find Coal—the missing boy prince of Paralon who was kidnapped by Daniel Defoe.”
“Where do we stand on it?” asked Verne. “Any leads?”
“A few,” Wells said, “mostly by virtue of the leads Blake has given us, and with help from young Asimov’s psychohistory.”
“Herb is the best resource we have,” Verne said, gesturing at Wells, “in part because he and I disagree about a great many things.”
“How is that helpful?” John asked.
“Too often scholars limit themselves by working with what they know they know,” said Baum, “when what they really need to know is what they know they need to know but don’t yet know. So we aren’t bothering with looking in the places we think he might be—we’re looking in all the places we would never think to look. Because otherwise, we’d have already found him.”
“I’m starting to understand why you keep them sequestered in a hotel in Switzerland,” John said to Verne. “He’s not steering with both hands.”
“It’s probably true,” Baum admitted cheerfully.
“All we know is that he’s in the future,” said Blake. “We believe that’s why the Cabal broke Defoe free from Tamerlane House.”
“You knew about the burglary?” John said in astonishment. “And you did nothing about it?”
“Better than that,” said Verne. “He facilitated the burglary, but also prevented their success by interfering with their attempt to get the maps of Elijah McGee. And nothing else they took was of any value.”
“We’ll find him, Jules,” Franklin said, more somber now. “If it takes an eternity yet to come, we’ll find him.”
“Speaking of Defoe, I need to leave,” said Blake. “One of my tulpas is still helping Harry and Arthur with the goats, and three of me are expected for the meeting with the Cabal.”
“Be careful,” Verne said. “Call if you need us.”
“I shall,” said Blake. “Farewell, Caveo Principia.”
“Sure,” said John. “You too.”
As Blake left, John turned to Wells. “So, I imagine you’re aware of what our Bert is doing,” he said. “Is that matter creating any anxiety for you, as it has for Bert?”
“Not if he’s successful,” Wells replied. “If they made the first swing of the pendulum into the future, I’m confident they’ll be able to ride it back into the past.”
“I meant his, uh, his other mission,” said John, “and the . . . timetable, so to speak.”
“Ah,” Wells said, blushing slightly. “No. I never met Weena, so I never lost her. And Aven was never my child. So my path diverged dramatically from Bert’s, and I have never been under the same compulsions as he to solve the riddles of time travel. I’ve been perfectly happy to do research for the Mystorians, and, of course, to spend my time writing more books.”
He stood and offered his hand to Verne. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer,” Wells said. “I needed to bring you my reports, but now I must repair. It was a pleasure, young John. A true pleasure.”
“Thank you . . . Mr. Wells.”
“Please—call me Herb,” Wells said, with a twinkle in his eyes that very much resembled John’s mentor.
“I’ve enjoyed your work very much, ah, Herb,” John said, shaking the older man’s hand. He looked askance at Verne. “Ah, does he . . . I mean . . .”
“Yes,” Herb said, looking John in the eye and giving his hand another firm shake. “I know what’s coming. I’ve known for a very long time. And I’m all right with it. I’ve had a very full and successful life. And I’ve had a number of friends who have made it rich beyond compare. So don’t fret—I’m going to be fine.”
Soon after, John and Verne also took their leave of the hotel so that they could return to Tamerlane House and await word from Blake.
“I’m curious,” John asked as they crossed the busy street outside the hotel. “Is searching for the lost boy really a job for the Mystorians? That fellow Aristophanes certainly seems capable enough, if not entirely trustworthy. Surely he’d be your man for this, too?”
Verne shook his head. “It’s a different kind of problem,” he explained. “The boy was deliberately hidden from us, by those whom we know to be our enemies. They can therefore plot and counterplot against all the moves we make, which is why having Blake among them is so necessary.
“Normally,” Verne continued, “this would have been a task for the Messengers. But after losing Henry Morgan, and then with Alvin Ransom’s effectiveness being lessened, all I’ve really had to work with is Raven—and he has had no luck in finding the lost boy. So the Mystorians really are the best option, even with a Zen Detective at our disposal.
“And besides,” he added ruefully, “I don’t trust Aristophanes. I can’t risk trusting him.”
“And yet you sent him to search for those talismans of incredible power.”
Verne shook his head again. “Not alone,” he said with a wry grin. “As you already saw yourself, I made certain one of our best agents was with him and will be keeping me apprised of everything.”
John furrowed his brow. “Do you really think Quixote is up to that?”
The Frenchman paused a moment, and then laughed. “Quixote? You’re joking, surely. I meant Uncas.”
The younger Caretaker seemed unconvinced. “He’s not exactly Tummeler.”
“No,” Verne replied. “But he is a badger, and his heart is mighty. He won’t let us down.”
They walked along in silence for a few moments as they made their way back to the alleyway where they could safely activate their trump to Tamerlane House.
“There’s something more you want to ask me,” Verne said without taking his eyes from the path in front of them. “So ask.”
“What I’m wondering about,” John mused, “is that if there are so many ways for one’s essence to survive death—Basil’s portraits, or becoming a tulpa, or these ghosts of yours in a hotel in Switzerland—then is there really any reason to fear death at all? Doesn’t all that mean that death, far from being the end, is just another state of existence?”
Verne turned to look at the younger Caretaker with an expression of delighted admiration. “John, my boy,” he said, grasping the other man’s arm, “if you understand even that much, then you are already a greater Caretaker than I ever dreamed you might be. And a far better man.”
Before the younger man could respond, Verne activated his trump, and in a few moments it had grown large enough for them to step back through to Tamerlane House. They were both so focused on returning to the other Caretakers to report on the work of the Mystorians that they didn’t notice the Shadow that slipped through underneath their feet, and that stayed behind when the portal closed.
He arrived, as usual, in a room of near-total darkness. He was John Dee’s most trusted lieutenant, and one of the most powerful and influential members of the Cabal. But William Blake had never seen the exterior of the House of John Dee. None of the Cabal had.
Blake had designed the black watches the Cabal used to transport between places and times, but Dee himself had calibrated their primary orientation. Setting the dials to midnight always returned the bearer to Dee’s house, but never on the outside, always to some inner chamber. So in point of fact, Blake had no earthly idea where the house was actually located in space. If he had, then perhaps the Caretakers’ War could have been resolved long before then. Verne had certainly pressed him to find it often enough. But Blake had always resisted, feeling that it would be a mistake to confront the enemy on their home ground—particularly when no one knew where that home was.
Dee’s residence had been at
times referred to as the Nightmare Abbey, and sometimes as the House on the Borderlands. But mostly, it was just referred to as the House.
From Blake’s limited explorations of the interior, it appeared to be an old family manse, possibly even a castellated abbey, as one of the names suggested. From the smell, Blake knew there was a moat, or, barring that, a nearby marsh. But sometimes that changed.
Blake wondered if perhaps the House moved from place to place, much in the same way the rooms at Tamerlane House often moved of their own accord. That would make it even more difficult to attack.
The house was maintained by a veritable army of young, attractive men and women, all of whom bore the name Deathshead. There were rumors among members of the Cabal that a young squire named Diggory Deathshead had once visited and made the acquaintance of the maidens in residence—leaving behind a colony of young Deathsheads. However, in all the years Blake had been visiting, none of the staff had seemed to age. He suspected it was because they were, in fact, all dead. But there were some questions he preferred to avoid asking.
He rounded a corner to the meeting hall, which was filled with a massive oak table. At the head, perched on a chair, sat an enormous crow.
“Greetings, Loki,” said Blake. “How goes the effort?”
The large bird bowed in deference to a guest of the house and made a clicking noise with its tongue. Blake knew from experience that this meant the bird was irritated about something but was trying to maintain a sense of decorum. It was Dee’s familiar, and always preceded his appearance.
Blake assumed the great black bird served the same purpose as Dee’s shadow once did, as a sort of conscience. But it had been a long time since Dee had actually possessed a shadow, so Blake couldn’t really be sure.
His second and third tulpas entered the meeting hall from the opposite corridor and nodded a brief greeting as they took their seats. Blake himself had only just sat down as Dee and the rest of the Cabal entered the room.
The Cabal seldom met in full quorum—whether this was by chance or by design, Blake could not guess. Ever since Jules Verne had convinced Richard Burton to defect to the Caretakers, and to bring Arthur Conan Doyle and Harry Houdini with him, Dee had become more and more suspicious, and kept his activities cloaked in greater and greater secrecy. Part of the reason was because the three defectors had been the primary operatives of Dee’s Imperial Cartological Society—and were therefore the most visible of John Dee’s disciples. The other part was Rudyard Kipling’s infiltration of the ICS, which resulted in the destruction of the Shadow that had belonged to the Winter King, and the second Keep of Time the ICS had been constructing.
The Dragons of Winter Page 13
