Quixote pointed up, to where a hundred more skeletal warriors sat in their own alcoves, waiting for the harp to summon them to life.
Aristophanes slowly pulled back his hand. “So what do we do?”
In response, Quixote strode over to face the skeleton and removed his hat, bowing as he did so.
“I am Don Quixote de la Mancha,” he said, “and I am on a quest to retrieve the Ruby Breastplate there. I humbly seek your permission to remove it, if it be the good Lord’s will that I do so, that I may succeed.”
The skeleton nodded once, then lowered its hand and sat back in the alcove. Quixote walked back over to the others and removed the breastplate from the wall, handing it to an amazed Aristophanes.
“I can’t believe it!” the detective exclaimed. “How in Hades’s name did you know to do that?”
Quixote shrugged as they made their way back up the stairs. “It’s something I learned long, long ago,” he said, smiling. “You should always ask for what you want in life, because you might,” he added, “just actually get it.”
Standing at one of the tall windows of the house, the Chronographer of Lost Times waited, something he was very unaccustomed to doing. For the boy, the adept, it was worth it, though. His was a talent Dee had never seen, not even in Tesla or Blake. A talent that would change the nature of the game itself.
A talent that would ensure the Echthroi’s victory, if it could only be channeled properly.
A voice from the door startled Dr. Dee—something else that very rarely ever happened. “You asked for me, Doctor?”
“Yes,” Dee said without turning around. “What do you have to report?”
“Victory,” the boy said. “I’ve been to all the prospective futures and see nothing but victory, complete and absolute.”
Dee frowned. He was expecting a report on the Caretakers’ activities, not this . . . rallying cry. “That’s . . . good,” he said at length, “but we need to be prepared. Our first battle is approaching quickly, and soon our agent will be bringing us everything we need for—”
“Victory,” the boy interrupted. “It’s all going as it’s supposed to go, Dee.” No “Doctor” this time.
“Fine,” the Chronographer said, irritated. “Tell Tesla I’d like to see him.”
The boy bowed slightly and left.
It was a full five minutes before Dee realized the boy had never actually said that it was the Cabal’s victory he had seen in all the possible futures—and that realization left the Chronographer of Lost Times feeling uneasy for the rest of the night.
The regent rose to his full height,
which was greater than it had first appeared.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The First King
Rudyard Kipling ran down the street with as much speed as he could muster. He had anticipated some kind of surreptitious attack from the Cabal, perhaps on the Kilns, or even at Tamerlane House again, after the burglary. But an attack on the Hotel d’Ailleurs in Switzerland was a long way down on that preparedness list—in part because it had been kept secret even from most of the Caretakers, and in part because William Blake would have warned them.
Unless, Kipling worried, Blake didn’t know. In which case, he might have been discovered as a covert operative of the Mystorians and the Caretakers.
Either way, he reasoned as he rounded the corner opposite the hotel and saw the flames shooting up into the night sky, he had a greater priority.
Stepping back into a doorway of the building next door, he pulled out his trump and summoned Jules Verne.
“All right,” Verne said when Kipling had explained the circumstances. “It’s time. Use the special trump we made to bring them—”
“Way ahead of you, old chap,” said Kipling. “I left it with young Joseph Merrick in case of just such an eventuality. The first of them ought to be arriving there now. I’ll hold out here as long as I can, to make sure we can save everyone.”
“All right,” Verne said, rolling up his sleeves. “Let us see where this goes. I’m going to rouse the Caretakers. When you’ve finished in Switzerland, go join Houdini and Conan Doyle and see to it that they’re also ready.”
“I’ll take care of it, Jules,” Kipling said as he closed the trump. “Believing is seeing.”
“Yes,” Verne said. “And hope springs eternal.”
Edmund, with Charles and Rose’s help, was able to remove the shackles that bound Aristophanes in the Corinthian stalls. He was dressed simply, if a bit dirty—but his skin was also fully as pale as theirs was, and he had no horn.
“If this is our Zen Detective,” Charles whispered, “then we’ve caught him at an early stage in his life, but not”—he sniffed the foul wine spilled around the hay—“at a better one.”
A splash of cold water from the troughs helped Aristophanes regain a bit of sobriety, and he thanked the companions for freeing him.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he said. “The queen will not be pleased.”
“Let’s say we owed you a kindness, and leave it at that,” said Edmund. “Will you flee, as the shipbuilder did?”
He shook his head. “I can’t. I’m bound by a blood oath to stay, until she releases me. And my chance just went running off down the beach. I’m still grateful you freed me,” he added quickly, “but it doesn’t help overmuch.”
“If you’re bound,” asked Rose, “then why were you chained?”
“Too much wine,” Aristophanes admitted sheepishly. “I got, ah, shall we say, a little too personal with some of the local maidens.”
“Well,” Edmund said, moving protectively in front of Rose, “you seem to be doing much better now.”
From outside, a tremendous noise arose—trumpets, and drums, and the cheering of crowds.
“Ah,” said Aristophanes. “That’ll be the beginning of the coronation. The last regent of the Old World is coming to select the ruler of the Archipelago. Three guesses whom the queen expects it to be.”
“Do you know where this is happening?” asked Bert.
“Yes.”
“Let’s go have a look, then,” the Far Traveler said, beckoning to his companions. “This could get interesting.”
“Is this really what we should be doing?” Charles asked as they walked into the city and toward the noise. “Shouldn’t we be finding a way to get home?”
“Someone from the Old World, they said,” Bert replied. “That means someone who was a ruler before the divide of the Summer Country and the Archipelago. And that someone,” he finished, “may be able to lead us to the Architect.”
Aristophanes led them to a broad avenue, lined with trees, fountains, and all manner of ornate, stately buildings. Crowds of people thronged the street on both sides, leaving only a narrow path for the arrival of the regent and the queen, a path that terminated at a great amphitheater built around the Silver Throne.
“Look, there,” Aristophanes said, pointing, “and see how a queen makes her appearance.”
To the west, the chariot that Edmund had mended dropped out of the sky in front of the setting sun. It was being pulled by a great, vivid green-gold Dragon.
“Azer,” Rose breathed.
The Dragon-drawn chariot landed on the street amid the cheers of the Corinthians and sped toward the amphitheater. Most of the crowd moved out of the way as it passed, but one old man, walking with a stick, hunched and slow with age, could not move quickly enough and was thrown to the ground when the chariot wheel struck him a glancing blow. Medea did not even notice.
Edmund and Rose ran to the old man and helped him to his feet, then walked him slowly to sit by one of the trees. Charles brought him some water from a fountain, which he accepted gratefully and drank greedily, while Bert brought him the walking staff—which, he noted with surprise, was made of lapis lazuli, gold, and . . . cavorite.
“Thank you, my children,” the old man said, “for taking note of this tired old regent.”
“Regent?” Bert said, han
ding him the staff. “As in . . .”
The old man gave Rose a wink and nodded. “People see what they want to see, what they look for,” he said. “The rest may as well be invisible.”
Bert sat next to the old man. “What is your name?”
“I have been called many things in my long life,” the old regent said, leaning heavily on his staff, “but of those names, the one I most value was Friend, and the one I most regret was Enemy. And often, it was by the same man. So I know of what I speak.
“I was called the first king, and Ancient of Days, although that is a worthless title, earned only by virtue of being old, and not yet having died, and in truth applies far more to another great king than it ever did to me.
“So all these titles I have had and more, but when I look at the sunset of my life, I find I am no more and no less than I was when I faced my first sunrise. I am Gilgamesh. And that is enough.”
“Long after it was first created, I spent many years in the Archipelago seeking the great Lord of the Creatures and Master Maker Utnapishtim,” said Gilgamesh, “and went on many quests for the lords of the lands that have been taken there. Some called me a hero. More, I fear, than did so here, in the Summer Country.
“But,” he continued, “Immortality was not to be mine. I have already lived many, many thousands of years, since before the time of the Great Deluge, and I am all that is left of that world. So now,” he said, gesturing at the amphitheater, where Medea was impatiently awaiting the arrival of the grand regent of old, “I am brought to this.”
Aristophanes had been watching, curious, from some distance away. But now Gilgamesh noticed him.
“Do you serve the queen?” he asked.
“When I must,” said Aristophanes.
Gilgamesh rose to his feet. “Then please give her this message. We will discuss the ruler of the Archipelago, but in the old manner. Not here. Tell her to meet me in the Giant’s Circle in one hour, if she wishes to retain her kingdom.”
Aristophanes was taken aback, both by the content of the message and the likelihood that Medea might slay the person who delivered it. “Whom should I say it is from?”
The regent rose to his full height, which was greater than it had first appeared. “I am Gilgamesh, King of Uruk, King of Sumer, Slayer of the World-Serpent, grandson of Nimrod the Maker, Blood of the Firstborn, and the regent of the world that was.”
Aristophanes blinked rapidly, then nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Gilgamesh offered his arm to Rose, who took it. “Shall we take a walk to the beach, my dear?” he asked. “It is a beautiful night.”
The companions and the old regent chatted companionably as they walked away from the city, and Bert chanced to ask him if he knew of the Keep of Time.
“The Eternal Tower?” Gilgamesh answered. “Yes—I know of it.”
“Do you know who made it?” Rose asked.
To the companions’ disappointment, he shook his head.
“As old as these bones are,” he said, “it was there long before my time. Long before the Archipelago was formed, after the Great Deluge. Everything was closer then. Smaller. But the world has grown.
“I saw the tower in my youth, when I sought to find the Garden of the Gods and learn the secret of their immortality. Had I known then what I know now, I simply would have stayed in the First City.”
“The First City?” asked Edmund. “Ever?”
Gilgamesh laughed. “If not, certainly among them,” he said. “Would you like to hear about it?”
“I would,” Edmund said as he quietly opened one of his books and grabbed a pencil. “Very much, please.”
“What are you doing?” Charles whispered.
“Just a thought I had,” Edmund whispered back. “Keep him talking and let me work.”
“Some called it the Dragon Isle,” said Gilgamesh, “and others, the City of Enoch.”
“Atlantis?” Bert asked, barely able to draw a breath with the wonderment of all they were hearing. “Is it Atlantis?”
Gilgamesh considered this, then nodded. “Yes, I think I have heard some of the younger races calling it thus. But among those who have built it, and who lived among its gleaming towers, they had a different name.
“They called it the City of Jade. And there was no place like it anywhere else on Earth, nor shall there ever be again. It was destroyed during the Deluge—and on that day, the world was irrevocably changed. It was the end of the Earth’s childhood. And those of us who remember the innocence still miss it.”
Gilgamesh was still describing the wonders of the First City when they arrived at the Giant’s Circle—a Ring of Power, to the companions—and found the Dragon Azer, Aristophanes, and a livid Medea already there.
“How dare you humiliate me in front of my people!” she shouted, not realizing she’d nearly run down the regent not an hour before. “What do you mean by this?”
“These circles were made for summonings and ordinations,” said Gilgamesh. “And I asked you here to tell you that should he return, it is my intention to ordain your husband, Jason, as King of the Silver Throne of the Archipelago of Dreams. And only him.”
“By what right?” said Medea. “Do you know what he’s done?”
“He has made many mistakes,” said Gilgamesh, “but he is also the first of the great heroes, and he is whom I have chosen.”
Azer growled and circled around the outside of the ring as Medea considered her response.
“Is that your last word?” she asked.
“It is,” said Gilgamesh.
“Then so mote it be,” Medea replied, nodding not at the regent, but at Aristophanes.
The failed philosopher sighed heavily, then drew a blade from his tunic. Before the companions realized what was happening, he had leaped forward and plunged it into Gilgamesh’s heart.
“If you will not choose me,” Medea said coldly, “then you will choose no one.”
“And any idiot can swing a hammer and chisel at a block of granite,” Aristophanes was saying as Uncas bumped the Duesenberg across a poorly maintained road, “but only an artist with vision and experience can make the stone reveal a sculpture.”
“So which do you have?” asked Quixote. “Vision, or experience?”
“Both,” came the reply. “But not enough vision to do me any good, and much more experience than anyone can handle.
“There,” the detective said, squinting out the windshield through the foggy haze outside. “That’s the place we’re after.”
The structure that dominated the desert landscape was called the Tower of the Two Dragons. There were six distinct levels to the tower, and each represented whichever culture was dominant in the region at the time new portions were built. Going from the uppermost tier, which was built by the Moors sometime after the first millennium, Quixote could trace the history of the tower downward, citing each culture’s contribution through the ages, until he came to the lowest, oldest tier, which stumped him completely.
Laughing, Aristophanes explained that it had been built by a race of giants prior to the Bronze Age, which was why Quixote couldn’t identify it. He simply had no frame of reference for something architectural that was so old.
“Actually,” Quixote harrumphed, “I have extensive experience with giants, and in the days of my prime, even tilted at two or three, to their eternal regret.”
“Hardly giants like these,” the detective said over his shoulder as they approached the base of the tower. “They’re anthropophagous.”
“I make no judgments about that,” said Quixote. “That’s for each living being to decide on their own.”
Aristophanes slapped his hand to his face. “No, you idiot,” he said. “That means they eat human flesh.”
Uncas gasped. “Cannibobbles!” he squeaked. “Like that awful Burton. He’s done that before.” The little mammal shivered involuntarily and looked nervously from side to side. “I don’t want t’ be runnin’ into no cannibobbles.”
>
“Not to worry, little fellow,” said the detective. “The giants hereabouts have been gone for many moons. And I don’t think they’ll be coming back during the short time we’re going to be here retrieving the Ruby Gauntlets. Besides,” he added reassuringly, “almost everyone else who even tries to get in is usually killed immediately, so we don’t really have to worry about being bothered.”
“Swell,” said Uncas. “T’anks for sharing.”
“Frenchmen in particular are forbidden to come here. When such have tried in the past, they first shed their skins like snakes before dying a horrible, horrible death,” said Aristophanes. “That’s why Verne would never set foot in this tower.”
“Hmm,” said Quixote skeptically. “I rather question the truth of that. I think you’re having a bit of fun with us.”
“It’s true enough that he sent us here, rather than come himself,” said Aristophanes, “and unless either of you is French, you’re safe as long as you stay close to me.”
“Well then,” Quixote said, moving noticeably closer to the detective, “I am glad to be a Spaniard.”
“So am I,” said Uncas. “Not t’ be French, that is.”
“So would anyone be,” said Aristophanes, “except the French themselves. And they’re usually just grateful not to be Italian.”
The desert sands gave way to smooth, flat stones, set in geometric patterns around the base of the tower. Aristophanes cautioned his companions to make sure to step only on the rectangular stones, and avoid the diamond-shaped ones altogether.
The doorway of the tower was made of stone and wooden beams, and consisted of two high arches set one within the other, which were then framed by larger rectangular patterns of delicately carved friezes.
“There are very old rituals involved in entering a place such as this,” Aristophanes said, indicating the stained wood in the arches as they passed through. “There were wards set here to keep out unwelcome visitors under pain of a terrible death. And without an invitation, the only way to avoid the wards was to slay one’s parents, and then anoint the symbols carved into the entryway with the sacrificial blood.”
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