The Dragons of Winter (38 page)

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.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
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, handing 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.”