The First Dragon (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica, The) (13 page)

“There are some who disagree?” asked Charles.

“This is the reason for the summit,” Samaranth said as he put away his tablet and began to tidy up his workspace—which, Rose noted, was already almost unspeakably tidy. “The principalities have
fashioned a proposal to appeal to the Word to make the Un-Made World, and to Name it, so that they may claim it for their own. They wish to leave this world, which they have long been neglecting, to the peoples who have spread across it.”

“Hmm,” said Charles. “That doesn’t sound too unfair.”

“It would not be, had the principalities not used this world up in the process. They have benefited from it, and prospered, and now that it seems to be dying, they wish to go elsewhere. But,” he added, “unless the Un-Made World is connected once more and fully to this one, it will perish as well.”

“You keep saying ‘principalities,’ ” said Edmund. “Forgive my ignorance, but what does that mean?”

“Gods,” Samaranth said simply. “This summit is a gathering of all the gods of the earth, large and small. Some are gods who began as men, and rose to the calling out of will; and some are those who fell to earth and were worshipped for the talents they carried with them, and so were declared to be gods. And if what they have proposed is not opposed . . .

“. . . then both this world and the next shall fall into utter ruin, and perish.”

♦  ♦  ♦

It was a more difficult trek to the city than Kipling had anticipated. He was actually tired. That hadn’t happened often in the years following his death, but, he reasoned, it was still bound to happen sooner or later. That wasn’t important, though, because he had a bigger problem. Getting past the giants was one thing. Gaining entry into the City of Jade itself was another kettle of fish entirely.

There were two bridges on the northern side, and both of them were lined with watchtowers manned by guards who were giving at
least a cursory glance to every personage who crossed them. Kipling wasn’t certain that he wanted to try an end run, which might attract attention, so he decided to sit and observe for a while.

After an hour, something significant sparked his attention. A number of people who had crossed the bridge with virtually no attention from the guards at all had one thing in common: They all had some kind of unusual markings on their foreheads. The most common was a circle surrounded by four diamonds.

Kipling considered his options a bit more, then shrugged in resignation. “When in Rome,” he said, taking a pen from his jacket. He leaned over a shallow section of the estuary some distance from the bridge to use the water as a mirror, and drew what looked like a fair approximation of the tattoos he’d observed.

Thus prepared, he walked straight toward one of the watchtowers—and, to his delight, the guard did nothing more than glance at his forehead and wave him on.

“This may be the easiest espionage job I’ve ever taken,” Kipling murmured to himself.

“Or,” a shockingly familiar voice said from too close behind him for comfort, “at least, the last one you ever take.”

He whirled around to face the speaker. It was John Dee.

“Greetings and salutations, Dr. Dee,” Kipling said.

“Say good night, Kipling,” said Dr. Dee. And suddenly the Caretaker was plunged into pain, and darkness, and as he fell into unconsciousness, he realized that Dee was very probably right.

♦  ♦  ♦

“I want to ask,” Laura Glue said, once they had eaten from the food provided by Deucalion’s family, “why did you decide to build this giant boat out here in the desert, where there’s no water at all?”

“Actually,” Uncas said, correcting her, “it’s a ship.”

“Boat,” said Laura Glue.

“Ship,” Uncas insisted.

“Actually, it’s an ark,” Deucalion said pleasantly. “And it wasn’t so much a decision as it was a responsibility.”

“How so?” asked Madoc.

“Come,” Deucalion said, rising to his feet and gesturing for them to follow. “I will show you.”

He led them through a connecting passage into another tent, which was guarded at the entryway by two of his sons, who regarded their visitors suspiciously, even though the guide was their own father. Inside, another son, Hap, stood guard over a pedestal.

“This is where we keep those objects sacred to us,” Deucalion said as his son stepped back and the companions circled around the pedestal, “so that we carry with us the reminders of the work we are to do in the world.”

On the pedestal was an ornate box made of a black wood with a latch made of bronze. The shipbuilder opened the latch and pushed back the lid. Inside, they could see several items: a brooch, a small dagger, three scrolls, and a simple, cream-colored note card on what appeared to be paper of twentieth-century manufacture. Deucalion removed the note card and closed the box.

“This is the reason I have done the work I have,” he said pointedly. “Were it not for this, I would never have conceived of building the great ship, nor pursued the animal husbandry in the manner that I have. Although,” he added, smiling and scratching Uncas behind the ear, “I have always favored the Children of the Earth above man, and thus, the work I have done only pleases me more.”

“I can’t read it,” Laura Glue said bluntly. She looked at Madoc. “Can you?”

He shook his head. “It is far older than I, and of a language I never learned at Alexandria.”

“There are few who can read it,” Deucalion said, “but you already know the content of it—it is a warning about the Great Deluge to come, and a plea to gather all the Children of the Earth into a great ship, so that they may be taken to safety in another world, and to take all the knowledge necessary should the world need to be rebuilt. It was such an expression of madness that I would never have given it credence had I not also known and trusted he who wrote it.”

“Who is that?” asked Madoc.

Deucalion smiled and tapped his chest.
“Me.”

He explained how he had been approached at his court by someone who appeared out of thin air and seemed to be able to predict the future. This strange visitor was the one who delivered the note, which had apparently been written by Deucalion himself, to himself, in his own hand. Thus, the shipbuilder explained, the man must have been a prophet of some kind, and after consulting with his sons, Deucalion left his land and journeyed to the City of Jade, where they began their work in earnest.

“To be honest, were it not for him, I might not have been so welcoming of you,” Deucalion said bluntly. “Even here, in this land, you are strange personages.”

Madoc frowned. “Then why did you trust us?”

“Because,” Deucalion answered, gesturing at the pocket watch Fred wore, “our strange visitor carried a device just like the one you wear.”

Laura Glue sighed and looked at Madoc, who was rubbing his forehead and flexing his wings in agitation. “Verne,” he said, sighing. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to be grateful for him, or wish that someone would get fed up enough with his meddling to seal him in a tomb.”

Deucalion gave her a strange look. “Verne? No, that was not his name. He called himself something more in the manner of my own people—Telemachus.”

The companions all felt the same thrill of fear at hearing that name. Laura Glue looked again at Madoc, who shook his head slightly, as if to say,
Now is not the time or place
. However, as had often been the case, the humans’ discretion was completely overridden by the badgers.

“That’s the name of th’ boy prince we lost and then found again,” said Uncas. “He might be evil, though.”

“Or not,” said Fred. “The last time we saw him, he was still thinking it over.”

“Well, he apparently made his choice,” said Deucalion, “because he left something for you, too.”

“For us?” Quixote said in surprise.

“The badgers, specifically,” said Deucalion. “He and I share an affinity for talking animals, it seems.”

At the shipbuilder’s urging, the badgers peered into the box, and there, underneath the scrolls, were two more envelopes, one addressed to each of them.

“Great!” Uncas exclaimed. “I
love
t’ get mail.”

“What does yours say, Fred?” Laura Glue asked as he broke the seal and removed the note. It read:

You are a Caretaker, and thus, also a Namer.

Name Madoc as a Nephilim, and you may pass through to the city. Look for your friends in the center, under the great celestial dome. Good luck.

“Nephilim?” Deucalion said with a start. He looked askance at Madoc. “Are you Nephilim? I would not have thought one such as yourself would care to keep company with Children of the Earth.”

“Why?” asked Madoc. “What is a Nephilim?”

“One of the Host,” Hap replied, stepping closer to his father, “but one who sees Shadow as being equal to the Light, who serves the Void while still claiming to serve the Word.”

“Ah,” said Madoc. “I see. I will never fully lose who I once was, it seems.”

Deucalion put a hand of support on Madoc’s shoulder. “Naming is not Being,” the old shipbuilder said, “and anything that is Named may still be Renamed. The choice as to whom you serve is always yours.”

“I just want to find my daughter,” said Madoc.

“Yes,” Quixote said, “that is why we came, but I’m afraid we now have a clock on it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Madoc.

“This,” Quixote said. He was holding the note that had been addressed to Uncas. “It’s hard to make the message any more clear.”

The companions crowded around the knight to read the small note, which bore only a few words:

The flood is coming.

Leave. Now.

Kipling came to consciousness
and found he had been bound hand and foot to a very uncomfortable chair that was sitting in a very uncomfortable room. It had the appearance of a glass conservatory that aspired to be a skyscraper, and stood along a glass-and-stone corridor that appeared to be lined with similar rooms.

“It’s the same room, actually,” an ornately dressed man said from his seat on another of the uncomfortable chairs, which sat in the opposite corner. “We’ve been having some issues with duration, and every so often it gets stuck.”

Kipling didn’t reply, but simply focused his attention on waking fully. He remembered being struck from behind, but other than that, what had happened after he saw Dr. Dee was a total loss.

The man was sitting facing an immense glass case, slotted with narrow vertical shelves. He was sliding thin slabs of marble that had some kind of writing on them in and out of the slots.

“Proximity matters,” the man explained without looking away from his task. “Some of the scripts change others, so I have to make sure that those in close proximity are compatible; otherwise some significant meanings might be lost completely.”

Enkidu was . . . staring directly at the Prime Caretaker . . .

“What are they?” asked Kipling.

“I suppose you could call them Histories,” the man said, “but since some of them haven’t and may never happen, that may be erroneous.”

“Who are you?”

“Hermes Trismegistus,” the man replied, again without turning to look at his captive companion. “I suppose you could say I am your friend’s teacher.”

Kipling scowled. “Who, Dee?” he snorted. “He is
not
my friend.”

“He’s very intelligent,” Hermes replied. “Almost like a god, but without any followers.”

“Only fools would follow someone like him.”

Hermes looked at him like he was a child. “You’d be surprised at how effective appearing to be a god really is.”

“He’s evil,” said Kipling. “That’s all I need to know.”

“Hmm,” Hermes said, rubbing his chin. “I think that’s one of the more recent concepts. I don’t know if it has even been recorded in the book yet.”

“Why are you keeping me here, Hermes?”

“Hermes Trismegistus, please. And I’m not keeping you here,” he said pointedly, “
he
is.”

Kipling turned and saw Dr. Dee enter the room, then kick the door closed behind him, which seemed to annoy Hermes. Dee was carrying several of the tablets, which he placed on a table next to the shelves. “Those are the last of them,” he said. “That should be sufficient, at least for . . .” Dee turned and saw for the first time that his unwilling guest was awake.