The Dragons of Babel (46 page)

It was Alcyone.

Will's heart lurched. Nevertheless, he maintained an icy exterior.

“What news, my brother?”

“Babel endures. The testing goes well. We should have the Pretender on the throne within the week.”

“So you still think that the Obsidian Throne will accept him?”

“What matters it to me? Either way, I am content. If he is the true king, I have a puppet, and if not…” Will hesitated a second. “If not, I will find it mildly amusing to watch his torments as he slowly dies.”

Alcyone looked at him puzzledly. “You did not speak so passionlessly on this subject the other night. You said that you practically had your hand halfway up his…” She stopped and stared into his face hard. Her eyes widened. “Will?” she breathed.

Will held a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture and glanced quickly at the elevator operator. Who, thankfully, stared straight ahead of himself, either having heard nothing or being too discreet to think about it. Carefully, Will reached to the side and took Alcyone's hand. She squeezed it without saying a word.

So she was with him. For a moment—no more—Will's spirits soared.

Then the elevator doors opened into Ararat's lobby. A line of lion-headed demon guards stood between him and the street. At their head was Florian.

For an instant Will was speechless with astonishment. Then he saw it all. “You shit. You set me up with your fucking
fetch
!”

Alcyone's cheeks were as pale as marble, and as hard as stone.

“There are many reasons to test a potential king, you know,” Florian said. “The legitimacy of his claim, of course. But it is also important to be certain that the candidate is fit to rule. On this point, I admit to having had my doubts about you.

“You pretended to be suicidal in order to distract attention from your escape attempt. A child could have seen through that ploy. As for the escape itself… well, it was witty, I'll give you that. But it was not convincing. Even with the aid of a following wind, you could not hope to out-fly even something so common as, say, a hippogriff. Nor was it sound judgment to trust so rickety a craft to the notoriously fickle winds generated by the Dread Tower's mere presence. So when Ariel uncovered your plan, I was not impressed.

“Almost, I gave up on you.

“But then I thought of the time you spent as a confidence trickster, apprenticed to a master so sly that all the combined efforts of the political police have not sufficed to locate him. Would one with such an education come up with so obvious a plan? No. You meant your balloon-escape to be discovered and prevented, for it was only a distraction from your true escape—and
that
was truly clever. Indeed, it would have worked had I not been on the lookout for something unexpected.”

Florian's eyes glowed like a wolf's. “You have proved yourself to be deceitful, treacherous, and ruthless. You will make a fine ruler. You've passed the final test. You are fit to sit upon the Obsidian Throne.”

19 T
HE
D
RAG
N
K
ING

Will went to the coronation as to a beheading.

The Obsidian Throne was located deep in the heart of the same building that the Palace of Leaves perched atop. So the procession ran widdershins around Ararat seven times, with the Lion Guard clearing the way and brass bands, ranks of wyverns, spider-legged daliphants, sword dancers, and fire jugglers following. Will sat upon a horse whose strength and beauty were second only to those of Epona herself, flanked by a security force of scorpion-men.

Nymphs danced before him in flowing white, scattering rose petals and twirling batons.

The sidewalks were filled with spectators and the windows of all the buildings as well, while those who could fly perched on rooftops and thronged the sky. Shouts and cheers merged into a constant background pandemonium. Banks of bright balloons were released as Will rode by and tumbled upward through downfalling multicolored confetti and flocks of newly freed pigeons slanting skyward like mad whirligigs. It was infinitely better organized than his Acclamation had been, but it felt prepackaged and over-rehearsed. The mood on the street was uglier, the cheers less spontaneous. Bucentaurs trotting a pace behind Will threw handfuls of gold soleils and silver lunars, fresh
minted with his profile on the obverse. The gesture was meant to start off his reign with a burst of goodwill, but the crowds scrambled frantically for the coins so that fights were constantly breaking out in Will's wake.

Will kept his head down, for his thoughts were dark and he did not wish anyone to read them in his eyes.

“Smile, sir,” Ariel murmured in his ear. “Wave.”

Halfheartedly, Will managed to wave. It seemed only fair to the citizens. Yet he could not manage a smile. Nor could he feel the same love for them he had when they had spontaneously carried him all the way from Little Thule to the top of Babel. He felt nothing for them but a distant, emotionless disdain.

And then, all too soon the procession was over.

Will had arrived back where he had started. Three ranks of gleaming horns played a heroic fanfare composed for the occasion as he dismounted. The satraps of vassal states lay down before him, forming a carpet with their backs. Celebrities vaulted from their limos to fling open the doors to Ararat.

He entered.

Though his bodyguard and the politicians nearest him in the procession poured into the building along with Will, only a fraction of the procession made it into the lobby. Fewer could squeeze into the first elevator car with him. And somehow, more still were lost on the long walk down narrow corridors to the throne room. When its metal doors slammed shut behind him, Will looked up, startled, to realize that his entourage had been reduced to two ogres, who held him by the arms, and Florian L'Inconnu, leading the way.

“Now comes the moment that pays for all,” Ariel said. “Sir.”

Will looked back to discover that nobody was following him.

“Where is everybody?” he asked confusedly, as he was
forced down onto the throne. Leather straps were cinched over his arms and legs. Another was tightened about his chest. He couldn't move.

The room was dimly lit and it had cinder-block walls. There were stains, or possibly scorch marks, on the floor, radiating out from the throne. A burnt smell lingered in the air. In one wall was a long window. Through it he could see a line of high-elven dignitaries watching him impassively. They all wore cobalt-blue goggles and lead X-ray vests.

“What's going on here? Why are they wearing protective gear?”

“It's only a precaution.” Florian opened an equipment chest and lifted out a tangle of cords and wires. The ogres set to work unsnarling them and plugging them into wall sockets and unidentifiable electrical equipment. A featureless metal ring, about half a hand wide, was screwed tight about Will's head. “Your crown,” Florian explained. He took a set of jumper cables and clipped one end to the crown and the other to what looked to be a generator.

“I don't understand,” Will said, trying to fight down panic. “This is nothing like I expected it to be.”

The ogres applied electrodes to the sides of his neck with dabs of gel. “If you throw up,” Florian said, “try to turn your head to the side so that you don't short out any of the equipment.”

“Am I likely to throw up?”

“There is a season for everything, sir,” Ariel said primly. “It's possible you may also soil yourself.”

To his horror, Will felt tears welling up. He tried to blink them away. “Please,” he said. “Not like this. Let me die with some shred of dignity.”

Wordlessly, his escort withdrew. Florian L'Inconnu bowed formally before closing the doors from the outside.

Will was alone.

A minute later, Florian entered the room on the other side of the window. He donned vest and goggles and
joined the line of observers. An elf at the opposite end of the line turned briskly to the wall. Will saw for the first time that there was a large knife switch there, bolted open by two flanges. The elf took out a screwdriver and unhurriedly but efficiently removed the fail-safes. He put his hand to the switch.

Ariel's voice sounded from a staticky wall-mounted speaker.

“Try to relax, sir. There may be some slight discomfort.”

A flash like an incandescent lightbulb exploded behind Will's eyes.

He fell.

Showering sparks, Will fell through infinite darkness. The darkness was virtual, so in a sense it did not exist, but the sensation of falling was quite real, for he was plunging deeper and deeper into the spirit world. Will spread his arms so that in his mind's eye he looked like a William Blake watercolor of a falling star.

He fell and, falling, understood the nature of the Obsidian Throne for the first time. It was more than a symbol of power and more than the ultimate test of the legitimacy of the king. Those functions were incidental to its true purpose. For it was the controlling node for all electronic and thaumaturgic data ever assembled by the governance of Babel. All the lore and secrets of the Tower of Kings were here to be discovered. Will could learn anything he wished.

But where to begin?

W
ill found himself sitting by a small stream, feet in the water, talking with his best friend, Puck. Dragonflies darted busily about the reeds. There was a pleasant marshy smell. For one dizzying instant he thought that he was back in the village and that all his adventures in the wider world had been nothing but a timeless vision vouchsafed him by the Seven, whose capriciousness was notorious and whose motives were unfathomable. But then two abatwa trudged
by with a water dragon's carcass hanging from a twig slung over their shoulders, and he realized that he was in the Hanging Gardens of Babel.

“… suffered greatly to get here, and so you must be given a gift,” Puck was saying. “Here it is: When you die, you'll find yourself standing in a kind of field or meadow with short green grass, almost like a lawn. There'll be a bright blue sky overhead, but no sun. There's a path and you'll follow it because there's nothing else you can do. Eventually it comes to a stone—a big thing, set up on its end like a menhir. Most folks go around the left-hand side. The path is well-trodden there. But if you look closely, there's a way around to the right. You're of the second blood so you can go either way. If you go around to the left, you'll be reborn again. What happens if you go around to the right, no living wight knows.”

“Am I dead?” Will said carefully.

“No, of course not. Trust me, if you were dead you'd know it.”

“Then why do you tell me this?”

Puck Berrysnatcher leaned forward and fixed Will with those dark, intense eyes. His face was pale and puffy, as if he'd drowned some time ago and his body only just now been hauled from the water. “Not to tell you which way to go—that's your decision. But to let you know that when the time comes, you have a choice. You always have a choice.”

Will remembered then that Puck was dead, and his skin crackled with dread. “Are you really here?” he asked. “Or am I just imagining you?”

“Such distinctions do not matter in the Inner World. Perhaps I am only a mental artifact, cobbled together from your memories and emotions. Perhaps—and I personally think this is more likely—I am a messenger from a distant land.” He grinned a grin as wide as a bullfrog's. “You have sat yourself down on the Obsidian Throne, and thus we can converse freely. That's all.”

“How is that possible? Why didn't it kill me?”

“Because you are the one true king.”

With those words, the Obsidian Throne unlocked itself completely. In the language that was spoken in the dawn-times before the invention of lies, which had been forgotten a million years ago but was so lucid that to hear it was to comprehend it perfectly, the Throne told him that he was the legitimate and undisputed heir to the throne and thus, now, the king. Then it told him exactly how this strange fact had come to be.