The Dragons of Winter (39 page)

“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.”

“Well,” Quixote said jovially, “at least those particular wards no longer function as they’re supposed to.”

“No,” Aristophanes said, turning around. “The wards are still up.”

“But,” Uncas said, looking back at the doorway, then at their guide, “we walked right through th’ door, no fuss, no muss. And I certainly never kilt my parents.”

“Nor did I,” said Quixote as he also looked intensely at Aristophanes. “But if the wards are still up . . .” The sentence trailed off into the stillness of the tower.

The Zen Detective met their questioning look with a steady glare of his own—but said nothing. After a long moment, he turned and disappeared up the stairs.

Quixote and the badger both swallowed hard; then, after another moment, followed.

“I think,” Uncas whispered to the knight, “that I might have preferred running into th’ cannibobbles.”

“I recognize the dragon on the right,” said Quixote, indicating the design of one of the friezes.

“As do I,” Uncas said, his tone one of reverence. “As would any animal from the Archipelago. He’s the Lightbringer. The great red Dragon. Th’ wisest and oldest of all the creatures, an’ th’ protector of all the lands that are.”

“Do you know the other one?” asked Quixote. “The green-gold Dragon?”