The Indigo King (13 page)

In front of them, perhaps thirty feet distant, was the elaborately decorated entrance to a mosque, or perhaps a temple. The architecture was more advanced than what they had seen in the previous projection, but harder to place.

“Persian?” Jack murmured.

“No,” said John. “More Egyptian, I’d say.”

The wall they faced was dominated by a great arched doorway, in front of which was a broad pedestal. On it was an immense horned owl, which was clutching a piece of chalk in one clawed foot and seemed to be using it to scribble on a piece of slate.

“What do you make of that?” John asked.

“The bird?” said Jack. “I think it’s an owl.”

John groaned. “I know it’s an owl!” he whispered back. “I mean
that
!” He pointed behind the bird.

Jack gasped, as did Chaz. Behind the pedestal, engraved into the door and embellished with golden ornaments and designs crusted with jewels, was the image of the Holy Grail, the same one that was on the cover of the book back at Magdalen College.

“So we’re definitely into Anno Domini,” Jack said. “Past the time of Christ.”

“Or within it,” said John, as a man, absorbed in whatever work he was attending to, passed by the scene in front of them. He wore sandals and a simple robe with a sash. “I can’t tell from the attire. First century? Second, maybe? We’ll have to suss it out for certain once we’ve crossed over.”

“Good enough,” said Jack. “Who wants to go first?”

“Don’t look at me,” said Chaz. “You two are the ‘Scowlers.’”

“It doesn’t need to be a debate,” John said. “We’ve done it before.”

“You couldn’t tell from all the bickering,” said a trilling voice that was airy and condescending at the same time. “If you asked me, I’d say you’re all scared to death.”

John and Jack stared at each other in surprise. The voice had spoken in Greek—but it had come from the
owl
.

“What?” the owl asked. “Cat got your tongues?”

The three companions all stepped through the portal and into the hallway they’d been watching. If they were going to converse with a giant bird, John figured it would be less conspicuous to do so in person than to risk anyone seeing the owl verbally upbraiding a blank wall.

“Not scared,” Jack said in response to the owl’s comment. “Just cautious.”

“Caution, fft,” the owl scoffed. “That’s not really the attitude to have if you want to take over the world, now, is it?”

“Why would I want to take over the world?” asked Jack.

“Why else would you come to Alexandria?” the owl replied. “All the fashionable would-be world conquerors do.”

Alexandria. So, John realized, they were in Egypt, but at the edge of the influence of the Greek world. And certainly later than the common era they’d been to in the other projection.

“It’s simpler than that,” Chaz said in surprisingly passable Greek. “We just need to find someone.”

“Mmm,” said the owl, obviously losing interest. “And what is this someone’s name?”

“We’re not really sure,” Jack admitted.

“That would make it harder, wouldn’t it?” the owl replied with no trace of sympathy.

“What’s
your
name?” Chaz asked.

The owl preened. Apparently he wasn’t asked his name very often. “Archimedes,” he replied. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Archimedes? Like the mathematician?” asked John.

The owl hopped up and down in irritation. “Why does everyone ask me that? Why does no one ever think that a bird can’t also be a mathematician?”

“Sorry,” said John. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

The owl scowled. “Pythagoras should have built me as an eagle instead of an owl. No one ever questions an eagle.”

“A clockwork owl?” Jack whispered. “Intriguing.”

“What are you working on, Archie?” asked Chaz, looking at the slate. “Looks complicated.”

Any irritation the owl might have felt at being called “Archie” was set aside by the chance to discuss the notations on the tablet.

“It’s a math problem,” he said, giving John a poisonous look, “for the trials. You know about the trials, do you not?”

“We’re strangers here,” John began, before Archimedes cut him off with a disgusted noise.

“I
know
you’re strangers here,” the bird said. “I just watched you walk through a
wall
. Locals don’t really do that much. And you aren’t here as conquerors, or if you are, you’re the most ill-prepared conquerors I’ve ever seen.”

“We’re not conquerors,” Jack confirmed.

“You’re the funny one in the group, aren’t you?” asked the bird.

“It depends on the day,” said Jack.

“People come here for only two reasons,” Archimedes continued, “to start an insurrection to try to unite the world, or to prepare for the trials.”

“Trials for what?” asked John.

“To become Caretakers, of course.”

“Caretakers? Of the
Imaginarium Geographica
?”

“The what? No,” the bird replied, exasperated. “Of the Sangreal.”

“The Holy Grail?”

The bird glared at him. “Why do you repeat everything I say? You must be the stupid one of the group. Which isn’t saying much, is it?

“Yes,” Archimedes said as he went back to his equations. “The trials are to test those who would become Caretakers—of the Holy Grail.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Imaginary Geographies

The three companions retreated a few feet away to confer privately, while the owl went back to its figures and calculations.

“That seals it,” whispered Jack. “It’s no coincidence we came here now. The Grail has to figure into our mission to find Myrddyn and Madoc.”

“I can’t see how,” said John, “unless they’ve become somehow entwined with the Grail lore this far back. Remember, we’re still centuries from where Hugo ended up.”

“Perhaps he discovered that somehow,” suggested Jack, “and that’s why he included it in the message to us.”

John rubbed his forehead and chewed on his lip. “No,” he said finally, “I can think of another reason they’d be here now. They’ve come for the trials. Remember what they claimed they wanted to do, back in Miletus?”

Chaz nodded. “They wanted t’ find a way t’ get back to th’ Archipelago.”

“Right,” said John, “and to do that, they needed a route, and directions, and something else—an object touched by divinity that would allow them passage through the Frontier. And at this point in history, can you think of any other object that fits the description better than the cup of Christ?”

The companions turned and went back to the owl, who sighed dramatically. “Now what? I have work to do, you know. The trials won’t write themselves, and I only have until tomorrow.”

“The Grail trials are math problems?” asked John.

“Yes, oh master of the obvious,” retorted the owl. “Or a part of them, anyway. The trials judge one’s worth, through tests spiritual, physical, and intellectual. I’m in charge of the intellectual part.”

“We’ll leave you alone to work, we promise,” John said. “We’d just like to ask some directions.”

“Oh?” said Archimedes. “To find your nameless friend?”

“We’re looking for someone who likes t’ make maps,” said Chaz. “Y’ know anyone like that?”

“I do, actually,” Archimedes replied, still distracted by his equations. “Go north three hundred paces, then open the second door. That should be the man you seek.”

“Thanks, Archie,” said Chaz, turning to the others. “Time’s a-wastin’. Shall we go?”

“Wait,” John said, still flabbergasted at having somehow become the third wheel of the trio. “He’s here? In this very building?”

“Well, where else would someone who’s anyone be?” Archimedes asked without looking up. “If you aren’t working at the library, you aren’t worth paying attention to, anyway.”

John and Jack exchanged knowing glances. Of course. The seat of learning, the crossroads of culture for the entire civilized world, wouldn’t just be the city. It would be the Library of Alexandria itself.

Heartened by the progress they seemed to be making, the three companions followed the owl’s directions down the passageway and opened the door.

They were looking into a broad, high-ceilinged room that was essentially one great, global map. The walls and ceilings were festooned with drawings, and all across them were lines that even connected across the floor, which was also covered with illustrations. The effect was not unlike stepping inside an immense transparent globe.

“Impressive, I know,” a voice said from somewhere across the expanse of parchment that lined the tables and shelves scattered about the room. “I call the lines drawn across the maps ‘latitude’ and ‘longitude.’ Forgive me if I’ve forgotten a meeting. I’m not expected to present my discoveries in the rotunda until next week, but they’re taking all my attention at present.”

A short, pleasantly anxious man stepped around a tall papiermâché globe he was constructing and offered them a hand in greeting.

He was olive-skinned, and he spoke with an accent that demonstrated both travel abroad and great education, but his mannerisms were those of a tailor who can’t decide between creating a more finely cut suit, or a more satisfied customer. He wore a round cap and breeches that seemed to be Persian, or perhaps Egyptian. And shoes, rather than the sandals they’d seen the others wearing through the projection. They’d expected to go straight from Archimedes to one or both of the twins, and so they had not procured any appropriate clothing. However, their unusual dress seemed not to matter at all to the man, who was dressed even more oddly than they were.

John took the man’s hand, which was sticky with paste, and shook it firmly.

“Oh! I’m very sorry,” the man said, just realizing what he’d done. “Can you forgive?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said John, wiping his hand on the back of his trousers and smiling. “I’m John.”

“Claudius Ptolemaeus. Call me Ptolemy,” the man replied. “Did we have a meeting today?”

“We’re just here for the trials,” Jack answered. “To become Caretakers of the, uh, Grail.”

Ptolemy squinted, as if he was having trouble with Jack’s accent. “Oh!” he said finally. “Of course! The trials. Yes, a sorry business it is.”

“The trials?”

“No,” said Ptolemy. “The need for a new Caretaker. One of them—one of the best we’ve had, in fact—tried to …”

He paused and cupped his hands around his mouth, as if he didn’t want to be heard speaking the words. “He tried to take the Grail. For himself. And he was caught and shall be executed soon. That’s the reason I’m behind schedule,” Ptolemy explained, gesturing at the room full of maps. “The betrayer was my own understudy, and perhaps the most talented map-maker I’ve ever known.”

John, Jack, and Chaz all stiffened at this, but it was a testament to the swift self-control of all three men that Ptolemy never noticed their reactions.

“I was mocked in other places, other libraries,” Ptolemy continued, using a small stepladder and a pointer to tap out some locations high on the southern wall. “Here, and here, and, uh”—he turned, pointing east—“and over there. I always believed that imagination plays as crucial a part in the making of maps as education. After all, how else is one to test the spatial boundaries of the world, if one cannot first imagine them?”

John pursed his lips. “That’s a great argument, Ptolemy. Is it a viewpoint your understudy shares?”

The mapmaker nodded and climbed down the ladder. “Yes,” he said morosely, folding his hands behind his back. “It is. That man has such a mind, such a mind, it’s a wonder. And such talent! Just look at these works!”

“These are his?” Jack asked, leafing through some sheets of parchment. “Not yours?”

“Some are mine, some his,” Ptolemy admitted. “Our studies we work on together. But our principal works we have done separately—the better to test their merits against each other’s work.”

Ptolemy pushed his way through two shelves laden with tools and buckets and retrieved a large folio. It was bound in leather and contained sheets of parchment.

“Normally,” he said, placing the book in front of them, “I’d just be drawing the maps on scrolls, as scholars always have done. But keeping the latitudes straight in particular necessitated that they be cut into squares and bound thusly.”

“These are maps of the entire world?” John asked as Ptolemy began to display his work to them.

“Much of it, yes,” he answered. “From the Blessed Isles, here, to Thule, here, and Meroë and Serica, here.” He tapped the map proudly. “Pretty good, yes?”

“It’s remarkable,” John agreed.

“Breathtaking,” said Jack.

“The parchments are very clean,” observed Chaz.

“I’d worked out most of ‘latitude’ myself,” said Ptolemy, indicating the horizontal lines drawn across the maps. “But ‘longitude,’” he added, noting the vertical lines, “didn’t really come together until my understudy arrived. He showed me ways to use some underlying cartological principles that haven’t been used since the philosopher Anaximander’s time to clarify my own measurements. You’d be surprised at how clearly he could articulate them.”

“I’ll bet,” John said dryly.

“I just wish he’d been cleverer,” said Ptolemy. “If not too clever to steal, at least too clever to be caught.”

“Why is that?” asked Jack.

Ptolemy closed the book and dusted off the cover. “We finished my
Geographica
,” he said sadly, “but we’ll never have the chance to finish his.” He put his book on a wide shelf and removed a second one, which was similar in size and shape but vastly more familiar to John and Jack—even in its much earlier state.

“He calls it his
Imaginary Geography
,” Ptolemy said. “It contains maps to places that no one has seen, and now,” he added with a sigh, “perhaps no one ever will.”

The
Imaginarium Geographica
, the earliest version of it at least, was right there in front of them. It was all John could do not to grab the book and start hugging it.

“I’m happy to see it too,” Jack whispered, having noted the flare of joy in his friend’s eyes, “but remember—this is not our
Geographica
. Not yet.”

Jack was right. As Ptolemy paged through the scant few completed maps, some were familiar, others not so much. Some of the islands of the Underneath were there: Aiaia, and Lixus, and the Island of Wandering Rocks. A few were unmarked, but several others bore annotations.

“An addition of my own,” Ptolemy said proudly. “I felt it was essential to know something more about the lands in a
Geographica
than just how to get there.”

“We appreciate that a lot,” said John. “More than you can know.”

Chaz scratched his head. “How d’you annotate a map t’ an imaginary place?”

“Just the idea was mine, not the writing itself,” Ptolemy said. “But even so, how could you go wrong writing a description of an imaginary land? All that would matter is whether or not you believed in it yourself.”

“Ptolemy,” John said, “we need to see your understudy. Can you take us to see him?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the mapmaker said. “He’s already condemned and in his cell, awaiting execution. I couldn’t—”

“Please,” John implored. “It’s important.”

“Well, if I were to help …,” Ptolemy began, tapping at his chin. “How might I benefit by it?”

Jack answered, turning to Ptolemy with a determined look on his face. “If we give you something of great value, will you help us?”

Ptolemy folded his arms. “What are you offering?”

“What if I can show you a land, a new land that really exists, but that no one knows about yet?”

Ptolemy’s arms dropped to his sides. “A new land? A real one?”

In reply, Jack took a stylus from a table, then grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment from a nearby stack and began to sketch. A couple of times he stood back, appraising, then kept working. Once John realized what Jack was doing, he picked up another stylus and began to add topographical details, and even a fish or three swimming in the water. When they had finished, Jack handed the sheet to Ptolemy. “There. What do you think of that?”

“Amazing!” Ptolemy exclaimed. “Where is it?”

Jack pointed to John’s notations. “Here—it lies far south of Chi—uh, Sinae.

“We call it ‘Australia.’”

“You’ll have to wait until dark,” Ptolemy explained as he traced out the route the companions needed to follow. “There will be guards attending to him through the evening, but you should be able to sneak past if you use the corridors I’ve marked. You don’t plan to kill anyone, do you?”

John was aghast. “Of course not!”

Ptolemy took this with aplomb. “Oh, I wouldn’t take issue if you really needed to. I just want to know if I have to plan ahead for anyone’s replacement.”

“Why would that be your worry?” asked Chaz. “Are you some sort of supervisor here at the library?”

“Actually,” Ptolemy whispered, again with the hand cupped to his mouth, “I’m the king. Of Alexandria.”

Chaz started to ask the obvious question: Why did they have to resort to sneaking and subterfuge to see the prisoner, if Ptolemy was in a position to simply order it?

John quickly looked at the others with a slight head shake. If Ptolemy was speaking the truth, he could be helpful; but if he was just a crazy geographer, engaging him more fully in their quest could just complicate things.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Okay,” he said to Ptolemy. “We appreciate your help.”

The three companions shook hands with the geographer king and started tracing the labyrinthine path he’d marked for them, which wound through the warren of rooms. They moved from corridor to corridor, each one taking them to progressively larger rooms, most of which were filled with racks and shelves laden with scrolls. It was more than tempting for John and Jack to reach out every so often to touch one of the scrolls.

“Why so delicate?” Chaz asked. “Paper don’t break.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” John replied, still eyeing a set of scrolls that bore Egyptian seals as they passed to the next room. “This library, and everything in it, represents a collection of knowledge more complete than the world will ever see again. It’s tempting to just stay and read. To men like us, this is holy ground.”

“Right,” said Chaz, who was clearly unimpressed. “If it was so great, what happened to it?”

“The usual,” said Jack. “Catastrophe, followed by a couple thousand years of regret.”

In the adjacent structure they found the cluster of rooms where Ptolemy said his understudy was being held.