The Indigo King - James A. Owen [119]
“Well, I found something interesting,” Charles offered, taking a small paperback book out of his jacket. “I pinched it out of his hat when he was tangled up in the White Dragon’s rope ladder.”
“You pinched it?” said John. “That settles it. I’m calling you ‘Chaz’ for the rest of the night.”
“Har har har,” said Charles. “Take a look at this, John.”
The book was called Great Quotes from the American Presidents, and it had been marked on nearly every page.
“He’s quoting the American presidents?” John said, unsure whether to be shocked or impressed.
“Why not?” said Charles. “Short, pithy, and designed to rouse the troops. And it makes him look smart. But that’s not the best part.”
“What is?”
“This,” Charles said, tapping on the copyright page. “This book won’t be published until 1976. And do you remember that quote from Milton we could never find? It wasn’t Milton at all—he was quoting a President who ends up getting killed on”—he checked the listing—“November 22, 1963. I wonder if we should find some way to warn him?”
“That he’ll be killed, or that Bert is misattributing his quotes?” Jack said wryly, motioning for them to come inside. “After the adventure we’ve just had, I want as little as possible to do with time travel, and fate, and destiny. And besides, I don’t think any man should know the day he’s supposed to die—in any reality.”
Together the three men entered the Eagle & Child and were shown to the room near the back where they would be assured of as much privacy as was possible in a neighborhood tavern.
“The Rabbit Room, hey?” said Charles as they walked in. “We’ll have to tell Tummeler—” He stopped, stunned, as did John and Jack.
At the mantel, gesturing to them with a glass of beer in hand, was a man John had once described as a “wild-eyed gentleman.” But that was before they’d met, which was long after the man was supposed to have died. Then again, if nothing else, Sir Richard Burton was resourceful. Maybe the most resourceful man they’d ever met.
Five years earlier, the companions had found him in the Archipelago, where he had done his best to kill them, their friends, and Peter Pan—after which they rescued his daughter, an act which he repaid by stealing their Dragonship.
“Gentle Caretakers,” Burton said cheerfully, “come, let us sup together.”
Bert, wearing an angry and pained expression, sat at the far side of the long table, and a bewildered Hugo sat across from him. Rose, who was calmer than anyone in the room except perhaps Burton himself, was sitting next to Hugo, eating a cracker.
John, who was behind the other Caretakers, looked around warily. Was this a trap?
Burton laughed and took a seat at the table near the fireplace. “It’s no trap, John. Just a friendly meeting of peers. Or,” he added a bit more precisely, “respectful adversaries.”
“Burton?” Jack exclaimed as he stepped into the room. “What are you doing here, you son of a—”
“Now, Jack,” Burton admonished. “Language.”
“Where is my ship, Burton?” Bert demanded, barely containing the fury in his voice. “Where is the Indigo Dragon?”
“Where she’s been all along,” Burton replied. “Serving those who serve the true heirs of the Archipelago.”
“Who, you?” John spat.
“The Imperial Cartological Society,” Burton replied. “Have you forgotten already?”
“The door,” said John. “You’re responsible for putting the door in the wood along Addison’s Walk, aren’t you?”
Burton merely smiled and took a long swallow from his glass.
“It didn’t do you any good,” Jack said. “We sorted it out, as we’ve always done.”
“Whatever you say, Jack.”
“You couldn’t even entrap one of us,” John said. “You tangled up Hugo instead.”
Burton hesitated. The mix-up, apparently, had been an obvious flaw in his plan. “It wasn’t perfectly executed,” he admitted, looking into his empty glass and reaching for a second ale on the table. “I’ll tell you straight out, we were hoping to catch—and convert—you, Charles.”
“Convert me?” Charles exclaimed. “To what?”
“From your belief and support of the wrong heir,” Burton replied. “We at the society know the Histories