The Indigo King - James A. Owen [40]
“That’s it,” breathed Jack. “My God, Chaz, you’re right. It’s how he moves, his body language. It’s definitely familiar. Could this boy actually be a young Mordred? Is he the one we’ve come to find?”
“Possibly,” John replied. “This is the place that Verne’s machine sent us. It can’t be coincidence that the fellow who’s the center of attention seems so familiar to us.”
The young man was just finishing his tale of Asterius, much to the delight of his audience, who responded with laughter and applause.
“Tomorrow,” the storyteller said, “I will tell you a tale of the giant Polyphemus, who was blinded by the great Odysseus, the sacker-of-cities, and then killed by the slayer-of-giants called Jack.”
John looked accusingly at Jack, who sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.
“What?” said Chaz, who had caught Jack’s name among the gibberish. “What did you do?”
“Don’t look at me!” Jack whispered. “I don’t have the slightest idea what all this ‘Giant-Killer’ business is all about. It’s got to be coincidence, that’s all.”
“Except the giants back in Albion recognized your voice, didn’t they?” asked Chaz. “How do you explain that?”
“I can’t,” Jack said hotly. “But until I actually kill a giant, I’m not taking the blame, whatever rumors have gone around.”
“Look at it this way,” offered John. “At least you know that whenever it does take place, the outcome is assured.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Jack. “You’re not the one who’s going to feel the pressure of centuries of expectations.”
“Far easier to do summat about this boy teller,” Chaz reasoned, moving around Jack with his eyes fixed on the man at the front of the amphitheater. “We ought t’ just kill him here and be done wi’ it.”
“We can’t!” John hissed, grabbing his arm. “We are only supposed to learn his true name and Bind him, remember?”
“And who’s t’ do th’ Binding?” asked Chaz. “You?”
He was right. John and Jack might know the words, but they didn’t have the authority to speak the Binding. Only one of the royal bloodline could—and there wasn’t anyone left who qualified back in Albion.
“Drat,” said Jack. “Maybe we should just kill him.”
“And risk really wrecking history?” said John. “I don’t think so. Look at how much trouble Hugo caused—and he only went back six centuries. We’ve gone considerably further than that. If we change something now, the repercussions could be disastrous.”
“On t’ other hand,” said Chaz, “there’d be no King Mordred t’ trample an’ piss all over everything. Might be worth the trade.”
John looked down at the possible Mordred, who was conversing with the crowd as they left the amphitheater. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “We were given instructions by Verne to discover Mordred’s true name, then return to Noble’s Isle. And that’s what I intend to do.”
Jack and Chaz looked at each other, debating. “You’re the Caretaker Principia,” Jack said. “I’ll defer to you.”
“Fine,” said John. “Chaz?”
Chaz shrugged. “Whatever you say. I’m not even supposed t’ be here, remember?”
As they spoke, a short, solidly built man who had been watching them from across the plaza approached, and before any of them could move, he had pointed a small dagger at John’s stomach.
“My name is Anaximander,” the man said, smiling politely, “and you do not belong here. Please state your business, or I will slay you where you stand.”
Chaz and Jack both tensed for a fight, but John answered first, holding out his hands placatingly. “We are travelers, strangers to your land,” he said in fluent Greek. “We’ve come here seeking knowledge of that man, there.”
Anaximander’s eyes darted along the line John’s arm made to the young storyteller, who was still accepting farewells from his listeners. “Is that so?” he said. “That’s very interesting, as I happen to be his teacher. How is it that you know of him at all, that you come seeking to know more?”
“We’ve got a history with him,” Jack said,