The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [51]
“Er—um—ah,” Jack stammered as he shook the other fellow’s hand. “Likewise.”
He waved John over from where he was chatting with the professor and introduced him and Charles in turn, each of whom, with some visible reluctance, shook Kipling’s hand.
“Wonderful time for a Gatherum, wouldn’t you say, Bert?” Kipling said brightly, as he clapped John on the shoulder. “And it’s so nice to see the new blood here too, rather than just the usual roster of fuddy-duddies.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said Jack politely, “but have we seen each other? Recently? In England?”
“Mmm,” Kipling murmured, looking inquisitively at Jack. “I don’t believe so, unless you were at my funeral, which was the last time I was in England—in which case, I was definitely preoccupied.”
“Sorry, I missed it,” said Jack.
“No worries, old fellow,” Kipling said, smiling. He clapped Jack on the back, then Charles. “After all, that’s what we have Tamerlane House for, isn’t it?”
John was about to ask something else when Kipling spied another acquaintance among the group and strode away.
“I’m sorry,” said Bert. “What did you mean to ask, Jack?”
“I don’t think it’s important right now,” Jack replied. “Don’t worry about it.”
Bert moved into the next room, and John swiftly pulled Jack and Charles aside. “What do you think that was all about?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Jack, “but he didn’t act like a man who had just been hunting us.”
“He wasn’t, remember?” Charles said. “That was seven years ago.”
“Does it really matter to these people?” John asked as Bert reappeared at his side. “They treat things like time, and space, and life and death as if they were playthings.”
“Not playthings,” said Bert, interjecting himself back into the discussion, “but certainly more flexible than the men of science would have us believe. Come along now, lads. We’re about to take our places for dinner.”
There were many ... the companions knew by name
and reputation ...
CHAPTER TEN
The Cuckoo
Everything in Camerlane House was evidence of two philosophies: that of excess, and that of quality. Whatever there was of any given category of object, be it china or clocks, was represented by hundreds of examples of the highest caliber. Room after room was filled to overflowing with rare and exquisite objects and items that might have been the plunder from a hundred very cultured pirates. It was, with no embellishment needed, a veritable treasure trove. But the most valued among its contents were just sitting down to what John, Jack, and Charles were certain was destined to be the most extraordinary dinner in the history of history.
The great banquet hall was lit by brass lamps hung high in the air, and had been decorated with silk tapestries that seemed to be a visual representation of every story from every culture that had ever existed, living or dead. The details were such that an entire tale, start to finish, could be depicted in a few square inches, and the stories themselves frequently overlapped.
The table was oak and ash, and fully sixty feet long and ten feet wide. It was set with flawless silver trays and crystal bowls, which promised a great feast to come.
There were many Caretakers the companions knew by name and reputation, if not for their work, but several were entirely unfamiliar to them by appearance. Bert gladly acted the part of host and made sure that introductions were given all around while the preparations were being finished for the feast.
On the left, Mark Twain and Daniel Defoe sat in deep discussion with Nathaniel Hawthorne and Washington Irving. Charles Dickens, Mary and Percy Shelley, and Alexandre Dumas père sat directly across from them, arguing about some arcane poem and the meaning of life.
Next to Dickens, on his left, sat Jakob Grimm, who was pouring wine for Jonathan Swift and, disconcertingly, a smiling Rudyard Kipling.
At the far end of the table were those Bert referred to as the Elder Caretakers—which basically meant everyone who had performed in the role prior to the seventeenth