ANTHEMICRONICON: BOOK OF AGES (AMERICAN IDOL RPF), [PG-13] - CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE:
In which House Nineteen prepare for the Royal Visit. Cook and Archuleta discover the truth about the summoning song. The Anthemic ride an airship and spend the day at the Pan-American World’s Fair Exposition of 1901 in Buffalo. The Bowery burns. Cook and Lambert have a conversation, and Archuleta discovers the secret that’s really buried under Grant’s Tomb.
York City, Tuesday, __ October 1901
Tiemann said, "That night Daughtry wrote to himself in German: the boy lives at Nineteen. Bastard knew."
The Anthemic were closeted with Masters Jackson and Cowell in the latter's wood-paneled study. Portraits of Cowell's native Britons lined the walls, denizens from his former House Electric of the Kingdom of Britain and a small vignette in oils of the great Queen Victoria herself, dead earlier that year after fifty jubilee years of reign.
Cowell said to them, rubbing his forehead, "I'm not cut out for such intrigue. According to the bums you met in the Silo, Czolgosz wasn't working for Anarchists when he assassinated the President - it was apparently another group called Anachronists instead. Then this Frenchman, Daughtry, comes to register with Nineteen cool as a cucumber, seeks out Archuleta, and tells him that he and some mysterious German captain are in fact Anachronists and have the other half of the Chronomicon, which they'll deploy when the time is right.”
Cowell shook his head. “I have to say, Mr. Cook, this sounds like the plot of some penny dreadful, or a Boy's Own Adventure novel, and we haven't gotten to the denoument yet. Maybe I’m slow, but I just don't see the connection."
Cook made an effort to stay calm. "The Anarchists and Anachronists are obviously connected. Hickson and Lambert were saying something about Anarchists protecting the world against Anachronists. They also said the President might have been less than human, so killing him might have been a patriotic act."
Tiemann shook his head. "No. Lambert said McKinley was human, so it wasn't them that did it - the bastards who attacked us in the alley weren't Anarchists, they were Anachronists." He flung the gold hourglass pendant on to polished surface of Cowell's roll-top writing-desk. "We need to beware Daughtry and this Captain von Ahlen."
Cowell sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We have nothing concrete to take back to Stringenfeld," he said.
"We need to be circumspect," said Anderson, "Otherwise Stringenfeld and House Sony-Bertelmann will have the Silo turned inside out for harboring unlicensed talent. The Guild just needs an excuse."
"We can't protect those unlicensed bottom-feeders, nor should we want to," snapped Cowell, and Anderson's face set grimly. "Anyway, we have the King's visit to prepare for, and I don't wish to be distracted from this. As I told Cook, he'll be here in a fortnight on an unofficial visit to see President Roosevelt."
Cowell leaned forward confidentially in his finial-topped armchair. "His Majesty and entourage will be staying at the White House, of course, but he asked to meet me. When he was the Crown Prince, and I was a young songcaster and trainer in London, we had occasion to meet, and I ended up assisting in the selections to his personal guard. So he wants to visit House Nineteen, and to see the World's Fair before it's disassembled. His Majesty is very interested in thaumaturgy and modern technology."
Skib said, "This isn't the first time Edward's been in America, right? I remember my folks sayin' that he came to visit when he was still a young prince and Buchanan was President. I remember Papa Rob was pretty excited about it."
"I see this is why you're such a Royalist," Tiemann smirked, and Skib widened his eyes comically at the Second.
"Oh, so I'm the Royalist, am I? And I’m the one who likes to dress in uniform, and play at For King and Country -"
“Okay, lovebirds, that's quite enough," drawled Cook; Peek was grinning openly. Tiemann cuffed Skib’s cheek and then touched him more caressingly. Cowell put his head in his hands.
"You lads are really taking this seriously, aren't you? We need to keep the news about the King strictly confidential. Nobody outside this circle should know.” Cowell glared at Cook, who tried his best to keep his expression innocent. “I know someone shared this information with Journeyman Archuleta, but in retrospect it’s no harm for the lad to know. You’re working closely enough with him as it is on the Chronomicon, something’s bound to slip.”
“Yes, about that.” Cook leaned forward. “We should move carefully with the Chronomicon study. You saw the spell actually works, but I’m not sure that flooding the journeyman with oracular visions is going to help.”
Cowell’s mouth quirked upwards. “Your solicitude for young Archuleta is commendable, Mr. Cook. I’m glad you raised it. I was going to suggest we try the scrying spell with you as songcaster in Archuleta’s place.”
*
Fortunately or unfortunately for Cook, the scrying spell didn’t work for him. The Anthemic ran through the same tempo configuration which had operated so spectacularly last Friday, to no avail.
When Archuleta showed up in the practice rooms after luncheon, still wide-eyed and pale from his encounter at the Opera the previous night with the Anachronist Christophe Daughtry, he suggested, “Let’s try both of us singing.”
They had to add another set of strings - Jackson’s - to balance for the extra vocals, and then the spell caught fire.
…And Cook saw a man who must be Archuleta’s father standing naked and bloody and holding down a small, double-headed bear in a cave, surrounded by his fellow worshipers, heard the rising chants calling forth their god, their Old One, out of the fire and the longest sleep…
They both saw the march of tanks crushing limbs and heads of soldiers, the hail of gunfire, the spray of arterial blood. Saw many limbs, things scrabbling in the dark, long grimy tentacles shifting in depths beneath the world.
Then the visions shifted, and they saw Leon Czolgosz in the press of the receiving line, President and Mrs McKinley approaching with their entourage, and then Czolgosz pulling away his handkerchief from his pistol and opening fire; the President falling, Ida McKinley screaming shrilly and almost inhumanly, Czolgosz singing, talent crackling through him for an instant before the President’s servicemen tackled him to the ground…
…And they jacked out of the spell together, arms around each other. It wasn’t clear which one of them was holding the other up.
Cook buried his wet face into Archuleta’s shoulder. “I, I think we need a moment,” he whispered to Cowell, which was how they ended up banished to the infirmary once more.
They lay in adjoining beds in the curtained dark, silent for a while.
Then, “No more of that spell,” Cook whispered fiercely. “We weren’t meant to know the future. Even if war is coming. Even if Anachronists of talent killed McKinley. We shouldn’t know.”
Arch said, tentatively, “About my father…Cook, I had better explain.”
“That your father worshipped the Elder Gods? It’s not that hard.” Cook held his hand out to Arch’s in the dark, and felt the lad’s warm fingers clasp his in a death grip. “Have to say, it kind of explains your distrust of technology.”
“I grew up in Utah, it’s not something you question. And I think my father feels that mankind can’t be trusted with its own destiny.”
“Well. Man’s cruelty to others repeats through history. I’m sure your father has reason to believe what he does.” Cook squeezed Arch’s hand. “But it’s not a reason to give up hope in mankind.”
They were silent for a long while, their hands linking them. Cook could hear Archuleta’s uneven breathing, was acutely aware of his own desire to climb into bed with Arch and kiss his fear away.
He stopped himself with some effort: Archuleta had just had a most distressing experience, and it would be a breach of trust to approach the lad at this time. There’d be occasion enough for that later when Arch was in full possession of his faculties. They just needed to stop trucking with that damned spell, which turned everything on its head.
*
House Nineteen, Wednesday, __ October 1901
Neither Fuller nor Cowell was too pleased at Cook’s refusal to try the scrying spell again; a reliable oracular spell would fetch top dollar amongst the highest circles.
Cook attempted to appease them by promising to ready the Anthemic for the secret royal visit to House and to the World’s Fair in Buffalo, and to see if there were other serviceable spells in the Chronomicon.
Accordingly, the Anthemic spent the next few days poring over the rest of the half-book. As far as they could tell, the forty or so pages contained many meandering, cautionary tales, strange illustrations and four and a half actual songs. Three seemed to pertain to breaking the time barrier - looking into the past, present, and, the one which Cook and Arch had triggered, the future.
The remaining two (or one and half) songs were about breaking barriers between worlds, if the narratives were anything to go by. One had a very complex chord structure designed for an 18-man band and seemed to summon assistance from the nether world - Cook looked up at this into Archuleta’s dark eyes, and remembered he’d taken the lad to watch Faust, where the Scholar had done this very thing.
The last half-song was scored for an organ, which was itself highly unusual - songcasters had discovered that keyboards were poor channels for the strings portion of fieldsong, and, through the ages, organs had traditionally lent themselves to un-grounded, vocals-centric church music rather than thaumaturgy.
There was a picture beside the spell: a sketch of a dome, with four entranceways at each cardinal point, and four statues in the entrances, and a silver pistol.
And the lyrics consisted of the repeated refrain:
To the temple, the King shall come. Before the mirror, the King shall bow. Under the moon, the King shall fall.
Cook was glad half the song appeared torn away. He didn’t relish trying to cast that one; from the look on Archuleta’s expressive face, it didn’t look like Arch would have been keen to try it, either.
*
That evening, the Anthemic Five returned to the Bowery in force. It was Peek’s first time in the Silo, and his mouth hung open for a good few minutes until Anderson brought him ale to occupy it.
The bartender, Maroulis, told them he hadn’t seen Daughtry or Lambert since last Thursday. Todd Smithson threw his big, inked arms around Cook and said, “I heard you lads were attacked after I passed you that message! I told the missus, we’re having nothin’ more to do with those Anarchists!”
“I don’t think the guys who attacked us were Anarchists,” Cook tried to say, but Smithson was hearing nothing of it.
“I told you the Anarchists were bad news,” Maroulis muttered darkly, and that was the note on which their evening ended, without mention of Cowell’s threat to turn the Silo inside out in search of rogue songcasters harbored on premises.
*
Saturday, __ October 1901
The following day, after waking from yet another nightmare, Cook decided he’d had enough of the studious and unnerving business of poring through the disturbing old grimoire. His team looked a little on edge - they were a field band, after all, and used to more action - and Archuleta was looking worn out, like he could do with some fresh air and sunshine and a day off.
Edward was scheduled to arrive secretly with his personal entourage in a week’s time. Cook told Cowell the lads would head to Buffalo and scope out the World’s Fair ahead of the King’s visit.
The Anthemic could have made a three-hour journey to the upstate town of Buffalo by railcar from the new glass and steel Grand Central Railway Station along Forty-Second Street, or the more leisurely steamer cruise up the Hudson. Instead, in the interests of saving traveling time, the Anthemic chose to board the Pierce Arrow-sponsored Exposition Airship which plied the exclusive airways between downtown York City and the World’s Fair Exposition site itself.
The Five and Journeyman Archuleta and boarded the first dirigible at eight o’clock from the low-rise dirigible platform at the stately Madison Square Gardens. They left their identifying insignia and instruments behind, although Tiemann would not be parted from his field guitar and could not disguise his clan tattoos and jewelry.
“I didn’t realize airship fares were so expensive!” Arch said to him, as they walked gingerly over the dirigible gangplank to the gondola.
Cook shrugged. “Companies do well out of it; it’s faster than the railroads, and they supposedly spend the money developing better safety in the air. Of course, we help them with the development - our commercial airborne song is pretty good, if I do say so myself. Come on.”
Archuleta looked nervous as he climbed carefully into the basket of the airship Arrow, and clung to his selected seat at the prow of the airship. Cook quelled his urge to take Arch’s hand; he knew his team would rib him mercilessly if he did so.
Peek and Anderson piled in alongside Cook, while Skib and Tiemann took seats at the aft section, no doubt so they could indulge in some hand-holding of their own en route.
The ground crew uncoupled the Arrow’s rigging, the airmen fired up all engines, and, in a flare of heat and light, the aviator took her up.
The Saturday morning air was crisp and clear, the smog and soot of the day yet to set in. The airship rose to just below cloud level, providing its occupants with an unparalleled view of the Southern Tier and the Hudson Valley. Cook felt his spirits lift like the colorful orange and blue silk stripes above their heads.
To his right, Peek was making some crack about the Finger Lakes region below and Anderson was rolling his eyes; to his right, Archuleta closed his eyes. Cook was struck by the purple shadows under the lad’s eyes.
“Not sleeping well, Arch?”
Arch jerked his eyes open. “I’m having the same dream, except it now also has in it President McKinley being shot. I think I scared Jason and the rest of the journeymen this morning.”
“Me too,” Cook whispered. “I thought getting out today might help.” He knew he should be trying to puzzle out what this meant, all the pieces were there for him, but for some reason Archuleta’s sleeplessness seemed to be of paramount concern. “Why don't you rest for a while? It's a long trip.”
Archuleta blinked slowly at him. Beneath them was the verdant eastern countryside; above them, the magnificent arc of the airship’s balloon and a cloudless sky.
Cook raised an eyebrow, and silently proffered his shoulder. Archuleta slept against it throughout the two hour ride.
Cook was sure that the other lads were making jokes just out of earshot, but he couldn’t take his eyes from Archuleta’s sleeping face.
*
Buffalo.
In October of 1901, the Pan-American World’s Fair Exposition was winding to a close. Its festivities had been clouded by McKinley’s assassination, but the Saturday crowds were still a sight to behold, and the mile-long expanse of its exhibitors was hitherto unforeseen in all the American States.
Archuleta, still dazed with sleep, seemed disbelieving that the bright new world on display was not some fantasyland to which he’d been transported by thaumaturgy. He stared at the Court of the Fountains as if it were an apparition: the magnificent stretch of the Esplanade with its surrounding chain of lakes, fountains, bridges, and arches, the plaza by the Sunken Gardens, and the great steam fountain at North Bay.
The World’s Fair set out to bring together technological inventions and advancements of the modern world, the state of the art from around the world - Tiemann was especially taken with the new electrical technology, and led the Anthemic purposefully into the Manufactures and Liberal Arts building and the Machinery and Transportation center.
Skib had to physically restrain Tiemann from purchasing the latest mechanical gadgets on sale at the merchandising stalls - “Neal, we have enough little devices with gears on, we don’t need another one that dispenses ink for your pens!”
“But I need new pens, also,” Tiemann complained, and Skib rolled his eyes.
After a quick lunch at the central parade, with the afternoon heat falling onto the Exposition grounds, the Anthemic belatedly headed over to the place of their mission, the Temple of Music.
The Temple’s Spanish-revival colors and octagonal dome were centered between the Rose Garden and the States Government Building, in line-of-sight of the Niagara Falls Turbine Tower.
Although the Temple had been designed for the main ceremonies of the World’s Fair, McKinley’s assassination onsite had clouded its luster, and there were no more than a handful of other visitors to its graceful halls.
A hush fell over the Anthemic as they walked under the intricately molded archway, under a sign in gold leaf with the emblem “MVSIC” in Roman characters. The great dome described a parabola in light blue hundreds of feet above the ground. The floor was inlaid with white and scarlet marble. There were rows and rows and rows of wooden seats: according to Anderson’s advertising card, the Temple could seat over 2,000 people.
Running against the north-eastern wall was a shiny gold and red panel depicting a mass of angels playing instruments. Against it was the largest pipe organ in all the American States, the long brass pipes stretching five or so times a man’s full height.
Cook walked over to the large instrument. It had been placed behind a velvet cordon as it was clearly not in service today, but he reached across the rope anyway and ran a hand over the rich, gold-inlaid wooden paneling, fingered the ivory keys.
“Cook,” someone said, tightly, behind him. Tiemann.
Cook turned, and saw the configuration of the hall from a wider perspective.
Around the hall: four cardinal points of the compass. Four entrance portals, each graced by an ornate sculpture. Echoing the last picture in the Chronomicon, before the half they had had been torn away from the half they didn’t have - the picture which illustrated the barrier-sundering spell scored for an organ.
The Anthemic were silent; Archuleta looked like he wanted to throw up. Cook just knew he was on the cusp of understanding, if he just thought about it enough, maybe, or had one more piece of the puzzle…
There was one certainty amid the mass of unknown: Edward was coming to the Temple of Music in the World’s Fair Exposition in a week’s time.
The apparently unlinked events of the last two weeks - Anarchists and Anachronists, rogue songcasters and Presidential assassins, the American half of the Chronomicon and the European half in the custody of the mysterious Captain von Ahlen - all seemed to run to this one event.
Bring to the temple the true King. It looked like Daughtry might get his wish.
*
York City.
"It's too dangerous!" Cook said to Cowell. He felt exhausted and unkempt. He hadn’t had supper, nor had he any desire to consume it - the return journey had been challenging, the rising air currents from the uncommonly hot day making for a rocky airship ride that had made half a dozen passengers hurl their lunch over the side.
Archuleta wasn’t accustomed to airborne travel, whether under his own steam or someone else’s, and he’d spent the entire journey green to the gills, clinging to the portside railing.
Anderson was probably the most unaffected, which was why he was at Cook’s side and in the line of fire for this crucial meeting with the House Nineteen triumvirate. Everyone else was seated in the armchairs the back of Fuller's study and trying to remain upright.
Cowell raised his eyebrows at Fuller, who sat in his high-backed chair and steepled his fingers.
“It’s a difficult call,” was what Fuller said, finally. “I do see where Mr. Cook is coming from.”
Cowell frowned. “My Lord, you can’t be serious. We’re considering telling His Majesty King Edward of the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, `You’d best cancel your trip, we fear for your life at the hands of American Anarchists’?”
“Anachronists,” corrected Anderson.
Cowell ignored him. “My Lord - Simon - consider how foolish we’d look. We have no details, no evidence, nothing but speculation derived from an old songbook and Bowery bar rumor. On the strength of this, how can we deduce this has to do with the King?”
“I don't think we could do otherwise!” Cook made an effort not to shout, which was only partly successful. “I agree we know little that's concrete. But McKinley was assassinated in the Temple of Music, and everything we do know indicates that Edward may be in the same danger if he heads there himself.”
“`Because rogue songcasters desire to open the portal into another world’?” Cowell’s sarcasm could have cut new-manufactured steel. “I can see how that’ll go over in the Court of King James.”
Fuller placed his hands flat on the green, ink-stained leather surface of his desk. "I've heard enough. Mr. Cook, your concerns are noted, as are yours, Master Cowell. We'll tell His Majesty's entourage that we've heard rumors that a World's Fair trip might be a concern. We'll only supply more details if they ask. Then this places the responsibility for the decision in their hands and takes it from ours."
He looked at Cook and Cowell, and they both nodded grudgingly.
Cowell said, "We need to decide what we tell Sony-Bertelsmann."
Fuller nodded. "That we do. Tell them we've discovered the Silo's harboring unlicensed Anarchist songcasters. Let their field band turn the place inside out."
Cook sat up in horror, but it was Anderson who said, loudly, "They'll raze the place to the ground!"
"What if they do?" Fuller's voice was ice.
Cook tried to think; behind him there was rustling, he knew Skib had placed a warning hand on Tiemann's arm. Maroulis wasn't an Anarchist, but he needed to be warned - Cook needed to get word to the Smithsons, as well -
Jackson's deep voice drawled, "Hardly seems fair, Simon."
"No, but neither are we responsible for Stringenfeld and his attack dogs." Fuller looked at Jackson's stoic face, and then at Cook's and Anderson's outraged expressions. "I have to report to Sony, gentlemen, it's not negotiable."
When they stumbled out of Fuller's study, the first thing Cowell said to the lads was, "Don't even think of going out there tonight."
Tiemann snarled, "As if you're going to stop me," and Skib said, "Neal."
Cook held up his hands for order - his crew wasn't going to go renegade on him, damn it. At least not by themselves. "Look, Cowell, we all know some of those folks. Jackson, come on, this is a complete farce."
Cowell frowned, and into the stillness, it was Archuleta who said, in a voice that shook, "Do we burn unlicensed songcasters now in York City?"
The lad looked very pale, as well he might. Cook put a hand on Archuleta's arm and felt the heat shivering under Arch’s skin.
"Not all the time," Jackson replied dryly. "Gentlemen, you've had a long day. Take your supper and take to your beds, we'll handle things from here. Mr. Cowell and I will make sure Mrs. Smithson isn't part of the Sony action."
The Anthemic looked at each other, in the wake of Jackson and Cowell's departure. "How long do you think they have?" Peek asked cautiously, and there was the question: a day or two at best.
Cook said, "Showers first, lads, then supper. We meet in the morning to discuss after we've had a night's sleep under our belts. Arch, you can come too."
*
Cook should have been more surprised when, three hours later, he ran into Anderson, Tiemann and Skib at the west gate, the one which was never manned by footmen. The lads were all in anonymous black, instruments at the ready.
"Damn it, Neal, I told you boys to wait for my cue!"
"The same way you're waiting, ain't that right?" Tiemann returned. He put his hand to the gate. "Wasn't gonna involve the kid - our airborne song will work without Peek's drum platform, though Anderson will have hell's own time filling the extra gaps now we have you."
"Less talk," said Cook; he'd planned on flagging down a buggy, but this would obviously be faster.
Once they were out in the muck of Fifth in the dead of night, Anderson's searing bass line filled the frigid air. "Jack in then," he said, and the Anthemic One, Two and Three launched into their airborne song.
*
Fifth Avenue.
Archuleta wasn't sure whether he'd taken leave of his senses. He couldn't understand why he had stolen out of the safety of House after Cook and the others, why he was here on the dark, filthy streets of Manhattan, jogging after the accelerating figures of the Anthemic's Four. There was no way he could keep up with the airborne songcasters; already their black clothes were vanishing rapidly into the night sky and the fog.
He had an inkling where they were headed, though.
A buggy rattled past, and he hailed it, marveling at his own daring. On Coney Island, Cook had flagged down a cab in exactly this manner.
"The Bowery, please," he said, and the hansom driver turned to stare at him.
"It's gonna be wild, kid. Word is somethin' bad's going down. You sure you wanna head out there?"
Arch pulled coins from his pocket. "Please just drive," he said firmly.
The streets of lower Manhattan had looked so different in the daytime - clean and straight, skyscrapers and old-style brownstones rising side by side in a progressive pattern, the old giving way gracefully to the new. A shining future city peopled with gracious, well-dressed men and women, that had unrolled its wonders to him from his vantage point at Cook's elegant side, under a clear blue sky.
Now: muck and filth everywhere, rubbish clogging the gutters, dirty-faced urchins and staggering drunks, thick steam rising from holes in the sidewalk, gaslight making ominous shadows out of the twisting alleyways and tenement buildings. The buggy's wheels splashed through the damp roads, the horse's hooves kicked up dirt, passersby shouted and cursed and someone threw a clod of earth at the window, making Arch flinch.
Archuleta had scant time to ponder the fool's errand he had embarked on. In no time at all the driver pulled up onto a street crowded with pushing, shoving, shouting people, and said, "I ain't goin' further, boyo. You want off, it's now."
"Why? What's happening?" Arch fumbled for his purse, tried to stare out of the window at what the crowd was doing, what they were gaping at, or trying to get away from.
"Can't you see?" the cabby muttered, taking the coins from Arch. He nodded up the street, where a faint orange glow could be seen to the fog over one of the squalid alleys. "Somethin's on fire."
*
The Bowery.
The bastards hadn’t even given them the day or two Cook thought they’d had.
The lads from the downtown fire department were doing what they could, but it looked like the Silo was a lost cause, together with the other bars flanking it; the firefighters were now merely trying to contain the blaze and stop it from spreading throughout Free Man’s Alley. Smoke mixed with great gouts of steam from the hoses of water pumped in from the nearby fire hydrant.
Cook had lost track of his people: he saw Anderson with buckets of water, Tiemann and Anderson carrying possessions and children alongside grim, grimy-faced men and women with winter coats thrown over their pajamas, evacuating the nearby buildings in the night.
Cook himself felt frozen to the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder with other gawkers, staring at the crackling husk of the Silo. He’d done this. He’d put this in motion, and he’d been too damned late to stop it.
Someone reached out to grasp his arm. Cook turned, half-expecting the sour, vicious features of Malcolm Young from Sony’s first field band, Direct Current, and instead looked into the bright blue eyes of the Anarchist showman, Lambert.
“Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Cook,” Lambert drawled. His skin was devoid of cunning adornment, plain street clothes covered in soot, but he held himself as if he needed no other embellishment to look of import and indeed he didn’t. He seemed to be wearing heeled boots that made him substantially taller than Cook. “Come to gloat?”
“Look,” muttered Cook, “I didn’t know they were serious about this. I came when I heard, I came to help…”
“Too late now,” Lambert said simply, and left his hand on Cook’s arm as they watched the flames together.
Cook swallowed. “Do you know…do you know if anyone was inside when they torched the place?”
Lambert shook his head. “I saw Maroulis in the beginning when the Sony fieldcasters came and rousted the bar, but he made himself scarce fairly early on. They took away a couple of the patrons with some talent: I saw them get Richardson and one of the French lads, Matthew Giraud. And then after that…” Lambert shrugged. “The Silo started burning.”
Cook felt lightheaded from the smoke and sick to the stomach. “I’m gonna kill Young and that damn Lord Stringenfield.”
“Ah, save your strength,” said Lambert, not unkindly. “The Guild doesn’t know anything, and after a couple of days they’ll let the others go. Richardson and Giraud are harmless, the Guild would gain nothing by injuring them. Actually, they could be of use to Sony - both of them are strong singers, and given a House that’ll sign them there’s a good chance they’ll get their licenses.”
“And the people made homeless, the lives this destroyed?” Cook struggled to keep his ire in check.
“No more important than defending our shores from the Old Ones from over the sea,” said Lambert in his beautiful singer’s voice, and it was as if the world shifted a fraction from its axis.
“What do you mean?” Cook asked, very slowly.
Lambert’s eyes were the color of the deep ocean. “The less the Guild know, the less they can interfere. But you, David Cook, you can make a difference, you can help us. You know who’s coming to our shores, coming to the Temple of Music. Or, you might say, what’s coming.”
Cook saw again the two-headed bear god, things scrabbling in the dark, long grimy tentacles, a President falling. Before he could say, “How do you know?”, Lambert’s eyes flickered over his shoulder; he said, “Mr. Smithson, Miss White,” and big Todd Smithson reached out to grab hold of Cook.
“David, our home’s been barricaded, the officers say it’s not safe, I can’t find Carly, Brooke and I have been looking everywhere, you have to help us -”
“Steady, Todd,” Cook said, offering his arm to Miss White, Mrs. Smithson’s soprano co-star, shivering under an ermine-trimmed blue velvet cloak. “I think I know where Carly might be. Master Jackson said he would look out for her.”
“Thank God,” said Smithson.
Miss White drew away from Cook, glaring at him. “`Master Jackson said’ - Mr. Cook, you knew about this?”
Cook couldn’t meet her accusing blue eyes. “I came to warn you. I thought I had more time. We need to get back to House Nineteen, they’ll have taken her there.” The soprano hesitated, and Cook said, “Miss White, it’s not safe for you to be out here by yourself.”
“I’m no safer with you!” she snapped, but Smithson said, “Brooke, please,” and after a moment she nodded her blonde head in assent.
“Let’s go,” said Cook; he hoped he could get a cab from further up the Broad Way. No idea where the other lads were, but they could take care of themselves.
Over Miss White’s shoulder, he saw the last, warning flash of Lambert’s sapphire eyes.
“Help us,” Lambert said, quietly. “Kill the breed of Kings, or the Old Ones will walk again.”
*
The smoke made Archuleta’s eyes water and his throat burn. He’d pushed his way through the crowds, one part of which seemed to be jostling aimlessly towards the fire, the other part rushing frantically away.
A toddler fell to his knees in the dirt beside Arch; automatically, he stooped and snatched the wailing, filthy boy up into his arms before a pack of bigger urchins and someone’s horse cart could run him over.
“Hey, little fellow! Don’t cry, it’s just a scratch!”
“Mamma,” bawled the mite; Archuleta looked frantically into the milling throng for his missing parent, wondering if it might be taken amiss if he were to shout, “Anyone lose a baby?” Fortunately, the boy’s mother surfaced from the crowd with a relieved cry; the boy held his arms out, and Arch surrendered the child gratefully.
When he turned around, he looked into the familiar face of Christophe Daughtry.
He’d last seen Daughtry in formal Opera dress. Daughtry was now in workman’s black, cap pulled low over his bald head.
Daughtry was supporting another man under his arms, a slighter, blond man, no taller than Archuleta himself; when Arch took a step towards them, the man’s knees seemed to give way and Daughtry had to hold him up.
“Archuleta,” said Daughtry. He looked exhausted. “Please, help us. My friend is hurt; I need to get him away -”
Archuleta hastened to Daughtry’s side. He saw one side of the blond man’s face was covered in blood; Daughtry swept the man up into his arms with some difficulty.
“Oh no! How did this happen?”
“The Guild came into the Silo, Lewison tried to stop them, and they struck him down.” Daughtry’s face twisted in a grimace. “We were loading our things into a cart, but I'm afraid the horse may have spooked and bolted..."
"Where did you tie the cart up?" Archuleta asked, like he knew the City at all or knew what he was doing.
Miracle of miracles, the cart was still in the yard, the bay horse placid in the stalls. Arch climbed into the back, settling himself amongst trunks and boxes and paper-wrapped packages, and Daughtry handed over his charge.
"Take care of him," Daughtry said, and Arch pillowed the blond man's head in his lap as Daughtry moved away to release the horse and lead him out of the yard.
The man stirred as the cart jerked into motion. Archuleta pulled out his pocket handkerchief and dabbed cautiously at the bloody face.
The head wound actually didn’t look too bad; Archuleta had only the vaguest idea of practical medicine from his boyhood on his father’s farm, but the gash seemed to have stopped bleeding, and the man flinched under his touch, rousing himself with a gasp of pain.
“Can you tell me your name?” Archuleta asked. This was what he’d heard you had to ask patients who had taken head injuries in case their wits had deserted them.
“I’m Lewison,” the man said, slowly, his light eyes a glaze of pain. “What happened - where am I -?”
“We’re in a cart, headed somewhere safe.” Arch tried to sound reassuring. “You’re free, the Guild haven’t captured you.”
Lewison closed his eyes for a moment, then said, tightly, “Christophe? The man who - “
“Mr. Daughtry is driving,” Archuleta said, and Lewison’s face softened with relief.
“Thank the Gods,” he said. “We’d be lost without him. We’ve been waiting for so long for him to come to us from over the sea, to bring us to the light again.”
Archuleta patted Lewison’ shoulder awkwardly, wondering if Lewison’s wits had in fact been somewhat addled by his injury. “I know,” he said in what he hoped was a comforting voice, the cart rattling over cobblestones into the night.
They rode for almost an hour; Archuleta wasn’t clear about the passage of time, sitting in the swaying cart with Lewison, the dark sky rushing past. He thought he saw the curve of the Hudson River, and then there was greenery around them, and the cart finally came to a halt on an unmarked path in a leafy, shadowy park.
Lewison said, “We’re here,” and Archuleta helped him struggle to a sitting position.
Daughtry came around the siding of the cart; he held out his arms and Lewison climbed shakily down into them. Archuleta was unaccountably moved at the softness on the big man’s face.
“Ah, you’re yourself again. I was concerned you’d taken serious injury -” Daughtry’s voice trailed off, he couldn’t continue.
Lewison clasped him around the shoulders, reaching up. Archuleta scrambled from the cart, blushing a little; he looked away to give them some privacy, and tried to take stock of his surroundings.
They were in a quiet park on the bank of the Hudson River, trees and terraced gardens stretching around them. Behind him there was a huge granite and marble structure that looked like a tomb; over its entrance, two reclining figures and the carved words “Let Us Have Peace”.
“Where are we, Mr. Daughtry?” Archuleta asked curiously at last.
Daughtry responded: “This is the tomb of your President Ulysses S. Grant, who was buried here by the wish of the grieving people of the State of York. The park is closed to the public now, but I know a way in.”
Archuleta followed Daughtry and Lewison through the dense grass around the structure, under the monumental main staircase. Set into one of the columned walls was a narrow grate, which Daughtry unlocked, using one of a fistful of keys. A passage led down through a narrow terrace and a door which opened into the tomb itself.
Archuleta's eyes opened wide. They stepped into a grand sanctuary, guarded by imposing busts of Civil War generals. On the walls were detailed commemorative mosaic murals depicting scenes of President Grant's Civil War victories, and soaring sculptures bearing emblems reading "Victory" and "Peace". The space formed a large central oculus, revealing on the lower level a massive granite sarcophagus of the President himself.
"Grant served in the Mexican War, which oppressed our cousins from across the border," said Daughtry soberly. "And of course he was instrumental in the American Civil War, where hundreds of thousands of Americans lost their lives. This monument should remind us about the atrocities of war and men’s monstrous cruelty. It's a fitting site for those of us who want to bring back the old ways."
Archuleta frowned at Daughtry; he didn't understand. Instead of explaining further, Daughtry walked over to the bust of Civil War general William T. Sherman, fiddled with the base, and an adjoining flagstone slid to one side, exposing a dark stairwell.
Daughtry helped Lewison to descend; Archuleta brought up the rear. The stairs ended in a corridor that was pitch black. "Careful here, feel your way along the walls," said Daughtry, and Arch did so for many long minutes.
Eventually, a light flared in the darkness; Daughtry had opened the door at the end of the corridor. Archuleta hurried along, and found himself in a chamber lit by torches.
Sheer stone walls and floors, a couple of paintings in raw, bold colors, instruments lining a low rock shelf. On a long couch sat a bearded man with long, wild hair almost down to his waist, whom Arch didn't recognize, and a dark-haired, clean-shaven man, whom Arch did.
"Why, it's Journeyman Archuleta," said Constantine Maroulis, from the racetrack.
"He came to the Bowery to see if he could help," said Daughtry, assisting Lewison over to the couch. "If he hadn't stopped, Lewison and I might not have made it out here."
The bearded man rose and fetched a basin and cloth and started to tend Lewison' wound.
"I knew he was a courageous lad," said Maroulis. "Please be welcome here, Journeyman. Will you take some wine?"
Archuleta finally found his voice. "What is this place?"
Maroulis poured wine for him anyway, as well as for Daughtry and Lewison, setting rough goblets before them. "Boris, you want to answer the lad?" he asked. "Archuleta, this is Lieutenant Bice, who oversees our research intelligence."
The tall, bearded man put the bowl to one side, looked at Archuleta with thoughtful eyes. "This is the place where we Anachronists in York City now gather, under Grant's Tomb. This chamber was installed at the behest of Mrs. Julia Dent Grant, who was an intimate of Mrs. Ida Saxton McKinley’s and sympathetic to our cause. Our number has met here for years - and now the Guild decided to torch the Silo and target unlicensed songcasters, we had nowhere left to go."
Bice shrugged. "As for who we Anachronists are - we're one of the singing orders of the Elder Ones. Like your father, we guard the Kings of the Gods, descendants of the Old Ones who used to rule the world."
Maroulis leaned forward, trying to explain. "We fight to counter the Anarchists, our enemies, who seek to slay the Kings. The Anarchists used Czolgosz to kill McKinley." His dark eyes held Arch's soberly. "They'll try to kill Edward, King of England, and descendant of Old Ones, when he comes to visit the Temple of Music in seven days' time."
And how did Maroulis know about King Edward? Archuleta said, "Wait. President McKinley was descended from Old Ones, that's why he was killed?"
Lieutenant Bice said, "No, the Anarchists' research was flawed. It wasn’t the President. It’s Ida Saxton McKinley who is descended from the Western strain. One of our founding members revealed her real nature to her and explained the reason for the occasional tremors which overtake her. When her human form passes, her true nature will manifest."
Archuleta must have looked skeptical, because Maroulis said to him, "Would you like to see?"
"Blake may not be up to it," Daughtry began, but Lewison pushed up to a sitting position and a hissing rhythmic beat issued forth from his throat, strange and sinuous. After a moment, Bice rose and walked over to the ledge to pick up a guitar and strummed an unearthly string line that pulled the melody together.
Daughtry sang a rich A note and held his hands out to Arch.
Arch recognized this - the scrying spell from the Chronomicon. He hesitated: did he really want to get involved with these people and the Old Ones they served?
When he realized he was already involved, he took Daughtry’s hand and matched the steady A.
"Through the circle of time we soar/Open our eyes and let us see tomorrow..."
And Archuleta saw: the Old Ones bestriding the earth, grave in their majesty. The grief of men when the Gods left, leaving behind Kings and Queens who held of the Gods’ seed: the second, secret head of the Great Bear, the many joints of the Queen, the shivering stillness of pale Anabis of the Antarctic.
He saw these Royals who lived for years in the shadows, saw the secret orders who protected them, the Anachronists through the ages. Saw Ida McKinley at her husband's side, powerless to protect him from the rogue Anarchist singer whose target should have been herself.
And then, the song shifting, he saw again tanks of metal like rolling death through the streets, men dying in freezing trenches and filth. Saw lads his brother's age with limbs blown off, lying on beachheads and trapped in metal tubes under the sea.
In one corner of the world older men and women were herded into camps according to the color of their skin and gassed like animals. In another corner, girls who could be his little sisters were violated and then staked in the sun.
And finally, he saw the world shaking itself apart in the shape of a hideous mushroom cloud.
Everything he knew, family and friends, teachers and the Guild, everyone he loved, his mom, his siblings - Cook - ending in fire.
When Arch returned to himself, he was shivering; he felt wetness on his face, felt sick to his stomach. The spell song from the book he'd found, the song that Cook had sung with him - it said war was coming, and that the world, the world was ending.
He found he'd collapsed onto the sofa. Someone was holding his arms: Maroulis.
"Are you all right, David?" Maroulis helped him drink from the goblet of wine; Arch coughed a little, but did feel somewhat better afterwards. Eventually he sat up and leaned against the hard back of the sofa.
Maroulis continued, "This song is one of the key weapons we have, passed on through generations. The other songs were lost to us after our last great war with the Anarchists of Europe, when the Chronomicon was torn in half and both sections hidden from our enemies."
Archuleta couldn't speak. He couldn't get the images from the song out of his head.
Daughtry was sitting on Arch's other side; he now touched Arch on the shoulder. "You have seen the horrors to come. There'll indeed be a great war, many people will die, and then mankind will exterminate itself forty years hence in a second great war if we let it. My country'll be at the center of both wars. I want to stop it, if I can."
Arch looked into his eyes; he believed Daughtry.
Bice said, "This is why we wish to petition the true King to agree to open the portal between worlds, and, if he wishes it, to let his fathers, the Old Ones, rule again. The middle song in the Chronomicon turns the lock."
"What does the song do?" asked Arch, finding his voice at last.
"Two things. First, the Anarchists are very, very powerful. They have a man named Captain Lambert, who is the strongest songcaster in York City, stronger even than you are, Journeyman. The song will help us defeat Lambert and the Anarchists, and save the King's life."
Bice closed his eyes for a moment, then continued, "The second thing: if the King so desires, we can open a portal between this world and the next, so that His Majesty can see his fathers, the Old Ones, again."
"But my half of the book just talks about the portal," said Arch, numbly.
Bice said, "The part that tells how to defeat the Anarchists is in the half of the book that Captain Daughtry brought from France. The last component, the Silver Key, is with Captain von Ahlen, who's coming soon to the American States. With the Key we can finally defeat the Anarchists and bring the Old Ones back.”
Daughtry leaned forward. "So, will you help us, David? The choice to bring back the Old Ones will be the King's, always and forever."
Archuleta looked into Daughtry's deep eyes, seeing the world ending in a blaze of light, mushrooming to the heavens. Seeing his family consumed in flames, everyone he cared about; seeing Cook falling, burning, dying.
Help the Anachronists save the King, and bring back the Old Ones? Help prevent a war in which everybody died? This was what the Chronomicon was meant for: this was what the spells and visions and the Bowery burning tonight had brought him to.
"All right," Arch said in a voice that didn't sound like his.
Daughtry closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said, and Lewison leaned over Daughtry to clasp Archuleta's hand.
"We'll let you know when it’s time," said Maroulis. "Why don't you stop with us tonight, son? In the morning, we'll take you back to House Nineteen."
Prologue & Cast of Characters : Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Epilogue, Footnotes & Full Cast list (spoilers)
In which House Nineteen prepare for the Royal Visit. Cook and Archuleta discover the truth about the summoning song. The Anthemic ride an airship and spend the day at the Pan-American World’s Fair Exposition of 1901 in Buffalo. The Bowery burns. Cook and Lambert have a conversation, and Archuleta discovers the secret that’s really buried under Grant’s Tomb.
York City, Tuesday, __ October 1901
Tiemann said, "That night Daughtry wrote to himself in German: the boy lives at Nineteen. Bastard knew."
The Anthemic were closeted with Masters Jackson and Cowell in the latter's wood-paneled study. Portraits of Cowell's native Britons lined the walls, denizens from his former House Electric of the Kingdom of Britain and a small vignette in oils of the great Queen Victoria herself, dead earlier that year after fifty jubilee years of reign.
Cowell said to them, rubbing his forehead, "I'm not cut out for such intrigue. According to the bums you met in the Silo, Czolgosz wasn't working for Anarchists when he assassinated the President - it was apparently another group called Anachronists instead. Then this Frenchman, Daughtry, comes to register with Nineteen cool as a cucumber, seeks out Archuleta, and tells him that he and some mysterious German captain are in fact Anachronists and have the other half of the Chronomicon, which they'll deploy when the time is right.”
Cowell shook his head. “I have to say, Mr. Cook, this sounds like the plot of some penny dreadful, or a Boy's Own Adventure novel, and we haven't gotten to the denoument yet. Maybe I’m slow, but I just don't see the connection."
Cook made an effort to stay calm. "The Anarchists and Anachronists are obviously connected. Hickson and Lambert were saying something about Anarchists protecting the world against Anachronists. They also said the President might have been less than human, so killing him might have been a patriotic act."
Tiemann shook his head. "No. Lambert said McKinley was human, so it wasn't them that did it - the bastards who attacked us in the alley weren't Anarchists, they were Anachronists." He flung the gold hourglass pendant on to polished surface of Cowell's roll-top writing-desk. "We need to beware Daughtry and this Captain von Ahlen."
Cowell sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We have nothing concrete to take back to Stringenfeld," he said.
"We need to be circumspect," said Anderson, "Otherwise Stringenfeld and House Sony-Bertelmann will have the Silo turned inside out for harboring unlicensed talent. The Guild just needs an excuse."
"We can't protect those unlicensed bottom-feeders, nor should we want to," snapped Cowell, and Anderson's face set grimly. "Anyway, we have the King's visit to prepare for, and I don't wish to be distracted from this. As I told Cook, he'll be here in a fortnight on an unofficial visit to see President Roosevelt."
Cowell leaned forward confidentially in his finial-topped armchair. "His Majesty and entourage will be staying at the White House, of course, but he asked to meet me. When he was the Crown Prince, and I was a young songcaster and trainer in London, we had occasion to meet, and I ended up assisting in the selections to his personal guard. So he wants to visit House Nineteen, and to see the World's Fair before it's disassembled. His Majesty is very interested in thaumaturgy and modern technology."
Skib said, "This isn't the first time Edward's been in America, right? I remember my folks sayin' that he came to visit when he was still a young prince and Buchanan was President. I remember Papa Rob was pretty excited about it."
"I see this is why you're such a Royalist," Tiemann smirked, and Skib widened his eyes comically at the Second.
"Oh, so I'm the Royalist, am I? And I’m the one who likes to dress in uniform, and play at For King and Country -"
“Okay, lovebirds, that's quite enough," drawled Cook; Peek was grinning openly. Tiemann cuffed Skib’s cheek and then touched him more caressingly. Cowell put his head in his hands.
"You lads are really taking this seriously, aren't you? We need to keep the news about the King strictly confidential. Nobody outside this circle should know.” Cowell glared at Cook, who tried his best to keep his expression innocent. “I know someone shared this information with Journeyman Archuleta, but in retrospect it’s no harm for the lad to know. You’re working closely enough with him as it is on the Chronomicon, something’s bound to slip.”
“Yes, about that.” Cook leaned forward. “We should move carefully with the Chronomicon study. You saw the spell actually works, but I’m not sure that flooding the journeyman with oracular visions is going to help.”
Cowell’s mouth quirked upwards. “Your solicitude for young Archuleta is commendable, Mr. Cook. I’m glad you raised it. I was going to suggest we try the scrying spell with you as songcaster in Archuleta’s place.”
*
Fortunately or unfortunately for Cook, the scrying spell didn’t work for him. The Anthemic ran through the same tempo configuration which had operated so spectacularly last Friday, to no avail.
When Archuleta showed up in the practice rooms after luncheon, still wide-eyed and pale from his encounter at the Opera the previous night with the Anachronist Christophe Daughtry, he suggested, “Let’s try both of us singing.”
They had to add another set of strings - Jackson’s - to balance for the extra vocals, and then the spell caught fire.
…And Cook saw a man who must be Archuleta’s father standing naked and bloody and holding down a small, double-headed bear in a cave, surrounded by his fellow worshipers, heard the rising chants calling forth their god, their Old One, out of the fire and the longest sleep…
They both saw the march of tanks crushing limbs and heads of soldiers, the hail of gunfire, the spray of arterial blood. Saw many limbs, things scrabbling in the dark, long grimy tentacles shifting in depths beneath the world.
Then the visions shifted, and they saw Leon Czolgosz in the press of the receiving line, President and Mrs McKinley approaching with their entourage, and then Czolgosz pulling away his handkerchief from his pistol and opening fire; the President falling, Ida McKinley screaming shrilly and almost inhumanly, Czolgosz singing, talent crackling through him for an instant before the President’s servicemen tackled him to the ground…
…And they jacked out of the spell together, arms around each other. It wasn’t clear which one of them was holding the other up.
Cook buried his wet face into Archuleta’s shoulder. “I, I think we need a moment,” he whispered to Cowell, which was how they ended up banished to the infirmary once more.
They lay in adjoining beds in the curtained dark, silent for a while.
Then, “No more of that spell,” Cook whispered fiercely. “We weren’t meant to know the future. Even if war is coming. Even if Anachronists of talent killed McKinley. We shouldn’t know.”
Arch said, tentatively, “About my father…Cook, I had better explain.”
“That your father worshipped the Elder Gods? It’s not that hard.” Cook held his hand out to Arch’s in the dark, and felt the lad’s warm fingers clasp his in a death grip. “Have to say, it kind of explains your distrust of technology.”
“I grew up in Utah, it’s not something you question. And I think my father feels that mankind can’t be trusted with its own destiny.”
“Well. Man’s cruelty to others repeats through history. I’m sure your father has reason to believe what he does.” Cook squeezed Arch’s hand. “But it’s not a reason to give up hope in mankind.”
They were silent for a long while, their hands linking them. Cook could hear Archuleta’s uneven breathing, was acutely aware of his own desire to climb into bed with Arch and kiss his fear away.
He stopped himself with some effort: Archuleta had just had a most distressing experience, and it would be a breach of trust to approach the lad at this time. There’d be occasion enough for that later when Arch was in full possession of his faculties. They just needed to stop trucking with that damned spell, which turned everything on its head.
*
House Nineteen, Wednesday, __ October 1901
Neither Fuller nor Cowell was too pleased at Cook’s refusal to try the scrying spell again; a reliable oracular spell would fetch top dollar amongst the highest circles.
Cook attempted to appease them by promising to ready the Anthemic for the secret royal visit to House and to the World’s Fair in Buffalo, and to see if there were other serviceable spells in the Chronomicon.
Accordingly, the Anthemic spent the next few days poring over the rest of the half-book. As far as they could tell, the forty or so pages contained many meandering, cautionary tales, strange illustrations and four and a half actual songs. Three seemed to pertain to breaking the time barrier - looking into the past, present, and, the one which Cook and Arch had triggered, the future.
The remaining two (or one and half) songs were about breaking barriers between worlds, if the narratives were anything to go by. One had a very complex chord structure designed for an 18-man band and seemed to summon assistance from the nether world - Cook looked up at this into Archuleta’s dark eyes, and remembered he’d taken the lad to watch Faust, where the Scholar had done this very thing.
The last half-song was scored for an organ, which was itself highly unusual - songcasters had discovered that keyboards were poor channels for the strings portion of fieldsong, and, through the ages, organs had traditionally lent themselves to un-grounded, vocals-centric church music rather than thaumaturgy.
There was a picture beside the spell: a sketch of a dome, with four entranceways at each cardinal point, and four statues in the entrances, and a silver pistol.
And the lyrics consisted of the repeated refrain:
To the temple, the King shall come. Before the mirror, the King shall bow. Under the moon, the King shall fall.
Cook was glad half the song appeared torn away. He didn’t relish trying to cast that one; from the look on Archuleta’s expressive face, it didn’t look like Arch would have been keen to try it, either.
*
That evening, the Anthemic Five returned to the Bowery in force. It was Peek’s first time in the Silo, and his mouth hung open for a good few minutes until Anderson brought him ale to occupy it.
The bartender, Maroulis, told them he hadn’t seen Daughtry or Lambert since last Thursday. Todd Smithson threw his big, inked arms around Cook and said, “I heard you lads were attacked after I passed you that message! I told the missus, we’re having nothin’ more to do with those Anarchists!”
“I don’t think the guys who attacked us were Anarchists,” Cook tried to say, but Smithson was hearing nothing of it.
“I told you the Anarchists were bad news,” Maroulis muttered darkly, and that was the note on which their evening ended, without mention of Cowell’s threat to turn the Silo inside out in search of rogue songcasters harbored on premises.
*
Saturday, __ October 1901
The following day, after waking from yet another nightmare, Cook decided he’d had enough of the studious and unnerving business of poring through the disturbing old grimoire. His team looked a little on edge - they were a field band, after all, and used to more action - and Archuleta was looking worn out, like he could do with some fresh air and sunshine and a day off.
Edward was scheduled to arrive secretly with his personal entourage in a week’s time. Cook told Cowell the lads would head to Buffalo and scope out the World’s Fair ahead of the King’s visit.
The Anthemic could have made a three-hour journey to the upstate town of Buffalo by railcar from the new glass and steel Grand Central Railway Station along Forty-Second Street, or the more leisurely steamer cruise up the Hudson. Instead, in the interests of saving traveling time, the Anthemic chose to board the Pierce Arrow-sponsored Exposition Airship which plied the exclusive airways between downtown York City and the World’s Fair Exposition site itself.
The Five and Journeyman Archuleta and boarded the first dirigible at eight o’clock from the low-rise dirigible platform at the stately Madison Square Gardens. They left their identifying insignia and instruments behind, although Tiemann would not be parted from his field guitar and could not disguise his clan tattoos and jewelry.
“I didn’t realize airship fares were so expensive!” Arch said to him, as they walked gingerly over the dirigible gangplank to the gondola.
Cook shrugged. “Companies do well out of it; it’s faster than the railroads, and they supposedly spend the money developing better safety in the air. Of course, we help them with the development - our commercial airborne song is pretty good, if I do say so myself. Come on.”
Archuleta looked nervous as he climbed carefully into the basket of the airship Arrow, and clung to his selected seat at the prow of the airship. Cook quelled his urge to take Arch’s hand; he knew his team would rib him mercilessly if he did so.
Peek and Anderson piled in alongside Cook, while Skib and Tiemann took seats at the aft section, no doubt so they could indulge in some hand-holding of their own en route.
The ground crew uncoupled the Arrow’s rigging, the airmen fired up all engines, and, in a flare of heat and light, the aviator took her up.
The Saturday morning air was crisp and clear, the smog and soot of the day yet to set in. The airship rose to just below cloud level, providing its occupants with an unparalleled view of the Southern Tier and the Hudson Valley. Cook felt his spirits lift like the colorful orange and blue silk stripes above their heads.
To his right, Peek was making some crack about the Finger Lakes region below and Anderson was rolling his eyes; to his right, Archuleta closed his eyes. Cook was struck by the purple shadows under the lad’s eyes.
“Not sleeping well, Arch?”
Arch jerked his eyes open. “I’m having the same dream, except it now also has in it President McKinley being shot. I think I scared Jason and the rest of the journeymen this morning.”
“Me too,” Cook whispered. “I thought getting out today might help.” He knew he should be trying to puzzle out what this meant, all the pieces were there for him, but for some reason Archuleta’s sleeplessness seemed to be of paramount concern. “Why don't you rest for a while? It's a long trip.”
Archuleta blinked slowly at him. Beneath them was the verdant eastern countryside; above them, the magnificent arc of the airship’s balloon and a cloudless sky.
Cook raised an eyebrow, and silently proffered his shoulder. Archuleta slept against it throughout the two hour ride.
Cook was sure that the other lads were making jokes just out of earshot, but he couldn’t take his eyes from Archuleta’s sleeping face.
*
Buffalo.
In October of 1901, the Pan-American World’s Fair Exposition was winding to a close. Its festivities had been clouded by McKinley’s assassination, but the Saturday crowds were still a sight to behold, and the mile-long expanse of its exhibitors was hitherto unforeseen in all the American States.
Archuleta, still dazed with sleep, seemed disbelieving that the bright new world on display was not some fantasyland to which he’d been transported by thaumaturgy. He stared at the Court of the Fountains as if it were an apparition: the magnificent stretch of the Esplanade with its surrounding chain of lakes, fountains, bridges, and arches, the plaza by the Sunken Gardens, and the great steam fountain at North Bay.
The World’s Fair set out to bring together technological inventions and advancements of the modern world, the state of the art from around the world - Tiemann was especially taken with the new electrical technology, and led the Anthemic purposefully into the Manufactures and Liberal Arts building and the Machinery and Transportation center.
Skib had to physically restrain Tiemann from purchasing the latest mechanical gadgets on sale at the merchandising stalls - “Neal, we have enough little devices with gears on, we don’t need another one that dispenses ink for your pens!”
“But I need new pens, also,” Tiemann complained, and Skib rolled his eyes.
After a quick lunch at the central parade, with the afternoon heat falling onto the Exposition grounds, the Anthemic belatedly headed over to the place of their mission, the Temple of Music.
The Temple’s Spanish-revival colors and octagonal dome were centered between the Rose Garden and the States Government Building, in line-of-sight of the Niagara Falls Turbine Tower.
Although the Temple had been designed for the main ceremonies of the World’s Fair, McKinley’s assassination onsite had clouded its luster, and there were no more than a handful of other visitors to its graceful halls.
A hush fell over the Anthemic as they walked under the intricately molded archway, under a sign in gold leaf with the emblem “MVSIC” in Roman characters. The great dome described a parabola in light blue hundreds of feet above the ground. The floor was inlaid with white and scarlet marble. There were rows and rows and rows of wooden seats: according to Anderson’s advertising card, the Temple could seat over 2,000 people.
Running against the north-eastern wall was a shiny gold and red panel depicting a mass of angels playing instruments. Against it was the largest pipe organ in all the American States, the long brass pipes stretching five or so times a man’s full height.
Cook walked over to the large instrument. It had been placed behind a velvet cordon as it was clearly not in service today, but he reached across the rope anyway and ran a hand over the rich, gold-inlaid wooden paneling, fingered the ivory keys.
“Cook,” someone said, tightly, behind him. Tiemann.
Cook turned, and saw the configuration of the hall from a wider perspective.
Around the hall: four cardinal points of the compass. Four entrance portals, each graced by an ornate sculpture. Echoing the last picture in the Chronomicon, before the half they had had been torn away from the half they didn’t have - the picture which illustrated the barrier-sundering spell scored for an organ.
The Anthemic were silent; Archuleta looked like he wanted to throw up. Cook just knew he was on the cusp of understanding, if he just thought about it enough, maybe, or had one more piece of the puzzle…
There was one certainty amid the mass of unknown: Edward was coming to the Temple of Music in the World’s Fair Exposition in a week’s time.
The apparently unlinked events of the last two weeks - Anarchists and Anachronists, rogue songcasters and Presidential assassins, the American half of the Chronomicon and the European half in the custody of the mysterious Captain von Ahlen - all seemed to run to this one event.
Bring to the temple the true King. It looked like Daughtry might get his wish.
*
York City.
"It's too dangerous!" Cook said to Cowell. He felt exhausted and unkempt. He hadn’t had supper, nor had he any desire to consume it - the return journey had been challenging, the rising air currents from the uncommonly hot day making for a rocky airship ride that had made half a dozen passengers hurl their lunch over the side.
Archuleta wasn’t accustomed to airborne travel, whether under his own steam or someone else’s, and he’d spent the entire journey green to the gills, clinging to the portside railing.
Anderson was probably the most unaffected, which was why he was at Cook’s side and in the line of fire for this crucial meeting with the House Nineteen triumvirate. Everyone else was seated in the armchairs the back of Fuller's study and trying to remain upright.
Cowell raised his eyebrows at Fuller, who sat in his high-backed chair and steepled his fingers.
“It’s a difficult call,” was what Fuller said, finally. “I do see where Mr. Cook is coming from.”
Cowell frowned. “My Lord, you can’t be serious. We’re considering telling His Majesty King Edward of the House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, `You’d best cancel your trip, we fear for your life at the hands of American Anarchists’?”
“Anachronists,” corrected Anderson.
Cowell ignored him. “My Lord - Simon - consider how foolish we’d look. We have no details, no evidence, nothing but speculation derived from an old songbook and Bowery bar rumor. On the strength of this, how can we deduce this has to do with the King?”
“I don't think we could do otherwise!” Cook made an effort not to shout, which was only partly successful. “I agree we know little that's concrete. But McKinley was assassinated in the Temple of Music, and everything we do know indicates that Edward may be in the same danger if he heads there himself.”
“`Because rogue songcasters desire to open the portal into another world’?” Cowell’s sarcasm could have cut new-manufactured steel. “I can see how that’ll go over in the Court of King James.”
Fuller placed his hands flat on the green, ink-stained leather surface of his desk. "I've heard enough. Mr. Cook, your concerns are noted, as are yours, Master Cowell. We'll tell His Majesty's entourage that we've heard rumors that a World's Fair trip might be a concern. We'll only supply more details if they ask. Then this places the responsibility for the decision in their hands and takes it from ours."
He looked at Cook and Cowell, and they both nodded grudgingly.
Cowell said, "We need to decide what we tell Sony-Bertelsmann."
Fuller nodded. "That we do. Tell them we've discovered the Silo's harboring unlicensed Anarchist songcasters. Let their field band turn the place inside out."
Cook sat up in horror, but it was Anderson who said, loudly, "They'll raze the place to the ground!"
"What if they do?" Fuller's voice was ice.
Cook tried to think; behind him there was rustling, he knew Skib had placed a warning hand on Tiemann's arm. Maroulis wasn't an Anarchist, but he needed to be warned - Cook needed to get word to the Smithsons, as well -
Jackson's deep voice drawled, "Hardly seems fair, Simon."
"No, but neither are we responsible for Stringenfeld and his attack dogs." Fuller looked at Jackson's stoic face, and then at Cook's and Anderson's outraged expressions. "I have to report to Sony, gentlemen, it's not negotiable."
When they stumbled out of Fuller's study, the first thing Cowell said to the lads was, "Don't even think of going out there tonight."
Tiemann snarled, "As if you're going to stop me," and Skib said, "Neal."
Cook held up his hands for order - his crew wasn't going to go renegade on him, damn it. At least not by themselves. "Look, Cowell, we all know some of those folks. Jackson, come on, this is a complete farce."
Cowell frowned, and into the stillness, it was Archuleta who said, in a voice that shook, "Do we burn unlicensed songcasters now in York City?"
The lad looked very pale, as well he might. Cook put a hand on Archuleta's arm and felt the heat shivering under Arch’s skin.
"Not all the time," Jackson replied dryly. "Gentlemen, you've had a long day. Take your supper and take to your beds, we'll handle things from here. Mr. Cowell and I will make sure Mrs. Smithson isn't part of the Sony action."
The Anthemic looked at each other, in the wake of Jackson and Cowell's departure. "How long do you think they have?" Peek asked cautiously, and there was the question: a day or two at best.
Cook said, "Showers first, lads, then supper. We meet in the morning to discuss after we've had a night's sleep under our belts. Arch, you can come too."
*
Cook should have been more surprised when, three hours later, he ran into Anderson, Tiemann and Skib at the west gate, the one which was never manned by footmen. The lads were all in anonymous black, instruments at the ready.
"Damn it, Neal, I told you boys to wait for my cue!"
"The same way you're waiting, ain't that right?" Tiemann returned. He put his hand to the gate. "Wasn't gonna involve the kid - our airborne song will work without Peek's drum platform, though Anderson will have hell's own time filling the extra gaps now we have you."
"Less talk," said Cook; he'd planned on flagging down a buggy, but this would obviously be faster.
Once they were out in the muck of Fifth in the dead of night, Anderson's searing bass line filled the frigid air. "Jack in then," he said, and the Anthemic One, Two and Three launched into their airborne song.
*
Fifth Avenue.
Archuleta wasn't sure whether he'd taken leave of his senses. He couldn't understand why he had stolen out of the safety of House after Cook and the others, why he was here on the dark, filthy streets of Manhattan, jogging after the accelerating figures of the Anthemic's Four. There was no way he could keep up with the airborne songcasters; already their black clothes were vanishing rapidly into the night sky and the fog.
He had an inkling where they were headed, though.
A buggy rattled past, and he hailed it, marveling at his own daring. On Coney Island, Cook had flagged down a cab in exactly this manner.
"The Bowery, please," he said, and the hansom driver turned to stare at him.
"It's gonna be wild, kid. Word is somethin' bad's going down. You sure you wanna head out there?"
Arch pulled coins from his pocket. "Please just drive," he said firmly.
The streets of lower Manhattan had looked so different in the daytime - clean and straight, skyscrapers and old-style brownstones rising side by side in a progressive pattern, the old giving way gracefully to the new. A shining future city peopled with gracious, well-dressed men and women, that had unrolled its wonders to him from his vantage point at Cook's elegant side, under a clear blue sky.
Now: muck and filth everywhere, rubbish clogging the gutters, dirty-faced urchins and staggering drunks, thick steam rising from holes in the sidewalk, gaslight making ominous shadows out of the twisting alleyways and tenement buildings. The buggy's wheels splashed through the damp roads, the horse's hooves kicked up dirt, passersby shouted and cursed and someone threw a clod of earth at the window, making Arch flinch.
Archuleta had scant time to ponder the fool's errand he had embarked on. In no time at all the driver pulled up onto a street crowded with pushing, shoving, shouting people, and said, "I ain't goin' further, boyo. You want off, it's now."
"Why? What's happening?" Arch fumbled for his purse, tried to stare out of the window at what the crowd was doing, what they were gaping at, or trying to get away from.
"Can't you see?" the cabby muttered, taking the coins from Arch. He nodded up the street, where a faint orange glow could be seen to the fog over one of the squalid alleys. "Somethin's on fire."
*
The Bowery.
The bastards hadn’t even given them the day or two Cook thought they’d had.
The lads from the downtown fire department were doing what they could, but it looked like the Silo was a lost cause, together with the other bars flanking it; the firefighters were now merely trying to contain the blaze and stop it from spreading throughout Free Man’s Alley. Smoke mixed with great gouts of steam from the hoses of water pumped in from the nearby fire hydrant.
Cook had lost track of his people: he saw Anderson with buckets of water, Tiemann and Anderson carrying possessions and children alongside grim, grimy-faced men and women with winter coats thrown over their pajamas, evacuating the nearby buildings in the night.
Cook himself felt frozen to the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder with other gawkers, staring at the crackling husk of the Silo. He’d done this. He’d put this in motion, and he’d been too damned late to stop it.
Someone reached out to grasp his arm. Cook turned, half-expecting the sour, vicious features of Malcolm Young from Sony’s first field band, Direct Current, and instead looked into the bright blue eyes of the Anarchist showman, Lambert.
“Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Cook,” Lambert drawled. His skin was devoid of cunning adornment, plain street clothes covered in soot, but he held himself as if he needed no other embellishment to look of import and indeed he didn’t. He seemed to be wearing heeled boots that made him substantially taller than Cook. “Come to gloat?”
“Look,” muttered Cook, “I didn’t know they were serious about this. I came when I heard, I came to help…”
“Too late now,” Lambert said simply, and left his hand on Cook’s arm as they watched the flames together.
Cook swallowed. “Do you know…do you know if anyone was inside when they torched the place?”
Lambert shook his head. “I saw Maroulis in the beginning when the Sony fieldcasters came and rousted the bar, but he made himself scarce fairly early on. They took away a couple of the patrons with some talent: I saw them get Richardson and one of the French lads, Matthew Giraud. And then after that…” Lambert shrugged. “The Silo started burning.”
Cook felt lightheaded from the smoke and sick to the stomach. “I’m gonna kill Young and that damn Lord Stringenfield.”
“Ah, save your strength,” said Lambert, not unkindly. “The Guild doesn’t know anything, and after a couple of days they’ll let the others go. Richardson and Giraud are harmless, the Guild would gain nothing by injuring them. Actually, they could be of use to Sony - both of them are strong singers, and given a House that’ll sign them there’s a good chance they’ll get their licenses.”
“And the people made homeless, the lives this destroyed?” Cook struggled to keep his ire in check.
“No more important than defending our shores from the Old Ones from over the sea,” said Lambert in his beautiful singer’s voice, and it was as if the world shifted a fraction from its axis.
“What do you mean?” Cook asked, very slowly.
Lambert’s eyes were the color of the deep ocean. “The less the Guild know, the less they can interfere. But you, David Cook, you can make a difference, you can help us. You know who’s coming to our shores, coming to the Temple of Music. Or, you might say, what’s coming.”
Cook saw again the two-headed bear god, things scrabbling in the dark, long grimy tentacles, a President falling. Before he could say, “How do you know?”, Lambert’s eyes flickered over his shoulder; he said, “Mr. Smithson, Miss White,” and big Todd Smithson reached out to grab hold of Cook.
“David, our home’s been barricaded, the officers say it’s not safe, I can’t find Carly, Brooke and I have been looking everywhere, you have to help us -”
“Steady, Todd,” Cook said, offering his arm to Miss White, Mrs. Smithson’s soprano co-star, shivering under an ermine-trimmed blue velvet cloak. “I think I know where Carly might be. Master Jackson said he would look out for her.”
“Thank God,” said Smithson.
Miss White drew away from Cook, glaring at him. “`Master Jackson said’ - Mr. Cook, you knew about this?”
Cook couldn’t meet her accusing blue eyes. “I came to warn you. I thought I had more time. We need to get back to House Nineteen, they’ll have taken her there.” The soprano hesitated, and Cook said, “Miss White, it’s not safe for you to be out here by yourself.”
“I’m no safer with you!” she snapped, but Smithson said, “Brooke, please,” and after a moment she nodded her blonde head in assent.
“Let’s go,” said Cook; he hoped he could get a cab from further up the Broad Way. No idea where the other lads were, but they could take care of themselves.
Over Miss White’s shoulder, he saw the last, warning flash of Lambert’s sapphire eyes.
“Help us,” Lambert said, quietly. “Kill the breed of Kings, or the Old Ones will walk again.”
*
The smoke made Archuleta’s eyes water and his throat burn. He’d pushed his way through the crowds, one part of which seemed to be jostling aimlessly towards the fire, the other part rushing frantically away.
A toddler fell to his knees in the dirt beside Arch; automatically, he stooped and snatched the wailing, filthy boy up into his arms before a pack of bigger urchins and someone’s horse cart could run him over.
“Hey, little fellow! Don’t cry, it’s just a scratch!”
“Mamma,” bawled the mite; Archuleta looked frantically into the milling throng for his missing parent, wondering if it might be taken amiss if he were to shout, “Anyone lose a baby?” Fortunately, the boy’s mother surfaced from the crowd with a relieved cry; the boy held his arms out, and Arch surrendered the child gratefully.
When he turned around, he looked into the familiar face of Christophe Daughtry.
He’d last seen Daughtry in formal Opera dress. Daughtry was now in workman’s black, cap pulled low over his bald head.
Daughtry was supporting another man under his arms, a slighter, blond man, no taller than Archuleta himself; when Arch took a step towards them, the man’s knees seemed to give way and Daughtry had to hold him up.
“Archuleta,” said Daughtry. He looked exhausted. “Please, help us. My friend is hurt; I need to get him away -”
Archuleta hastened to Daughtry’s side. He saw one side of the blond man’s face was covered in blood; Daughtry swept the man up into his arms with some difficulty.
“Oh no! How did this happen?”
“The Guild came into the Silo, Lewison tried to stop them, and they struck him down.” Daughtry’s face twisted in a grimace. “We were loading our things into a cart, but I'm afraid the horse may have spooked and bolted..."
"Where did you tie the cart up?" Archuleta asked, like he knew the City at all or knew what he was doing.
Miracle of miracles, the cart was still in the yard, the bay horse placid in the stalls. Arch climbed into the back, settling himself amongst trunks and boxes and paper-wrapped packages, and Daughtry handed over his charge.
"Take care of him," Daughtry said, and Arch pillowed the blond man's head in his lap as Daughtry moved away to release the horse and lead him out of the yard.
The man stirred as the cart jerked into motion. Archuleta pulled out his pocket handkerchief and dabbed cautiously at the bloody face.
The head wound actually didn’t look too bad; Archuleta had only the vaguest idea of practical medicine from his boyhood on his father’s farm, but the gash seemed to have stopped bleeding, and the man flinched under his touch, rousing himself with a gasp of pain.
“Can you tell me your name?” Archuleta asked. This was what he’d heard you had to ask patients who had taken head injuries in case their wits had deserted them.
“I’m Lewison,” the man said, slowly, his light eyes a glaze of pain. “What happened - where am I -?”
“We’re in a cart, headed somewhere safe.” Arch tried to sound reassuring. “You’re free, the Guild haven’t captured you.”
Lewison closed his eyes for a moment, then said, tightly, “Christophe? The man who - “
“Mr. Daughtry is driving,” Archuleta said, and Lewison’s face softened with relief.
“Thank the Gods,” he said. “We’d be lost without him. We’ve been waiting for so long for him to come to us from over the sea, to bring us to the light again.”
Archuleta patted Lewison’ shoulder awkwardly, wondering if Lewison’s wits had in fact been somewhat addled by his injury. “I know,” he said in what he hoped was a comforting voice, the cart rattling over cobblestones into the night.
They rode for almost an hour; Archuleta wasn’t clear about the passage of time, sitting in the swaying cart with Lewison, the dark sky rushing past. He thought he saw the curve of the Hudson River, and then there was greenery around them, and the cart finally came to a halt on an unmarked path in a leafy, shadowy park.
Lewison said, “We’re here,” and Archuleta helped him struggle to a sitting position.
Daughtry came around the siding of the cart; he held out his arms and Lewison climbed shakily down into them. Archuleta was unaccountably moved at the softness on the big man’s face.
“Ah, you’re yourself again. I was concerned you’d taken serious injury -” Daughtry’s voice trailed off, he couldn’t continue.
Lewison clasped him around the shoulders, reaching up. Archuleta scrambled from the cart, blushing a little; he looked away to give them some privacy, and tried to take stock of his surroundings.
They were in a quiet park on the bank of the Hudson River, trees and terraced gardens stretching around them. Behind him there was a huge granite and marble structure that looked like a tomb; over its entrance, two reclining figures and the carved words “Let Us Have Peace”.
“Where are we, Mr. Daughtry?” Archuleta asked curiously at last.
Daughtry responded: “This is the tomb of your President Ulysses S. Grant, who was buried here by the wish of the grieving people of the State of York. The park is closed to the public now, but I know a way in.”
Archuleta followed Daughtry and Lewison through the dense grass around the structure, under the monumental main staircase. Set into one of the columned walls was a narrow grate, which Daughtry unlocked, using one of a fistful of keys. A passage led down through a narrow terrace and a door which opened into the tomb itself.
Archuleta's eyes opened wide. They stepped into a grand sanctuary, guarded by imposing busts of Civil War generals. On the walls were detailed commemorative mosaic murals depicting scenes of President Grant's Civil War victories, and soaring sculptures bearing emblems reading "Victory" and "Peace". The space formed a large central oculus, revealing on the lower level a massive granite sarcophagus of the President himself.
"Grant served in the Mexican War, which oppressed our cousins from across the border," said Daughtry soberly. "And of course he was instrumental in the American Civil War, where hundreds of thousands of Americans lost their lives. This monument should remind us about the atrocities of war and men’s monstrous cruelty. It's a fitting site for those of us who want to bring back the old ways."
Archuleta frowned at Daughtry; he didn't understand. Instead of explaining further, Daughtry walked over to the bust of Civil War general William T. Sherman, fiddled with the base, and an adjoining flagstone slid to one side, exposing a dark stairwell.
Daughtry helped Lewison to descend; Archuleta brought up the rear. The stairs ended in a corridor that was pitch black. "Careful here, feel your way along the walls," said Daughtry, and Arch did so for many long minutes.
Eventually, a light flared in the darkness; Daughtry had opened the door at the end of the corridor. Archuleta hurried along, and found himself in a chamber lit by torches.
Sheer stone walls and floors, a couple of paintings in raw, bold colors, instruments lining a low rock shelf. On a long couch sat a bearded man with long, wild hair almost down to his waist, whom Arch didn't recognize, and a dark-haired, clean-shaven man, whom Arch did.
"Why, it's Journeyman Archuleta," said Constantine Maroulis, from the racetrack.
"He came to the Bowery to see if he could help," said Daughtry, assisting Lewison over to the couch. "If he hadn't stopped, Lewison and I might not have made it out here."
The bearded man rose and fetched a basin and cloth and started to tend Lewison' wound.
"I knew he was a courageous lad," said Maroulis. "Please be welcome here, Journeyman. Will you take some wine?"
Archuleta finally found his voice. "What is this place?"
Maroulis poured wine for him anyway, as well as for Daughtry and Lewison, setting rough goblets before them. "Boris, you want to answer the lad?" he asked. "Archuleta, this is Lieutenant Bice, who oversees our research intelligence."
The tall, bearded man put the bowl to one side, looked at Archuleta with thoughtful eyes. "This is the place where we Anachronists in York City now gather, under Grant's Tomb. This chamber was installed at the behest of Mrs. Julia Dent Grant, who was an intimate of Mrs. Ida Saxton McKinley’s and sympathetic to our cause. Our number has met here for years - and now the Guild decided to torch the Silo and target unlicensed songcasters, we had nowhere left to go."
Bice shrugged. "As for who we Anachronists are - we're one of the singing orders of the Elder Ones. Like your father, we guard the Kings of the Gods, descendants of the Old Ones who used to rule the world."
Maroulis leaned forward, trying to explain. "We fight to counter the Anarchists, our enemies, who seek to slay the Kings. The Anarchists used Czolgosz to kill McKinley." His dark eyes held Arch's soberly. "They'll try to kill Edward, King of England, and descendant of Old Ones, when he comes to visit the Temple of Music in seven days' time."
And how did Maroulis know about King Edward? Archuleta said, "Wait. President McKinley was descended from Old Ones, that's why he was killed?"
Lieutenant Bice said, "No, the Anarchists' research was flawed. It wasn’t the President. It’s Ida Saxton McKinley who is descended from the Western strain. One of our founding members revealed her real nature to her and explained the reason for the occasional tremors which overtake her. When her human form passes, her true nature will manifest."
Archuleta must have looked skeptical, because Maroulis said to him, "Would you like to see?"
"Blake may not be up to it," Daughtry began, but Lewison pushed up to a sitting position and a hissing rhythmic beat issued forth from his throat, strange and sinuous. After a moment, Bice rose and walked over to the ledge to pick up a guitar and strummed an unearthly string line that pulled the melody together.
Daughtry sang a rich A note and held his hands out to Arch.
Arch recognized this - the scrying spell from the Chronomicon. He hesitated: did he really want to get involved with these people and the Old Ones they served?
When he realized he was already involved, he took Daughtry’s hand and matched the steady A.
"Through the circle of time we soar/Open our eyes and let us see tomorrow..."
And Archuleta saw: the Old Ones bestriding the earth, grave in their majesty. The grief of men when the Gods left, leaving behind Kings and Queens who held of the Gods’ seed: the second, secret head of the Great Bear, the many joints of the Queen, the shivering stillness of pale Anabis of the Antarctic.
He saw these Royals who lived for years in the shadows, saw the secret orders who protected them, the Anachronists through the ages. Saw Ida McKinley at her husband's side, powerless to protect him from the rogue Anarchist singer whose target should have been herself.
And then, the song shifting, he saw again tanks of metal like rolling death through the streets, men dying in freezing trenches and filth. Saw lads his brother's age with limbs blown off, lying on beachheads and trapped in metal tubes under the sea.
In one corner of the world older men and women were herded into camps according to the color of their skin and gassed like animals. In another corner, girls who could be his little sisters were violated and then staked in the sun.
And finally, he saw the world shaking itself apart in the shape of a hideous mushroom cloud.
Everything he knew, family and friends, teachers and the Guild, everyone he loved, his mom, his siblings - Cook - ending in fire.
When Arch returned to himself, he was shivering; he felt wetness on his face, felt sick to his stomach. The spell song from the book he'd found, the song that Cook had sung with him - it said war was coming, and that the world, the world was ending.
He found he'd collapsed onto the sofa. Someone was holding his arms: Maroulis.
"Are you all right, David?" Maroulis helped him drink from the goblet of wine; Arch coughed a little, but did feel somewhat better afterwards. Eventually he sat up and leaned against the hard back of the sofa.
Maroulis continued, "This song is one of the key weapons we have, passed on through generations. The other songs were lost to us after our last great war with the Anarchists of Europe, when the Chronomicon was torn in half and both sections hidden from our enemies."
Archuleta couldn't speak. He couldn't get the images from the song out of his head.
Daughtry was sitting on Arch's other side; he now touched Arch on the shoulder. "You have seen the horrors to come. There'll indeed be a great war, many people will die, and then mankind will exterminate itself forty years hence in a second great war if we let it. My country'll be at the center of both wars. I want to stop it, if I can."
Arch looked into his eyes; he believed Daughtry.
Bice said, "This is why we wish to petition the true King to agree to open the portal between worlds, and, if he wishes it, to let his fathers, the Old Ones, rule again. The middle song in the Chronomicon turns the lock."
"What does the song do?" asked Arch, finding his voice at last.
"Two things. First, the Anarchists are very, very powerful. They have a man named Captain Lambert, who is the strongest songcaster in York City, stronger even than you are, Journeyman. The song will help us defeat Lambert and the Anarchists, and save the King's life."
Bice closed his eyes for a moment, then continued, "The second thing: if the King so desires, we can open a portal between this world and the next, so that His Majesty can see his fathers, the Old Ones, again."
"But my half of the book just talks about the portal," said Arch, numbly.
Bice said, "The part that tells how to defeat the Anarchists is in the half of the book that Captain Daughtry brought from France. The last component, the Silver Key, is with Captain von Ahlen, who's coming soon to the American States. With the Key we can finally defeat the Anarchists and bring the Old Ones back.”
Daughtry leaned forward. "So, will you help us, David? The choice to bring back the Old Ones will be the King's, always and forever."
Archuleta looked into Daughtry's deep eyes, seeing the world ending in a blaze of light, mushrooming to the heavens. Seeing his family consumed in flames, everyone he cared about; seeing Cook falling, burning, dying.
Help the Anachronists save the King, and bring back the Old Ones? Help prevent a war in which everybody died? This was what the Chronomicon was meant for: this was what the spells and visions and the Bowery burning tonight had brought him to.
"All right," Arch said in a voice that didn't sound like his.
Daughtry closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said, and Lewison leaned over Daughtry to clasp Archuleta's hand.
"We'll let you know when it’s time," said Maroulis. "Why don't you stop with us tonight, son? In the morning, we'll take you back to House Nineteen."
Prologue & Cast of Characters : Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Epilogue, Footnotes & Full Cast list (spoilers)