The Dragons of Winter Read online

  Contents

  List of Illustrations

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part One: The War of the Caretakers

  Chapter One:

  The Mission

  Chapter Two:

  The Bungled Burglary

  Chapter Three:

  The Rings of Jules Verne

  Chapter Four:

  The Ruby Armor of T’ai Shan

  Part Two: The Chronic Argonauts

  Chapter Five:

  Days of Future Past

  Chapter Six:

  The Anachronic Man

  Chapter Seven:

  The Messenger

  Chapter Eight:

  The Last Caretaker

  Part Three: The Mystorians.

  Chapter Nine:

  Through the Looking-Glass

  Chapter Ten:

  The Hotel d’Ailleurs.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Lower Oxford.

  Chapter Twelve:

  The Cabal

  Part Four: The Winter World.

  Chapter Thirteen:

  The Dragons of Winter

  Chapter Fourteen:

  The Unforgotten

  Chapter Fifteen:

  The Sphinx.

  Chapter Sixteen:

  The Last Dragon

  Part Five: The Corinthian Legend

  Chapter Seventeen:

  The Goblin Market

  Chapter Eighteen:

  The Sorceress.

  Chapter Nineteen:

  The Unicorn

  Chapter Twenty:

  The First King

  Part Six: Mysterious Islands

  Chapter Twenty-One:

  The House on the Borderlands

  Chapter Twenty-Two:

  The Furies

  Chapter Twenty-Three:

  Choices

  Chapter Twenty-Four:

  The Ancient of Days.

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About James A. Owen

  For John Munden

  List of Illustrations

  The girls were evenly matched, and fought to a draw . . .

  He was hooded, but his face was clearly visible . . .

  . . . the vehicle roared away, scattering gravel as the tires spun.

  He didn’t rise to greet them, but waved them over . . .

  “So,” said Twain . . . “who’s up for an adventure?”

  . . . a hunched, shabby-looking man was muttering to himself and cradling a rock . . .

  The Cheshire cat began to slowly appear a piece at a time . . .

  . . . in the middle sat a beautiful woman in a blue silk dress . . .

  She raised her chin in acknowledgment of her guests . . .

  It was appointed to resemble a private club . . .

  . . . atop a ladder, was a woman who could only be the librarian . . .

  The Cabal seldom met in full quorum . . .

  “Call me Jack.”

  Ringed about the high canyon walls were the great, skeletal remains . . .

  . . . these people were far from being Lloigor. They were simple but happy . . .

  “Greetings, Moonchild,” Azer said . . . “What do you desire?”

  . . . the Goblin Market was a cacophony of ornate wagons, huts, tents . . .

  . . . a woman, tall and regal . . . with the bearing and manner of a queen.

  Standing at one of the tall windows . . . the Chronographer of Lost Times waited . . .

  The regent rose to his full height, which was greater than it had first appeared.

  “If you want to surrender gracefully now, Dee . . . no man here will think the less of you . . .”

  . . . in all three faces, the eyes blazed with the flames of vengeance.

  . . . hanging next to his own . . . was a full-size portrait of a woman.

  There, in the near distance, was the City of Jade.

  Acknowledgments

  Every successful creative venture is in some way a collaboration, and that’s more true of books than almost anything else I can think of (with the possible exception of big-budget films). I could produce a book entirely on my own, and the result would probably be pretty good—but to produce a work of great quality requires the help of many hands and the labor of many minds, and without all of the people who have helped me with this book it would be a far lesser work of quality than it is.

  Valerie Shea, our intrepid copyeditor, never fails to astonish me with her efforts on these books. I quite honestly do not understand how her mind works in the way it does. By the time the manuscript gets to her, my editors and I have gone through the pages several times—yet she always, always manages to find a hundred ways to improve the clarity and intent of my writing. On a technical level she’s flawless and, frankly, a bit intimidating. But at the end of the process, I find I am grateful for her and her work, and I’m very glad she is as good at her job as she is.

  Jeremy Owen is my alpha beta reader. He is the first person to see every drawing as I sketch it, and the first person to listen as I work out difficult scenes. Because he manages the Coppervale Studio, he’s always present as I create the books—but he also has a more active hand in how the work is developed than anyone else. Visually, he is responsible for the clarity and authenticity of almost everything in the illustrations. He finds all of the reference I ask for, pencils in details, and often revises layouts to help make sure they come out just as we intended. He also takes care of the myriad little details of operating the studio, which allows me to focus on the work itself. I literally could not create these books without him.

  Navah Wolfe remains my best reader. Her suggestions have more than once transformed the nature of an entire book, the direction of a storyline, and the choices of the characters—and in doing so she has reshaped the series itself, for which I am very, very thankful. David Gale remains the driving force behind our efforts. He is my ideal editor, and I consider his insightful decision to take on this series as the best thing that has happened in my career.

  Jenica Nasworthy, Laurent Linn, Paul Crichton, and Siena Koncsol have been invaluable in making sure this book reads well and looks even better, and that people know where to get it. I work better because I know they have my back. Jon Anderson and Justin Chanda have been incredibly supportive on the publishing end, and I sleep better because I know they have my back too.

  My attorney, Craig Emanuel, is, in a word, steadfast. He and my manager, Julie Kane-Ritsch at the Gotham Group, have consistently looked after the business end of things with heart and dedication. My friends Brett, Daanon, and Shannon have looked out for me personally in ways large and small, and sometimes in ways I didn’t know I needed until they were there, offering to help, to support, or just to listen. And my family, Cindy, Sophie, and Nathaniel, are the reasons I do what I do—but without all of these people, I would not do it nearly as well. I am grateful for them all.

  Prologue

  Pulling his trench coat tighter against the cold drizzle of the Northampton rain, the Zen Detective sighed and checked his watch. His appointment was late, as usual. He wondered how people who seemed to spend half their lives consulting their watches could ever be late for anything.

  Their watches were not like his, which was a Swiss-made, gold-plated chronograph with a pleasant little chime that played Rachmaninoff on the hour and half hour. The watches carried by his clients were less like watches and more like magic devices that could do anything asked of them. He had witnessed the watches being spoken to, as if they operated as a sort of two-way radio. Once, he saw a watch actually project an image of a creature that was all but tangible. And then there seemed to be their most frequent use, which was enabling the bearer to disappear
into thin air. All of which shouldn’t have detracted from their ability to keep good time, which was why he wondered how his clients always seemed to be running late.

  He was still wondering when the trio of gentlemen appeared behind him, silent as a whisper. “Hello, Aristophanes,” one of them said softly. “Well met.”

  “Hades!” the detective exclaimed under his breath, half in shock and half in relief. “I hate when you do that. And I told you—I’d prefer to be called Steve, if you don’t mind.”

  The three men ignored his remark and simply stood there, waiting. It was annoying, the way they played these childish games that seemed to do little more than test his patience. Still, he could ill afford to lose their business. Work in his profession was scarce enough to come by as it was, never mind the fact that his being just a shade lighter than purple, as well as being a Homo sapiens unicorn, always complicated client relations. Even when he wore a trench coat with his collar up and kept the horn on his forehead filed down, just taking a meeting was risky.

  Finally the Zen Detective broke the silence. “Well?” he said gruffly. “You wanted to hire me?”

  “Yes,” one of the men said. “You know of the Caretakers, correct?”

  The detective nodded. “They’re the ones with that book,” he said. “That bloody big atlas, or whatever it is.”

  “Indeed,” said the speaker. “You’ve worked for them before, I believe.”

  “Just the Frenchman, and only now and again,” came the reply. “Why?”

  “They’re going to want to hire you again,” the second man said. “They will want you to find something . . . special. We simply want you to take the job. And to succeed.”

  The Zen Detective peered at them. Easy job requests got his hackles up, as well as his radar for a scam. “Is that it? Just take someone else’s job? That’s all you want me to do?”

  “There is one other matter we’d like you to deal with, Aristophanes,” the second speaker said. He moved closer to the Zen Detective and spoke softly into the other’s ear. The detective’s eyes grew wide, and against his will his mouth flew open as he uttered a loud, particularly vulgar curse.

  “You can’t be serious!” he said in disbelief, stepping back and looking at each of the three men in turn.

  As before, none of the men replied, but simply stared impassively back at him.

  Each time the three men had hired the Zen Detective, he always had the unnerving impression that they were not the same three men as the time before, even though they appeared to look almost alike.

  No, he thought— exactly alike.

  “There are only eleven personages still walking the Earth who knew, firsthand, those who were driven from Eden,” the first speaker finally said. “Only thirteen more who were alive before the Flood, and fewer than a hundred who have memories of the Inversion that occurred when the Erl-King was born in Bethlehem.

  “You live among a very privileged group, Aristophanes,” he continued, and the tone made the statement more a threat than a compliment. “Don’t give anyone cause to lessen that number. You are too valuable to lose.”

  The Zen Detective looked up sharply. “Better men, and greater beasts, than you have tried. Killing me is harder than you think, and if you doubt my words, you’re welcome to try.”

  “I didn’t say we’d try to kill you,” the speaker replied, “I said you were too valuable to lose. And you should know that death is always preferable to exile.”

  Aristophanes held the speaker’s gaze for a long moment, then dropped his eyes and nodded once, then again. “Immortality,” he muttered, more to himself than the others. “It’s a mug’s game.”

  “No one lives forever, Aristophanes,” the shadowy figure said as he twirled the dials on his black watch and disappeared. “Not even Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographica .”

  PART ONE

  The War of the Caretakers

  The girls were evenly matched, and fought to a draw . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Mission

  “It’s amazing how productive dead writers can be,” John commented to Jack as he scanned the shelves in the great library at Tamerlane House. “Some of our colleagues have been more productive after their natural lives than they were beforehand.”

  “I would chance a guess that having died brings a lot of focus and clarity to one’s goals,” Jack ventured. “Not that I’m planning on testing that myself any time soon.”

  “Take a look at this,” John said, removing a fat volume bound in bright red leather and handing it to his friend. “It’s Hawthorne’s book Septimius Felton. I never realized he’d finished it.”

  “Finished it, and written a sequel,” a familiar voice answered. The two men turned to see their friend Charles at the door, nodding enthusiastically as he strode into the room, arms outstretched. “He’s having a bit of trouble with the third one, though. Twain and I are helping him work through it.”

  John’s self-control was such that he managed to bite his tongue before blurting out what he wanted to say, but Jack was startled enough by Charles’s appearance that he actually dropped the book he was holding.

  “Charles!” Jack sputtered. “Your hair . . . it’s—it’s—”

  “Purple,” said John.

  “Burgundy, actually,” Charles said, preening slightly. “Rose helped me color it. Isn’t it striking?”

  “It’s purple,” Jack said, still staring openmouthed as he bent to pick up the book. “Whatever possessed you, Charles? That’s hardly a becoming color for an editor.”

  “Possibly,” said Charles, “but it’s also the exact shade of burgundy as Queen Victoria’s throne. I have it on good authority. And besides, I’m not really just an editor anymore, am I? More of a soldier of fortune.”

  Jack and John traded disbelieving glances, and the latter asked, “So, ah, who told you that was the color of Victoria’s throne?”

  “Geoffrey Chaucer.”

  “Mmm,” John hummed. “I see.”

  It was traditional, in the old-fraternal-order sort of way, for the Caretakers Emeriti to prank the newer members of their secret society. The problem was that every time John, Jack, and Charles had been present at Tamerlane House, it had been in a crisis situation, and there was no time or inclination for tomfoolery. But now that Charles was a full-time resident, John suspected that the Elder Caretakers—specifically Chaucer—were having a bit of fun.

  “Rose helped me do it,” Charles said again as he ran a hand through his full head of hair. “She changes hers on a weekly basis.”

  “I’d noticed,” said John, “but she’s still a teenager, and you’re . . .”

  “Dead,” Charles said. “But still optimistic about the future.”

  Jack laughed, and both he and John shook Charles’s hands. “Fair enough,” John said. “We’re always happy to see you, old fellow.”

  The friends had gotten accustomed to having easy access to Tamerlane House through the use of Shakespeare’s Bridge in the garden at the Kilns. Despite the pain they all still felt over the loss of the Archipelago, it was a comfort to be able to simply cross over and be in the company of the other Caretakers, and thus remind themselves of the value of the work they had done—and the work they still had to do.

  Jack was busying himself with preparations for the eventual establishment of a reborn Imperial Cartological Society, including Apprentice and Associate Caretaker programs. It would have to remain an underground project until the Caretakers were truly ready to make it more public, but he and John had already begun actively recruiting the next generations of Caretakers, and were deliberately making it more of a global endeavor than it had been under Verne.

  “I see you’ve found Nathaniel’s book,” a voice whined from the doorway. It was Lord Byron, a disgraced Caretaker who was tolerated only reluctantly by the rest of them because of Poe’s insistence that he be included. “It isn’t as good as he thinks it is, you know. It was better when it was unfinished.”


  “Say, George,” Jack said, turning to address Byron, whose real name was George Gordon. “I noticed that there’s nothing new in your section of the library. Has inspiration finally failed you?”

  “Hardly,” Byron sniffed. “I have more inspiration in my little toe than you have in your whole body. I don’t need to write to demonstrate that—my life is my art.”

  “You’re dead, you idiot,” said Sir James Barrie as he entered the room, accompanied by Charles’s apprentice Caretaker, the badger Fred.

  “Death is but a new adventure . . . ,” Byron began before the others’ laughter cut him off. “What?” he said, a blush rising in his cheeks. “What’s funny about that?”

  “I’m sorry, George,” Jack said, giving the poet’s shoulder an appreciative squeeze. “All I meant was that I’ve often wondered why someone of your talent never applied it to some grand epic, or an ongoing work of proportions worthy of your ability. That’s all.”

  “Oh,” said Byron, who wasn’t certain whether that was actually an apology. “I simply never found the right tale for that kind of treatment.”

  “I thought Bert might be with you,” John said, shaking Barrie’s hand. “Does he know we’re here?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Barrie answered. “He’s been keeping to himself lately, but I’m sure he’ll be along shortly. The war council was his idea.”

  As the Caretakers talked, Fred maintained a respectful distance and kept his opinions to himself. Technically speaking, an apprentice Caretaker had all the standing of a full Caretaker, especially among those at Tamerlane House. But Fred was still a little uncertain about his own position, considering his predecessor was technically deceased. Charles was himself still considered a Caretaker, but a Caretaker Emeritus. He was, like Verne and Kipling, a tulpa—a near-immortal, youthful, new body housing an old soul. And unlike the majority of the other Caretakers, who were portraits in Tamerlane, and who could leave the frames for only one week, he could go almost anywhere—as long as it wasn’t somewhere he’d been known when he was alive.