The Dragons of Winter Page 10
He had been compelled, by a Binding of Deep Magic, to journey to the farthest ends of the Earth—and that compulsion had brought him here, to the mountains on the far side of the Mongolian plateau. It was not the farthest place where men dwelled, but it was the farthest place that had been named.
The man was considering whether this meant he might have to travel farther still when the Dragon landed behind him, silent as a dream. He didn’t turn around but merely considered the great beast’s reflection, behind and beside his own.
“Greetings, Madoc, son of Odysseus,” the reflection of the Dragon said. “I have been seeking you a long while.”
“I’m not Madoc any longer,” he replied. “I stopped being Madoc when my brother betrayed me and drove me from Alexandria.
“The people here call this place Baikal,” the young man continued, “and they call me Mordraut. Baikal refers to the lake, apparently. It means ‘deepest.’”
The Dragon growled. “And Mordraut?”
The man turned and looked up at him. “Driven,” he said after a moment. “They say it means driven.”
“And are you driven?” the Dragon said. “You must have been, to journey so far.”
Mordraut’s face darkened. “The journey,” he said softly, “wasn’t my idea.”
“Hmm,” the great Dragon rumbled. “The Binding. Of course. I apologize, Ma—Mordraut.”
The man considered the Dragon before deciding to ask a question—something not lightly done with Dragons.
“You are from the Archipelago, are you not?”
The Dragon did not answer, but merely met his gaze.
“Can you take me there?” Mordraut pressed. “Can you take me home?”
The Dragon shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I cannot. Not bound, as you are now. But perhaps . . . there might be a way. It is why I have come to find you.”
The man Mordraut had listened only to the first part of the Dragon’s response and was already deflating when the second part registered on his consciousness. “You came here for me?” he asked, more earnest now. “Why? And how can that get me back?”
“My brethren and I guard the barrier that separates the Archipelago from this, the Summer Country,” the Dragon said, “but we only guard, we do not govern.
“Long ago,” he continued, “it was decided that a king from this world should be chosen to rule over both. But the one chosen was betrayed and fell from grace. There has been none who could replace him, until now.
“There is to be a competition, judged by the bloodline of the first king, to choose who will sit on the Silver Throne of the Archipelago. If you would become my apprentice, I will prepare you to sit on that throne and rule. But you must first win, and there will be many vying for the honor. You will have to defeat them all.”
Mordraut shook his head. “I’m not interested in defeating anyone,” he said brusquely. “And I’m no fighter.”
“These people here can train you to fight,” said the Dragon, “and I can prepare you to rule. But I think you will find the drive to win on your own.”
“Why?”
“Because,” the Dragon rumbled, “if you choose not to compete, the first king of the Archipelago will be the strongest contender—your brother, Myrddyn.”
There was no way to parse the complex mix of emotions that passed across the man’s face as the Dragon spoke the name of the brother who had bound him, and betrayed him, and it took several moments for Mordraut to regain his self-control. When he finally did, he looked up again.
“What are you called, Dragon?”
The great beast raised an eyebrow. “You, youngling, may call me Samaranth.”
Mordraut nodded and turned back to the lake.
“Yes, Samaranth,” he said finally. “I shall become your apprentice.”
“Good,” the Dragon replied. “Then let us begin.”
John and Verne’s journey back to the main wings of the house took considerably less time, due in large part to a more direct route, but also, John was certain, to Tamerlane House’s penchant for moving the rooms around when the Caretakers weren’t looking.
As opposed to Dr. Raven’s quarters, which occupied the lowest level above the basements, and which were therefore windowless, the part of the house Verne was leading John to was in the upper floors, as evidenced by the scatterings of windows and skylights that began appearing in hallways and over stairwells.
“There are eleven arboreta in Tamerlane House . . . that I know of,” Verne said as they reached the end of one of the uppermost corridors, “but this one can only be unlocked with one of three keys: mine, Poe’s, and the occupant’s.”
He spun a large key ring out of his pocket and twirled through several brilliant gold and silver keys before choosing a rather ordinary-looking iron key, which he inserted into the lock. Verne turned the key once, then again, and with a click, the door swung open into an enormous room, which was dimly lit despite the expanse of windows in the walls and the ceiling.
The air was cloyingly thick with the scent of pollen and decay. Along the walls—which, except for the one where the door was located, were all glass—were wooden tables lined with flowerpots and trays bearing an amazing array of plants. Some were flowering, punctuating the swaths of green with bursts of magenta, orange, and turquoise. Others were climbers, and had escaped the confines of the trays to spread along the walls, nearly obscuring the glass with their leafy expanses.
On the floor, loam was scattered freely over the Oriental carpets, a clear indication of the priorities of the occupant. The room was there to house the flora, and housekeeping was a distant second.
“Step where I step,” said Verne, “and don’t touch anything.”
“All right,” said John.
As John and Verne crossed the threshold, the room’s occupant, a disarmingly attractive young woman, rose from between two of the planter boxes and drew a soiled arm across a forehead damp with sweat.
She raised her chin in acknowledgment of her guests, and Verne stepped forward.
“John,” he said, gesturing at the young woman, “I believe you know Beatrice—Dr. Rappaccini’s daughter.”
She was one of the Messengers—Verne’s special envoys who traveled by use of the trumps, and each of whom had a special affinity for matters of time and space. The first of them, Hank Morgan, had recently perished during the events that had separated Tamerlane House from the Archipelago. Soon after, the second Messenger, Alvin Ransom, also died when his dimensional counterpart, Charles, reached the end of his chronal lifespan—but unlike Charles, who’d been revived as an unaging tulpa, Ransom joined the other Caretakers in the portrait gallery, and could only leave Tamerlane House for seven days. The third Messenger, Arthur Pym, had been on a mission when he became lost in time. Beatrice was the fourth, and the one least known to the other Caretakers. Except to go on missions for Verne, she seldom left her own quarters, and when she did, she spoke even less frequently. They all knew of her, of course, but this was the first time Verne had ever deigned to make a formal introduction.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” John said pleasantly, offering his hand. “I’m John.”
“Don’t touch her!” Verne shouted as he struck the younger man’s hand, pushing him away. “Forgive me,” he said, more to the girl than to his fellow Caretaker. “I should have cautioned him beforehand.”
“It’s all right,” John said as he rubbed the top of his hand. “I meant no harm.”
Verne shook his head. “Nor would you have caused any,” he said, his voice softer now. “When I said ‘Don’t touch anything,’ what I really meant was, you can’t touch everything. Including the lady Beatrice.
“Some stories are true,” Verne added. “Hers is one of them. Her father’s experiments made her a mistress of toxins—and unable to touch anyone else. Anyone living, that is. Even her voice can be deadly to others, so she seldom uses it.”
“Point taken,” said John, who bowed to Be
atrice before Verne guided him across the room.
In the far corner stood three massive mirrors. They were each fully six feet tall, and almost four feet wide. They hung inside frames carved from a dark wood that seemed to absorb the dim light in Beatrice’s arboretum. Moving closer, John could see that there were hundreds of intricate figures carved into the frames with such detail he could almost make out the expressions on their faces.
“They were patterned after a Brueghel,” Verne said, noticing John’s admiration of the frames, “but the mirrors are far, far older. Walk around to the other side and take a look.”
John did as he was instructed and was startled to get to the back of the mirrors and see Verne’s smiling face grinning at him from the other side.
“Are they transparent?” John asked. “An invisible backing of some kind?”
“Not transparent, nonexistent,” said Verne. “Go ahead, try to touch them. It’s safe enough from that side.”
John put out his hand to touch the center mirror, and to his astonishment it went through where the mirror was supposed to be, right through the frame.
“They’re literally one-way mirrors,” Verne said as John came around to the front. “There are no backs to them, only a front. Poe told me about them, although I don’t think even he knows who made them.”
“Astonishing,” said John. “Where did you get them?”
“Aristophanes found them for me,” Verne answered. “He’s been useful in that way. They actually belonged to one of the fellows you’re going to meet.”
“So what are we supposed to do with them?”
“Do?” said Verne. “Why, go through one of them, of course. “Lots of interesting things can happen when you go through a looking-glass.”
“One of them?” John asked. “They don’t all work in the same way?”
“Oh, they all work,” said Verne, “but only one goes to the place we need it to. The other two are, shall we say, the last line of defense—here within the house proper, that is.”
“Where do they go?”
“No place you want to be,” said Verne, “unless you feel like you missed something in life by not being at Pompeii.”
“The other two lead to the volcano?” John exclaimed. “But isn’t it dormant now?”
“The top of it is.” Verne chuckled. “Look at the frame, and follow what you see.”
John examined the figures along the frames and noticed that they were all similar in one regard: Each had a bas-relief carving of the Minotaur at the top, and all the figures were facing right.
“Just like in the labyrinth, then,” said John.
“Take the right-hand side,” Verne said, nodding, “or, as our Minotaur friend would say, the right-hand right-hand right-hand side.”
Chuckling at his own joke, he turned and offered a courtly bow to Beatrice, who nodded her head in return. Then, with no further commentary, Verne stepped into the glass to the right, pulling John along with him.
The sensation was not unlike moving through water—water with the consistency of molasses. It was not at all as natural as using one of the trumps. Still, it took only a few seconds to go through, and they found themselves in an alleyway facing a broad cobblestone street. The sun was high and bright, and the air was crisp, with a cold bite to it.
“Are we in one of the Soft Places?” John asked, pulling his collar closed. “One of those in-between places that’s neither here nor there?”
“You might say that, John,” said Verne. “Welcome to Switzerland.”
“The mirror,” John exclaimed, turning about. “It’s gone?”
Verne smiled wanly. “It’s a one-way mirror, young John,” he said. “We can’t be having people just popping through to Tamerlane House now, can we?”
“I wanted to ask but didn’t want to offend Beatrice,” John said, biting his lip. “You said Dr. Raven is the only Messenger who remains wholly mobile. Is she ill, or has she been hurt in some way, that she can no longer travel for you?”
Verne shook his head. “It’s the end progression of her father’s meddling in nature, I’m afraid,” he said with sincere regret. “Her toxic nature makes her the ideal guardian of the mirror, but she’s no longer just exuding the essences of the plants she cares for—she’s starting to become one. She’s taking root. And in time, she’ll have to leave Tamerlane and join others of her kind in the jungles of the South American continent, along the River Tefé.”
“How can there be others of her kind?” John asked. “Are you talking about living plants? Plants that were once human?”
“Something like that,” said Verne. “More like living tree-creatures . . . Guardians of the Green. As we look after the world of men, so they look after the flora.”
John scowled. “They aren’t like Magwich, are they? That would be . . . well, Charles wouldn’t be happy, knowing there’s a grove of Magwiches in the world.”
Verne laughed. “Not quite, but that really should be looked into. We ought to ask Bea about your little shrub when we return. She can consult with the grove about him.”
“Will I ever meet them?”
“Perhaps,” said Verne, “but trust me—once you do, you’ll never feel the same about pruning your roses.”
Verne led John out of the alley and onto a busy street. As they walked, he explained that they were in the canton of Fribourg, which was near Lake Neuchâtel, but that their specific destination was a small, well-appointed hotel a few blocks away.
“Not that I doubt the precision of your planning,” John said as he threw a backward glance at the alleyway where they had come through the looking-glass, “but if it’s a one-way portal, how are you planning to get us back?”
In reply Verne flashed open his jacket. There, in the inner breast pocket, John could see one of the trumps peeking out over the top. Just enough of the card was visible for him to recognize the towers and minarets of Tamerlane House.
“You have a trump back to the Nameless Isles?” he said, more impressed than surprised. “I thought it was forbidden for anyone but Kipling to have one.”
“It was,” Verne replied, “by me. Being the Prime Caretaker does have its privileges, you know. Here,” he said, pointing across the street. “We’ve arrived.”
The hotel stood at the corner of a busy intersection—busy enough that John was nearly clipped by an automobile speeding past. He spun around and shook his fist at the rapidly receding car.
“Curse it all, Uncas!” he yelled. “Slow down!”
Suddenly he realized what he’d just shouted, and he turned crimson from the neck up as Verne roared with laughter.
“Sorry,” John said. “Force of habit.”
CHAPTER TEN
The Hotel d’Ailleurs
The hotel was only three stories tall, and the exterior was not especially imposing. It was a Swiss building in a Swiss town, and so it was practical, efficient, and just a little bit bland. John was about to make a comment to that effect when Verne opened the front door and ushered him inside.
To the left of the clerk’s desk—which Verne bypassed with a wave of his hand—was a bar, which was to be expected, and a small kitchen from which a delicious aroma was wafting. But to the right was a great room, and suddenly John started to realize what it was about this hotel that kept Verne’s attention. From Persian-rug floor to pressed-tin ceiling, the walls were covered with perhaps the greatest collection of fantastic art John had ever seen.
There were framed paintings, and etchings, and pencil drawings, and in the corners even a few sculptures—and the common theme that tied them all together was that they were based on great works of science fiction. John also noted, wryly, that a large percentage of the art was based on the work of Jules Verne.
“But of course!” Verne exclaimed when John commented on it. “It’s my hotel, so why shouldn’t most of the decoration be based on my own best works?”
It was appointed to resemble a private club . . .
“I s
ee,” John said as he examined a painting based on one of Verne’s earliest works, In Search of the Castaways. “And how many of Bert’s works are represented here?”
“A goodly number,” Verne replied, “at least fifteen percent.”
“Fifteen percent?”
“All right, ten,” Verne admitted, “but it’s a really excellent ten percent.”
He led John past all the paintings to a doorway located under the stairs to the rooms above. The door led down to an older structure that the hotel was built on. As they passed, John could see the notches in the walls that were meant to hold lamps before the gas lines had been installed.
Verne continued down the corridor to a cramped foyer, which was lit by a small Chinese lamp on a rather rickety oak table. Opposite the lamp were double doors, which were fitted with an elaborate lock. On the center of the right-hand door was a large knocker.
John had noticed as they walked through the hallway that in the older part of the hotel there were ancient Icelandic runes carved into every bit of exposed wood, and around these doors, they were so thick that they looked like another layer of graining in the wood.
“You know,” he said as he peered more closely at the runes, “with a good magnifying lens I could probably translate these in fairly short order.”
“I’ve no doubt you could, young John,” said Verne, “but I’ll save you the trouble. They basically say ‘Here you leave the world of the flesh and enter the realm of the spirit,’ or something like that. Shall we go in?”
“Knock, or do you have the key?”
“Both,” replied Verne. “Knock to let them know we’re coming, and use the key to actually get in. After the recent incidents at Tamerlane House, security is ever more on my mind.”
The door knocker was an ornate carving of a face, with a kerchief tied around its jaw. “A Marley knocker,” Verne said as he reached for the tappet. “Charles gave it to me as a Christmas gift some years back, and I couldn’t think of anything else to do with it.”