The Dragons of Winter Page 11

  He rapped with the knocker once, then again, then a third time before inserting the key into the lock below and turning the handle.

  The door opened, and John’s jaw dropped as he recognized the man behind it as Benjamin Franklin.

  “Why, John, my fine young fellow,” Franklin said, roaring with laughter. “What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

  “That’s not funny,” said Verne as they stepped across the threshold. “I haven’t explained everything to him yet.”

  “I apologize, then,” Franklin said, ushering them inside. “It’s good to see you again, John.”

  “And you, Doctor,” said John. “What is this place?”

  “Some of us have taken to calling it the Wonder Cabinet,” Franklin answered. “It’s the place where wonderful, improbable things are kept. And also,” he added, “we’re in Switzerland, so, you know, of course no one knows about it who isn’t supposed to.”

  The room was expansive, but crowded with individuals who all stopped what they were doing to take note of their visitors. It was appointed to resemble a private club, much like the club on Baker Street in London—except that instead of being a club for gentlemen scholars, this one was more of an eclectic think tank populated by Caretaker candidates.

  “John, my boy,” said Verne, “meet the Mystorians.”

  He immediately recognized Charles Dodgson, also known as Lewis Carroll, sitting with George Macdonald on a riser over to the right. Christina Rossetti was arguing with the American writers Robert E. Howard and L. Frank Baum on another riser over to the left, while Arthur Machen and Hope Mirrlees were in the center, debating politely with Sir Isaac Newton and two other men whom John didn’t recognize.

  “This is Dr. Demetrius Doboobie, and Master Erasmus Holiday,” Verne said in introduction, “both here by way of the novel Kenilworth.”

  “Sir Walter Scott’s book?” John asked, scanning the room again. “Is he here?”

  “Sorry,” Dr. Doboobie said, standing, but not offering his hand. “He was a fiction—but luckily, we are not.”

  “Not as long as we’re here, anyroad,” said Holiday.

  “Agatha Christie is also with us,” said Verne, “but she’s less able to travel, since on her last mission, her absence was noticed—a little too prominently, shall we say.”

  “When was that?”

  “In 1926,” said Franklin. “She was shadowing you, incidentally, John. But it turned out all right. I’d have done it myself, but”—he gestured at the room—“being dead, I was a bit more limited than she was.”

  It was only then that John realized that most of those in the room were actually well past their allotted time spans.

  “Yes,” Franklin said jovially. “We’re dead—well, most of us anyway. We served as Mystorians in our own times, and now we exist here, to help those who serve during yours.”

  Suddenly John understood. “The runes, outside, on the walls.”

  “Yes,” said Verne. “That’s what allows these spirits to exist here, alongside the living.”

  “It’s why I also impolitely declined to shake your hand,” said Franklin. “My substance has not kept pace with my influence, it seems.”

  “They are present, but insubstantial,” Verne explained, “so they can’t touch anything. They can only advise and discuss—and they do a lot of that.”

  “You don’t have to speak as if we’re not here,” sniffed Carroll.

  “Sorry, Doctor,” said Verne. “I apologize.”

  “Doctor?” asked John.

  “There’s no real seniority or ranking among them,” said Verne, “and the living Mystorians got irritated by Franklin’s insistence that he be addressed as ‘Doctor,’ and so at some point they all started requesting it.”

  “Is this hotel the only place where ghosts are actually visible to, ah, the still living?” asked John.

  “Not at all,” Franklin said, chuckling, “but it is the only place where ghosts are visible by design.”

  “Hmm,” said John, rubbing his chin. “What do Houdini and Conan Doyle think about all this?”

  “I’ve thought now and again about bringing them here,” Verne replied, “in part because they both have an affinity for the realm of the spirit, but also because they are both brilliant minds. And then,” he added ruefully, “Harry says or does something so completely irresponsible that I want to throttle him, and I think better of it.”

  “And Sir Arthur?”

  Verne shook his head. “Tell the one, tell them both,” he said dismissively. “They really are decent Caretaker material, or would be, if they weren’t perpetually sixteen.”

  “I take offense at that,” said Frank Baum, who was in a corner immersed in a stack of comic books. “Sixteen was a good year to be alive.”

  “All our scientific research is done here,” said Verne, “away from the prying eyes of the Cabal, or traitors like Defoe.”

  “Forgive my ignorance,” said John, “but other than Dr. Franklin and Sir Isaac, I don’t see any other . . .”

  “Scientists?” Carroll said, rising from his seat. “You do not look deeply enough, boy. My prime specialty is mathematics, and Frank’s—”

  “Ahem-hem,” said Baum.

  “I apologize—Dr. Baum is a technological genius greater than even Dr. Franklin. It’s part of what makes us effective as Mystorians,” he concluded. “I can tell you all the secrets of time travel in a poem. And have. It’s just that no one has bothered to look to poetry for the secrets of the universe.”

  “I’m sorry,” John said, shaking his head in disbelief, “but you make it sound as if time travel were much simpler than it really is.”

  “In actuality,” said Carroll, “everything is much simpler than it appears to be. Everything.”

  Another young man from the back of the room stood up to meet John.

  “My name is Joseph,” the ghost said as he started to offer his hand to the Caretaker, then, with a wry smile, thought better of it. “I admire your work very much.”

  “Thank you,” John replied. He looked over the young ghost, trying to ascertain where he fit among the pantheon of noted men and women in the Mystorians.

  When Joseph realized why he was being scrutinized, his ghostly cheeks pinked self-consciously. “No, good sir, you do not know me,” he said, answering John’s unspoken question. “At least, not in this form.”

  “Some of the Mystorians were not so much engaged in active work on our behalf, as they were in observing and reporting on the players in the Great Game at the time they were alive,” Verne explained. “Young Joseph here was just such an observer—and later in his life, he was as famous as any of those he reported on. That was his shield—he was so famous that no one noticed the activities he engaged in for himself.”

  Again, the young ghost’s face reddened. “That’s very charitable of you to say, Mr. Verne, but we both know that’s not the reason no one paid attention.”

  He looked John squarely in the eye and smiled a sad smile, which was made more beautiful by the perfect symmetry of his features. “The reason no one gave credence to me or what I was covertly doing for the Prime Caretaker was that I was hideously deformed, and no one among the members of polite society could fathom that my mind was not similarly deformed.”

  John considered this for a moment, then stepped back in surprise. “Joseph . . . Merrick?” he said hesitantly. “You’re Joseph Merrick!”

  The young ghost nodded gravely. “I am. You would have known me by the appellation ‘The Elephant Man.’”

  John looked at Joseph, then at Verne and back again. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said. “Are you a tulpa? How is it that . . . ah . . .” He stumbled over his words, unsure of what to ask without offending the young man.

  Joseph smiled. “How is it that I have the appearance that I do? It’s simple—this is how I really am.”

  “But you were so terribly deformed—,” John began.

  “No,” Jos
eph said firmly, cutting him off. “My body was terribly deformed. I was not.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I am a soul,” Joseph answered. “I had a body.”

  The clarity of it suddenly flashed across John’s face. “Ah,” he said. “I do understand, and I apologize. My friend Jack would have seen that right away.”

  “Here,” Verne said, drawing John to the far side of the room and pulling out two chairs so they could sit. “Let me show you what the good Doctors Baum and Carroll have been doing.

  “They’ve been working on a theory that the trumps are actually opening something called wormholes,” Verne explained, gesturing at some diagrams on Carroll’s table. “The smaller ones permit communication, and the larger ones actual travel. And what Carroll here has been working on—”

  “Dr. Carroll, if you please,” said Carroll.

  Verne sighed, then went on. “Yes—what Dr. Carroll has been working on is the instances where the trumps were used to traverse time.”

  “It was actually that Clarke fellow who thought of it,” said Baum. “He’s got a lot of good ideas, that one.”

  Now it was Carroll’s turn to scowl. “Yes, yes he did,” he said with an irritated look at Baum, “but I’ve been the one developing the actual science behind the theory.”

  “The young theoreticians have been invaluable to our processes,” said Franklin. “Especially that Asimov fellow, the Russian. He’s going to outshine us all, I think.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Newton said without really joining the conversation. “It’s easy to create great works when one stands on the shoulders of giants.”

  “He’s a little sensitive,” Baum whispered. “The first time Newton met Asimov, the joker offered him an apple.”

  “It’s young Asimov’s work that has allowed the Mystorians to help us calculate probabilities on the might-have-beens to come,” Verne explained. “It’s one reason I have the Messengers traveling so frequently gathering information. The more we know about what has happened, the better we can predict what may happen in the future. And the wonder of it all is that it’s completely based in scientific principle. He calls it ‘psychohistory.’”

  “No offense,” John said, hesitant to speak, as he fully expected he was about to offend someone, “but there’s something slightly disconcerting about knowing that such intense scientific research is being carried out in a hotel in Switzerland by a group of ghosts and children’s book authors.”

  “I should like to point out that most of your colleagues at Tamerlane House,” Franklin said sternly, poking his walking stick at Verne, “including your French tour guide there, are in fact themselves deceased. So I’d like to know just what you have against ghosts.”

  “I’m doubly offended,” said Baum, “seeing as how I’m both a ghost and a children’s book author, as is Charles.”

  “I’m a mathematician,” sniffed Carroll. “And it’s Dr. Carroll, if you please.”

  “Really, I meant no offense,” John said, holding his hands up in either supplication or surrender. “Honestly, some of my best friends write books for children.”

  “And you don’t?” asked Baum.

  “Not really, you see,” John began.

  “Wait a moment,” said Holiday. “Didn’t you write the book about the little fellow with the furry feet? And trolls? And dwarves?”

  “Well, yes,” John admitted, “but—”

  “What do you call that, then?”

  “It’s actually an initial tale that I’m broadening into a much wider invented mythology for—”

  “Blah, blah, blah, blah,” said Baum. “Elves and dwarves and trolls. Fairy tales. You’re a children’s book author, John.”

  Before John could argue the point further, they were interrupted by another knock at the door.

  “Ah,” Verne said as he rose to usher in the new arrival. “Unless I miss my guess, that’ll be our secret weapon coming along now.”

  John stood and took a place next to Verne to greet the newcomers. The first was tall, firmly built, and had a crest of white hair that gave him the appearance of a classical philosopher. His eyes flashed briefly as he noticed John’s presence, but he said nothing and merely smiled as he took his companion’s coat.

  The second man was smaller, more slender, and noticeably older than the other. Verne stepped forward to greet him first.

  “Hello,” the slight gentleman said as he entered the room and removed his hat. “I apologize for being late. I had a concern I was being followed and so some extra precautions—and delays—were necessary.”

  John nearly fell off his feet, astonished, confused, and delighted all at once. He was so taken off guard that he forgot to offer his hand to the bemused man, who was clearly enjoying the effect his arrival had on the younger Caretaker. John looked at Verne. “Is this some sort of illusion? How is he here?”

  “Not an illusion,” Verne replied, smiling broadly. “A Mystorian. One our adversaries would never have suspected, never watched, because they thought that they already were watching him. It was just a different him.”

  John recovered a small degree of his composure. “So, the last person they would suspect of becoming one of your special operatives was someone who was already a Caretaker,” he said, “so to speak. Ingenious.” He wiped his hand on his trousers and quickly offered it to the bemused Mystorian. “It’s a pleasure to be meeting you at last.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” the gentleman said, taking John’s proffered hand. “My name is H. G. Wells.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lower Oxford

  According to Aristophanes, the first destination they needed to travel to in their quest for the Ruby Armor was very close—practically in the neighborhood.

  “Oxford?” Uncas said, surprised. “That’s right under the scowlers’ noses.”

  “Literally, in this case,” said the detective. “Quite literally, in fact.”

  The street Aristophanes guided them to was less than two miles from the building where Jack kept his teaching rooms at the college, and it was small enough that they were able to park the Duesenberg and get out without attracting undue attention.

  “Shouldn’t you be wearing a hat, or a scarf, or something?” Aristophanes said to Uncas as he glanced around the street. “I know this is a university, and everyone has their nose buried in books, but some deliveryman or other passerby might take notice we’re strolling along with a talking animal.”

  “I’ll be honest,” said Uncas, “it’s not indifference to th’ opinions of passersby that lets me walk around in th’ open.” He produced a small piece of parchment from his vest pocket. It was covered in runes.

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

  “Ah,” the detective said in understanding. “A glamour. That makes sense.”

  “All most people see is a short feller with hairy feet,” said Uncas. “Maybe a beard.”

  “Well then,” Aristophanes said as he led them to a nondescript door at the end of the alley, “you’ll not be surprised at where we’re going. Everyone there is using one glamour or another.”

  The door opened onto a stairwell, which dropped away several floors below ground level—much farther than any basement should have extended. It was lit with torches that were set at regular intervals, but nothing other than the granite walls of the stairwell was visible until they reached the bottom.

  Aristophanes threw open the great green wooden doors at the bottom of the stairs, and revealed an enormous cavern that seemed to contain a city at least the size of Oxford above.

  “Welcome,” the detective said, “to Lower Oxford.”

  The three companions wove their way through the warren of buildings that seemed to have been cobbled together from every culture on the continent—none of which had been updated since the fifteenth century, and many of which seemed far, far older.

  “These buildings seem to predate Oxfo
rd itself,” commented Uncas.

  “Little badger,” Aristophanes said with a touch of irritation at the animal’s small thinking, “most of these buildings predate England.”

  There were Moorish harems, and Byzantine bazaars; English banks and colleges; and Ottoman markets that could have been operating since the first millennium.

  As they walked, Aristophanes explained that this was one of the Soft Places that were known only to the lost and disenfranchised—that it was all but lost to those who never looked, and only findable by those who were truly lost.

  “The Caretakers would barely take note of such a place,” he said brusquely, “although perhaps that Burton fellow might. And most other people would take no notice of it at all. In a way, what happens every day in Lower Oxford is exactly what happened long ago to the entire Archipelago.”

  He stopped. “They just stopped believing. Here,” he said, gesturing down a crowded street. “This is the district we want.”

  All the buildings along the street bore Chinese markings, including the one where they stopped.

  “This is one of the oldest libraries in existence,” Aristophanes explained, pointing at the cracked, faded sign above the door. “It was here, in this spot, for two thousand years before I was born, and was collecting stories of the earliest cultures of the world when our ancestors were living in caves and hunting with obsidian spears.”

  “What does the sign say?” asked Uncas.

  “You know it already,” said the Zen Detective. “The statues in the window should give you a clue.”

  Inside the windows on either side of the door were paper lanterns, a stringer of plucked, headless ducks—which made Uncas shiver just a bit—and four soapstone statues. Each was of a different Chinese man, but all four bore attributes . . .

  . . . of Dragons.

  “Ah,” Quixote said, looking up at the sign. “‘Go ye no further, for here, there be Dragons.’”

  Aristophanes nodded. “Or something to that effect. Those four statues represent the four great dragon kings of ancient China, and this shop is what remains of the library that began when they ruled under the Jade Empress.”