The Shadow Dragons Page 16

  “Whew,” said Charles. “I’m very relieved.”

  “So am I,” said Jack. “Everyone here seems fairly civilized, but for an instant I flashed on the distressing notion that I might have to go toe to toe with Hawthorne.”

  Bert led the three companions up a winding flight of stairs to a hallway that was so cramped and tiny that they had to crouch to make their way down to the door at the end, which was even smaller.

  “Is this where the watches are made?” asked John. “The Watchmaker must be a very compact fellow.”

  “This is just our storeroom,” Bert replied as he knelt on the floor. “The Watchmaker is a very secretive creature. Verne has met him more often than I, and the only other thing I know about him is that he’s an old friend of Samaranth.”

  “So he’s a Dragon?” asked Jack.

  “I asked the same question,” said Bert, “and all he would say was that he had declined the promotion.”

  “What are you doing down there?” said Charles. “I don’t think we can even get through that door.”

  “It’s a voice-released lock,” Bert explained, leaning low to the small wooden door. “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” he said in a baritone voice. A pause. Then he added, “The Shadow knows!”

  There was a click, and then the wall—not the door, but the entire wall—swung open into a stone-lined room.

  “The Shadow knows?” said John.

  “I got the idea from some radio dramas I gave to the Cartographer,” said Bert. “It’s a safety feature.”

  Inside, the walls were lined with small drawers and shelves laden with silver watches.

  “Many of them resemble my own,” Bert said, “but it was an earlier model. Most of the rest look very similar to yours, John.”

  “I’d like one of those, if I may,” said Jack.

  “And I’d like to have one like yours, Bert,” said Charles. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

  Bert selected two of the watches and handed them to the Caretakers. “Remember,” he said as he placed the watches in their open hands, “Believing is seeing.”

  “Believe,” John, Jack, and Charles said together.

  “Don’t go yet,” Bert said quickly. “I have something else for you.” He handed each of the companions another watch.

  “Spares?” asked John. “In case we lose the first one?”

  “No,” Charles said, understanding. “These are for our own apprentices, aren’t they?”

  “Exactly,” said Bert. “There may be a time when you will want to know, without doubt, that someone will be there to come to your aid—as I have always counted on you. You’ll choose your apprentices when you give them the watch.

  “But be very careful about whom you choose to give them to,” he continued. “They are the only means of telling whether or not someone is a true emissary or apprentice of the Caretakers. They cannot be duplicated and cannot be bought or sold—only earned. If they are stolen, they will crumble into dust. If they are sold, they will crumble into dust. If they are used for evil purposes, they will crumble into dust. But if they are cared for, and used properly, they have the potential to become much, much more, as the wearer earns the right to learn of their powers.

  “But if nothing else, value them for being what they are—a symbol that the wearer belongs to the most honored and honorable gathering of men and women who have ever drawn breath.

  “So,” he said in conclusion, “choose wisely, and choose well, whom you give them to. Your very life may depend on it.”

  “So if Kipling is in league with Burton,” John said as they returned to the conservatory, “his watch probably crumbled to dust.”

  Bert nodded. “That was all the evidence we needed that the wrong choices were being made, and we had a cuckoo in our midst.”

  As they approached the conservatory, they could hear the noises of a heated discussion taking place. Quickening their pace, they rushed into the room and found that a new arrival had come to Tamerlane House.

  “Ransom!” Jack exclaimed. “It’s very good to see you!”

  “You made it!” said Ransom with obvious relief. “When I lost the Yoricks, I tried jumping back to this time, but it took a few tries to nail the date. It’s all been a botch of things from start to finish.”

  “We’re just happy to see that you made it away in one piece,” said Charles.

  “Yes, yes,” Ransom said distractedly. “It’s good to see you alive and well too, all of you. I’m sorry if I’m a bit brusque, but something terrible has happened. I have to show you, right now.”

  “Whatever you need,” said Chaucer, gesturing broadly. “Please.”

  Ransom cleared a space on the table and hefted a small case onto it. He popped open the twin latches on top and spread it open to reveal a curious device. It had coils and lenses, and two sets of frames that held slides in front of a turntable.

  “It’s called a Hobbes stereopticon,” Bert explained as Ransom assembled the machine. “You can use a lens built into the side of the case to record events, and then it replays them for you later.”

  “A camera and a projector,” said Jack. “Very nice.”

  “Better than that,” said Bert. “It projects images and sound in three dimensions, and you can walk through them to observe a scene from every angle.”

  “Do you have somewhere I can plug this in?” Ransom said, holding up the cord. “I used up the batteries making the recording.”

  Jakob Grimm took the cord from Ransom and scrambled under one of the tables, searching for an outlet. “Got it,” he called after a moment. “Give it a go, Ransom.”

  The philologist flipped a switch on the back of the stereopticon, and suddenly an incredible light show blazed to life. As Bert had said, the projection was displayed in all three spatial dimensions, filling the room. It was the coastline of a massive island, reduced to the size of a play set—except the tin soldiers were real, as was the battle they were witnessing.

  Because the projector was on the table, the ground level of the film was at the Caretakers’ waist level. And so, as they walked around examining the scene, they looked like leviathans wading through the channel.

  There was a great deal of destruction evident past the coastline. Fires raged, and in the distance, they could see buildings being toppled. According to Ransom, it got worse.

  “The island is called Kor,” he said, looking back at John. “Do you know it?”

  “It’s one of the oldest and largest in the Archipelago,” John said. “But what would cause all this destruction?”

  “This is a declaration of war,” stated Ransom. “And a message to us all. If Kor can fall so easily, then it bodes ill for the rest of us. But there is something else.”

  He pointed to several small objects on the surface of the water that disappeared as they watched. “Seven ships,” he said grimly. “Seven ships—and an army comprised of children—caused all this damage.”

  “This is not an event in the future history,” said Twain, “but a continuation from one past”.

  “Agreed,” said Bert. “This must be the Winter King.”

  “Were those ships what they appeared to be?” John asked with a rising feeling of dread. “Surely they couldn’t be. Not here. Not now!”

  “The Dragonships lost in time,” said Jack. “From the Underneath, in 1926.”

  Ransom grimaced. “I can’t say for certain, but I believe so. And I think he’s put them to use in places other than in the Archipelago.”

  “Then why wait so long to begin the war here?” asked Jack. “The Summer Country has been at war for years—what was he waiting for?”

  “He hasn’t just been waiting to make a move in the Archipelago,” said John. “He’s been planning to conquer them both all along.”

  “This must be discussed with Artus and Aven,” Bert said as he paced the floor. “We need to go to Paralon.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said John. “We need to see what
Artus’s plans are. He needs to know, if he doesn’t already, that the war has finally come to the Archipelago.”

  “I’m sorry, John, but you must remain here,” Chaucer said, almost apologetically. “As Caretaker Principia, there are responsibilities to attend to with the Gatherum.”

  “Rose and Quixote should also stay,” said Bert. “Until we have a plan of action, it’s safer for them here. But I’d like Jack and Charles to come with me, to advise the king and queen.”

  “Of course,” Jack said. Charles also nodded his assent.

  “Do you want to go by Trump?” Ransom asked. “It’s easily done.”

  Bert shook his head. “I need to take the White Dragon in for repairs and restocking,” he said. “From the looks of things, we’ll need more armament as well.”

  “Fine by me,” said Jack. “I could use the fresh air.”

  It took only a few hours to make the preparations to leave in the White Dragon. Ransom went on ahead to announce their impending arrival, while Jack and Charles said their good-byes to their friends and the Caretakers.

  “We’ll be back soon,” Jack promised Rose. “Artus and Aven will help us sort things out, you’ll see.”

  Charles pulled Quixote aside. “Just a caution,” he said softly. “We were surprised by Kipling. I don’t want to be surprised again, so stay with Rose. If there are enemies here, they could be anywhere.”

  “I understand,” said Quixote. “I shall guard her with my life.”

  Bert, Jack, and Charles boarded the White Dragon, and, with a last wave, they lifted off into the air.

  The airships were faster by far than the original seafaring-only ships had been, and it was only a matter of hours before they were over familiar waters.

  It was a pleasant day, and Jack and Charles spent most of their time enjoying the trip, rather than rehashing the earlier events and the terrible situation in England. There would be time enough to do that soon.

  Charles did a double take as he thought he saw something in the sky just ahead. He shaded his eyes and took another look.

  “Bert!” he exclaimed. “We’re steering right into a flock of enormous birds!”

  Bert laughed and rushed past the confused Charles to the railing. “They aren’t birds,” he said, waving his hand in the air. “They’re our royal escort!”

  The cluster of birds suddenly split apart and flew into formations that spiraled around the White Dragon. It was then that Charles realized they weren’t birds at all—they were flying children.

  For several minutes the ship was surrounded by shifting patterns of laughing, aerodynamic children—no, young adults— most of whom Charles had last seen on an island called Haven.

  Three of the winged dervishes glided close, then landed smoothly on the deck.

  The tallest of the three, obviously their leader, was dressed in tight leathers and laced boots, and she wore goggles that pinned down her light brown hair, which was sticking out in every direction. Her wings, long and majestic, were attached with a harness that crisscrossed her chest. She lifted up the goggles and flashed a dazzling smile.

  “The first time I saw you,” Charles said, beaming, “you had smudges on your face, and you weren’t nearly as accomplished at flying. Also, you were shorter.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you again, Charles,” she said, embracing the only slightly taller man.

  “It’s wonderful to see you, too, Laura,” he replied.

  “That’s Laura Glue,” she chided him gently, “as if you’d forgotten!”

  “I haven’t forgotten, Laura my Glue,” said Jack as he came around the cabin to give her a welcoming hug. “That was the most impressive display I’ve ever seen!”

  “Aw, we was just fooling around,” said the second flyer, a thinner girl with dark, spiky hair. “You should see us when we’re actually trying”

  “Sadie!” Laura Glue admonished. “Discipline.”

  The girl snapped back to attention. “Sorry, Captain.”

  “Captain?” said Jack. “Laura Glue—are you the leader of this group, then?”

  “I am.” The girl nodded. “Captain of the Valkyries.”

  “That reminds me,” said Jack. “I need to thank you for sending all those Lost Boys to the taverns and inns at the Crossroads to watch out for us. We would never have gotten Rose out alive if not for your boy Flannery.” He craned his neck to look at several of the other Valkyries who had landed on the White Dragon. “Is he here with you? I’d like to thank him myself.”

  Laura Glue bit her lip and looked at her shoes. Sadie cleared her throat loudly, and Laura Glue looked up again. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Three years ago, there was a skirmish with the Yoricks at one of the Soft Places,” she said, her voice steady. “It went up in flames. Flannery didn’t make it out.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Charles.

  “As am I,” said Jack. “We left him only a few days ago, but to everyone else, we’ve been gone for seven years. A lot can happen in that time.”

  “A lot has happened in the last seven years,” said Laura Glue. “Not much of it is good. They’ll fill you in at Paralon. Artus is waiting to receive you.”

  She moved over to speak to Bert about other arrangements that needed to be made at Paralon, and Jack pulled Charles aside.

  “One thing’s for certain,” Jack whispered. “When this is all over, and we’ve gotten back to the time we’re supposed to be in, I’m going to make certain that Flannery is nowhere near that tavern, wherever it is.”

  “Changing a history?” asked Charles.

  “Making a prophecy,” said Jack.

  As the crew of the White Dragon gently guided the airship to its customary spot in the Paralon harbor, a tremendous racket sprang up from the docks. It had the vaguest resemblance to music, but was more on the order of a collision of train cars that happened to be carrying musical instruments.

  “The Royal Animal Rescue Squad,” Jack explained to Charles. “I’d forgotten you haven’t met them yet.”

  Jack went through the group of mammals and made introductions, giving special attention to their friend Tummeler’s son, Uncas.

  “I have a speech prepared,” announced Uncas. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “A speech? In our honor?” said Charles, puffing out his chest. “But of course!”

  “I think it’s honor enough that you chose to write it,” said Jack. “To hear it read aloud would only be anticlimactic.”

  “Oh, uh, great!” said Uncas brightly while Jack winked at the deflated Charles. “Well then, since it’s on the way, would you like to come by the shop? We’ve now got the biggest operation on Paralon, and my son Fred would love to meet the great Scowler Charles.”

  “You don’t say?” Charles said heartily. “Lead the way, Uncas.”

  The badgers’ publishing enterprise, which had begun with Uncas’s father’s editions of poorly selling cookbooks, had grown exponentially with the release of the popular edition of the Imaginarium Geographica, then again with the abridged edition of the guidebook to everything, the Little Whatsit. But even then, the whole venture consisted of a single storefront and a backroom printing facility. It was nothing like the Herculean complex that Uncas was so proudly ushering them into.

  The main building itself was the size of an airplane hangar, and was tall enough to have its own weather patterns— indoors. There were badgers of every size scurrying to and fro, very occupied with the business at hand. They were all smartly dressed in white shirts and frocks, and all wore black armbands.

  “Grandfather Tummeler will be very sorry to have missed you,” Fred said earnestly. “He still speaks of you often.”

  “Good old Tummeler,” said Charles jovially. “How is he?”

  “Well enough,” Fred replied, “but quite far along in badger years. He’s basically in retirement at a house Artus had built for him next to the Great Whatsit. That way, he can use it for research as often as he likes.”

>   “Research?” exclaimed Charles. “Is he working on another book?”

  “Several,” Uncas said, handing a stack of papers to his son. “He’s constantly offering revisions on the Little Whatsit, but he’s also working on his memoirs. I think he’s titled it There and Back Again: A Badger’s Tale’”.

  “Really!” said Charles. “That’s extraordinary. I can’t wait to read it.”

  “The title’s a bit bland, though,” said Jack. “We’ll have to mention it to John. Maybe he can think of a way to improve it. He’s very good with titles, you know.”

  “Uncas,” Charles said, “what is the meaning of the black armbands? Are you in mourning for someone?”

  On hearing the question, all the badgers nearby stopped what they were doing and, almost in a single motion, turned to look . . .

  . . . at Jack.

  “What?” said Jack, looking around at his feet as if he’d inadvertently stepped on someone’s tail. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Uncas hemmed and hawed and stuttered and stammered until Fred sighed and stepped forward to answer. “It’s not so much what you done, Scowler Jack,” he began, “as it is what you’re going t’ do.”

  Charles frowned. For Fred to both address Jack formally and to lapse into the slipped vowels of the less-formal badger-speak meant it was a grave matter indeed.

  “This isn’t about the giants again, is it?” said Jack. “I told Bert—”

  “No, no, nuthin’ like that,” said Fred. “It’s just that . . . that . . . well, y’r an Oxford man, Scowler Jack!”

  “As I always plan to be,” Jack said with a trace of defensiveness.

  “Well then,” said Uncas morosely, “in th’ Summer Country, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and fifty-four, y’r in for a big surprise.”

  “All this because I supposedly—in the future, mind you—take a post at Cambridge?” Jack whispered as he gestured around at the armband-wearing badgers. “Is it possible to feel guilt over something I don’t plan to do, and won’t do anyway for years?”

  “That’s an interesting question,” replied Charles. “I wonder how the intention or non-intention plays into the concept of repentance.”