The Shadow Dragons Page 2

  That was five years ago, and other than a few flurries that necessitated the counsel of the Caretakers—usually just John— there had been no reason to return to the Archipelago. The rogue Caretakers, led by the adventurer Richard Burton, had remained hidden, and there was no sign of the Winter King’s Shadow. There were still difficult problems to deal with: The Keep of Time, where the Cartographer resided, had been crumbling apart since their first trip to the Archipelago; and the king, Artus, had tried to replace the monarchy with a republic, to only limited success. But the years of the Great War were far behind them, and all was right enough with the worlds here and beyond to set aside duty and responsibilities for a few hours to better enjoy a pleasant spring walk in the English countryside.

  “It’s a shame that Hugo could not join us,” Jack said. “We’ve had too few occasions as of late to catch up with him.”

  “Uncle Hugo wanted to be here,” came a voice from somewhere above them, “but he had some obligations to attend to in Reading that could not be delegated elsewhere. He sent me along anyway, because he knew you needed to discuss the Problem.”

  Rose Dyson dropped down from the birch tree she’d been climbing and dusted herself off, then moved to stand next to Jack.

  The “Problem” she referred to was evident to all three Caretakers. When she returned with them to the present from the sixth century, she was barely an adolescent. Tall, perhaps, but the auburn-haired Rose was still obviously a child—and that was, as Hugo put it, the “Problem.”

  He had placed her in a boardinghouse near his teaching post in Reading, where she was enrolled in school as his niece. And over the course of five years, she had not visibly aged a day.

  “It’s a natural law without a demonstrable basis,” Bert had told them once. “Denizens of the Archipelago age more slowly than we do in the Summer Country. Days and nights are the same as those here, but they’re often out of sync.”

  This much they had witnessed for themselves on numerous occasions. Night in Oxford turned to day upon crossing the Frontier, and vice versa. And once, even the seasons had been reversed: Jack had traveled from Oxford in late summer, only to find the Archipelago in the grip of a terrible winter. So it wasn’t just a matter of slight temporal differences—there were rules of time at work between the worlds that no one had as yet been able to decipher.

  “Is the fact that she was born there, and brought here, the reason she hasn’t aged?” Jack proposed.

  “Not necessarily,” offered Charles. “She hadn’t aged normally on Avalon, either. But given her peculiar lineage, there may be no precedent for the kind of person she’ll become.”

  “I’m a conundrum,” Rose said from a few feet up the path, where she was using a branch to lever up a large stone. “Or an enigma. I forget which.”

  John nodded in agreement. “That’s for certain. I’ve been thinking of contacting Aven and Artus about continuing her schooling on Paralon. At least there she’ll not be questioned, no matter her age.”

  “Plus, she’s family,” said Jack. “She and Arthur were cousins, so that would make her an aunt, or second cousin, or some such.”

  “Twenty generations removed,” added Charles.

  “All of which doesn’t change the fact that you’ve managed to get yourselves lost,” came an irritated voice from above. “Of course, I know exactly where we are.”

  John rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he said drolly, looking sideways at the others. “Having him up there is like having a conscience that won’t shut up and won’t take suggestions.”

  Complicating matters further was the other teacher the companions had brought forward from the past as a companion for Rose—the great owl Archimedes. That he was in fact a clockwork construct was the least of the problems he caused Hugo Dyson in Reading. He wasn’t a predator; he wasn’t dangerous; but he was irredeemably sarcastic and wickedly smart—and more than one local had been surprised by an encounter with a talking owl that could insult them while spouting jokes about Plato’s Cave.

  Archimedes, called Archie for short, stayed in Hugo’s rooms, mostly—but it was inevitable that he and Rose would be seen together, and a talking owl combined with a girl who wasn’t getting older was a recipe for disaster.

  A month earlier they had transported the bird to the Kilns, the residence near Oxford that Jack shared with his brother Warnie and adopted mother Mrs. Moore. Warnie had already been initiated into some of the mysteries of the Caretakers, but it was a more delicate process with Mrs. Moore. However, once she recovered from the initial shock, and once she had accepted the need for secrecy, she and the owl became affable companions. Archie apparently got on very well with females.

  Warnie was another matter entirely. The first hour they met, he had made a sudden move that startled the bird, and Archie bit his arm. It left a nasty welt, and thereafter Warnie persisted in referring to the bird as “Lucifer,” which didn’t endear him to the owl once Jack had explained the reference. The pairing made for a very lively household.

  Moving Rose to the Kilns was a second option—but again, they would be risking the same kind of exposure there as they had in Reading. And keeping all knowledge of the Geographica, the Archipelago, and the denizens within a secret was the prime rule of the Caretakers—the very rule that caused Burton and others to rebel. There would be no easy answers—which was why it was important for all three Caretakers to discuss the move as soon as they were able.

  Archimedes lit atop a shrub next to where Rose was digging a hole and cast a disdainful eye at John. “Don’t you have the atlas with you, Caretaker Principia?” the bird asked. “Isn’t it full of maps?”

  “Yes, I have it, and yes, it is,” John said irritably. “But I don’t have any maps of England in it.”

  The owl hooted in derision. “Only a scholar would go on a hike with a book of maps that are of absolutely no use.”

  “It’s immensely useful!” John shot back. “Just, ah, just not here and now.”

  It was not all that unusual for a professor to carry books with him wherever he went—even on a walkabout holiday such as this one—so John simply carried the Imaginarium Geographica around with him. Too many times in the past circumstances had called for its use, and through misfortune, or lack of preparation, he had found himself without it.

  Even after the badger Tummeler had begun publishing an abridged and annotated edition in the Archipelago, and copies were freely available, John still preferred to keep a light hand on the actual atlas. It was impossibly old, and had been written in by some of the greatest creative minds in human history. There were notations that were to be read only by the Caretakers or their apprentices, and so were not available to Tummeler. And there were maps that were left out of the popular edition because the little mammal saw them as unimportant.

  What Tummeler didn’t realize was that it was often those out-of-the-way places where the turning points of history occurred, in the same way that the men and women who changed the world were not always the ones who seemed to have the power to do so. No one understood this principle quite so well as two professors from Oxford and their editor friend from London.

  The owl launched himself back into the air as a stone tumbled into the hole Rose had been digging.

  “There,” she said, dusting her hands. “That’s much better.”

  “What’s better?” Charles asked.

  “The stone,” Rose replied. “It was in the wrong place. I put it back.”

  John and Jack blinked at each other in consternation. They couldn’t decide if the girl was too simple or too complex to really understand.

  “Are you certain he’s not going to, ah, rust?” Charles said, casting a glance upward at the bird circling overhead. “Hugo would be quite put out if something befell the owl.”

  “He hasn’t rusted so far,” said Jack, looking around the small clearing, “but we’re going to be soaked to the skin if we don’t find a place to bed down for the evening. We’d best be going, a
nd quickly. It’s getting dark.”

  “Any suggestions?” said John.

  Jack indicated a faint footpath to the northwest, which veered off the main walking trail. “There’s a faint glow coming from over there. With any luck, it’s an inn—or at least a farmhouse where we can get directions and our bearings.”

  There was indeed a light emanating from somewhere behind a grove of trees. The roadway must have been on the other side, as the path was sparse enough that it could not have seen many travelers. Nevertheless, the companions followed Jack’s lead and pressed their way through the trees.

  As they walked, the path opened up into a proper road which crossed another going east-west, and there, at the junction, stood the source of the light—a tall streetlamp, which looked as if it had been plucked out of Oxford and dropped here in the countryside.

  Underneath it, dressed in a battered topcoat, a man was standing as if he were waiting for a bus, or unwary passersby. Moving closer, John was startled to realize that he recognized him. Or at least, he thought he did.

  Jack had the same flash of memory, and both looked back to note that Charles was right behind them.

  At first glance, it looked as if Charles— another Charles—was standing at the crossroads, waiting for them. The man was tall and had Charles’s bearing—but as they walked closer, it was apparent that he was a stranger to them. The three men and the girl nodded politely and began to move past, taking the path to the right and away from the lamp’s comforting glow.

  “Pardon me,” the man said, raising a hand in greeting, “but do you have the time?”

  “What?” said John. “Oh, uh, yes, of course,” and he turned, pulling his watch from his vest pocket. It was a distinctive sort of watch: silver, untarnished, with a red Chinese dragon on the cover. “It’s half past five,” he said, snapping the watch closed, “or half past drenched, depending on your point of view.”

  “Mmm,” the stranger mused. “Well put, John. But actually, I also need to know the year, if you don’t mind.”

  At the mention of John’s name, he and the others froze in place. Had the man merely overheard them talking? Had one of them uttered John’s name? Or was something more sinister afoot?

  “Why do you need to know the year?” John asked cautiously, as Jack and Charles moved protectively closer to Rose.

  “Because,” replied the man stiffly, “I’ve come a long way, and I seem to have lost track.”

  “Lost track of the years?” Charles exclaimed. “If you don’t even know what year it is, should you be out and about in the woods all alone?”

  “Actually,” the man replied, “I came here to protect you, Charles. The year, if you please?”

  “It’s 1936,” said Jack. “April, if you couldn’t tell.”

  The man surprised them by slumping against the waypost in obvious relief. “Thank God,” he said, running a hand across his head. “1936. Then I’ve not arrived too late after all.”

  “What year did you think it was?” asked John. “And pardon my asking, but how is it that you know our names? Have we met, perchance?”

  “You are the Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographica, are you not?” the man replied. “Let’s just say we are in service of the same causes. And I was fully expecting to arrive here in 1943.”

  “You were expecting to arrive in the future?” said Charles. “That’s not really possible, is it? I mean, not unless the circumstances are extraordinary.”

  “You’ve been in such a circumstance, I believe,” the man said. “And it wasn’t the future I was aiming for, but the past. I just seem to have overshot my mark, to our benefit, I hope.”

  John and Jack exchanged worried glances. The man knew enough to be dangerous to them—but he had so far done nothing more than talk while leaning against the post. And he did say he was there to help them.

  “Forgive our hesitation,” John said mildly, “but we’ve heard credible stories of every stripe and color from the best of them. How are we to know you are indeed on, ah, our side, so to speak?”

  In answer, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver pocket watch. On the back was the clear image of a red dragon. It was identical to the watch John had just pulled from his own pocket. “It was given to me by Jules Verne,” the man said, “as, I suspect, he gave yours to you.”

  “Good enough,” John said as he and the stranger compared timepieces. “I’ve only ever seen one other like it.”

  “That would probably be Hank Morgan’s,” said the man. “His is used a bit more frequently, I’m afraid.”

  “So are you also a time traveler?” asked John.

  “Not so much a traveler in time, as in space,” the man said, “although thanks to the watch, I have the ability to do so when the need is dire. My mentor has a different set of goals for me than he had for Hank.”

  “Verne,” said Charles. “So he’s the one who sent you?”

  “Indeed,” the man replied. He pulled at his collar and looked around. “We should find a place more suitable to talk, unless you have an objection.”

  “That was our plan anyway,” Jack said, offering his hand. “Do you have some place in mind?”

  “I do,” said the stranger, shaking Jack’s hand, then John’s and Charles’s in turn. To Rose he gave only a long, appraising glance.

  “You know all of us,” Charles said amicably, “but you’ve not yet introduced yourself.”

  “Ransom,” the man said as he turned and began leading them down the path to the left. “My name is Alvin Ransom.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Inn of the Flying Dragon

  “I’m a great admirer of all your works,” Ransom said as they walked briskly along, “especially your latest, John. That book about the little fellows with the hairy feet, and wizards, and whatnot. I particularly liked the part where the giants turned into stone. Very moving.”

  “Actually, those were trolls,” John said. “And . . .” He stopped walking. “Hang on there,” he exclaimed. “How could you have read that? I haven’t even finished that book yet—and I’ve barely touched it in years!”

  Ransom slapped his forehead. “Apologies, my good fellow. I forgot it’s not due to be published until next year. That’s what I get for trying to curry favor with you by coming up with compliments.”

  “Oh,” said John. “So, ah, you didn’t really like it after all?”

  “I haven’t finished it,” Ransom admitted. “But it is on my nightstand, and I fully intend to, as soon as I have the opportunity.”

  “What is your profession, Mr. Ransom, if I may ask?” said Charles.

  The lamps were … moving with the light of active

  flame.

  “I’m a philologist,” he answered evenly, “at the University of Cambridge.”

  “A philologist?” said John. “Really? A languages specialist? How odd that we haven’t met before.”

  “Not particularly,” said Ransom. “The Cambridge that I come from isn’t the Cambridge you’re familiar with.”

  “Different country?” asked Jack.

  “Different dimension,” replied Ransom.

  “That sounds exactly like Cambridge,” said Charles.

  “Bert has alluded to the concept of different dimensions once or twice,” John said, “but we never got into specifics. Charles is our resident expert in that particular field.”

  Charles beamed with pleasure at the compliment. “I’ve actually devoted quite a bit of attention to the topic,” he said brightly, “even wrote a book about it.”

  “I know,” Ransom replied, his voice suddenly somber with respect. “It’s one of our most important theses on the subject of multidimensionality.”

  Charles blinked at him. “It was, ah, a work of fiction, actually.”

  Now it was Ransom’s turn to be surprised. He started to make a comment, then paused, his expression softening. “I keep forgetting what year I’ve come to,” he said mildly. “There are things I take for
granted that you won’t actually know about for a few years yet, God willing.”

  Jack and John exchanged a glance of concern. God willing? Just what was that supposed to mean? That they wouldn’t discover the knowledge Ransom referred to too soon, or that they might not have the opportunity at all?

  “You seem to know a great deal more about us than we know about you,” Jack said. “I don’t know how comfortable I am with that discrepancy.”

  “That’s one reason my Anabasis Machine—I mean, my pocket watch—was fashioned in the manner it was,” said Ransom. “There are too many double agents afoot in the lands, and too many allegiances built on the sand. It’s difficult to know whom to trust—and so Verne made certain to give those of us who are loyal to the Caretakers’ trust an unmistakable symbol.”

  “A silver pocket watch,” John asserted, “with a depiction of Samaranth on the casing.”

  Ransom nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Couldn’t that be easily duplicated, though?” Charles opined. “I mean, it’s a very nice watch, but there are a hundred watchmakers in London who could make a replica in a day.”

  Ransom almost stumbled as he spun about to frown at Charles. “Haven’t you realized by now just how deep a game Verne, and Bert, and the others are playing?” he said with some astonishment. “When the Dyson incident occurred, didn’t you think it significant that Verne had already prepared for the eventuality by arranging the Lanterna Magica for you to find, fifteen centuries before it was needed?

  “These are the people who invented the idea of a secret society,” Ransom continued, “so of course there would be safeguards.” He snapped open his watch. “The first is the engraved inscription.”

  Jack and Charles moved closer to peer at the watch cover, which bore two words: Apprentice Caretaker, and the Greek letter omega.

  “Only the Caretakers themselves, their apprentices, and those like myself who have been recruited to the cause know that Bert chose that letter as the Caretaker’s mark,” said Ransom. “That’s the first safeguard.”