The Shadow Dragons Read online

  “And the second?” asked Jack.

  Ransom glanced at him in surprise before grinning broadly and turning to resume walking down the path. “I’m surprised that you don’t know, considering you are one of the actual Caretakers,” he said with a trace of amused smugness, “but then again, the use of the watches and the safeguards didn’t really become critical until nearly 1938.”

  He looked over his other shoulder at John and tipped his chin. “But you know, don’t you?”

  John glanced around to make certain they were alone, then rolled his eyes heavenward. Of course they were alone. They were lost in the English woods following someone from another dimension. If there were anyone lurking about to hear them, it would have to be a stroke of remarkable luck and accidental timing.

  “Yes,” he said quietly, arching an eyebrow at Ransom. “Bert told me just a few months ago. ‘Believing is seeing.’”

  “Believe,” the philologist replied.

  “That’s it?” said Charles. “That’s a bit simple for a secret code.”

  “Simplicity is best in cooking, personal combat, and secret codes,” said Ransom. “And that statement and response are both more simple and infinitely more complex than you can possibly imagine.”

  “I can imagine a great deal,” Charles huffed.

  “Oh, I meant no offense,” Ransom said quickly. “That was just a turn of phrase. Of the three of you—”

  “Four of us,” said John, nodding his head deferentially toward Rose, who smiled.

  “Five,” came a voice from somewhere above them in the gloom. “Couldn’t count in Alexandria, can’t count now. Some scholar you turned out to be.”

  “Sorry,” Ransom said, peering up at the owl that circled overhead. “Uh, sorry,” he repeated to Rose, with slightly less enthusiasm.

  “As I was saying,” he continued, “of all of you here, Charles is the one most likely to be able to comprehend what we’re about to do. Because, strictly speaking, the place I’m taking you to isn’t in our dimension.”

  Without explaining further, Ransom removed a small leather case from inside his coat. It was thick, and about as tall and broad as two decks of playing cards placed side by side. He untied the binding, and inside the companions could see a sheaf of thick, handmade paper with scrawled notes and sketches.

  “These pages are for practice,” Ransom said as he removed a dozen loose cards from the back of the case, “but these are the real cat’s pajamas.”

  The cards were yellowed with age, and more akin to parchment than paper. Most of the sheets had intricate, nearly photographic drawings on them; only the last few were blank. All of them bore a remarkable pattern on the reverse side: an interweaving series of lines that formed an elaborate labyrinth, at the center of which was the symbol for eternity. Along the borders were symbols of a more familiar nature.

  “Elizabethan?” asked John. “These appear to be some kind of . . . I don’t know. Royal stationery?”

  Ransom smirked. “That’s a closer guess than you realize, John,” he said, nodding. “Queen Elizabeth commissioned them, but hers was certainly not the hand that made them.”

  “John Dee,” Charles intoned, drawing in a breath. “It had to have been Dee. We know he was an early Caretaker, but his books are missing from the official Histories, and Bert will not speak of him.”

  Ransom nodded again. “One of the dark secrets of the Caretakers,” he said somberly. “Burton was not the only one of your order to betray his oaths of secrecy.”

  Before the companions could inquire further into what that meant, Ransom fanned the cards out in his hand. “As the Anabasis Machines—the pocket watches—can be used to travel in time, so can these cards be used to travel in space.

  “We don’t know enough about time travel to do more than journey to what Verne called ‘zero points,’” the philologist continued. “We can make educated guesses, but anything outside the zero points is basically gambling without seeing our own hand of cards, so to speak.”

  “That’s how you miss a target date by seven years,” said Jack.

  “Yes,” said Ransom, “although seven isn’t bad. If you have the chance, you should ask Hank Morgan about the time he tried jumping to 1905 and accidentally ended up becoming the sixteenth-century Indian emperor Akbar the Great.”

  “You mean meeting the emperor?” asked John.

  “No,” said Ransom. “Becoming the emperor. Like I said, it’s a really good tale to dine out on.”

  “So I’m inferring from what you’ve said that these cards allow for a bit more precision?” asked Charles.

  “Exactly. We actually call them ‘Trumps’ in honor of your book, Charles,” said Ransom. “Dee made them as some kind of literal otherworldly tarot—at least, that’s what Verne believes. Only a hundred of the original sheets were discovered intact, and we realized their usefulness when Verne found two with drawings on them.”

  “And what are they used for?” said Jack.

  “Simply put, they are used to travel between places,” Ransom replied. “Whatever place is drawn on a Trump can be traveled to.”

  “Without limitation?” asked Charles.

  “As far as we know,” said Ransom. “Distance is no barrier, and neither is the ether that separates dimensions. In fact, the only limitation we know of is the number of blank Trumps that can be drawn on. We don’t know the process Dee used to make them, and so Verne parceled out the ones we did have with a stern instruction to use them sparingly. Of the dozen given to me, I made nine that I use most frequently, and have three that can be created in case of grave emergency.”

  “Nine, ah, portals isn’t very many,” said John. “It seems like a much bigger limitation than you imply.”

  “Not so,” said Ransom. “Verne recruited several agents like myself, and we all have at least six Trumps that are completely unique. The other three are points of conjunction, where we may meet up and then travel together when necessary. They can also be used to communicate—although that risks detection, so we try to do so sparingly.”

  “Does Hank Morgan have a set?” asked John. “That would explain how he was able to send messages to Jules Verne when we were stuck in the past with Hugo.”

  “Well deduced, John,” Ransom said with a smile of approval. “He does indeed, although we had not worked out all the mechanics of using them at that point.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Jack, confused. “If Hank had these Trumps with him in Camelot, why didn’t he just use them to get us out of there as soon as he realized who we were?”

  “Two reasons,” said Ransom, with slightly less approval. “First, if he had been able to use them to take you out of Camelot, it would not have helped your situation. Trumps don’t traverse time, only space. So you’d still have been in the sixth century—just somewhere less useful.”

  “I’m betting the second reason has to do with time travel,” said Charles. “There was already enough damage done by them just being there, and events had to take the proper course to be repaired. Am I right?”

  “Eminently so,” Ransom replied. He selected one of the cards, then replaced the others in the book, which he put back in his coat. “Everyone, now, if you please—stand behind me and give your attention to the card.”

  Archimedes dropped down from one of the beech trees and landed lightly on Charles’s shoulder. Rose, Jack, John, and Charles moved behind Ransom and stared at the card he held in front of them.

  It depicted a cozy-looking, multigabled tavern set in a wood exactly like the one that surrounded the crossroads just ahead of them. At arm’s length, the drawing was nearly photographic in nature, so real and precise that it almost seemed to . . .

  “Oh!” Rose exclaimed, startled and delighted at once. “The flames in the lanterns! They’re flickering!”

  The lamps were indeed moving with the light of active flame. The smoke from the chimneys also moved, as did the leaves stirring in the gentle breeze that blew them across the tablea
u . . .

  . . . and onto Ransom’s outstretched arm.

  The philologist smiled, then concentrated all his attention on the card, which began to grow bigger.

  The patterns around the border began to glow with an ethereal light, and they pulsed with a rhythm very much like a heartbeat.

  In moments it was the size of an atlas, and now hung suspended in the air of its own accord. It continued to expand, and within a matter of minutes it was a life-size looking glass that could be stepped through with ease. The only thing that was different about the wood in front of them was that five minutes earlier, there had been no tavern there—but otherwise, every tree and leaf was exactly the same.

  Ransom stepped through the frame of the card and beckoned to the others. “Come along,” he said with a wry grin. “I assure you, it’s perfectly safe.”

  Charles and Archie went first, with no hesitation. Rose was next, followed by Jack, and finally John, who inhaled sharply, checked his bag for the bulk of the Imaginarium Geographica to make sure it was secure, and stepped through.

  Once on the other side, the portal shrank rapidly, until it was once more just a drawing on an old sheet of parchment, which Ransom carefully replaced in the book in his coat.

  The philologist then turned about and flung out his arm as if he were the host of a party. “My friends,” he said brightly, “welcome to the Inn of the Flying Dragon.”

  “That’s fantastic,” said John. “I think I like those even better than the doors in the Keep of Time.”

  “It takes a certain knack to get the hang of them,” said Ransom as he walked toward the inn. “We’ve got our eye on a young fellow named Roger to become my own apprentice. He shows great promise, I think.”

  Charles stroked Archimedes and frowned. “I’m sorry, old fellow,” he said placatingly. “I know it’s a bit dreary still, but we’ll need you to stay out here.”

  Ransom stopped on the front steps of the inn and turned around. “Why is that? Bring him in. I’m sure they can accommodate him.”

  The companions exchanged confused looks. “I don’t know how it is in your Cambridge,” said John, “but where we come from, an oversized talking mechanical owl tends to attract a lot of the wrong kind of attention.”

  “Really?” Ransom said as he opened the door, a knowing smile spreading across his face. “Perhaps in Oxford that’s true, but it isn’t the case here. Please—come inside and see for yourselves.”

  Stepping through the door into the Inn of the Flying Dragon was, on first glance, very similar to stepping inside one of their usual gathering places like the Eagle & Child. There was a burly proprietor tending the bar, and scattered patrons seated at the tables, with a few in the back playing a game of cards. The room was well lit and not terribly smoky. There was a scent in the air of charred spices, possibly from a curry being burned in the kitchen. The kegs of ale were stacked high, and the taps flowed freely.

  A mop boy scurried over to the companions and offered to show them to a table, taking special notice of the pretty girl in their company. “May I take your owl, sirs?” he offered, trying not to look as if he had noticed Rose. “There’s a good spot in the stable behind, where he’ll be well looked after.”

  Before any of them could reply, Archie opened his mouth. “I have very particular needs, boy. Are you prepared for a guest of my composition?”

  John sighed. “He means he’s not a typical owl,” he explained as Rose and Charles both scowled at Archie. “He doesn’t really require the normal sort of food and shelter.”

  “Well,” the boy said, “if it helps, there was a wizard here last week who brought a phoenix with him, and they seemed pretty happy when they left.”

  “A wizard?” asked Jack. “Really?”

  The boy nodded. “I forget his name—Bumble or Humble something-or-another. But I took excellent care of his phoenix.”

  “This bird is, uh, not exactly natural,” said John.

  “Ah,” the boy said. “A clockwork. We’ve had unusual birds before, and we’ll do our best to make him comfortable.”

  “If that’s the case,” said Archie, “I want a copy of Einstein’s notes on relativity, and a stuffed gopher to chew on as I read.”

  The boy squinted an eye and pondered this. “I can get you the Einstein notes, but only in German, unless you’ll be staying the night. And the only gophers we have are in the stew—but I can get you some mechanical mice instead.”

  Archimedes beamed and hopped over to the boy’s outstretched arm. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

  “Actually, my name’s Flannery.”

  “Whatever you say, MacDuff.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said John.

  They took seats around a table near the front corner, where they could watch the door and make use of it in a pinch. A stout, ginger-haired man in a floppy hat brought several mugs of ale over to the table.

  “There are several such refuges throughout the world,” Ransom explained, gesturing around at the inn. “A good term for them might be ‘Soft Places,’ meaning places where the boundaries are not as solid as elsewhere, and where one might cross between them, with the right knowledge and training.”

  “Is it luck or good planning that one of your Soft Places just happens to be a tavern?” asked John. “Not that I’m complaining in any way, mind you.”

  “Not luck,” Ransom replied. “It’s essentially the power of the crossroads made manifest. A crossroads is important for what it represents, and what it in fact is—a junction between paths. Establishments such as the Inn of the Flying Dragon are much the same—junctions between places.”

  “I’ve completely overlooked what may be the most appealing aspect of interdimensional travel,” Charles said jovially. “Are there more taverns like this, then?”

  “A few,” said Ransom. “I’ve heard of one that’s supposed to be at the End of the World, but I can’t seem to locate it. All that’s on Terminus is a bunch of rocks and a gravestone.”

  “Well, yes,” Jack harrumphed. “Where else?”

  “There’s a nice place that was once called Harrigan’s Green, which is difficult to get to, but worth the trip. You can tell stories to pay for your room and board, so essentially, it’s merit-based. The best stories get the best room, and the best ale.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Charles, rising from his chair. “I’ll get the next round, gentlemen. Same for all?”

  They all nodded. “And you, Rose?” Charles asked.

  “I’d really like a glass of milk, thank you,” said Rose.

  Ransom frowned for just an instant, then started to speak before John interrupted him.

  “Pardon,” John said, turning to Rose. “I think Charles might need some help with the drinks. Would you be so kind as to give him a hand, Rose?”

  “Of course,” the girl said cheerfully as she stood, pushing back her chair. “That will also give you and Uncle Jack the chance to ask Mr. Ransom why I make him so uncomfortable.”

  “She’s a smart girl,” said Jack as Rose walked over to join Charles at the bar.

  “More than smart,” said Ransom.

  “So, since she brought it up,” said John, “why does she make you jumpy, man? Surely you know who she is.”

  The philologist bit his lip and thought a moment before answering. “I know who she is,” he said finally, “but what she is is a conundrum.”

  “Or an enigma,” Jack chimed in. “Or both.”

  “What I mean,” said Ransom, “is that she isn’t supposed to be here at all. In practical terms, the girl doesn’t exist.”

  “But clearly she does,” said John.

  “What’s clear to you and me is not so clear to others,” Ransom pointed out. “Did you notice that when we entered, the barman didn’t bring anything for her, or even ask?”

  “I just assumed that he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with children,” said John.

  “No,” said Ransom. “There are children in here all the ti
me, especially during the day. He didn’t see her. Couldn’t see her.”

  Jack sat up straighter in his seat. “This isn’t the first time that’s happened,” he said, gripping John’s arm. “Remember? After we returned to England with Rose and Hugo? At the Bird and Baby?”

  John frowned, then glanced over at the bar. “That’s right— Burton couldn’t see her either.”

  “But that boy, Flannery, could,” said Jack. He eyed Ransom appraisingly. “But why would you say she isn’t supposed to exist?”

  “Because,” Ransom replied, “in the original History, she actually did sacrifice herself to save Arthur. It was a life for a life. She was supposed to die.”

  “It wasn’t necessary,” John said, leaning over the table. “She was willing, but that was enough.”

  “You know that because you were there,” said Ransom, “but it wasn’t the way history recorded it. And when you chose to bring her here, you somehow removed her from history altogether.”

  “Then why would some people see her while others can’t?” Jack asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Ransom replied. “But since you returned, everything has been in flux—that’s part of the reason I came to find you.”

  “What’s that?” said Charles as he and Rose returned with their drinks. “Hope we haven’t missed anything good.”

  “Just chatting,” John said as he took a mug from his friend. “Seems like a fine sort of pub, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Charles agreed, sitting. “But,” he added in a hushed voice, “I think the barman has a tail. And I’m all but certain that he has donkey’s ears tucked in around that ginger hair under his hat.”

  “Oh, Lampwick’s a good enough fellow,” said Ransom as he took a drink, “but I wouldn’t mention the ears if I were you. He’s a bit touchy about them.”

  “To your good health,” John said, lifting his glass in a toast to his companions. “May all our travels end in such favorable places.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Jack. “This is almost like the Tuesday night meetings with the fellows back at Oxford.”