The Dragons of Winter Read online

  “Well,” said Verne. “That’s it and done. Unless someone has one of these rings, or is already here, they’re not setting foot in the Nameless Isles.”

  “Amen,” said Grimalkin.

  After the ceremony of the rings, the Caretakers separated briefly to reflect on the events of the day and plan their next strategies. John, Jack, and Charles, however, held back, and indicated for Twain to do the same. After a few minutes, the room had cleared, and they were alone except for a few of the Elder Caretakers who were still talking at the far end.

  “What can I do for you boys?” asked Twain.

  “Bert has been very, ah, anxious this entire time,” said Jack, “no pun intended. I’ve seen him under stress before, and it’s always been like water off a duck’s back. It never sinks in with him. So why is he so testy now? It can’t just be because he wants to go find Weena.”

  “It isn’t,” Twain said, drawing them away from the others into the corridor so he could speak to the three friends in complete privacy. “Our friend is operating under a severe time constraint. And he’s aware of every tick of the clock.”

  “What kind of constraint?” asked John. “Is he ill?”

  “Nothing like that,” Twain replied. “You know that he is an anomaly, that he has a temporal near-twin, correct?”

  “Sure,” said John. “Herb—the real H. G. Wells, or at least, the one Verne started with.”

  “Precisely,” said Twain. “And you know that our Bert has aged a great deal more than Herb, due in large part to all his wandering around time and space.”

  All three companions nodded, afraid to speak of what they feared was coming.

  “Bert is,” Twain said softly, “the only non-tulpa time traveler, but he is still bound by the rules of Chronos time, or real time, here in the Summer Country. And the person he was, the person he may still have a connection to, is about to kick the bucket.”

  “Oh dear,” John said, closing his eyes.

  “What?” Charles said, looking at Jack. “I don’t . . .”

  “What I mean to be clear about, and apparently failed at,” said Twain, “is to tell you that in seven days, H. G. Wells is going to die. And that means Bert may too. So he has just one week left in which to go find his ladylove.”

  The statement hit the three companions like a thunderclap, shaking them so badly that for a moment, none of them was able to speak.

  “Like Ransom, when Charles . . . ,” John said finally, swallowing hard. “Like that.”

  “Yes,” said Twain. “That’s exactly what we expect to happen.”

  “That’s awful, of course,” said Charles, “but if I can offer my own very informed opinion, I died, and I got over it. Won’t Bert? I mean, after the fact, he’ll still be a Caretaker. And we have ways of dealing with these things.”

  “Yes,” Twain agreed, “except you chose to become a tulpa, whereas Bert has never strayed from the plan that when he eventually perished, he would join the rest of us here in the portrait gallery. We’ve tried to convince him to do otherwise, but he simply won’t be swayed. His will to do what he believes is best is simply too strong.”

  Finally it dawned on Charles what the real urgency was. If Bert became a portrait, he might never be able to travel through time again—and certainly not into the far future or the deep past. There was simply too great a risk that he would not make it back to Tamerlane House in the allotted week. And then . . .

  “What happened to Stellan could happen to him,” Jack said, completing Charles’s thought. “No wonder he’s so stressed.”

  “Indeed,” said Twain as he began to guide them back into the room where the other Caretakers had started to gather again. “So, best efforts, eh, boys? For Bert, if for no other reason.”

  “That,” John said, “is more than reason enough. And all the reason we’d ever need.”

  The Caretakers were gathering again in the meeting hall because there had been a crossing over Shakespeare’s Bridge. Two of Verne’s most trusted agents had just returned, and just in time—because they would be needed to fulfill the next part in his battle plan.

  “Well met,” Don Quixote said, bowing deeply as he entered the meeting hall. “Greetings, Caretakers.”

  John and Jack both stood to take the knight’s hand—which John noticed already bore one of Verne’s silver rings—and Rose gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, which made him blush. It was a deserved warm welcome—but it was nothing compared to the response his squire Uncas got.

  Every time Uncas visited Tamerlane House, with or without the old knight, there was the equivalent of a hero’s reception and parade held in the library. The library of Tamerlane House had been all but taken over by two dozen foxes and hedgehogs, all Paralon-trained librarians and archivists, who were led by the new head librarian—a fox called Myrret. And to these animals, Uncas was not merely a knight’s squire or an associate of the Caretakers—he was a legendary badger.

  “Since I became Don Quixote’s squire,” Uncas had explained to the starstruck animals, “I hadn’t had as much time as I’d liked to visit back t’ th’ Archipelago. It was only luck that we wuz doing a secret errand for Scowler Jules that spared us bein’ lost with everyone an’ everything else.”

  “Your name was well known to all the Children of the Earth,” Myrret said admiringly. “The son of the great badger Tummeler, who saved the Scholar Charles in the battle with th’ Winter King . . .”

  “‘Saved’?” asked Charles.

  “Poetic license,” said Jack, “I’m sure.”

  “. . . and the father of the Caretaker Fred,” Myrret went on, “you deserved the honors given to you and monuments named for you—even if you did not perish so long ago, as we once believed.”

  “How many badgers can there be with the name Charles Montgolfier Hargreaves-Heald?” asked Charles.

  “In point of fact,” said Myrret, “there were eleven. Not counting juniors and thirds.”

  “All right then,” said Charles. “I’m so glad I asked.”

  “I have another mission for you,” Verne explained to Quixote and Uncas as he handed them a slender, cream-colored envelope. “Your instructions are there, as per usual. And yes,” he added, with a wry look at Uncas, “you get to use the Duesenberg.”

  “Hot potatoes!” Uncas said, jumping onto his chair. “Let’s get going!”

  Several of the Caretakers accompanied the knight and his squire back to the bridge and over it, to the Kilns. Charles relished each opportunity to return to the Summer Country, given that he could only do so occasionally since he’d become a tulpa. To Jack it was simply going home. And for John, it was a chance to keep the world he lived in connected to the one he’d become responsible for. At times, long years passed between visits to the Archipelago—and it sometimes seemed as if that other world was only a dream. But now that it was gone, John thought wistfully, it seemed more real than ever. And he missed it.

  “We no longer have the resources of the Archipelago to draw upon,” Verne was saying, “but that does not mean we are wholly without resources—however questionable some of them may be.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Jack.

  “That we use what resources we have,” Verne said as he opened the door to the 1935 Duesenberg that sat alongside the house, “and we call in the favors that we can, from those who are able to grant them.”

  Uncas gleefully took the wheel as Quixote bent his lanky frame in the seat beside the badger. “We’ll be back soon, Scowler Jules,” Uncas said as the engine growled to life. “You c’n count on us.”

  “I know,” Verne said, almost inaudibly. “I know we can, little fellow.”

  “Is it really prudent to just let them go driving around in the Duesenberg like that?” John asked as the vehicle roared away, scattering gravel as the tires spun.

  “It’s not really a problem,” Verne replied. “Everyone in England drives like that. No one will notice one more insane driver.”
r />   “That’s not what I meant,” John persisted. “Quixote may be able to pass, but isn’t it a little irresponsible of us to let a talking badger go driving around out in the open? In the old days, that would have gotten us in a lot of trouble.”

  “Ah, but it isn’t the old days anymore, is it, young John?” said Verne. “The world is turning its attention away from certain things, and the loss of the Archipelago has made this even more pronounced. No one sees . . .

  “. . . because no one is looking. Not anymore.”

  “That’s terrible, Jules,” said John. “Someone should look. Or at least, remember.”

  “That’s a large part of the reason it’s our practice to recruit writers as Caretakers,” Verne replied, looking intensely at his protégé. “It’s part of your job to write down the stories so the world doesn’t forget.

  “So no one ever forgets.”

  Verne held John’s eyes a moment, then wheeled about, waving to the others. “Come on, then,” he called out over his shoulder as he strode back to the bridge. “We’ve done what we can do for now. It’s up to Uncas and Quixote to see where we’ll go next.”

  He didn’t rise to greet them, but waved them over . . .

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Ruby Armor of T’ai Shan

  Following the directions in the cream-colored envelope, Quixote and Uncas drove northward from the Kilns and Oxford, to the gray, industrial town of Northampton. It took more than two hours to make the trip, and another two once they’d gotten there to find the address they were seeking. At first they had argued a bit as to whether they were reading the map properly—but when they found the actual building, both realized that they would have been hard-pressed to find it even if they’d been there a hundred times before.

  It was a low, sloping edifice, which was tucked away on an alley off a side street near a seldom-used thoroughfare, and it looked as if it had been built at least three centuries earlier, and had not been repaired since just after that.

  A dimly lit speakeasy was housed on the ground floor, and none of the windows on the two floors above showed any evidence of occupancy. Quixote was about to declare the whole adventure a misfire when Uncas tugged on his sleeve and pointed at the narrow stairs leading down to an apartment below street level.

  “There,” the badger said softly. “I think that’s where we’re supposed t’ go.”

  Cautiously they made their way down the steps and were debating using the half-attached door knocker when a gruff, scratchy voice within called out, “Well, come on in! No sense standing out there waiting for the plaster to peel.”

  The knight and the badger entered the apartment, which was one large room, divided only by the struts and braces that supported the structure above. On the far side were greasy windows, framed with ramshackle blinds that let in bands of light from the street outside.

  There were filing cabinets of various sizes scattered around the room, which formed rough, concentric circles around the gravity of a massive, dark desk, at which was seated a large, heavyset man who wore a hat and a tattered trench coat. He didn’t rise to greet them, but waved them over to stand in front of the desk.

  “I’m Steve, the Zen Detective,” the man said without offering his hand or asking his visitors to sit. “But if you knew how to find me, then you probably already knew that.”

  “Zen Detective?” asked Uncas. “What do you detect?”

  “I help people to find themselves, among other services,” the detective replied, giving no sign that he cared that the question was asked by a badger, “although most don’t actually like what I find, so I’ve learned the hard way to ask for my fee up front, cash on the barrel.”

  “How do you lose yourself?” Uncas asked, patting himself on his stomach. “I’d a’ thunk that’d be hard t’ do.”

  “It’s easier than you think,” said the detective. “Mostly it happens through inattention, but sometimes it’s deliberate.” He snorted. “Those are always the ones who have the most urgent need, and are always just as reluctant to pay.”

  “Hmm,” Uncas mused, looking around at the shabby office. “Do you really make a living doing this, uh, ‘Zen detecting,’ um . . . Steve?”

  “His name,” said Quixote, “is Aristophanes.”

  “I prefer Steve,” the detective replied, sniffing, “but yes, you speak the truth.”

  “That’s awfully familiar to me,” said Uncas. “How is it that I would know you?”

  “Well,” the detective replied, “I was once a noted philosopher. Perhaps you read—”

  “Naw,” said Uncas. “I’m not a big reader—you’re thinking of my son. Say,” he added, leaning closer. “Are you, uh, purple?”

  “It’s a birthmark,” the detective replied testily.

  “Over your whole body?” said Uncas.

  “Don’t you have any birthmarks?” Aristophanes shot back. “Or doesn’t your species have such a thing?”

  “Of course we do!” said Uncas. “In fact, I myself have a birthmark around a mole on my—”

  “Decorum, Uncas,” Quixote interrupted, waggling a finger. “Decorum.”

  “Heh.” Aristophanes chuckled. “A badger with a mole. That’s funny.”

  “How does a philosopher end up becoming a detective?” asked Uncas. “That seems like two very opposite perfessions.”

  “All philosophical inquiry,” said the detective, “can be boiled down into just two questions. The first”—he counted off on his fingers—“is ‘Am I Important?’ And the second is ‘Can I Survive?’ There’s nothing in philosophy that isn’t somehow covered by those questions. And every case I take as a detective ends up asking them as well.”

  “Hmm,” Uncas said, tugging on his ear and squinting. “I don’t recognize it. It is from Aristotle?”

  “No, it isn’t from Aristotle!” the detective shot back. “It’s from one of my own teachers, who was relatively unknown, but a great philosopher still.”

  “What was his name?” asked Quixote.

  “He didn’t have one,” Aristophanes replied. “He preferred to be known by an unpronounceable symbol, so most of his less imaginative students just called him ‘the Philosopher.’ That’s part of how Johnny-come-latelies like Aristotle got credit for some of the stuff he actually thought of.”

  “What did you call him?” asked Uncas.

  “He started all his dialogues by making this glottal sound with his throat,” said Aristophanes, “so I called him ‘Larynx.’”

  “A great Greek philosopher named, erm, Larry?” Quixote asked, confused. “That sounds very, ah, improbable.”

  Uncas shrugged. “Detectives named Steve could have teachers named Larry,” he theorized. “It could happen.”

  “Not Larry, Larynx!” Aristophanes retorted angrily. “And it was only a nickname, anyway. Besides, it doesn’t matter what he was called—the quality of the thinking is what is important to a philosopher. The rest is just advertising.”

  “And yet you became a detective,” said Quixote. “Interesting.”

  Steve scowled. This wasn’t going the way it was supposed to have gone. He had assumed that a lanky, out-of-sorts knight and a talking badger would be pushovers, but somehow, this unlikely duo had managed to get him talking about himself—which simply wouldn’t do. Not at all.

  “So,” Aristophanes said gruffly, tapping the desk. “Enough talk. Time is money. Let’s see your dough, and then we’ll find your Zen, or whatever.”

  “Is this really the right feller?” Uncas asked behind his paw. “He seems a little . . . off t’ me.”

  “He’s the right fellow, all right,” Quixote said as he rummaged around in his duffel. “I know I had it here somewhere . . . ,” he muttered.

  “Aha!” Quixote finally exclaimed as he found what he’d been searching for. “Here you go,” he said, dropping a small drawstring bag on the detective’s desk. “Thirty pieces of silver—your traditional price for this kind of job.”

  The Zen dete
ctive made no move to retrieve the bag, but simply sat, staring at it with a passive expression on his face. At length, he inhaled deeply, then exhaled the air in a long, melancholy sigh. “Silver,” he said at last, eyeing Quixote. “Verne sent you, didn’t he?”

  The knight nodded. “He did, yes.”

  “And whom is it you would like me to find?”

  “It in’t a whom, it’s a what,” said Uncas.

  “We’ve been instructed,” Quixote said with all the formality of an official request, “to ask you to locate the Ruby Opera Glasses.”

  Aristophanes fell backward over his chair and crashed to the floor. He rose in an instant, cursing under his breath, then more loudly as he set his chair back on its legs and took his seat.

  “You don’t ask for much, do you?” he said, squinting suspiciously at the knight and the badger. “Why not ask for the Cloak of the Paladin, or a shard of the true cross, or the Spear of Destiny while you’re at it?”

  “Actually,” Uncas said, brightening, “what happened with the spear was this, see . . . .”

  “Never mind that,” Quixote said as he scowled at the badger. “We really do just need the Ruby Opera Glasses.”

  “If I could locate them,” said the detective, “I would require an additional fee. And then there might be an additional cost to acquire them. How much is Master Verne . . .”

  In response to the unfinished question, Quixote reached back into his duffel and removed a second bag of silver. Then a third. And a fourth.

  Uncas let out a slow whistle of appreciation. “That’s a lotta nuts,” he said, looking from Quixote to the detective and back again. “What’s so special about these glasses anyhoo?”

  “The glasses are the only object in all of the Summer Country that can detect the presence of an Echthroi,” said Aristophanes.

  “Is this sufficient?” Quixote asked, indicating the bags on the desk. “I’m not authorized to pay more, but I could ask if needed.”