The Dragons of Winter Read online

  “To locate them, yes. But it won’t be nearly enough,” the detective answered, “for what we’re actually going to propose to the Frenchman.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The rest of the armor,” Aristophanes said simply. “It still exists. And what’s more, I know where to find it.”

  It was a credit to Quixote’s self-control that he did not react to this news, but kept his expression steady; and it was a credit to Uncas’s self-control that all he did was whoop with excitement.

  “Th’ scowlers will be so excited to know that!” Uncas exclaimed. “Th’ rest of the armor! Imagine that!”

  “Do you even know what the armor is?” asked the detective.

  “Not at all!” Uncas admitted. “But it sounds right stellar!”

  “What do you ask of us?” said Quixote.

  “Simple,” Aristophanes replied as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his feet on top of his desk. “I want to be dealt back in.”

  The old knight looked confused. “Dealt back in? You want to play cards?”

  Aristophanes groaned. “No, you idiot. Dealt back into the game. The Great Game. I want my seat at the table. I want to rejoin the flow of the world.”

  “That’s for the Prime Caretaker to decide,” Quixote said after a moment, “and I daren’t even consult him with such a request, when we don’t even know if you’re capable . . .”

  Aristophanes ignored the knight’s comments and opened up a drawer on the left side of his desk. He reached in, removed an object, and placed it on the desktop.

  “There,” he said. “The Ruby Opera Glasses. That alone should convince Master Verne that I can find the rest of the armor.”

  The knight and the badger peered curiously at the glasses, which, other than the thick red lenses, looked like any other pair of antique opera glasses. “Tell us about this armor,” Quixote said, gingerly touching the glasses. “To whom did it belong?”

  “A great warrior named T’ai Shan,” Aristophanes answered, “who lived many, many thousands of years ago. She was the Imago of this world, which made her the mistress of time and space, and she was respected and feared by all. Even,” he added darkly, “the Echthroi.”

  Uncas frowned. “So this, Inag . . . Imuh . . . This person lived thousands of years ago, did she?” he said as he examined the opera glasses. “Beggin’ y’r pardon, but these seem t’ be a bit too muchly on th’ contemporary side t’ be real.”

  “Master, uh, mistress of time and space, remember?” said Quixote. “Perhaps she acquired them during the dispatching of her duties as Imago—whatever those entailed.”

  “She disappeared long ago, even before the Archipelago of Dreams was created,” said the detective, “and the armor was thought to be lost. But it was found again during the Bronze Age, by those who knew of its power and sought to use it.

  “The helmet, breastplate, and gauntlets are still intact,” Aristophanes continued, “but the leggings were dismantled so that the ruby could be used in the creation of five other objects of power.”

  “Like the opera glasses,” Uncas said. “I get it.”

  “The light dawns,” said Aristophanes. “As I told you, the glasses can be used to detect the presence of the Echthroi, and also their servants, the Lloigor. The second object that was created is a brooch, which does exactly the opposite: It can hide someone from being seen by an Echthros or a Lloigor.

  “The third object, which has been missing for several centuries, is a comb. That’s the one I really wish I could find,” he added ruefully. “Using it banishes an Echthroi Shadow from its host.

  “The fourth object is almost as useful—a Ruby Dagger, which can actually cut an Echthros, even those who have bonded themselves to a mortal. Although,” Aristophanes said, “the damage to the Shadow is mirrored in damage to the host. So it’s a weapon of last resort, unless you really don’t care about the host.”

  “I suppose that would depend,” said Uncas, “on who th’ host was.”

  “A pragmatic attitude,” the detective philosopher replied with a surprised expression on his face. “Very wise.”

  Uncas shrugged. “Animal logic. What’s the last object?”

  “Objects, not object, actually. A pair,” Aristophanes corrected. “Ruby shoes. They allow the wearer to instantly transport to anywhere they wish, simply by fixing the location in their mind, then tapping the heels together.”

  “What of the intact armor pieces?” asked Quixote.

  “Of those, the helmet may be the hardest to find,” said the Zen Detective, “which is ironic, because it enables the wearer to find their way between any two places. Someone wearing the Ruby Helm cannot get lost.

  “The breastplate has been the object most sought after through the centuries, because the general perception was that it was the most powerful. He who wears the Ruby Breastplate is invulnerable in battle against any mortal foe,” Aristophanes said, with a slight emphasis on “mortal.”

  “And against, say, the Echthroi?” asked Quixote.

  The Zen Detective shook his head. “Against them, not so much. It’s still very powerful, but without the comb and the brooch, no defense against an Echthros.”

  “And the gauntlets?” asked Uncas. “What about them?”

  “Strength,” Aristophanes said. “The more opposition, the stronger the wearer becomes, with,” he added, “one proviso. They don’t give you strength, they just allow you to draw more of the strength you already possess. So if they are used for too long in battle, you could conceivably win . . .”

  “And still lose your life,” Quixote finished. “Worth noting, I think.”

  “You really know where all these things is? Uh, are?” asked Uncas.

  “I do,” Aristophanes said. “They are secreted away, in the corners of the world where magic is real and still worth looking for.”

  “Alas, but those lands are gone now,” said Quixote. “The Archipelago of Dreams—”

  “There was a lot of magic in the lands of the Archipelago, that’s true,” the detective interrupted, nodding. “But they were not all the magic places there are.”

  “And you can find these places then?” asked Quixote. “We’ve already paid a considerable fee just to find the glasses—which you already had in your possession. So for the rest . . .”

  “I’m not bartering with you here,” Aristophanes said gruffly. “This is an all-or-nothing deal. If you take me with you and Verne agrees to my request, then I’ll help you find the rest of the objects. If you decline to do even that much, then I swear on all the gods of Olympus that you will never see me again.”

  Quixote sighed heavily, and with a nod of assent from Uncas, held out his hand. “Your word?”

  Aristophanes paused long enough that Quixote dropped his hand, then the detective nodded sharply. “For whatever it’s worth, you have it,” he said brusquely. “Give me just a moment, and then we can go.”

  He took the bags of silver and locked them all in a heavy safe set within one of the filing cabinets. Then he opened another and removed a large black case, which he handled very carefully.

  “This should be all we’ll need,” he said, looking at the two companions. “Let’s go find your armor.”

  It was perhaps the most unusual group to ever arrive at the Kilns, Warnie decided, and after the last several years, that was not an easy benchmark to clear. He had procured the 1935 Duesenberg specifically for the Caretakers to modify for Quixote and Uncas’s use—mostly because of the small windows, which made it harder to see the badger. Unless, he noted ruefully, Uncas was driving, which happened more frequently than not. Quixote complained that he simply hadn’t the temperament for dealing with a horseless carriage, and so was perfectly content to let the badger drive. This was again the case as the battered old vehicle came skidding into the drive next to the cottage.

  “Almost like driving one of th’ old principles back home,” Uncas chortled as he clambered from the driver’s seat. “’
Cept it smells. Steam and ecstatic lectricity is so much cleaner.”

  A stout man with an unusually dark complexion stepped from the seat behind the driver. “You mean static electricity,” he said brusquely. “There’s no such thing as ‘ecstatic lectricity.’”

  “That’s a very skeptical outlook,” Quixote said as he unfolded himself from the passenger seat and stretched out his cramped frame in the sunlight. “Especially coming from a two-thousand-year-old philosopher unicorn detective.”

  Before any of them could comment further, a delegation of Caretakers emerged from behind the house. Jack and John led the way, followed by Charles and Byron, Bert and Verne, and behind them, Dickens and Burton, with Twain and Hawthorne, both of whom carried samurai swords, bringing up the rear.

  “You come bearing arms, Caretakers?” asked Aristophanes. “A strange way to greet your guests.”

  “You’re a contractor, not a guest,” Verne said without bothering to make introductions. He turned to Quixote and Uncas. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “We did as you requested, Master Verne,” Quixote said. “The price was acceptable, and he located the Ruby Opera Glasses right away.” This last was said with a wink at the detective—the old knight’s effort at camaraderie. “As to the cost for acquiring them, he has a proposal he’d like to make. I think you should give him a hearing.”

  “Why did you bring the detective with you? For all we know, you’ve just brought the serpent into the heart of the garden, so to speak.”

  “I’m not that old,” Aristophanes snorted.

  “It is my understanding,” said Quixote, “that this fellow excels in finding things that are hidden, and he already knows a great deal about the Caretakers. So we trusted him the full mile—but only because of what else he has to offer.”

  Verne and the others looked at the detective expectantly. “Well?” asked Verne.

  “The Ruby Armor of T’ai Shan,” Aristophanes replied. “I know where it is. All of it. And if you bring me into the inner circle, I’ll lead you to it all.”

  Quixote and Uncas briefly recounted the Zen Detective’s proposal, along with the description of the armor and what it could do. When they finished, John and Verne both asked if they could look at the glasses, and after a moment’s reluctance, Aristophanes handed them to the two Caretakers.

  “You didn’t say anything about these, Jules,” John murmured as he peered into the ruby lenses. “Why? Especially if they’d be so useful against the Echthroi.”

  “I didn’t know if they could be found,” Verne admitted, “so I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. But now,” he added, taking back the glasses and returning them to the detective, “it seems they may have led us to an even greater treasure—if we can afford the price.”

  The detective nodded. “I think you can.”

  “Well, possibly,” John said. He turned to Aristophanes. “I’m sorry, but I know nothing of you. And I’m not that prepared to trust you. The fact that Verne could not bring you in openly, as one of his Messengers, gives me pause. And if he does not trust you fully, then I don’t believe the rest of us can either. Revealing the secrets of the Caretakers is too high a price to pay for this armor, or whatever it is.”

  “Speaking as one who has been on both sides of this debate,” said Burton, “I have to agree.”

  John turned to Bert and Verne. “This deal is suspect. I don’t trust his motives.”

  “My motives?” Aristophanes exclaimed. “My motive is the one you can depend on most—self-preservation. If that is a man’s true motive, then all his other causes may lay exposed to the world, naked as a babe. Because you can always determine the truth of his words, by simply asking whether he benefits from his choices.”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” said Charles, “but we have a lot of enemies, and their number seems to be growing almost daily. How exactly is it an act of self-preservation to plant your flag on Caretaker Hill?”

  “You’re not a fool,” the detective replied, eyeing Charles’s pocket watch. “Men are judged by the quality of their enemies, and that makes you powerful indeed. And I know”—he glanced at Verne—“who it is that runs the secret machineries of the world.”

  “Your benefit is obvious,” said John, “but ours is not.”

  “If this armor is that important,” Jack suggested, “can’t the Messengers find it?”

  “They’re engaged in other work,” Verne replied. “And there aren’t as many of them as there used to be.”

  “The truth of it is that you need me,” said Aristophanes. “That swings the weight to my side of the scale.”

  “You’re not as indispensable as you think,” said Verne. “We have maps of all the places the armor may be hidden—finding it is just a matter of time.”

  “Maybe you do,” the detective said quickly, “but you are unable to make good use of them—or you wouldn’t really need me at all. And after the recent burglary at Poe’s house, you almost didn’t have those.”

  Verne turned and raised an eyebrow at Uncas.

  The badger squirmed. “Uh, was I not s’pposed t’ tell him about that?” he asked apologetically.

  “Well, since we already have the glasses . . . ,” Verne murmured. “But on the rest of the matter, we seem to be at an impasse.”

  “In point of fact,” Aristophanes said, raising a finger, “you paid me to locate the glasses, not give them up. I think I’ll hold on to them, for now. And it’s you who are at an impasse, not me.

  “I’ve named my price, Frenchman,” the detective continued, feeling his boldness grow in the opportunity of the moment. “The whole package—you hire me to find and acquire all of the Ruby Armor, and I will deliver it to you complete—including the glasses. If you decline, then I go, and the glasses go with me.”

  John looked at Jack, Charles, and Bert, who all nodded. “The glasses alone seem invaluable,” said Jack, “and it seems he can deliver what he’s asked to find. So I think it’s worth risking.”

  The Caveo Principia held the detective in his regard a few moments longer, then nodded his assent to Verne.

  “All or nothing, is it? Then it seems we have no choice but to trust you,” Verne said heavily. “We have our agreement, detective.”

  “Excellent. Shake on it?” Aristophanes said, sticking out his hand and laughing as Verne recoiled. “Sorry. Just a little joke.”

  “Very little,” said Verne.

  Warnie bid his brother and friends good-bye, making certain to give Charles an especially warm handshake, before going inside to put on a pot of tea. Verne excused himself to retrieve Elijah McGee’s maps from Tamerlane House—taking great care not to allow Aristophanes to see the bridge—leaving the other Caretakers to keep an eye on the Zen Detective.

  “I like your hair, Caretaker,” Aristophanes said to Charles. “It’s very distinguished.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said, beaming. He gave a look of I told you so to his friends. “It’s the exact shade of Queen Victoria’s throne, you know.”

  Aristophanes looked puzzled. “No, it isn’t. Her throne was black—black velvet.”

  Charles looked flustered. “But—but—” he stammered. “Chaucer said—”

  “Chaucer?” Aristophanes exclaimed. “Geoffrey Chaucer? He wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him in the—”

  “Hang on there, detective,” Twain said, swinging his katana up under the other’s nose. “Let’s not be maligning senior staff now, hey?”

  “Whatever,” Aristophanes said, holding up his hands. “I think all you people are crazy.” He chuckled grimly. “I must be crazy myself to want to side with you.”

  “You’re probably right on both counts,” Twain said as he twirled the sword in the air, “and don’t you forget it.”

  The detective grunted in response as Verne crossed back over the lawn and handed Uncas a leather folder.

  “Here they are,” he said to the badger. “The maps of Elijah McGee. They shou
ld be everything the Zen Detective needs to find the armor, and I am entrusting them to your care, Uncas.”

  The badger’s eyes widened, and he gulped as he accepted the parcel of maps, but he nodded in understanding and gave the Prime Caretaker a dignified salute. “You can count on me, Scowler Jules,” he said. “I mean, uh, on us. Except for Aristophanes, I mean.”

  “By Zeus’s knickers!” the detective exclaimed as he climbed into the passenger seat of the Duesenberg. “I told you—call me Steve.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on him, too,” said Quixote. “Never fear,” he added as he lowered himself into the rear seat. “We’ll see this through.”

  “We have no doubt,” Jack said as the automobile roared to life. “Do we, fellows?”

  But none of the men answered. John was looking at the vehicle as it sped off into the distance, and Verne . . .

  . . . was looking at John. His brow creased with worry for the young Caretaker and what was to come, but only for a moment. His face broke into his customary smile, and when John turned, Verne winked at him.

  After a moment, the sounds of the Duesenberg faded, and without speaking further, the Caretakers crossed back over the bridge.

  PART TWO

  The Chronic Argonauts

  “So,” said Twain . . . “who’s up for an adventure?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Days of Future Past

  The Chronographer of Lost Times stood at the tall windows in his athenaeum and considered the small stoppered flask he held in his hand.

  Inside, a wisp of smoke curled against the glass in a slow, almost deliberate motion. In the right light, it sometimes seemed to coalesce into a face, and the expression it wore was one of confusion.

  The Chronographer smiled grimly. Confusion was acceptable, but fear would have been better. It would come in time, however. Everything comes in time.

  “Dr. Dee,” someone called out to the Chronographer from the doorway. “I trust it’s as you hoped?”