Here, There Be Dragons Page 8

  “But,” said Charles, “won’t we get into trouble?”

  “Heh,” Aven snorted. “More trouble than what we just left? I doubt it. Besides, I don’t think there is anyone left in power who will care, forbidden or not.”

  “The advantage of following forbidden paths,” Tummeler said, nodding, “is that no one will follow after.”

  “That’s terrible logic,” said Charles.

  “No,” said Tummeler. “That’s animal logic.”

  John awoke to the sound of something snuffling loudly around his face, and he sat up with a start. The snuffling was Tummeler, who was kneading his small paws and peering closely at him.

  “Master John, be ye awake?” the animal said, a note of genuine concern in his voice. “Be ye all right, master scowler?”

  “I be, ah, that is, I’m all right,” said John, attempting to lift himself up on his elbows. He was lying across the rear seats of the Curious Diversity. Nearby, Bert and Charles were talking closely, and Aven and Jack were also keeping counsel of their own a little farther on.

  They had stopped near a spring, in a clearing that was sparsely wooded with thin, scraggly trees, at the cleft of the canyon. The sun was still high in the sky. The entire fiasco of the Grand Council and their flight from the city had taken scarcely an hour.

  Bug sat in the front seat of the principle, face tense with concentration.

  “The others,” he said without turning. “They said you were a knight, back in the world you come from? That you saw battle, and that’s what’s making you sick?”

  “I’m a soldier,” John said, sitting upright. “That’s like a knight, I suppose. And yes, I became sick during the war. It still troubles me at times.”

  Bug turned to look at him. “They said the memory made you ill. How can a memory make you sick?”

  John paused, unsure how to answer. “I had friends,” he said finally. “Friends who died, right before my eyes. And I feared for my own life. That kind of fear, once a man has experienced it, never fully goes away. Do you understand?”

  Bug didn’t reply, but swallowed hard and turned away. John got the feeling that yes, the boy did understand—perhaps more than any of them could know.

  At Tummeler’s direction, the companions began to walk through the canyon, heading west. “This is a continuation of th’ road,” Tummeler explained, “that leads to where we be goin’.”

  “We should be continuing north,” argued Aven. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “And when we get back to the ship, where then?” Bert admonished. “We have no guide, and the Winter King can only be strengthened by the chaos of the Council. He’ll still be looking for the Geographica—and us. Perhaps here we can find someone to translate the Imaginarium Geographica—and maybe restore some semblance of order to the lands before all is lost.”

  The others nodded in agreement, save for John, who hung his head in shame. He had never felt so useless, and would have said so, if it weren’t for the fear that not one of his friends would dispute it.

  As they walked, Bert explained that when the Silver Throne was created, alliances had yet to be formed. “There was a loose fealty to Arthur, but his children had a harder row to hoe,” he said. “The Dwarves were first to form a pact with the king, then the Goblins. The Elves were next, in an alliance formed by marriage—and then, much later, the Trolls. During that time, Artigel found it useful to have a seat of power that could be defended and protected. This canyon was the ideal place.

  “The consent of the Four Kingdoms, represented by the four major races—the Trolls, the Elves, the Goblins, and the Dwarves—to be ruled by Men was predicated on the continuity of rule,” said Bert. “It’s because of the Parliament that they have allowed an empty throne for so long. And even then, only because the Steward was governing at their behest.”

  “The Steward of Paralon,” said John. “He seemed familiar somehow.”

  “After all of the assorted characters we’ve seen,” said Jack, “any human would seem familiar.”

  “Not like that,” said John. “I’m quite certain I’ve seen him somewhere before. I wish I’d gotten a closer look….”

  “Never mind,” said Bert. “He fled before anyone else. It’s all but certain that he had something to do with the deception of the Clockwork Parliament.”

  At this, Tummeler clicked his teeth nervously but kept his eyes on the path ahead.

  “There,” said Tummeler at last. “There she be.”

  He gestured ahead at the steep rock face of the canyon, where an enormous edifice seemed to have been carved into the stone itself, in much the same manner as Paralon. It was rougher, cruder, but bore the same unmistakable craftsman-ship. A great framework of stone and iron was inset into the southern wall of the canyon, and two huge wooden doors within that. Above, wrapped protectively around the upper part of the doors, was a stone bas-relief of a dragon, surrounded by exotic golden lettering.

  “Elvish,” Tummeler stated, as Bert nodded in agreement.

  “How do we get in?” Jack asked, examining the doors. “There doesn’t seem to be a handle or keyhole.”

  “Perhaps the inscription is a magical instruction,” said Charles. “Remember where we are, and how things work in this place.”

  “I don’t suppose you can read that,” Jack said to John, who scowled, face reddening.

  “Jack,” Charles admonished. “Mr. Tummeler brought us here—I’m sure he can facilitate our entry.”

  “Oh, drat and darn,” said Tummeler. “I’ve forgotten the magic word again.”

  “What does the writing say?” John asked, not quite daring to touch the inscriptions, which were deeply engraved into the granite, yet were worn smooth with extreme age.

  “It’s Elvish,” Tummeler repeated. “It says, basically, ‘Declare allegiance, and be welcomed.’”

  “Well, doesn’t it perhaps mean that the magic word that opens the door is ‘allegiance’?” said Jack. “In Elvish?”

  “That’s a stupid idea,” said John. “Then anyone who spoke Elvish could get in.”

  “Pr’cisely,” said Tummeler. “No, it be an actuated magic word. One of the oldest magic words there be. It was made so by one of th’ great Elven Kings of old, called Eledin, he be.”

  “Eledin?” said Charles. “That’s close to ‘Aladdin,’” he said, waving his hand across the doors. “If only it was that easy—to simply say, ‘Alakazam.’”

  With a low groaning of wood and metal, the giant oaken doors cracked apart and slowly began to spread open.

  “Y’ know the sacred magic word,” said Tummeler, eyes wide with respect. “Y’ be a true scowler, master Charles.”

  “Good show, Charles,” said Jack.

  “Bravo,” said Bert.

  “That shouldn’t have worked,” said John. “It was supposed to be Ali Baba and ‘Open Sesame.’”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Charles.

  There were several skeletons strewn about the entryway, robed in various styles of clothing. A few of the remains were misshapen, the bones either too short or elongated and overly large. It was Jack who realized that not all of the remains were human.

  “Does everyone still think this is a good idea?” Jack said. “It looks as if other adventurers weren’t entirely successful at getting very far.”

  “Oh, don’t mind the bones,” said Tummeler. “The Archivist keeps ’em about to give th’ place atmosphere.”

  “Scared, Jack?” Aven said with a mischievous grin.

  He straightened his posture and stepped forward. “No.”

  With Jack leading the way, the companions moved down the corridor, which was as tall as the doors and lit by the supernatural glow of runes engraved in the walls some ten feet above their heads.

  “More Elvish,” said Bert.

  The corridor opened into a broad cavern that was honey-combed with holes, each of which was filled with books, or artifacts, or in some cases, gold and jewels.

/>   “Hello?” said Tummeler. “Is anyone there?”

  “Welcome,” rumbled a deep, smoky voice. “I hope you’ve come by for a cup of tea, because those are the only kind of visitors I permit here anymore.

  “Otherwise,” the voice continued, “I’m going to have to kill you all.”

  “Will you drink with me? Or do you want to plunder, and die?”

  Chapter Eight

  An Invitation to Tea

  Even the light from the Elvish runes seemed to recede as an immense red dragon rose slowly to its feet and moved toward them from the shadowed recesses of the cavern.

  “My name is Samaranth,” said the great red beast, “and all those you see around you declined my invitation, opting instead to help themselves to the treasure. So, Sons of Adam, choose. Will you drink with me, or do you want to plunder, and die?”

  “Are you serious?” said Jack. “Tea or death? Of course we’ll take the tea.” The others all nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “What kind of fool would choose death?”

  “Bet they wuz Cambridge scowlers, eh, master Charles?” said Tummeler with a wink.

  “Undoubtedly,” said Charles.

  The stone floor was covered with an assortment of Persian rugs of varying sizes. The largest lay squarely before them, where the dragon indicated they should sit.

  “This is quite an honor,” Bert whispered to John as they seated themselves in a semicircle at the feet of the dragon. “There are no other dragons left in the Archipelago. Haven’t been since the old king died. But to share tea with Samaranth…”

  “What’s special about Samaranth?” John whispered back, keeping a wary eye on the dragon, “as opposed to, well, regular dragons?”

  “He’s the first,” Bert replied. “The oldest. The original dragon of the Archipelago. In fact, he may be the oldest creature alive.”

  “Perhaps you are correct,” Samaranth said, smiling. “I may indeed be the oldest. But time, as you well know, Son of Adam, is relative.”

  Bert reddened at this and folded his arms, bowing. “I meant no disrespect, Samaranth. I am indeed honored to meet you. And, ah, to partake of your hospitality.”

  The dragon bowed his head to Bert in acknowledgment, then to each of them in turn, pausing only at Bug, to whom he bowed a bit more deeply, and for a moment longer than the others. Bug, for his part, blushed visibly.

  Samaranth straightened and gestured toward the badger, who was standing to one side, beaming. “And you, Child of the Earth—will you join us?”

  “Certainly,” said Tummeler. “Y’ wouldn’ happen t’ have those crackers I fancy, would y’?”

  Samaranth made a huffing noise not unlike a steam engine, which after a moment the companions realized was laughter.

  “Yes,” said Samaranth. “I have the Leprechaun crackers. One moment, and I’ll get them.”

  “They ain’t made from real Leprechauns,” Tummeler confided to Charles. “I just calls ’em that.”

  The dragon returned with a silver tea service delicately balanced on one arm, and a small bundle of crackers on the other.

  “Mistress,” he said to Aven. “Will you do the pleasure of serving?”

  Aven began to retort something about not being servile to men, but the dragon’s tone and manner was so respectful that she could not refuse. She took the tray from him, and Jack rose to his feet to help, taking the parcel of crackers.

  “These are tea biscuits,” he said, puzzled. “Just like we have at home.”

  “There are those who trade with your world,” said Samaranth, “and they in turn trade with the animals, who in turn trade with me.”

  “Umm-hmm,” Tummeler said happily through a mouthful of crackers.

  “What do you trade?” Charles asked. “Jewels? Gold?”

  Samaranth turned to him. “Is that all you see of worth here, O Son of Adam? The riches of the Earth?”

  Charles shrank back. “Ah, just wondering.”

  “Knowledge,” Bert interjected. “You trade in knowledge.”

  “Hurm,” the dragon growled in satisfaction. “A Caretaker of the Geographica would understand this.”

  “That’s the second thing you’ve said that indicates you know me,” said Bert. “Pardon my asking, but have we met before? Because I’m certain I would not have forgotten, I assure you.”

  “No,” said Samaranth, “but it is in my interests to keep abreast of what occurs in the Archipelago—and those who seek to influence its affairs. And to that end,” the dragon continued, “tell me what it is that has brought you here to have tea with an old dragon.”

  It took them the better part of an hour to recount everything that had happened, from the murder of Professor Sigurdsson to the flight from London, to the prophecy of the Morgaine, the battle with the Black Dragon, and the Grand Council at Paralon. They also recounted, much to John’s embarrassment, his failure to translate the differing languages of the Imaginarium Geographica, and the urgent need to do so, that they might find a way to defeat the Winter King.

  The dragon said nothing but merely listened, pausing only to refill the teapot with fresh tea and to replenish the Leprechaun crackers for Tummeler, who had not stopped munching them the entire time.

  When the companions finished their accounting, Samaranth said nothing, but sat, considering. When he finally spoke, it was about the past.

  “Ages ago,” Samaranth began, “the Archipelago of Dreams was guarded by thousands of dragons. The skies were filled with them. Then, not all that long ago, they began to disappear, until they were all gone, save for myself. And the only knowledge that remained of them was found in myth, and legend, and in books.” This last was said with a rather pointed look at John.

  “We guarded the boundary between the Archipelago and the world beyond, using flame and fear to turn back travelers that ventured too close. But I have not seen another dragon for almost twenty years, and men like the one you call the Winter King have risen to power—men who would learn the secrets of the lands not to rule justly, but to conquer cruelly.”

  “He has already placed many lands in Shadow,” said Bert, “and for some reason, he believes that possession of the Geographica will aid him in his efforts.”

  “Why he wishes to possess the Geographica, I cannot say,” mused Samaranth, “but there are already too many plans afoot in the lands, and were it to fall into his hands, it would not bode well for the Archipelago.”

  “Then what can we do?” said Bert. “There is no king, and not even a real Parliament to give counsel. Worse, there apparently hasn’t been a real Parliament in some time—and the revealed deception ended the possibility of unity in the Archipelago.”

  “Yes, that is a problem,” said Samaranth, turning to face Tummeler. “Would you care to tell us, little Child of the Earth, just what the animals were thinking?”

  Tummeler froze, a half-eaten Leprechaun cracker hanging out of his mouth.

  “The animals?” said Aven. “Do you mean to say that they built those imposters in the Parliament?”

  “It makes sense,” said Charles. “They are the only ones aside from Nemo who know how to build the vehicles, and the clockwork kings and queens were at least as complicated as that.”

  The companions turned to look at Tummeler, who was twisting the ends of his vest and twitching his whiskers mournfully.

  “Aye, ’tis true, I be afeared to say,” Tummeler began. “We—the animals, that is—built them several years back, to avoid just this sort o’ calamity.”

  “But why did you build them?” Jack asked. “There are plenty of humans on Paralon who could have served.”

  “Not kings and queens,” wailed Tummeler. “Th’ Parliament must be kings and queens of the greater islands of the Archipelago, and none wuz left alive.”

  “None of them?” Bert said. “That’s not possible.”

  “Both possible an’ true,” said Tummeler. “With no High King, no royal heirs, an’ no real kings an’ queens in Parliament, it were
only a matter o’ time before the other kingdoms would start to fight for th’ Silver Throne.

  “So it were decided that we—th’ animals—should build replacement-likes, to keep a Parliament t’gether so’s a new High King could be decided on.”

  “Who decided that you should build the replacements?” Bert asked.

  Tummeler wiped a paw across his snout and shrugged. “I don’t know. I never saw. Ol’ Tummeler never did anyfing but drive supplies to and fro in the Curious Diversity.”

  “The Steward,” said Charles. “Was he clockwork too?”

  Tummeler shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “It stands to reason,” said Charles. “If no one knew the other kings and queens were being murdered, as the High King’s family had been, then they could be replaced with fakes.”

  “But why would anyone want to do that?” Jack asked.

  “Consensus,” said John. “Only the continuity of human rule kept the other races in check. And a consensus of Parliament and the delegates of the other kingdoms could put someone on the Silver Throne—someone like the Winter King, which is exactly what the Steward was trying to do.”

  “And Bert stopped him,” said Charles. “Well done, Bert.”

  “Of course, now the capital city is on fire, and the entire Archipelago may be at war,” said Jack. “But let’s not dwell on the past.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Aven. “Whatever is occurring among the races, the Winter King will still be pursuing the Geographica, and we can’t let him find it.”

  “Agreed,” Samaranth said. “As much as it pains me to suggest, the Imaginarium Geographica must be destroyed.”

  “We tried that,” said Jack. “Nemo threw it on a brazier, but it wouldn’t burn.”