The Search for the Red Dragon Read online

  Artus led them through several cavernous rooms piled with loose papers that seemed newly made, fresh. They were certainly not typical archive materials. Past those rooms they came before a great set of doors, guarded by two powerful-looking elves.

  “I’ve noticed a number of elves around the, uh, archive,” Jack remarked.

  “Yes,” said Artus. “When the Blue Dragon was taken, King Eledir sent several other ships here to shore up any defense we might need—and those were the first ships to burn. So we’ve put the elves to work in places that need greater security.

  “It’s fitting that they’re here in the Old City,” he continued. “It was Elven craftsmen who built many of the structures here, and especially the doors, but these are special.”

  He pointed up at the intricately carved figures that ringed the arch at the top of each door. “These were built by a legendary craftsman who was rumored to be half elf and half troll. Made him crazy as a bedbug, but the work he did was second to none.”

  As he spoke, Artus removed his ring, the symbol of his office, and pressed it into a nearly imperceptible depression in the metal frame. There was an audible click from inside the doors, and only then did the guards relax their stance to allow the visitors to pass.

  “I read somewhere that the rings and the locking mechanism were both carved from a ‘lodestone,’” said Artus, “but I haven’t the faintest idea what that is.”

  He opened the massive doors. Inside they saw a honeycomb of shelves upon shelves filled with bound books, sheets of parchment, and rolls of papyrus, all in an incredible state of disarray.

  “Please forgive the mess,” Artus said mildly. “The main body of the library has been moved now and again, and we keep adding new materials before we’ve had a chance to fully catalogue what we already have.”

  “So this is the Great Whatsit,” Charles said, unable to disguise the admiration in his voice. “I wonder what old Craigie at the OED would think about this, eh, John?”

  “Ah,” said Artus. “I see Tummeler’s been talking. No, it’s okay,” he added when Charles began to stammer an apology. “I know that’s what the animals began calling it. So does just about everyone else. It’s not a bad name, Great Whatsit. It’s better than what Aven called it, which, um, I can’t really repeat—lots of sailor words and the like, you know.”

  It was the first time Artus had mentioned Aven in any context at all, and he did so in such a matter-of-fact way that none of the companions could discern anything from the remark.

  Artus turned away from his friends, cupped his hands to his mouth, and bellowed, “Solomon! Solomon Kaw!”

  In response to his call, an enormous black crow dropped down from the dark recesses of the ceiling above and perched on the desk next to Artus.

  The bird wore glasses on the end of a giant, dusk gray beak, and a tight-fitting cleric’s vest. Charles half expected to see spats on its feet as well.

  “Ho, Solomon,” Artus said. “How goes the work?”

  “It go-go-goes as it go-go-goes,” the crow replied in a voice that sounded like a willow branch being swished through a pile of dry leaves. “We fi-fi-files the books, and no-no-note the files, as we have b-b-been doing these muh-muh-many centuries, oh King.”

  “Well done, my good, ah, bird,” said Artus. “I need to ask: Have you a catalogue of myths, dating back…ah…?” He turned to Bert.

  “Seven centuries,” said Bert. “Give or take.”

  Without a word, the crow dipped its head, spread its wings, and disappeared into the stacks.

  “Can’t beat crows for organizing a library,” said Artus. “We used to also have a staff of very efficient hedgehogs, but when the crows arrived, there was an unfortunate misunderstanding at the commissary, and it’s been just crows ever since.”

  “A few of these look singed,” John observed, examining a stack of papyrus rolls. “Did someone get a little careless and leave them too close to a lamp?”

  Artus peered over John’s shoulder at the rolls. “Oh, those. They’re from the old collection, in your world,” he said. “There was indeed a fire—but fortunately, a number of scholars with ties to the Archipelago were able to rescue them before too much damage was done.

  “Actually,” he continued, “it was from these old documents that Arthur took the original seal of the High King.”

  “The alpha?” said Charles. “So these are Greek?”

  “Yes, on both counts,” Artus replied, “although I think they also used it to indicate the library these came from. A place called Alexandria, in the country of, um…”

  “Egypt,” said John, dumbfounded. “Alexandria is in Egypt.”

  “Right!” said Artus. “That’s what they originally called this mess before it was the Great Whatsit, or the Royal Library, or the Archive of Paralon…

  “It was called the Library of Alexandria.”

  “He refers to the ‘construction’ of two mechanical men…”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Friar’s Tale

  Solomon Kaw returned with a thick, hidebound book clutched in his talons. Wings stroking mightily, he lowered the book gently to the nearby tabletop, then ducked his head in deference to the king and flew away. “Allow me,” said Artus. “It is my librar—uh, archive, after all.” He opened the old tome and began scanning the pages intently, running his fingers along the faded writing and murmuring softly to himself.

  “Ah, Artus?” John began.

  “A moment, please,” the king replied. “I’m just getting oriented. Even after years of studying them, I’m still finding my way around these old languages, you know.”

  “But—,” said John.

  “Tch,” interrupted Artus. “I realize you have specialized training, but so do I. There’s nothing you can do to make the translation process go any faster.”

  “Fine,” John said, shrugging. “Read on.”

  After a minute or so of examining one page, then another, and another, it became obvious to all of them that the High King was stumped.

  “May I make a suggestion?” offered John.

  “All right,” Artus said, finally resigned. “But I doubt you’ll have an easier time of it…”

  His voice trailed off as John stepped forward and turned the old book upside down. “There,” said John. “Give that a go.”

  “It’s Latin,” Artus said, crestfallen. “Now.”

  “Ah, why don’t we all have a look together?” Charles suggested. “More eyes to the work, and all that.”

  The king put the book in the middle of the table, and the others leaned in closely to read.

  “This is one of the Histories,” said Bert in astonishment. “One of the official records written by the Caretakers.”

  “I thought the Caretakers just annotated the maps in the Geographica,” said John. “We’re meant to write Histories, too?”

  “It’s not an obligation,” Bert explained, “but Caretakers have witnessed many happenings in the history of the Earth and felt compelled to record them. Originally, as with this volume and the many others like it, the accounts were simple and straightforward. It was only centuries later that we realized such documents could be dangerous in the wrong hands, and began fictionalizing our writings.”

  “As you did with The Time Machine,” said Jack.

  “Yes,” said Bert, “and others. Jules did it too. And Cervantes, Shakespeare…A lot of real history, biography, and geography can be found in the fiction of the world.

  “At least,” he added with a wink, “those fictions written by Caretakers.”

  “This one was written by Geoffrey of Monmouth’s immediate successor,” said Bert. “Robert Wace. He also had a lot to say about the Arthurian histories.”

  “I remember,” said John. “He wrote a French version of Geoffrey’s Arthurian compilations and dedicated it to Eleanor of Aquitaine. He’s also the source of the story about Arthur’s legendary Round Table.”

  “It isn’t actually round,” A
rtus confided to Charles. “It’s more oblong, but it still served the same purpose, I think.”

  “What does it say about the message?” asked Jack. “Does it say anything about a Crusade?”

  “The actual Crusades in your world had already begun nearly a century earlier,” said Bert. “But I don’t think the message had anything to do with those. We have two clues to go on. First, Jamie mentioned a memory of a Crusade myth; then, the Morgaine said that something had changed Time—and they both alluded to it as an event that happened seven centuries ago.

  “Seven hundred years ago the Caretaker was Master Wace. And he spent a great deal of time in the Archipelago, working on Histories of his own. If there is a myth about a Crusade dating to that time, I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have known about it—and written it down.”

  “I agree,” said John. “The warning came from the Archipelago. It won’t be an event that took place back in our world that we’re looking for.”

  “Well, it’s not that long a history,” Charles said, tracing across the book’s thickness with his thumb. “Between us, we should be able to skim through it in an hour or two.”

  Just then, Solomon Kaw dropped back down from the gloom at the top of the room, with a second identical book in his talons—followed closely by a flock of other crows, all carrying books that they lowered into an ever-increasing pile on and around the desk.

  “I told you,” Bert said. “Master Wace spent a lot of time here, and he loved to write.”

  “Just how many history books did he write?” asked John.

  “For-for-forty-three,” replied Solomon Kaw.

  “I’ll order some more food and drink,” said Artus. “This is going to take a while.”

  As an academic exercise, poring over nearly four dozen incunabula would have been considered a fine weekend activity by John, Jack, and Charles. Artus, aided by Bert, had a slightly slower time of it but demonstrated a facility for quickly summarizing complex material that none of them would have guessed he had.

  An as exercise of discovery, however, it was an absolute failure. Nothing in any of the books referred to a Crusade taking place in the Archipelago for a two-hundred-year span. There were events of import, and skirmishes, and minor wars—John had found a ten-page account of something called “The Chyckenne War of Gryffynne Baye”—but nothing that hinted at any solutions to their growing list of problems.

  “Well,” Artus said jovially, “still not a bad way to pass an afternoon, all things considered.”

  “Not a bad way to—,” Jack began, rising to his feet. “Damn your eyes, Artus! We’ve been in here for hours now! We’ve been thumbing through old books, and eating, and generally having a leisurely afternoon of it, when we should be out there, looking for your son!”

  Neither Artus nor the others said anything, but merely waited so Jack could finish saying what he needed to say. John and Charles had also wondered why their friend was not more concerned with his missing son, but they didn’t feel it was their place to address it.

  Jack’s motivations, however, ran deeper.

  “I’m sorry, Artus,” he said. “But it must be said. How can you be expected to solve the problems of an entire kingdom if you can’t even spare a moment’s concern for your own son?”

  Artus uncrossed his legs and stood up. Without a word, he strode from the room, only to return moments later with an armful of the papers that had been piled in the rooms they’d passed through earlier. He brusquely shoved Master Wace’s Histories off the tabletop and dropped the papers on it. The pile was so large that many papers slid to the floor.

  “It hasn’t been two days since the ships started to vanish,” Artus began, his back to them and his voice soft. “We can’t really determine how long ago the children began disappearing. But their abductor knew we’d take quicker notice of the Dragonships being gone than if we couldn’t find a few misbehaving children.

  “We took even more notice yesterday when the Yellow Dragon—the Nautilus—vanished with my boy aboard. We—I—Aven and I—thought it would be the safest…”

  Artus stood straighter. “When the reports of the missing children began to come in, we thought he’d be safer there, aboard a living ship. One that could take action on its own, if the situation demanded it. Then the elves arrived and anchored their ships alongside, and I don’t think I could have arranged a better, more secure place if you’d asked. I even considered taking him to Terminus, except it would have been too long a journey.

  “Then the Yellow Dragon vanished altogether, and the Elven ships were set ablaze. The guards were killed, their throats cut. And there was no way to follow the missing ship, because no one had seen it go. It had simply vanished. That’s when I summoned Bert and instructed him to seek you out.”

  “Then why, Artus?” said Jack. “If you knew more help was coming, why didn’t you set out then to go find your son?”

  In answer, Artus pointed to the pile of papers on the table. John stepped forward and looked at one of the topmost papers, then another.

  “They’re letters,” he told the others.

  “Correct,” said Artus. “They began coming in three days ago, but my steward only brought them to my attention yesterday, just before the Yellow Dragon vanished.

  “At last count, we have six thousand, eight hundred letters, and more were coming in before the ships were put to the torch. And every one of them is from a mother or father who lost a child in the night. Every one.”

  He turned to look at them, a quiet resolve on his face. This was no longer their old friend, the potboy of Avalon, talking. This was a man who had realized what it truly meant to be given a kingdom.

  “What I’ve been doing,” Artus said, looking directly at Jack, “is directing the affairs of Paralon, and the associated island-states and city-states who have representatives here, to try to control an uncontrollable crisis. You were here, with me, the last time a crisis arose and there was no one man, one leader, to whom the Archipelago could turn for guidance.

  “I don’t know if I’m able—but like it or not, I’m the High King. The people here trust that I will make the choices that will help us all, not just those that benefit me. So how could I possibly have left this to my steward, and the other officials, just to go look for my own son, when there is no one else in authority here to look out for the thousands of others who are lost?”

  Jack couldn’t speak, but simply extended his hand in response. Artus took it with no hesitation, then clapped his friend on the shoulder.

  “Besides,” he said, “if there were anyone on Earth who would see the value of saving the world through library maintenance, it’d be the three ‘scowlers’ from Oxford.”

  Charles snapped his fingers. “Oxford men! I say, Artus, that may be the key.”

  He turned to Bert. “Whom did you say was the Caretaker after Wace?”

  “Easy to find out,” Artus interjected. “Just check the list in the endpapers of the Geographica.”

  Quickly Charles opened the book Tummeler had given him to the list of names in the front.

  “I wrote the introduction for that, you know,” Artus said to Jack. “On market day, I’ve even been asked for my autograph.”

  “You don’t say,” Jack replied.

  “Here it is,” said Charles. “Roger Bacon had it after Wace. And didn’t he spend a lot of time here?”

  “Much,” said Bert, “but he didn’t assume the role until the Crusades were over—or nearly so, at any rate.”

  “It couldn’t be a better perspective for a historian,” stated John. “To be able to document events not too distant to not have credible accounts, but with enough years past that there’s some objectivity.”

  “Maybe,” Charles said, “but that’s not why I’m asking. Remember what Laura Glue said? She said that the ones coming for the children were Clockworks.”

  “Impossible,” Artus said flatly. “After the disaster with the Parliament nine years ago, we outlawed the constr
uction of Clockworks. The animals had the best of intentions, but they were too easily manipulated by Magwich.”

  “The Clockworks? Or the animals?” asked John.

  “Both,” said Artus. “It took eighteen months just to round up and destroy the false Parliament. The Queen of Spades was one of the harder ones to find. She managed to disguise herself as a cow. We might never have found her if she’d just kept out of the milking rotation.”

  “Ouch,” said John.

  “Oh, she was fine,” the king said. “But she beheaded three farmers before we caught her out.”

  “So you did destroy them all?” asked Bert.

  “For all intents and purposes,” said Artus. “The King of Hearts was the last—and we only found pieces of him.”

  “My point,” said Charles, “is that Laura Glue did say she saw, and heard, the Clockwork Men coming. And I for one believe her.”

  “What does that have to do with Roger Bacon?” said Jack.

  “He’s the one who taught the secrets of building Clockworks to the animals,” said Bert. “Them, and Nemo, and no others. And he did it just about seven centuries ago.”

  It took only a half hour for Solomon Kaw to locate the Histories of Roger Bacon, and there were many. Fortunately, they were also among the better-indexed books in the library, and so the companions were able to set aside all but a handful as unnecessary.

  The remaining books were mostly thick vellum, lettered by hand in a crisp and pointed script. The books dating to the time in question included compilations of magic and mysteries from across the continents of the world: The Picatrix, from Arabia; the complete writings of Aristotle, from Greece; and many more.

  Most interesting to the companions was a heavy book titled The Key of Solomon, which contained spells and formulas Bacon claimed had been created by the great Hebrew king himself. In the latter portion of the book were sketches and diagrams of machines, and annotations on how to build them. There were vehicles like Tummeler’s principle, the Curious Diversity; directions for building mechanical men and women, like the false kings and queens of the Parliament; and even rudimentary drawings of aircraft.