The Shadow Dragons (21 page)

“My father always talks about how even in time travel, we are always moving forward,” she continued, “so consider all this talk of Charles’s and Ransom’s about causality, and timelines, and different dimensions. What if one of the reasons Nemo took an interest in you then was because you’ve taken an interest in him now?”

Jack rubbed his chin. “Charys said something similar,” he murmured. “You may both be right.”

“There’s a reason the centaurs have been the great teachers of the ages,” Aven said as she walked out of the room, “and there are reasons why both you and Artus come to me when you need advice.”

She walked away toward the
Yellow Dragon,
leaving him alone.

The
White Dragon
eased slowly down to the beach on the southern shore of Terminus, which rose over the westernmost edge of the sea. Bert disconnected the harnesses that had bound the
Scarlet Dragon
to the larger vessel and turned to his companions.

“You know how badly John wanted to come, Stellan,” Bert said, almost as an apology.

“Yes,” replied Stellan. “I know it. But he would have wanted to continue past the Edge, and he has other responsibilities to tend to.”

“You must lower the
Scarlet Dragon
into the water,” Bert explained, “and go over the edge as if you were a twig caught up in the current. Only then, once you are over and falling, may you deploy the chute, and then unbind the balloon and rotors.”

“Isn’t that awfully risky?”

“There’s nothing about this venture that isn’t risky,” Bert replied, “but it’s the only way past the falls. We’ve tried to sail airships at altitude, but we always get forced back. The only way over . . . is down.”

“It’s quite a dilemma, isn’t it?” a voice said into John’s ear. He sat up straighter in his seat and spun around. A cat’s head was grinning at him and floating in midair above his chair. “This business of saving the world.”

“Grimalkin,” John said, sitting back. “You startled me.”

“I seem to be good at that,” said the cat. “It’s a Cheshire thing.”

“Is it also a Cheshire thing to be trusted?” said John. “No one here worries much that you appear and disappear at will.”

“I’m trusted, because I’m bound,” said the cat. “Do you see my collar? It’s a Binding.”

“I thought Bindings were spoken spells, involving True Names and blood.”

“They are—so consider how terrible a creature I must have been to require a physical binding as well.”

John gave Grimalkin a quizzical look. He really wasn’t sure whether the cat was just playing with him, or whether the words spoken were serious. “I’m not quite sure what to make of you.”

“That’s why I trust
you,
” the Cheshire cat said, grinning. “You aren’t hasty in your judgments.”

“I should be quicker to speak, though,” said John. “If I had, we’d have caught Kipling. And we might be further along than we are at resolving all of this.”

“Things are not always as they appear,” said Grimalkin. “An ancient Elder God may appear to be a cat, or vice versa. But which is which depends entirely on when you look.”

“What does that mean?”

The cat shrugged. “I can’t explain. If I did, I wouldn’t be a cat.”

John sighed. “You’re worse than Samaranth.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said the cat. “If I wasn’t, then I’d feel undistinguished. He is still just a young creature, after all.”

“Samaranth?” John said in surprise. “He’s the oldest creature in the Archipelago. He’s even older than Ordo Maas.”

“I was ancient when Ordo Maas was still chasing young desert girls in the Empty Quarter,” said Grimalkin, “and I was with him on his first voyage into the islands, during the flood. It seems to be my fate to be present whenever someone does something that alters the composition of the world.”

“Is that what I’m about to do?” asked John. “Change the world?”

“What do
you
think?” asked the cat. “Would you be doing all these things if not for the Prophecy? Or would you be doing the things you believe to be right, even if they were in spite of it?”

“I don’t know what to think,” John said miserably. “I don’t know who to believe.”

“Decide what you want to do,” the cat said before vanishing completely. “Then do
that.
There’s no other way to move forward— with anything. If you don’t believe in yourself first . . . then no one else will either.”

With a final wave to his old friend, Bert signaled to the crew of the
White Dragon
to take the ship aloft. He pointed the ship to the east, and it began to pick up speed. In moments it was gone.

“That’s it,” Rose said. “We’re on our own.”

“Clears the mind, to have solitude,” said Archimedes. “Relative solitude, that is.”

“I agree,” said Professor Sigurdsson. “We are each appointed to our tasks, and that should be sufficient.”

“I concur!” Quixote exclaimed. “I am thy protector, Milady Rose. The good professor is our guide. And Archimedes is, ah . . .”

“I’m the muscle,” said Archie.

“Methinks I miss your meaning,” said the knight, “but I admire your resolve. Shall we be away?”

“No time like the present,” said the professor. “Rose?”

There was nothing more to be said. Rose gave assent with a simple nod of her head. The old knight adjusted the trim and moved the
Scarlet Dragon
forward and over the edge of the falls.

“It is time,” said the Shadow King.

“I concur,” said one of the others. “We may have lost the tower, but they still have no idea how to discover the spies within their own house.”

“Indeed,” said the Shadow King, “we know where they are hiding, and we will take the battle to them, and end this, once and for all.”

He unrolled a sheet of what appeared to be leather, but was pliable, pale, and . . .
moist?

“This map will tell us where we need to go,” said the Shadow King. “Its previous owner was reluctant to supply it to us, but all things come to pass, given time.”

“Have you converted them all, then?” said Houdini. “All of the dragons?”

“Enough,” said the Shadow King. “One remains elusive, but only because I cannot find his True Name.”

“You can’t just sneak up on him?” said Houdini.
”I
could sneak up on him.”

The Shadow King didn’t answer, but instead shot the Magician a withering look. Houdini lowered his head and stepped back.

The Shadow King looked down at his new map, which was leaving a red puddle on the ground. “It was clever of them not to include this in the atlas,” he murmured. “When we find these islands, I will make certain that the world knows just where they are.”

Burton blinked. “Hasn’t that been the goal of the society all along?” he asked. “To open all the borders and reveal all the secrets? Why else have we been doing all this for you, if not to usurp their power and change the world in the way it’s meant to be changed?”

“The goals of the Imperial Cartological Society are of interest to me,” said the Shadow King, “so long as they serve my own. Don’t forget your place, Burton.”

“But Mordred,” Burton began.

“I am not Mordred!”
the Shadow King hissed. For a moment longer, the explorer and the clockwork king stood looking at one another. Then Burton dropped his eyes.

“Good,” said the Shadow King. “Anyone else?”

No one spoke.

“Then it is time for the Wars of the Worlds to begin.” The Shadow King and his minions left the Great Hall of Paralon, but Burton lagged behind, pensive.

Kipling turned at the doorway. “Coming, Sir Richard?”

“After a moment.”

Kipling paused. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you? About your support of the Chancellor?”

Burton’s eyes glittered. “You’ve had them yourself.”

Kipling raised an eyebrow. “Come, Burton,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “We should talk.”

“You want to talk about what I think?”

“No,” replied Kipling. “I want to talk about what you
believe.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Descent

“
The Elves
have annexed Abaton as one of their territories,” said Artus, “and with my blessing. All in all, I’d say we’ve achieved a great victory. We destroyed the tower of doors into time that was giving the Chancellor his power, and we’ve taken over his base of operations. Not too shabby.”

“Of course, he still has control of the rest of the Archipelago,” said Jack, “and Lord knows how many Dragon shadows at his command.”

“It’s a start,” Artus said defensively.

“I still believe it was the right course of action,” said John. “Having access to his secrets was going to do little good if he could still cause damage by using the doors and the spear. Now he’s lost one of his tools.”

“I just wish we still had eyes and ears in his camp the way he seems to have them in ours,” said Artus.

“Pardon the interruption,” said Defoe, “but there’s some sort of commotion going on outside.”

“Is it an attack?” John exclaimed, bolting from his chair. Was it possible for the Shadow King to retaliate so quickly for the raid on Abaton?

Resting amid some coral . . . was an oval-shaped

frame . . .

“It’s another Dragonship,” Artus said, pulling aside the curtains for a look. “Have we had another Time Storm?”

Jack groaned inwardly. Dealing with two
Yellow Dragons
was already more than he could handle even without Nemo. Adding a third was impossible to even contemplate.

“I don’t think so,” John said. “This one looks like it’s come voluntarily.”

The others crowded around the windows for a look, and Bert was unable to contain the cheer that left his lips.

It was the
Indigo Dragon. His
ship.

“But if the
Indigo Dragon
is here,” said Charles, “then that means . . .”

Nemo and several of the Elves marched a prisoner up the steps to the front door of Tamerlane House.

“Greetings, Caretakers,” Burton said. “I seek asylum with you here in the Nameless Isles.”

The roar at the top of the falls was deafening, but Rose and her companions soon realized that it was only the sound of the endless sea crashing against the rim of the world past Terminus that produced the noise. In a normal waterfall, that sound is reflected, amplified, and added to by the water thundering against the rocks below. But as the little craft dropped farther and farther away from the crest of the falls, they realized that falling water produces no sound, only a gentle susurration, as if it were wind blowing through willows.

It took just moments for the light to recede as well. Above and past Terminus was only darkness, so the only light was that which spilled over the top of the waterfall.

Quixote and Professor Sigurdsson quickly released the parachute, which slowed their fall with a violent jolt, but instantly settled them into a much more comfortable and controlled descent.

A few miles down, there was no light at all save that which they’d brought with them: a silver lantern, fastened to the fore of the boat; and a portable tallow lamp and three candles that the professor had persuaded them would be necessary to complete their task.

Archie’s eyes cast a faint greenish glow when he turned away from the light of the lanterns. “We’ve still picked up a great deal of speed,” he said pointedly. “Shouldn’t we try to deploy the balloon before we’re moving so fast it’s simply torn away?”

“We’ve gone past the Edge of the World,” the professor said. “I don’t know if physical laws apply. In truth, I don’t even know if this is water we’re seeing fall, or air we’re passing through, or if we only think it is. I just know that we have to keep going down.”

“Well, at some point ‘down’ will end, correct?” said Archimedes. “You know what they say—it isn’t the fall that kills you, but the sudden stop at the end.”

Quixote and the professor exchanged blinks and rapidly unpacked the balloon. It took no time at all to inflate, and it rose up underneath the parachute, which would serve as a sheath.

Their descent slowed enough that even with no warning, an impact at the bottom would cause minimal damage to the boat. Thus prepared, they settled in to pass the time, and wait.

Professor Sigurdsson pulled a small book out of his pocket and read by the light of the lantern. Quixote, ever vigilant, kept at the prow, watching the darkness. And Rose and Archie stayed busy playing games of logic and inventing word puzzles.

After a while, Rose fell asleep as the professor continued reading—so it was Archimedes and Quixote who were watching out as the light came up below them.

They woke Rose, worried that an impact was imminent, but the diffuse light that surrounded them was part of the very atmosphere some several miles above the bottom of the falls.

“Professor,” Rose asked, “what time is it?”

“Oh, we’re making good time, my dear Rose. Worry not,” he replied. “Just sit back and try to enjoy the ride. I’m sure we’re having a better time of it than Mordred did.”

The waterfall was ever present, but was more visible now. The
Scarlet Dragon
kept a wide expanse between itself and the falling water, just in case there were any surprises, or other falling objects.

The noise began again, but to nowhere near the degree that they had expected. The water roiled where it struck the earth below, and foam and spray rose up hundreds of feet into the air. It would have—should have—been louder, but there were no rocks or crags for the water to crash against. It simply fell into a smooth basin that rose up to transparent shallows.

The professor guided the
Scarlet Dragon
over the spray and then down to the water, where he instructed Quixote to deflate and store the balloon and parachute.

“Wouldn’t it be faster to continue flying?” asked Rose.

“Faster, perhaps,” the professor answered, “but we have no idea where Mordred—I mean, Madoc—is, if he survived at all. We need to be closer to the islands if we’re to discover what’s become of him.”

“I thought speed was our first priority.”

He shook his head. “Our first priority is success. Speed will be a luxury to indulge in after.”

They had expected to find all manner of detritus along the bottom of the waterfall, but there was nothing to be seen. It was as if they’d crossed over into a pristine world where no human or creature had set foot.

“Apparently, people have taken the warnings seriously,” said Quixote.

“That’s why we put it on the maps,” said the professor.

After promising not to fly out of sight of the
Scarlet Dragon,
Archimedes lit out to do a little exploring. He was gone only a few minutes when he returned, jabbering excitedly.

“A ship!” he squawked. “I’ve found another ship! Well, most of one, anyway.”

“How do you find ‘most of’ a ship?” asked Rose.

“Part of it is there, and part of it is not,” Archie replied. “You’ve obviously been spending too much time with those idiots at Oxford.”

Archimedes was correct—not a mile away from the falls, on a due west heading, was a ship. It had been badly wrecked and lay in the shallows, with various pieces scattered in the waters nearby.

It was elegantly simple in its design, and several times larger than the
Scarlet Dragon.
On one side, the painted letters peeling from the effects of weather and age, was the name of the vessel: the
Aurora.

“My old ship!” the Professor exclaimed. “I’d always wondered what happened to her!”

“You left her here?” Quixote asked.

“No,” replied the Professor. “We took her back to Paralon, but that was many years ago. Apparently someone tried to duplicate our voyage to the End of the World. But when we went, it was through the Southern Isles, not here.”

“There is an End of the World in the south as well?” Quixote said in surprise. “How can that be?”

“It’s a curious cartological principle,” the professor replied. “If you are standing on the top of the real world at the North Pole, every step you take in any direction will be south. Similarly, the world ends in the same way no matter which path you take to reach it.”

“How did you get it down here, Professor?” asked Rose. “Was it an airship too?”

“The first of them, I believe,” the professor said proudly. “It was a creation of my old friend, Uruk Ko, the Goblin King. Of all the races in the Archipelago, theirs was the most technologically advanced. They had been testing airships for decades before Ko and I decided we wanted to undertake this journey.”

“The ship,” Rose said. “There’s no dragon on the prow.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a Dragonship,” the professor said. “Those were not to be used on a foolhardy exploration such as ours. It was built solely for the journey we took—and it came back in one piece. It was the first time Bert and I had the opportunity to really become friends, and it is one of my fondest memories.”

“But aren’t all the ships similarly equipped with balloons and sails?” Quixote asked. “I understood that to be a recent development.”

“After the old
Indigo Dragon
was rebuilt as an airship, Prince Stephen initiated the program to convert them all,” said the professor. “He was the only one brave enough to propose doing it to all the Dragonships themselves.”

“I wonder why they were here?” said Rose. “That’s very sad, to have come all this way down the waterfall only to wreck so short a distance away.”

“It weren’t a wreck,” a faint voice said from somewhere ahead of them. “It were a dread sea-beastie, and the crew never even saw it coming.”

The voice had come not from the
Aurora,
but from the wreckage just below the surface.

Resting amid some coral and sea plants was an oval-shaped frame with the portrait of a well-to-do pirate under a piece of heavy, curved glass. It was halfway hidden by some of the undersea flora and seemed to have gone down with the
Aurora,
judging by the amount of silt that had accumulated around it.

“I am Captain Charles Johnson,” the portrait said, looking up through the water. “Who is it that you be?”

“I am Don Quixote de la Mancha,” the old knight said, bowing deeply, “and these are my companions, the lady Rose, the teacher Archimedes, and the Caretaker Emeritus Professor Sigurdsson. We are on a quest.”

Captain Johnson sneered. “Caretaker Emeritus?” he said to the professor. “I didn’t realize Caretakers could retire.”

“How is it you know of the Caretakers?” Sigurdsson said in surprise.

The portrait blinked. “Are you daft, man? I’m trapped in a painting of myself on the other side of the waterfall at the Edge of the World. I didn’t just fall here by accident, you know. Of
course
I know about the Caretakers. I know that you, Professor, are the only one of their number who has ever come over the waterfall—just as I know I was betrayed and left here by one of your predecessors.”

“Really?” said Sigurdsson. “Which one?”

“That snake-in-the-grass Daniel Defoe,” said Johnson. “He and I were training as apprentices to Cyrano de Bergerac, along with my best friend, a silversmith named Eliot McGee. Cyrano had his eye in particular on Eliot, whom he thought might make a suitable apprentice for the Cartographer himself.”

“He was a mapmaker?” the professor said.

“One of the best,” Johnson replied. “His father, Elijah, had been approached by a pirate to help him create a map to his own hidden treasures, and he was so successful at it that McGee became the de facto mapmaker to all the pirates in the Caribbean. Elijah trained Eliot in the discipline, and it was then that Daniel and I made his acquaintance.”

“What had distinguished you, if you don’t mind my asking?” said the professor. “Why did Cyrano seek you out?”

“I was compiling a history of the pirates,” Johnson replied. “Basically, as an audition to become the Caretaker after de Bergerac.”

“‘
A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates,’
” said the professor. “I know it well.”

“Really?” Johnson said, beaming.

“Yes—but I thought Defoe wrote it.
Everyone
thinks Defoe wrote it.”

“Arrrgghhh,” the portrait growled. “I hate that! He stole it from me, every jot and tittle!”