The Shadow Dragons (3 page)

Underneath it, dressed in a battered topcoat, a man was standing as if he were waiting for a bus, or unwary passersby. Moving closer, John was startled to realize that he recognized him. Or at least, he thought he did.

Jack had the same flash of memory, and both looked back to note that Charles was right behind them.

At first glance, it looked as if Charles—
another
Charles—was standing at the crossroads, waiting for them. The man was tall and had Charles’s bearing—but as they walked closer, it was apparent that he was a stranger to them. The three men and the girl nodded politely and began to move past, taking the path to the right and away from the lamp’s comforting glow.

“Pardon me,” the man said, raising a hand in greeting, “but do you have the time?”

“What?” said John. “Oh, uh, yes, of course,” and he turned, pulling his watch from his vest pocket. It was a distinctive sort of watch: silver, untarnished, with a red Chinese dragon on the cover. “It’s half past five,” he said, snapping the watch closed, “or half past drenched, depending on your point of view.”

“Mmm,” the stranger mused. “Well put, John. But actually, I also need to know the year, if you don’t mind.”

At the mention of John’s name, he and the others froze in place. Had the man merely overheard them talking? Had one of them uttered John’s name? Or was something more sinister afoot?

“Why do you need to know the year?” John asked cautiously, as Jack and Charles moved protectively closer to Rose.

“Because,” replied the man stiffly, “I’ve come a long way, and I seem to have lost track.”

“Lost track of the years?” Charles exclaimed. “If you don’t even know what year it is, should you be out and about in the woods all alone?”

“Actually,” the man replied, “I came here to protect you, Charles. The year, if you please?”

“It’s 1936,” said Jack. “April, if you couldn’t tell.”

The man surprised them by slumping against the waypost in obvious relief. “Thank God,” he said, running a hand across his head. “1936. Then I’ve not arrived too late after all.”

“What year did you think it was?” asked John. “And pardon my asking, but how is it that you know our names? Have we met, perchance?”

“You are the Caretakers of the
Imaginarium Geographica,
are you not?” the man replied. “Let’s just say we are in service of the same causes. And I was fully expecting to arrive here in 1943.”

“You were expecting to arrive in the future?” said Charles. “That’s not really possible, is it? I mean, not unless the circumstances are extraordinary.”

“You’ve been in such a circumstance, I believe,” the man said. “And it wasn’t the future I was aiming for, but the past. I just seem to have overshot my mark, to our benefit, I hope.”

John and Jack exchanged worried glances. The man knew enough to be dangerous to them—but he had so far done nothing more than talk while leaning against the post. And he did say he was there to help them.

“Forgive our hesitation,” John said mildly, “but we’ve heard credible stories of every stripe and color from the best of them. How are we to know you are indeed on, ah, our side, so to speak?”

In answer, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver pocket watch. On the back was the clear image of a red dragon. It was identical to the watch John had just pulled from his own pocket. “It was given to me by Jules Verne,” the man said, “as, I suspect, he gave yours to you.”

“Good enough,” John said as he and the stranger compared timepieces. “I’ve only ever seen one other like it.”

“That would probably be Hank Morgan’s,” said the man. “His is used a bit more frequently, I’m afraid.”

“So are you also a time traveler?” asked John.

“Not so much a traveler in time, as in space,” the man said, “although thanks to the watch, I have the ability to do so when the need is dire. My mentor has a different set of goals for me than he had for Hank.”

“Verne,” said Charles. “So he’s the one who sent you?”

“Indeed,” the man replied. He pulled at his collar and looked around. “We should find a place more suitable to talk, unless you have an objection.”

“That was our plan anyway,” Jack said, offering his hand. “Do you have some place in mind?”

“I do,” said the stranger, shaking Jack’s hand, then John’s and Charles’s in turn. To Rose he gave only a long, appraising glance.

“You know all of us,” Charles said amicably, “but you’ve not yet introduced yourself.”

“Ransom,” the man said as he turned and began leading them down the path to the left. “My name is Alvin Ransom.”

CHAPTER TWO

The Inn of the Flying Dragon

“Actually, those were trolls,” John said. “And . . .” He stopped walking. “Hang on there,” he exclaimed. “How could you have read that? I haven’t even finished that book yet—and I’ve barely touched it in years!”

Ransom slapped his forehead. “Apologies, my good fellow. I forgot it’s not due to be published until next year. That’s what I get for trying to curry favor with you by coming up with compliments.”

“Oh,” said John. “So, ah, you didn’t really like it after all?”

“I haven’t finished it,” Ransom admitted. “But it is on my nightstand, and I fully intend to, as soon as I have the opportunity.”

“What is your profession, Mr. Ransom, if I may ask?” said Charles.

The lamps were … moving with the light of active

flame.

“I’m a philologist,” he answered evenly, “at the University of Cambridge.”

“A philologist?” said John. “Really? A languages specialist? How odd that we haven’t met before.”

“Not particularly,” said Ransom. “The Cambridge that I come from isn’t the Cambridge you’re familiar with.”

“Different country?” asked Jack.

“Different dimension,” replied Ransom.

“That sounds
exactly
like Cambridge,” said Charles.

“Bert has alluded to the concept of different dimensions once or twice,” John said, “but we never got into specifics. Charles is our resident expert in that particular field.”

Charles beamed with pleasure at the compliment. “I’ve actually devoted quite a bit of attention to the topic,” he said brightly, “even wrote a book about it.”

“I know,” Ransom replied, his voice suddenly somber with respect. “It’s one of our most important theses on the subject of multidimensionality.”

Charles blinked at him. “It was, ah, a work of fiction, actually.”

Now it was Ransom’s turn to be surprised. He started to make a comment, then paused, his expression softening. “I keep forgetting what year I’ve come to,” he said mildly. “There are things I take for granted that you won’t actually know about for a few years yet, God willing.”

Jack and John exchanged a glance of concern. God willing? Just what was that supposed to mean? That they wouldn’t discover the knowledge Ransom referred to too soon, or that they might not have the opportunity at all?

“You seem to know a great deal more about us than we know about you,” Jack said. “I don’t know how comfortable I am with that discrepancy.”

“That’s one reason my Anabasis Machine—I mean, my pocket watch—was fashioned in the manner it was,” said Ransom. “There are too many double agents afoot in the lands, and too many allegiances built on the sand. It’s difficult to know whom to trust—and so Verne made certain to give those of us who are loyal to the Caretakers’ trust an unmistakable symbol.”

“A silver pocket watch,” John asserted, “with a depiction of Samaranth on the casing.”

Ransom nodded. “Exactly.”

“Couldn’t that be easily duplicated, though?” Charles opined. “I mean, it’s a very nice watch, but there are a hundred watchmakers in London who could make a replica in a day.”

Ransom almost stumbled as he spun about to frown at Charles. “Haven’t you realized by now just how deep a game Verne, and Bert, and the others are playing?” he said with some astonishment. “When the Dyson incident occurred, didn’t you think it significant that Verne had already prepared for the eventuality by arranging the Lanterna Magica for you to find, fifteen centuries before it was needed?

“These are the people who
invented
the idea of a secret society,” Ransom continued, “so of course there would be safeguards.” He snapped open his watch. “The first is the engraved inscription.”

Jack and Charles moved closer to peer at the watch cover, which bore two words:
Apprentice Caretaker,
and the Greek letter
omega.

“Only the Caretakers themselves, their apprentices, and those like myself who have been recruited to the cause know that Bert chose that letter as the Caretaker’s mark,” said Ransom. “That’s the first safeguard.”

“And the second?” asked Jack.

Ransom glanced at him in surprise before grinning broadly and turning to resume walking down the path. “I’m surprised that you don’t know, considering you are one of the actual Caretakers,” he said with a trace of amused smugness, “but then again, the use of the watches and the safeguards didn’t really become critical until nearly 1938.”

He looked over his other shoulder at John and tipped his chin. “But
you
know, don’t you?”

John glanced around to make certain they were alone, then rolled his eyes heavenward. Of course they were alone. They were lost in the English woods following someone from another dimension. If there were anyone lurking about to hear them, it would have to be a stroke of remarkable luck and accidental timing.

“Yes,” he said quietly, arching an eyebrow at Ransom. “Bert told me just a few months ago. ‘Believing is seeing.’”

“Believe,” the philologist replied.

“That’s it?” said Charles. “That’s a bit simple for a secret code.”

“Simplicity is best in cooking, personal combat, and secret codes,” said Ransom. “And that statement and response are both more simple and infinitely more complex than you can possibly imagine.”

“I can imagine a great deal,” Charles huffed.

“Oh, I meant no offense,” Ransom said quickly. “That was just a turn of phrase. Of the three of you—”

“Four of us,” said John, nodding his head deferentially toward Rose, who smiled.

“Five,” came a voice from somewhere above them in the gloom. “Couldn’t count in Alexandria, can’t count now. Some scholar you turned out to be.”

“Sorry,” Ransom said, peering up at the owl that circled overhead. “Uh, sorry,” he repeated to Rose, with slightly less enthusiasm.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “of all of you here, Charles is the one most likely to be able to comprehend what we’re about to do. Because, strictly speaking, the place I’m taking you to isn’t
in
our dimension.”

Without explaining further, Ransom removed a small leather case from inside his coat. It was thick, and about as tall and broad as two decks of playing cards placed side by side. He untied the binding, and inside the companions could see a sheaf of thick, handmade paper with scrawled notes and sketches.

“These pages are for practice,” Ransom said as he removed a dozen loose cards from the back of the case, “but these are the real cat’s pajamas.”

The cards were yellowed with age, and more akin to parchment than paper. Most of the sheets had intricate, nearly photographic drawings on them; only the last few were blank. All of them bore a remarkable pattern on the reverse side: an interweaving series of lines that formed an elaborate labyrinth, at the center of which was the symbol for eternity. Along the borders were symbols of a more familiar nature.

“Elizabethan?” asked John. “These appear to be some kind of . . . I don’t know. Royal stationery?”

Ransom smirked. “That’s a closer guess than you realize, John,” he said, nodding. “Queen Elizabeth commissioned them, but hers was certainly not the hand that made them.”

“John Dee,” Charles intoned, drawing in a breath. “It had to have been Dee. We know he was an early Caretaker, but his books are missing from the official Histories, and Bert will not speak of him.”

Ransom nodded again. “One of the dark secrets of the Caretakers,” he said somberly. “Burton was not the only one of your order to betray his oaths of secrecy.”

Before the companions could inquire further into what that meant, Ransom fanned the cards out in his hand. “As the Anabasis Machines—the pocket watches—can be used to travel in time, so can these cards be used to travel in space.

“We don’t know enough about time travel to do more than journey to what Verne called ‘zero points,’” the philologist continued. “We can make educated guesses, but anything outside the zero points is basically gambling without seeing our own hand of cards, so to speak.”

“That’s how you miss a target date by seven years,” said Jack.

“Yes,” said Ransom, “although seven isn’t bad. If you have the chance, you should ask Hank Morgan about the time he tried jumping to 1905 and accidentally ended up becoming the sixteenth-century Indian emperor Akbar the Great.”

“You mean
meeting
the emperor?” asked John.

“No,” said Ransom.
“Becoming
the emperor. Like I said, it’s a really good tale to dine out on.”

“So I’m inferring from what you’ve said that these cards allow for a bit more precision?” asked Charles.

“Exactly. We actually call them ‘Trumps’ in honor of your book, Charles,” said Ransom. “Dee made them as some kind of literal otherworldly tarot—at least, that’s what Verne believes. Only a hundred of the original sheets were discovered intact, and we realized their usefulness when Verne found two with drawings on them.”

“And what are they used for?” said Jack.

“Simply put, they are used to travel between places,” Ransom replied. “Whatever place is drawn on a Trump can be traveled to.”

“Without limitation?” asked Charles.

“As far as we know,” said Ransom. “Distance is no barrier, and neither is the ether that separates dimensions. In fact, the only limitation we know of is the number of blank Trumps that can be drawn on. We don’t know the process Dee used to make them, and so Verne parceled out the ones we did have with a stern instruction to use them sparingly. Of the dozen given to me, I made nine that I use most frequently, and have three that can be created in case of grave emergency.”

“Nine, ah, portals isn’t very many,” said John. “It seems like a much bigger limitation than you imply.”

“Not so,” said Ransom. “Verne recruited several agents like myself, and we all have at least six Trumps that are completely unique. The other three are points of conjunction, where we may meet up and then travel together when necessary. They can also be used to communicate—although that risks detection, so we try to do so sparingly.”

“Does Hank Morgan have a set?” asked John. “That would explain how he was able to send messages to Jules Verne when we were stuck in the past with Hugo.”

“Well deduced, John,” Ransom said with a smile of approval. “He does indeed, although we had not worked out all the mechanics of using them at that point.”

“Wait a moment,” said Jack, confused. “If Hank had these Trumps with him in Camelot, why didn’t he just use them to get us out of there as soon as he realized who we were?”

“Two reasons,” said Ransom, with slightly less approval. “First, if he had been able to use them to take you out of Camelot, it would not have helped your situation. Trumps don’t traverse time, only space. So you’d still have been in the sixth century—just somewhere less useful.”

“I’m betting the second reason has to do with time travel,” said Charles. “There was already enough damage done by them just being there, and events had to take the proper course to be repaired. Am I right?”

“Eminently so,” Ransom replied. He selected one of the cards, then replaced the others in the book, which he put back in his coat. “Everyone, now, if you please—stand behind me and give your attention to the card.”

Archimedes dropped down from one of the beech trees and landed lightly on Charles’s shoulder. Rose, Jack, John, and Charles moved behind Ransom and stared at the card he held in front of them.

It depicted a cozy-looking, multigabled tavern set in a wood exactly like the one that surrounded the crossroads just ahead of them. At arm’s length, the drawing was nearly photographic in nature, so real and precise that it almost seemed to . . .

“Oh!” Rose exclaimed, startled and delighted at once. “The flames in the lanterns! They’re flickering!”

The lamps were indeed moving with the light of active flame. The smoke from the chimneys also moved, as did the leaves stirring in the gentle breeze that blew them across the tableau . . .