The Shadow Dragons (6 page)

“What are you telling us, Ransom?” Jack asked.

“Instinct counts. Intuition counts. Not everything can be broken down into formulas. There are no equations that can prove that I am in a place where I cannot possibly be. But if I am in that place, then it must be possible—and I think some things can become possible if you just believe that they are.”

“‘Believing is seeing,’” said Charles.

“Yes,” Ransom agreed, handing him the card. “So believe.” He turned to Flannery. “I’m betting you have a secret back door to this place, don’t you?”

“Three, in fact,” the boy replied, pointing at a low door behind the table. “I’ll show you where.”

“Aren’t you going with us?” John asked Ransom, surprised. “You were trying to get to 1943 anyway!”

“My first directive from Verne was to simplify, simplify, simplify,” said Ransom, shaking hands with the three men. “The Trumps aren’t meant for time travel. I need to find out what’s happening here first. I’ll try to join you later—and besides, it may not happen the way we think. Hopefully, you’ll just end up safely at the Keep.”

“I am so filled with confidence at the moment,” said Charles. “What do you plan to do, then?”

“I’ll lead them away. Don’t worry—I’ve dealt with their kind before. I’ll be fine. Just use the Trump as I showed you, and get the girl to safety. And as soon as you are able, you must go to the Nameless Isles.”

A terrible screeching filled the air outside—apparently their pursuers had decided to surround the tree. “No more time to explain!” Ransom urged. “We must go!”

“I don’t want to seem ungrateful . . . ,” John began.

“But I got you into this mess to begin with?” said Ransom. “It’s all right—I understand completely. If all goes to plan, we’ll be meeting again soon, and I’ll try to make it up to you.”

“And just how much of your plan has worked out so far?” asked Charles.

“Forget I said anything,” Ransom suggested, wincing. “Good luck to you all.”

“Thank you, Ransom,” said Jack, gripping the other’s hand once more. “If we can ever repay the favor . . .”

The philologist winked. “Oh, you will,” he said with a chuckle as he ducked into the small doorway Flannery was holding open. “You and I are destined to become great friends, Jack. In one dimension or another, anyway. And Jack,” he called back over his shoulder, “call me Alvin.”

And with that, he clambered into the tunnel and vanished.

Trying to ignore the clamor of the Yoricks outside, Charles held up the Trump and focused his considerable attention on it. And, as before, it started to expand—but this time, as it grew, the image of the Keep of Time began to lighten and fade.

“Uh-oh,” said Jack. “It looks like one of the burned-out slides from the Lanterna Magica.”

John agreed. The frame of the Trump was filling the small storeroom now, and the image was almost completely white. “We may be better off trying to negotiate with Kipling,” he said just as something massively strong struck the side of the tree. “Or not.”

“I’ll go first,” Charles offered, and he stepped through. Jack and Rose were next, followed by John.

“Archie?” said John. “Are you coming?”

“Coming where?” the owl retorted. “There’s nothing
there”

Another
whump
hit the tree. Archimedes hopped off the table and through the portal. The bird sighed. “Oh, very well. It’s obvious you’re afraid to go anywhere without my guidance.”

The sounds of the Yoricks faded as the portal began to shrink, and in moments it had closed completely. The Trump still bore the illustration of the Keep, but that was not where the companions were.

It was an endless expanse of whiteness. There was no distance, no perspective. Just infinite space. Except for the old man.

“Hello,” he said, his voice flat. “Can I help you with something?”

He was slender rather than thin, but hunched with age. He was dressed in a white tunic and cloak, which were embroidered with infinity symbols. His cold eyes were expressionless, and he looked at the companions with all the interest of an architect examining a grain of sand.

Before any of them could speak, Jack grabbed John’s elbow and nodded at what the old man held in his hand.

It was a pocket watch. A silver pocket watch.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” the old man said dismissively. “You aren’t members of the Quorum. You can’t be here.”

“Begging your pardon,” said Charles, “but we didn’t plan to be. We had every intention of being elsewhere.”

“Then do so, and go,” he answered with a wave of his hand. “I have work to do.”

“We would if we could,” John put in, “but we don’t know where—or when—we are.”

The old man didn’t reply, but merely regarded them with disdain—until his eyes fell on Rose.

To the companions’ great surprise, his mouth dropped open in shock and his eyes, cold a moment before, suddenly filled with tears.

“Rose,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “How can you be . . . ?”

Barely taking his eyes off her, he opened the pocket watch, which bore no dragon on the cover, and was festooned with several more dials and buttons than John’s own watch.

The old man’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Most unusual,” he murmured to himself. “A new zero point, and here, in Platonia! This must be brought before the Quorum.”

He snapped it shut and looked at Rose. His expression had completely changed—he was watching her with a rapt intensity that bespoke familiarity. Somehow, he knew her.

John looked at the girl. Her face was placid. She was observing, and nothing more. She didn’t know—couldn’t know—who the man was in this strange, infinite space.

“We’re trying to reach a place called the Keep of Time,” Rose said. “Can you help us?”

“The keep?” he replied in surprise. “Interesting.” He consulted his watch again and adjusted a dial. Then he looked up and actually smiled.

“By what means did you come here?” he asked.

Charles showed him the Trump. “Ah,” said the old man. “Primitive, but useful in its own way.” He moved closer and regarded the companions more carefully, taking furtive, emotion-laden glances at Rose.

“So you’re the three,” he said rhetorically. “The Prophecy had something to it, after all, did it?”

“We don’t know anything about a prophecy,” Charles said. “We just need to get Rose somewhere she’ll be safe.”

“And so you shall,” said the old man, abruptly wheeling away.

He stood some distance off, with his back to them. “Use your card once more,” he said at length. “It will take you where and when you are meant to be.”

Charles did as instructed and held up the Trump, which was already beginning to expand—but this time there was no fading of the image. In moments the frame displayed a perfect, rich picture of the interior stairwell of the Keep.

“Thank you,” John called out to the old man as the companions moved through.

He responded with little more than a shrug, and didn’t turn around until the frame began to shrink. Tears streaked his cheeks, and he was clutching the watch with hands that trembled.

“I am . . . glad to have seen you, all of you,” he said in a shaky voice. “And Rose,” he added, “try to think well of me in the future— and in the past.”

And with that, the infinite whiteness vanished as the Trump closed, and the companions found themselves standing within the Keep of Time.

PART TWO

Abandoned Houses

“All set.... What is our destination?”

It was not
in the Magician’s nature to wait for anything, so it was boredom, rather than the arduous journey or noxious atmosphere, that finally caused him to lose his temper. Fortunately, his companion, whom he had drolly dubbed “The Detective,” was accustomed to such outbursts and took them in stride.

“This was not what I signed up for,” the Magician grumbled. “I was the toast of Europe. America was at my feet. I had the run of the finest hotels, and the best restaurants valued my opinion of their fare more than they did the critics’. But mostly, I was enjoying myself. And I gave all that up for what? To sit here, in a leaky boat, ticking off the seconds that pass as the stench eats away at my topcoat. I’ve had it, I tell you.”

His companion nodded in understanding. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do, Ehrich. But we can’t exactly let our attention flag—not at this juncture. You know as well as I do how crucial it is that we are here doing what we’re doing.”

“I told you,
Ignatius,
don’t call me Ehrich,” the Magician shot back before settling down, as his look of indignation was slowly replaced by one of resignation. “I know we agreed to do this, and I still believe in our cause. It just feels as if our talents are being wasted. You and I represent the finest in our fields—and yet we have committed ourselves to the role of errand boys.”

“Errand boys in the service of a greater calling,” the Detective pointed out. “After all, Columbus discovered the Americas, but someone still had to row him ashore.”

“Do you remember his name?” the Magician retorted. “Does anyone? I want my own place in the history books, thank you very much. I don’t want to change the world by proxy.”

“You do have your own place in the history books,” said the Detective. “That accomplishment cannot be erased, merely added to.”

“It would have been easier to add to before I died,” the Magician grumbled. “At least then I was visible on the world’s stage.”

“You still are,” said his companion. “It’s just a different world.”

The Magician was about to say something in reply, when both men were suddenly silenced by a deep rumbling sound emanating from the sky.

They shaded their eyes from the sunlight and peered upward to a floating structure so distant it appeared to be a dark smudge against the sky. Suddenly several small objects appeared and grew swiftly larger as they fell.

“Row!” shouted the Magician, grabbing an oar. “They’re dropping straight for us!”

The two men hastily moved the boat several feet south just as the first stones and part of an archway struck the water where they’d been sitting. A few moments later another object, larger this time, hit the water with a violent splash.

“That’s it!” said the Detective, reaching out with a pole that ended in a hook. “I’ve got it—grab your end, will you?”

“I have it,” said the Magician, pulling the object into the small boat, which sank several inches into the water with the added weight. “When do you think it is? Are we up to Victorian yet?”

“I have no idea,” said the Detective. “He doesn’t let us go through them anymore, remember?”

“That’s not my fault, Arthur,” said the Magician, using a less provocative name. “I’m sure we’ll be allowed to use them again sooner or later.”

“I could care less, Harry,” Arthur said as he took up an oar and began to row. “As far as I’m concerned, the only value in opening doors to the past is what they can do for our future—whatever world we end up in.”

The Magician did not reply, but merely took up rowing with the other oar, and in moments the two men, the leaky rowboat, and a door into time had vanished into the fog.

“What was
that
all about?” John asked Rose. “Who was that man?”

“I have no idea,” Rose answered. “But he certainly seemed to know me. And he did help us.”

“I’d’ve thought to try the card again eventually,” Charles huffed. “It was only a matter of time before it occurred to one of us.”

“Of course, Uncle Charles,” said Rose. “He just helped move the process along.”

“Well,” Charles said, blushing.

“The Trump couldn’t have been better placed,” said Jack, pointing down. “Have a look, fellows.”

There was, in point of fact, almost no floor at all. They had stepped onto one of the landings where the stairways crisscrossed, but just a few steps below there was only open sky. A few yards below, the jagged bottom edge of the tower’s stones hung over clouds higher than a mountain, and the stairways’ supports had been twisted into chaotic shapes from the weight of the falling stones.

“Another level lower, and we’d have been treading air,” said Jack. “We ought to tell Ransom he needs to redraw his card from a higher vantage point.”

“I’m not sure he can,” John said, pointing in the opposite direction. As one, the Caretakers gasped. They could see the ceiling. That meant there were perhaps forty or so doors left in the tower before the ongoing entropy reached the room where the Cartographer was. And after that . . .

“I say,” Charles mused, looking downward. “Is that a boat down there, below us? It’s too far to make out properly.”

Jack wrapped his arm around a twisted piece of railing and looked to where Charles was pointing. “I think it is,” he said, puzzled. “What would a boat that small be doing in the Chamenos Liber?”

Before any of them could venture an answer, the tower began to rumble and shake. A thunderous noise filled the air, and before their eyes the stones in the walls began to separate.

“It’s coming apart!” John yelled, scrambling for the landing. “Up the steps, quickly!”

Together the three men raced up the stairs, pushing Rose ahead of them for safety. If one of them fell, as their friend Aven once had, there was no
Indigo Dragon
to catch them before they hit the surface of the water below.

An entire section of stones and steps fell away just before the frame of the lowest door also peeled off and dropped, as, finally, did the door. Abruptly the tower stopped trembling, and the four companions could once again catch their breath.

“That was close,” John breathed.

“Too close,” Jack agreed.

“I can’t see the door,” said Charles, peering over the edge of the steps. “Or the boat. I hope it didn’t sink the poor devils.”

“They probably just left,” Jack offered. “It’s a terrible place to be fishing, anyway. It stinks of sulfur, and stones are always unexpectedly dropping out of the sky.”

“Yes, but anyone in the vicinity would already know that,” said John. “Who would come here to fish?”

“Trolls,” said Charles. “Or Cambridge scholars.”

“Never mind,” said Jack, trying to hide a smile at his friend’s joke. “Everyone all right? Rose? Archie?”

“I’m fine,” Rose replied, looking at the owl. “This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

“They’re not very bright,” Archimedes commented to her, “but they do have a way of keeping things stirred up. Good for the vim and vigor.”

“If we could find a way to stir things up less,” said Jack, “we’d be very happy men, eh, John? I say, John—are you listening?”

The Caretaker Principia slowly shook his head.

“What’s the matter?” Charles asked.

“That door,” John said, pointing across the landing. “It’s
open”
.

“So it is,” said Jack. “The last tremor probably shook it loose.”

“I’ve never seen that happen before,” John observed. “Remember, the doors are anchored on the reverse by the time they open to. I don’t think they
can
be jarred open.”

“Should we close it?” asked Charles.

“I’m wondering if we shouldn’t have a look,” John replied. “So much of what’s happening has to do with the Time Storms caused by the collapse of the keep—and Burton is obviously playing at a game we haven’t seen yet. I say we have a look.”

“We should discuss this,” said Jack.

“I agree,” said Charles.

“You scholars are worse than three Scots with a match,” said Archimedes, “if you have to have a referendum and debate over something as elementary as whether to open or close a door.”

Rose did not voice an opinion, but simply walked across the landing and pulled the door open.

“Oh Lord,” said Charles. “It’s done, fellows. Let’s have a look— if it’s some prehistoric beastie, we can close it quick.”

“Agreed,” John said, turning to Rose. “Just don’t step over the—”

Rose stepped over the threshold and through the door.

It took a few moments for the frail-seeming, bearded old man to realize that the light falling across the goosedown quilts of his bed was not from the window.

The oil lamps in the room provided enough light for him to read and write. But mostly, he slept. The perpetual twilight kept him in a constant state of drowsiness, and besides, he was tired. Tired to the bone. He’d had a lifetime of adventuring, and this, such as it was, was his reward.

He might have been happier on some island in the outer reaches of the Archipelago, but he would not have lived nearly as long. Here, in this room, Time itself had stopped—or so he’d been told.

And so he waited.

Waited to discover if the so-called Prophecy might indeed come true. Waited, because if it were true, then he would once again be needed. And as often as he had done great deeds and had remarkable adventures, it was all only for the reason that someone had needed him. This, and the love of a beautiful woman, were all the motivation he needed. And so he waited, because the Frenchman had promised that someday he would be needed again.

In his half-drowsy state, he barely noted the new streamers of light in the room, and only then when a shadowy form approached his bed and leaned in closely to speak to him.

“Is it you?” he asked, eyes blinking with tears. “Is it my Dulcinea?”

“My name is Rose Dyson,” the girl said as the old man rubbed the sleep goblins from his eyes and propped himself up onto his elbows, “but Dulcinea is a beautiful name, especially with your accent.”

“Ah,” the old man demurred, “it is in the nature of old Spaniards to speak the name of their one true love as if she were the only woman on earth.”

“And how should I call you?” asked Rose.

The old man sat up straighter in his bed and adjusted his nightshirt, then preened his mustache and beard before answering.

“My name, dear girl,” he said with gravity and panache, “is Don Quixote de la Mancha. And I have been waiting for you for a very long time.”

The three Caretakers and the owl entered the room, but only John paused to examine the door. Any other door in the keep could be opened with a touch, save for the Cartographer’s door, which had been sealed by the mark of the king: the Greek letter
alpha.

Next to the handle on this door was a small Greek letter
pi—
the mark of the Caretaker Principia. John’s mark—which he had never made.

John filed the observation away in the back of his head to be addressed later. For now, he wanted to discover the identity of the strange man who was conversing so easily with young Rose.

The man who had introduced himself to Rose as Don Quixote was now making similar introductions to Jack and Charles. Archimedes was ignoring them altogether and had instead focused on the books to one side of the great bed.

The room was almost identical in size to the one farther up where the Cartographer resided. But rather than a clutter-filled workplace, this room had been appointed for comfort. The elaborate four-poster bed was covered in goosedown quilts and draped with finely embroidered heavy silk curtains. There was a tall window with lead-lined panes of milky glass, and several beautiful oil lamps. The books were scattered about, as were the habiliments of a knight: a lance, a sword and scabbard, and authentic—if tarnished—sixteenth-century Spanish armor.

If this is not the real Don Quixote,
John thought,
he has certainly made the effort to play the part.

The old man rose from the bed and straightened his nightshirt. He was impossibly thin and wore a thick beard that pointed in two directions. His hair was more gray than black, and more white than gray.

“If the lady will shield her eyes,” Quixote said diplomatically, “I should like to dress.”

Rose obediently stood in the corner, looking over Archimedes’ shoulder as Charles and Jack helped the old knight dress. His clothing and armor were humble but fit him well. Once he was dressed, he again sat on the bed, and Rose sat beside him.

“You said you were waiting for us,” she asked. “Why?”

“Because of the Prophecy, of course,” Quixote replied. “You do know about the Prophecy, do you not?”

“We’ve heard rumors,” said Jack, “but we’ve been a little too pressed for time to ask anyone about specifics.”

“Well then, I shall tell you,” Quixote declared. “After all, it is your Prophecy.”

“Ours?” said John. “How do you know?”

“Because,” replied Quixote, “you are the only ones, other than the Frenchman, who have come through that door in nearly four centuries. He said that I would meet three Caretakers, and it would be my honor to aid them in their quest.”