The Dragons of Winter (32 page)

Aristophanes scowled. “No, we really couldn’t,” he said. “There isn’t time.”

“I know this is important,” said Uncas, “but until we met you, and asked about th’ glasses, we didn’t even know the armor existed. So why do we suddenly have a timer on finding it?”

“Anything to which attention is paid becomes a magnet for more attention,” Aristophanes said primly. “I promise you, even if Song-Sseu has not already sold the knowledge that we are looking for the armor and in possession of the McGee maps, there will still be a dozen other denizens in every one of the Soft Places who will take note of our arrival. And once the first piece has been found, word will spread—and from that point, it will be a race. And those who would also seek the armor will think nothing of killing us to get even a single piece, much less the whole set.”

“So, this quest becomes more dangerous the more successful we are,” said Quixote. “That sounds like a Caretaker’s mission, all right.”

“Fair enough,” said Uncas. “We’d better get cracking, then!”

Aristophanes unfolded the first sheet of parchment, on which he had asked the location of the Ruby Dagger, and read the name the machine had typed: “Castra Regis.”

Uncas scanned the maps and quickly found the one that matched the name. “It’s a close one,” he said happily. “Staffordshire.”

The detective’s brow furrowed in puzzlement as he looked at
the map. “Castra Regis was the ancestral home of an infamous family called Caswell,” he said, “but both it and the neighboring mansion, Mercy Farm, were destroyed when . . .”

He stopped and put a finger on the map. “Here,” he said, voice rising with excitement. “This is the place, I’m sure of it.”

The knight and the badger peered closely at the spot on the map. “Th’ crossroads?” asked Uncas. “Why there?”

“All the interesting stuff happens at a crossroads,” Aristophanes said, “and especially at this one. It’s in a wood called Diana’s Grove. And that’s where we’ll buy the dagger.”

“Buy, and not find?” asked Quixote.

“Yes,” the detective said, standing. “Diana’s Grove is the site of one of the oldest Goblin Markets in the world. That’s the place, I’m sure of it.”

“A market!” Uncas said, brightening. “I love markets. That don’t sound dangerous at all.”

“I said ‘interesting,’ not safe,” retorted the detective. “Just follow along with me and pay attention. And don’t touch anything.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” said the badger.

Aristophanes smirked and hooked his thumb at the knight. “I was talking to
him
.”

“Rude,” said Quixote.

The Goblin Market was not the Victorianesque tapestry the companions might have been expecting, but rather a ramshackle collection of carts, wagons, and makeshift pens for various horses and horselike creatures.

“This is, ah, quaint,” said Quixote. “It seems a little horse-centric for a market. Or is it run by Houyhnhnms?”

The detective sighed and gave the knight a withering look. “This isn’t the market, you idiot. This is where all the pack animals are stabled. I thought it would be better to leave the Duesenberg here than to drive up to a Seelie Court–run Goblin Market in a 1935 automobile. The market,” he finished, only slightly less exasperated, “is over that rise, there.”

Both Quixote and Uncas chuckled in understanding as they topped the small hill and the full wonder of the market came into view.

Sitting just beyond the crossroads indicated on the map, the Goblin Market was a cacophony of ornate wagons, huts, tents, and all other manner of temporary structures, which nevertheless looked as if they had always stood there. That was because, according to Aristophanes, they always had.

The explosions of color were scattered among and amid the trees, which themselves seemed to be first growth, and in a few places were built into the fabric of the market, lending their trunks and branches to the anchoring of the tents.

In the distance, the ruins of both Castra Regis and Mercy Farm stood over the small hollow like watchful sentries, but slightly more benignly than the real sentries, armored wraiths, who gave the companions a careful once-over as they crossed the road and entered the market.

At one of the tents, a man in a turban was selling the wind, in various gusts and gales. Each one came with a caution about when and where the bag could be opened safely, as well as a customer satisfaction guarantee that promised the wind would work—but allowed that no promise could be made about the destination to which it carried the purchaser.

At a small cart, another vendor, a stout, bespectacled shopkeeper, was demonstrating various clockwork animals, some of which were real, and some mythical. He winked at Uncas, intuiting that the badger might be an easy mark. “The windup monsters are good company for extended trips,” the shopkeeper explained, “but for some real entertainment, it’s hard to beat the Steam Crows.” He proffered one to Uncas. “Would you like to see how it works?”

Aristophanes rather brusquely guided Uncas and Quixote away from the tempting display of toys. “Keep your eyes open and touch nothing—
nothing
,” he said, waggling his finger for emphasis. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘you break it, you buy it’? Well, here, just touching something can be considered an ironclad contract. It’s Seelie Court law. So don’t touch anything I don’t tell you to touch.”

One small woman was selling hand-painted calendars, which changed the seasons as the pages were turned. Patrons were looking through the various works, and as they did so, the seasons in her tent changed from summer, to fall, to winter, and back again. Summer was by far the most popular, with fall a close second, so the tent was full of gentle, warm breezes that scattered crimson and gold leaves, amid the only occasional flurry of snow. No one, it seemed, was all that interested in spring.

“Here’s the fellow we want, unless I miss my guess—and I seldom do,” Aristophanes said, pointing down the slope to a smithy’s shop. It was set against the side of the hill so it could take advantage of the slope for the bellows on the forge.

“My name is Schmendrick,” the smithy said, giving the companions the once-over. “What can I be doin’ f’r y’ t’day?”

“We’re looking to barter,” Aristophanes said with as much authority as he could muster. “We have relics from the Summer Country to trade, and”—his voice dropped to a softer tone—“even a few from the Archipelago.”

“Really?” Schmendrick exclaimed. “Those be rarer and rarer these days, ever since th’ Day of Charles’s Lament.”

“Ooh,” Uncas groaned to Quixote. “We best not tell Scowler Charles there’s people callin’ it that.”

“He shouldn’t be surprised,” said Quixote. “He does berate himself over the whole destruction-of-the-keep matter rather often.”

“I’m working here!” Aristophanes said to the badger and the knight. “Why don’t you two go browse around in the next tent? And remember . . .”

“Don’t touch anything, I know, I know,” Uncas grumbled. “Come on, sir,” he said to Quixote. “Let’s fraternize with th’ wee folk.”

“Do y’ have any deadly nursery rhymes?” the smithy asked. “They’re really useful for takin’ care of changelings, if y’ know what I mean.”

“No,” said Aristophanes, “but I’m sure I can find something to your liking, if you have what it is we’re looking for.”

Schmendrick squinted up at him. “An’ that is?”

“The Ruby Dagger.”

The smithy’s eyes widened and darted from side to side, to see if anyone was listening. “I might be able t’ help you,” he replied. “Come, let us discuss what you have t’ offer.”

As the detective and the smithy continued to speak in hushed whispers inside the shop, Uncas and Quixote browsed the wares
of the tent three spaces down, in the lee of a large stone. The proprietor was a wizened old woman with a hat that resembled a tree growing from her head, on which were perched two buzzards, who seemed to be doing all the negotiating with the customers.

The goods the woman—or possibly the vultures—were selling were ornamental crystals of every color, shape, and size. Some had been set into pendants, and others, sculpted into miniature cathedrals. Some had even been set into the hilts and scabbards of weapons.

“Asking a smithy who makes weapons for a dagger that already exists isn’t very Zen,” Uncas said as he peered through the tiny doors of an amethyst city. “He’d be better off looking over—”

The little badger gasped, then slowly, carefully, drew a bronze-hilted ruby knife from out of the back of the display.

“Is it . . . ?” he breathed.

“I think so,” said an astonished Quixote. “We should go get Steve.”

“Don’t worry,” Uncas said smoothly. “I got this.”

“Badgers?” one of the vultures squawked as Uncas examined the dagger. “We don’t need no steenkin’ badgers!”

“Why not?” the other vulture replied.

“Iff’n his money’s good.”

“We can pay,” said Uncas. “No fuss, no muss.”

“See?” said the second vulture. “Say hello to my leetle friend.”

The first vulture sighed. “All right, all right. That one ees a bad piece, anyway. Eet can only damage Shadows. No good for cutting oxen or Harpy. What you got to trade, leetle badger?”

“Hmm.” Uncas thought a moment, then rummaged around in his pocket. “Y’ seem t’ like crystals,” he said, producing a small ebony shard from his pocket. “P’rhaps you’d trade f’r this, straight across?”

Both vultures snorted in contempt, and even the old woman tsk-tsked at Uncas.

“You be crazy badger,” said the first vulture, “to be thinkin’ we take a sliver—”

“It’s a shard, actually,” Uncas corrected, “and it’s from th’ Nameless Isles.”

That stopped both vultures cold, and the old woman’s jaw dropped open. It also got the attention of several other patrons at nearby shops.

“Deal,” the second vulture said, snatching up the shard before Uncas could change his mind. “A pleasure do business with you, my leetle badger friend.”

With a broad smile that would light up a barn, Uncas leaped into the pathway to find the detective, who was still arguing with the smithy. “I have it!” Uncas proclaimed proudly—and loudly. “I have the Ruby Dagger!”

“Oh, fewmets,” Schmendrick cursed, apparently having been close to a deal for the dagger he didn’t have. “C’n I interest you in a carnelian ice pick, mebbe?”

“Never mind.” Aristophanes strode out of the smithy’s to meet the triumphant badger. “At last!” he exclaimed as he lunged forward—and tripped over a discarded Spanish helmet at the edge of the tent.

Aristophanes went sprawling, and his hat flew off, landing at Quixote’s feet.

The smithy, the old woman with the vultures on her head, and several others circled around to look at the strange purple man who was cursing under his breath as he dusted himself off.

“A unicorn!” Schmendrick whispered in astonishment. “I haven’t seen th’ like! Not in a hound’s age!”

“Unicorn!” the haggard old woman echoed, bellowing at the top of her lungs. “Uuuuunicooorrrnnn!!!!”

“Oh, dung,” said Aristophanes. “Run.”

“What?” said Quixote. “They—”

“Just shut up and run!” the Zen Detective shouted as he grabbed the knight by the arm and the badger by the collar and propelled all three of them down the pathway and out of the wood.

The news of the unicorn spread through the market like the Black Plague, but at lightning speed, and as the companions crested the hill and headed for the Duesenberg, they realized they were now being chased by quite a sizeable mob.

“Oh, my stars an’ garters,” Uncas exclaimed as they ran, “but I wish Sir Richard was with us!”

“Burton?” Quixote blurted out as he glanced backward at their pursuers, who were rapidly closing the distance between them. “You think he would have fared any better?”

“Not really,” Uncas replied, “but he’d give them a bigger target than us.”

Under the spreading branches of a chestnut tree, the Messenger watched. The sunlight that broke through the clouds above passed through the leaves to form mottled patterns of light and shadow on Dr. Raven’s face, which remained impassive, observing.

“They seem to be in a bit of a pickle, neh?” a voice said from somewhere above in the branches. “We wonder why you are not helping them to evade their pursuers.”