The Dragons of Winter (37 page)

“I didn’t,” came the reply, “but as you’ve asked, it’s Trisheros.”

The Zen Detective went pale—this apparently meant something significant to him. “Thrice Great?” he whispered.

“No,” Trisheros said, shaking his head. “You’re thinking of my father. He’s considerably older and doesn’t come into the shop much anymore. What did you say your name was?”

“His name is—,” Uncas began.

“
Steve
,” the detective interrupted. “It’s just . . . Steve. A pleasure, I’m sure.” He gestured at the helmet. “What would you like for it?”

“Hmm,” the shopkeeper mused, rubbing his chin. “I don’t really know that I need much of anything right now,” he said apologetically. “Unless you happen to have a photograph of the
Painting That Ate Paris
.”

“Uh, no,” said Quixote. “I don’t think we do. But pray tell, why would anyone?”

“Oh, no one wants the actual painting, to be sure,” the shopkeeper said, “but the photograph can fetch a good price from collectors in the know. And it doesn’t devour anything—just gives the viewer a vague sense of unease. Very avant-garde.”

“Is there anything else you’d consider?” Aristophanes asked, feeling that the shopkeeper might be the bartering kind—especially considering his lineage. “We have access to a great many things.”

“I assumed you were not the principal buyers,” said Trisheros. “For whom are you working?”

The companions looked at one another. Finally Aristophanes chose to answer. “The Caretakers.”

“Ah,” the shopkeeper said, as if this answered more than one question. “Then the price is a simple one. I would like a copy of
the
Imaginarium Geographica
. If you can do that for me, the helmet is yours.”

“No problem!” Uncas said as Quixote grinned and Aristophanes slapped his head and groaned. “I gots twelve copies in—”

“In the back of the Duesenberg,” the detective finished. “Of
course
you do.”

“How many would you like?” asked Uncas.

“Er, ah . . . ,” Trisheros stammered. “Just one will do, thank you.”

The little mammal rushed out the door, then popped the lid of the trunk and jumped inside to get the book.

“Why would he—,” the shopkeeper began.

“I’ve learned to stop asking,” Aristophanes said as Uncas returned with a copy of the fifth edition of Mr. Tummeler’s abridged, annotated
Imaginarium Geographica
. “Just smile and nod.”

“It’s even signed by King Artus,” Uncas said proudly. “No extra charge.”

“Thank you,” said Trisheros.

“What was that ‘Thrice Great’ business about, anyway?” Uncas asked as they drove away from the Abraxas House. “You seemed t’ know who he was f’r a minute there.”

“Not him, actually,” the detective answered pensively. “His father—Hermes Trismegistus. ‘Thrice Great’ is what the name means. He’s one of the oldest beings alive—far older than I am—and some people think he was a god. And,” he added, “he might have been.”

“I’ve read about him,” said Uncas. “In th’ Little Whatsit. He’s the one who communed with angels, right? Learned their
language an’ . . .” The little mammal stopped suddenly, whiskers twitching. “An’ taught it all to . . . John Dee.”

“Maybe,” Aristophanes said, features darkening as he turned to look out the window. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Trisheros knew just the place to shelve his newly acquired copy of the
Imaginarium Geographica
. There was space on a special shelf in the Rare Books Room, right next to the
Encyclopedia Mythica
,
The Journal of Ezekiel Higgins
,
The Book of All Stories
, and the copy of the Little Whatsit he had acquired some years earlier from an agent of the Caretakers who called himself a Messenger. His name had been Ransom, and he had been welcomed as both a seeker of knowledge and a customer.

Not so the one who was hovering around outside the door.

Trisheros murmured a few words ripe with ancient power, and the runes above the doorway—above every doorway—glowed with eldritch energies.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, not looking up from his work. “But this is one of the few places, anywhere, anywhen, that is barred to you. I know who and what you are. Once, I might have become as you are now myself. But I chose this, and I’m all the happier for having done so.”

He paused and cocked his head, as if listening to an answer. “Nor do I wish you any harm,” he said. “Quite the opposite. I wish you luck. And . . .” He paused again, listening.

Whoever it was that had been outside was gone now, and the old man sighed.

“And,” he finished, more for himself than for the entity with whom he’d been speaking, “I wish you peace. But I fear that is not a
card in the hand you were dealt. And I’m sorry, boy. Very sorry.”

He filed the
Geographica
on the shelf with the other books and turned out the light.

“This will be most difficult,” Aristophanes said when they’d arrived at their next destination. “Not many people ever come here. And those who do almost never return.

“It’s called Tartarus,” he explained, “although it’s not the common one most people would think of.”

“The Greek underworld,” said Quixote. “I’ve read my mythology.”

“Have you now?” said Aristophanes. “Your mythology won’t have told you about this place—it’s about as dank and foul a region as exists. The only reason I’m here is that I expect a great reward at the end. And I’d better get it.”

“I’m sure Verne will take good care of you,” Quixote said, peering through the gloom. “Access to the inner circle, and the like.”

“Right,” said the detective. “Verne. That’s what I meant.”

The wall ahead was foreboding and seemed impossibly high. From below, the companions could just make out the shape of heads set along the length of the uppermost stones.

“Brr,” said Uncas. “Are those f’r reals?”

“Plaster,” said Aristophanes. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“There’s no gate,” said Quixote after a brief trot around the walls. “The road encircles it, but there’s no way in.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” said the Zen Detective. “One of these stones along the path is a catch that releases an opening in the wall.”

“How do you know which one?”

“Because in a past life, I was a philosopher of unknown things,”
came the reply from the now-irritated detective, “and finding unfindable things is what I do best.”

Aristophanes walked slowly around the pathway, not even really examining the stones but more getting a feel for the atmosphere of the place. He had explained to Uncas that sometimes being a Zen Detective was nothing more than imagining oneself as the person or thing that was lost, and then going to the place that they would go. It was apparently a very successful technique, because in less than ten minutes, he waved them over to where he stood.

Aristophanes pointed to a roundish, nondescript stone half-buried in the path and covered with scrubby grass. “There,” he said. “That’s the one.”

Without waiting for a consensus, he stepped firmly on the stone, and immediately a section of the wall in front of them came crumbling down in a torrent of stones and dust. In moments they were looking through a broad hole into the interior of the wall.

“Oh my,” said Uncas. “I thought a door would swing open, or the stones would magically rearrange themselves into an entrance, or something like that.”

“Maybe in the entrance to an alley of shops in London, it would do that,” Aristophanes said as he stepped over the pile of rubble and inside the wall, “but this isn’t that kind of place. Don’t worry about it, though,” he added. “It’s charmed—the wall will be back in place within the hour.”

“Then how d’ we get out again?” asked Uncas.

“We make sure we’re already gone when it closes,” Aristophanes said gruffly. “Come on. Follow me.”

Within the wall the companions found a thick, tangled wood of ancient dead trees. A black river flowed through the wood, and Aristophanes advised the others not to touch the water. Along the banks, someone had placed a variety of stuffed animals, perhaps to use as a lure for unsuspecting travelers. Up ahead, the trees gave way to a clearing, where there stood a crumbling Moravian church, ringed about with willows.

“That’s what we want,” Aristophanes said. “There should be a staircase inside that leads into the catacombs.”

There was indeed a staircase, and the companions lit a torch to follow the steps down. Inside the catacombs, they followed a winding path, led only by the Zen Detective’s innate sense of direction. Eventually they came to a large chamber lined with openings in the walls.

“Boy,” said Uncas, “we could sure use some Lightening Bolts right about now.”

Aristophanes looked at the badger like he was insane. “Are you insane?” he asked. “The last thing we need here is a thunderstorm.”

“I didn’t say ‘thunderstorm,’ I said we could use some Lightening Bolts,” said Uncas. “You know, the kind that ’luminates stuff. We had a couple in the boot o’ the Duesenberg.”

The detective sighed and looked at Quixote. “Do you ever win an argument with him?”

“No,” said the knight. “He’s usually right.”

In one of the openings they could see the skeleton of a man. It had been partially gilded—the ribs and thighs glistened with gold. In another was a glass bust of a beautiful maiden.

As they passed through the chamber, they found many more such talismans: a willow rod that Aristophanes said had been
used to beat to death a forgiven penitent; a carved wooden toy that resembled a top, which he said would tell the day of one’s death when spun; a collection of black paper hearts; and the skeleton of a dwarf, which he told them belonged to a son of the biblical Lilith.

In the last opening was the breastplate.

Aristophanes started to reach for it, but Quixote stopped him. “Wait,” he explained, pointing to the far end of the chamber. “First we must make certain we have permission.”

Another skeleton sat, watching them. It held an aeolian harp in its arms, and one hand was poised to play. As Aristophanes reached for the breastplate, the hand moved nearer to the strings.

“And if we don’t?” asked the detective.

Quixote pointed up, to where a hundred more skeletal warriors sat in their own alcoves, waiting for the harp to summon them to life.