The Dragons of Winter (9 page)

Warnie bid his brother and friends good-bye, making certain to give Charles an especially warm handshake, before going inside to put on a pot of tea. Verne excused himself to retrieve Elijah McGee’s maps from Tamerlane House—taking great care not to allow Aristophanes to see the bridge—leaving the other Caretakers to keep an eye on the Zen Detective.

“I like your hair, Caretaker,” Aristophanes said to Charles. “It’s very distinguished.”

“Thank you,” Charles said, beaming. He gave a look of
I told you so
to his friends. “It’s the exact shade of Queen Victoria’s throne, you know.”

Aristophanes looked puzzled. “No, it isn’t. Her throne was black—black velvet.”

Charles looked flustered. “But—but—” he stammered. “Chaucer said—”

“Chaucer?” Aristophanes exclaimed. “
Geoffrey Chaucer?
He wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him in the—”

“Hang on there, detective,” Twain said, swinging his
katana
up under the other’s nose. “Let’s not be maligning senior staff now, hey?”

“Whatever,” Aristophanes said, holding up his hands. “I think all you people are crazy.” He chuckled grimly. “I must be crazy myself to want to side with you.”

“You’re probably right on both counts,” Twain said as he twirled the sword in the air, “and don’t you forget it.”

The detective grunted in response as Verne crossed back over the lawn and handed Uncas a leather folder.

“Here they are,” he said to the badger. “The maps of Elijah McGee. They should be everything the Zen Detective needs to find the armor, and I am entrusting them to your care, Uncas.”

The badger’s eyes widened, and he gulped as he accepted the parcel of maps, but he nodded in understanding and gave the Prime Caretaker a dignified salute. “You can count on me, Scowler Jules,” he said. “I mean, uh, on us. Except for Aristophanes, I mean.”

“By Zeus’s knickers!” the detective exclaimed as he climbed into the passenger seat of the Duesenberg. “I told you—call me Steve.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him, too,” said Quixote. “Never fear,” he added as he lowered himself into the rear seat. “We’ll see this through.”

“We have no doubt,” Jack said as the automobile roared to life. “Do we, fellows?”

But none of the men answered. John was looking at the vehicle as it sped off into the distance, and Verne . . .

. . . was looking at John. His brow creased with worry for the young Caretaker and what was to come, but only for a moment.
His face broke into his customary smile, and when John turned, Verne winked at him.

After a moment, the sounds of the Duesenberg faded, and without speaking further, the Caretakers crossed back over the bridge.

P
ART
T
WO

The Chronic Argonauts

“So,” said Twain . . . “who’s up for an adventure?”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE
Days of Future Past

The Chronographer of Lost Times
stood at the tall windows in his athenaeum and considered the small stoppered flask he held in his hand.

Inside, a wisp of smoke curled against the glass in a slow, almost deliberate motion. In the right light, it sometimes seemed to coalesce into a face, and the expression it wore was one of confusion.

The Chronographer smiled grimly. Confusion was acceptable, but fear would have been better. It would come in time, however. Everything comes in time.

“Dr. Dee,” someone called out to the Chronographer from the doorway. “I trust it’s as you hoped?”

“It was nearly too late,” Dee snapped back before composing himself. “You took too long, and we nearly lost our opportunity.”

Tesla clenched his jaw, then strode into the room to stand next to the other man. Tesla was tall and fit, and his features were handsome, although he often wore a cold, clinical expression, which ensured that no one looked at him for long, or twice. “We nearly lost Crowley in acquiring it as it was,” he said, his voice clipped and precise. “The Caretaker’s brother returned to the
cottage as he was leaving, and that would have undone us all.”

Dee scowled. “He wasn’t supposed to be near the house at all!” he snapped. “It was too great a risk.”

“It was a necessary one,” Tesla replied soothingly. No point in irritating Dee for nothing. “He couldn’t risk transporting from the Caretakers’ fortress itself—we still don’t even know if it exists in real space or not. Better to have risked exposure than to lose them both. It was difficult enough just to get across the bridge.”

Dee eyed the flask. “Yes—yes, you’re correct. I had just assumed that more precautions would be taken.”

Tesla shrugged. “The cat was watching out for any interlopers and could have dealt with them accordingly. And Lovecraft and I were waiting here on our side should he need any intervention in Oxford. Really, it went about as well as it could go. And now,” he said, pointing at the flask, “we have it.”

“Indeed,” said Dee. He handed the flask to the scientist and noticed a marked increase in the motion of the smoke inside. “You know what to do. Is the other one ready?”

“Quite nearly,” Tesla replied as he turned on his heel and began to walk out of the room. “I’ll give you a further report later today.”

“And our Archimago project?” Dee added. “How goes that, Nikola?”

The scientist stopped, and paused for a moment before answering. “It goes . . . according to plan,” he said, measuring his words carefully. “Complete isolation, as you’d instructed. He will have grown to adulthood without having the slightest idea of who he really is.”

Dee turned to look at his colleague. “You still disapprove, I take it?”

Tesla ran his hand through his hair and looked at the floor. “Blake believes—”

“Blake is not the Chronographer!” Dee shouted. “He is an adept, but he is not irreplaceable. No one is, except for the boy. The girl whom they believe is the Imago was raised to believe she had a great destiny, and that makes her unpredictable. So the only way to control the Archimago was to make sure he believed he had no destiny at all.”

Tesla looked up. “If he is what we believe, then he won’t believe that for long, once we bring him back. And once he realizes what he can do . . .”

“He will already be sworn to serve our ends,” said Dee. “And if for some reason he chooses not to, we’ll just cast him back into the future. Irreplaceable does not mean necessary,” he added, looking at the flask in the scientist’s fingers. “The girl is Shadowed, remember. And if we can’t use him, then perhaps we’ll still be able to turn her. Either way,” he finished, eyes glittering, “we win.”

Tesla seemed to want to say something further, but instead pocketed the flask and walked out, shutting the door harder than necessary.

“Excellent,” the Chronographer murmured to himself when he was alone once more. “All things pass, in time. And soon enough, they will. And then . . . at last . . . I will truly be the Master of the World.”

Almost as if responding to his words, the long shadows in the room rose from the floor and swirled about until the entire athenaeum was cloaked in darkness.

The returning Caretakers were greeted on the East Lawn of Tamerlane House by Fred, who rushed to embrace Uncas; Laura Glue, who was still brandishing her own
katana,
and upset that she hadn’t been allowed to go with the others to the Kilns; and Edmund and Rose.

“I’m one of the best fighters at Tamerlane,” Laura Glue pouted. “I should have been with you, even if you didn’t really need me.”

“There will be a much more important mission at hand for you, little Valkyrie,” Verne chided gently as they walked to the house, “and against much more dangerous adversaries than old Aristophanes.”

“She ought to go with Rose and Edmund, then,” Byron offered, trying to lighten the mood. “Not much point to saving the world if you can’t save your woman, too, eh, Bert?”

“Shut up, George,” said Hawthorne.

“What?” said Byron. “I was being sincere! How can I ever participate if you try to shut me up whenever I say anything at all?”

“You can’t,” said Hawthorne. “And just so you know, I’m not agreeing with you here.”

“Well,” Byron grumbled, “I’m just saying I think Bert’s reason for going is better than everyone else’s.”

“Mmm, thank you, George,” said Bert. “But it really is more important to repair the Keep of Time. Anything else must be secondary to that goal—however much I would want it to happen.”

“Whoever else goes with Rose and Edmund,” said Verne, “you’ll be among them. You’ve earned that, Bert.”

“If push came to shove, I suppose
you
could always have just tried taking the machine in the basement yourself, Jules,” Bert
replied, not entirely with conviction. “After all, we know it worked at least
once
.”

Verne started, then shifted in his chair, as if the suggestion was an uncomfortable one. “I . . . appreciate that, Bert,” he said with a bit too much joviality, “but the machine wouldn’t work for me. Not again, at any rate.”

Bert looked at his associate, puzzled. “You’ve taken it out? And come safely back? I wasn’t aware of that.”

Verne waved off the remark. “Yes, yes. It went . . . well. But it’s not important now. Our concern is how to get you to the future and back safely, so we can finally go about this business of rebuilding the Keep of Time.”

“I meant to ask,” Jack said to Verne, “what’s this about goats in the Himalayas?”

“It’s a lake in Mongolia, actually,” Verne said. “Not many people know about it. I keep the herd in the ruins of an old castle there.”

Jack suppressed a grin. “I, ah, never took you for a goatherd, Master Verne.”

Verne drew himself up and frowned. “I don’t spend all my, ah, time traipsing around in history,” he huffed. “I have to have a way to vent my stresses. Everyone does, or they turn into Byron.”

“Hey, now,” said Byron.

“Interesting,” said Charles. “What do you call your herd?”

“The Post-Jurassic Lower Mongolian Capra Hircus Horde,” Verne said with such obvious pride that Rose feared he might actually pop a vest button or two. “I’m raising two of them in particular to be show goats,” he went on. “Elly Mae and Coraline. Fine, fine stock. Took first and third in their classes at the Navajo County Fair last year.”

“Erm, Navajo County Fair?” Charles asked.

“Arizona,” Verne answered. “No one knows livestock better than the Navajo, except for perhaps the Lower Mongolians. They appreciate the exotic lineage of my goats in ways the European cultures cannot.”

It was John’s turn to suppress a grin. “And what lineage would that be?”

Verne’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, unsure if he was about to be made the fool, but he explained anyway. “My goats,” he said, resuming his prideful tone, “are descended from the stock of Genghis Khan himself, and were brought into the West by Marco Polo. Some mingled with the lesser stock of the northern Europeans, but Elly Mae’s line bred true, and Coraline’s almost as much.”