The Dragons of Winter (12 page)

“Had to do it,” Pym said once he’d calmed down and gathered his wits. Rose and Charles were using bandages from the kit Bert always carried to bind up his broken wrist as he spoke. “No telling whose side you were on,” Pym went on. “Can’t leave one’s enemies just strolling about.”

“But,” said Edmund, “we aren’t your enemies at all. We didn’t come to rescue you, but you’ve just attacked your friends.”

“The irony is delicious to me,” said Pym.

“He’s an idiot,” said Burton, who was gingerly touching his own bandaged face as the others tended to the injured Messenger. “We didn’t have any idea you’d be here.”

“Oh,” said Pym. “Did you come here for the others, then?”

That stopped everyone in their tracks.

“What others?” Charles asked carefully, fully aware that the Messenger might still be speaking stuff and nonsense. “Other Caretakers?”

Pym seemed about to answer when his eyes widened in
shock as Archie circled low enough to join in the conversation.

“If he’s a friend, I fear to see our enemies in this place,” the mechanical bird said, “but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”

“It . . . it isn’t real!” an astonished Pym stammered.

“No, he’s real, all right,” Burton said wryly. “Nothing imaginary could be so irritating.”

“What do you think, Archie?” Edmund called to the bird circling overhead. “Are you real, or aren’t you?”

“All of you sound smarter,” the bird replied, sneering at Burton’s feigned respect, “when you aren’t trying to sound like philosophers.”

“So speaketh the adding machine,” said Burton. “I can barely hear you over the sound of your gears.”

“That’s why I keep a small oilcan in my pack,” Edmund said, glancing at the dark clouds. “In foul weather, Archimedes tends to, um, squeak.”

“I do not!” Archie squawked in indignation. “I emit nothing but the sounds of my proper functioning. To squeak would be uncouth.”

“You squeak,” Rose said, nodding and holding up her hands in resignation. “Sorry. Edmund is right.”

Suddenly, without warning, Pym’s right arm shot up in a curving arc, launching a large, jagged rock high into the air . . .

. . . where it struck the hovering Archimedes with a terrible, grinding crunch.

“Spies,” Pym said, panting. “His spies are
everywhere
.”

Edmund and Rose cried out and rushed to where the damaged bird had fallen. Edmund reached Archie first, and he cradled the bird in his arms.

“Are you
insane
?” Charles exclaimed, shaking the hapless Pym by the shoulders. “No wonder Verne stopped looking for you! You’re worse than Magwich!”

The stone had struck the bird with such force that it tore a gash in Archie’s torso from just above his right leg to his neck. Only luck or the bird’s quick reflexes had allowed him to tip his chin back at the last instant and avoid having his head torn off his neck.

As it was, the damage was bad enough. Gears and wires were spilling out of his chest and onto the ground, where a tearful Rose was attempting frantically to gather them up and stuff them back in.

“Oh, my Archie!” Rose cried. “You’ve killed him!”

“He’s a clockwork, Rose,” Bert explained gently. “He can be repaired back at Tamerlane. We have Roger Bacon’s books, and Shakespeare has become quite adept at working with delicate machinery. We’ll fix him, I promise.”

Pym seemed to have already forgotten the entire incident and had gone back to muttering to himself. Charles and Burton joined the others and circled around Edmund and the damaged bird.

Edmund seemed almost numb with shock. He knew, intellectually, that his recently acquired companion was a mechanical bird—but it was a different thing to have that point clarified in such a violent manner.

“Well,” said Charles, “Messenger or not, when we get back to Tamerlane House, there’s going to be an—” He stopped and looked around, groaning. “Drat! Where’s Pym gotten off to?”

“I couldn’t say, since I didn’t see him go,” Burton said, his voice low but steady. “I did, however, see the new arrival, who is watching us now.”

He tipped his head to the north, and the others turned to see a man calmly watching them from about twenty paces off.

The man was pale—no, more than that, Rose realized. He was an albino. His skin was almost entirely free of pigmentation. He wore something that resembled sunglasses over his eyes, and was dressed simply, in a tunic and breeches made of the same unbleached fabric.

On his forehead was a strange marker, or perhaps a tattoo: a circle, surrounded by four diamonds.

“I don’t recognize the symbol,” Burton murmured to Charles. “Do you?”

“Not at all,” Charles concurred, “but it’s been such a long time, who knows what is meaningful, and in what ways? We might have to resort to using sign language, just to be understood.”

“Greetings,” the strange man said in perfect, unaccented English, “and salutations. May I be of assistance?”

Bert gave a gasp and dashed forward, almost grasping at the strange man. The old Caretaker seemed to have difficulty finding the right words to say, and it also appeared to the others that this was more than an overture to a stranger—this was recognition of . . .

. . . a friend?

“Is it you?” Bert said, his voice faint in his breathlessness. “Nebogipfel?”

“He was my sire,” the pale man replied. “You may call me Vanamonde.”

“Nebogipfel?” Charles asked. “You know this man’s father, Bert?”

“Dr. Moses Nebogipfel,” Bert said, relieved to have another
touch point of familiarity in that dark place. “He is a Welsh inventor, who had developed some remarkable theories about time travel.”

He strode over to Vanamonde and extended his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, the pale man shook it, bowing slightly.

“I knew your father well, Vanamonde,” said Bert. “How is he?”

“He died many years ago,” Vanamonde replied with no obvious emotion, and enough finality that Bert knew not to ask further. “Your mek,” he said, gesturing at Archie. “It has been damaged. We have the means to repair it, if you like.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Rose said, before the others could answer. “Yes. Help him, please.”

A look passed between Charles and Burton that expressed the same thought—caution was necessary, but there was no reason not to agree.

“Here,” Vanamonde said, turning toward the towers of the city. “Follow me, if you please.”

The companions fell into step behind the mysterious man as he began to walk. In a few minutes, it was obvious that their destination was the largest, tallest, darkest tower on the skyline.

“Heh.” Charles chuckled and gestured at Rose. “‘Child Rowland to the dark tower came,’” he said jovially. “She is our Child Rowland.”

“Child?” asked Edmund.

“Childe, with an
e
,” said Charles. “It means an untested knight.”

“Hmm,” said Bert. “Are you quoting Browning?”

“Shakespeare,” said Charles. “
King Lear
.”

“Oh dear,” said Bert. “You couldn’t have quoted from one of the happy ones, could you?”

“Hey,” Charles said, shrugging. “At least it’s not
Macbeth
.”

As they walked toward the dark tower, Bert was unable to contain himself and continued to pepper Vanamonde with questions, which the albino answered patiently.

“The city is called Dys,” he said without taking his eyes from the path. “It has always been called Dys, since the earliest days of the master’s reign.”

“And how long is that?” asked Bert.

“Since the beginning of time.”

“You mean since the beginning of Dys,” Burton corrected.

“What,” Vanamonde asked without turning around, “is the difference?”

Occasionally, the companions would pass other people, some nearby, some in the distance. All were dressed similarly to Nebogipfel’s son, but only a few bore the same markings on their forehead.

Charles asked if the markings had some sort of meaning, and Vanamonde bowed his head. “They do,” he said. “They signify that one is a Dragon.”

The pale man did not see the others’ reactions to this remark. They were intrigued, to say the least. And more than a little surprised.

“You know, Vanamonde,” Burton suggested, “some might say that it takes more than a tattoo to signify that one is a Dragon. What do you think of that?”

Vanamonde’s eyes flashed briefly to Burton’s forehead, but he kept walking and chose not to answer.

“What of the others?” Bert pressed, intent on finding out something about what had befallen Weena’s people, the Eloi. “If
they are not, ah, Dragons, what is it they’re called?”

At this, Vanamonde merely shrugged, as if the question was of no importance. Before Bert could ask him anything further, they reached the base of the tower.

Vanamonde pressed a panel on the wall and a door irised open, revealing a staircase. Motioning for the others to follow, Vanamonde started walking up the stairs.

After climbing for what seemed an eternity in the deep, windowless stairwell, Vanamonde led the companions to a landing where there was a door with a traditional handle and lock.

“Here,” he said, opening the door and gesturing inside. “You may wait here as our guests while I see to the repairs on your mek and inform my master of your arrival. He will want to meet you. Of that I’m certain.”

The companions filed into the room, which was simply furnished, but expansive, and more comfortable than anything they had seen on the outside.

Rose and Edmund gently handed Archimedes over to Vanamonde, who cradled the mechanical owl in his arms and, with no further comment, turned to leave.

“Vanamonde, wait!” Bert implored. “You said that you are a Dragon, is that right?”

Vanamonde did not speak, but answered with a single nod.

“All right,” said Bert, “then tell us this. Is everyone here a Dragon? Everyone on Earth? You never answered me when I asked you earlier.”

A light of realization went on in Vanamonde’s eyes. “No,” he said. “Dragon is an office of high regard. Only a few are Dragons here.”

“Then the rest,” Bert pressed. “The other people. Are they Eloi, or Morlocks?”

Their host furrowed his brow, as if trying to comprehend the question. “Eloi and Morlocks . . . ,” he said slowly. “These are not ranks, like Dragon?”

“No, you idiot,” said Burton. “We aren’t asking what people do, we’re asking what they are. The others here—people like us.”

“Ah,” Vanamonde said as he stepped back onto the landing outside the door and grasped the handle. “But there are no others like you. All are like me.”

“Eloi?” asked Bert. “Or Morlock?”

“No Eloi,” Vanamonde said, “no Morlocks. Only us,” he finished as the door closed. “Only Lloigor.”

The Cheshire cat began to slowly appear a piece at a time . . .

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN
The Messenger

“So,” said Byron.
“Did it work?”

“Of course it worked, you biscuit,” Twain snorted. “The minute they stepped through, they vanished, just as they have with every other trip. I’d say the mission is off to a rousing start.”