The Dragons of Winter (41 page)

Uncas’s face fell. “Are you going t’ keep th’ armor for yourself, then?”

“No,” Aristophanes said as he drew the dagger from its sheath, “we’re going to deliver it all to my client. My true client.”

Uncas let out a strangled squeak when he saw the dagger. “We aren’t taking this back to Jules Verne, are we?” he asked, whiskers drooping.

“No,” said the detective. “We’re going to take it all, every piece, to Dr. Dee.”

P
ART
S
IX

Mysterious Islands

“If you want to surrender gracefully now, Dee . . .
no man will think the less of you . . .”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
O
NE
The House on the Borderlands

Dr. Dee stood
at his window in London, watching as Benjamin Franklin and the magistrate exchanged pleasantries outside before continuing on their respective paths. He wondered, not for the first time, whether Franklin would be worth recruiting into the ICS—and then, as before, pushed the thought out of his head. Something about the American gave him a terrible sense of déjà vu—and that was not just a feeling, but a caution. Especially for one who travels in time.

Since formally leaving his position with the Caretakers, he had accelerated his plans for the Imperial Cartological Society. And, as the Caretakers became more and more obsessed with imaginary geographies and protecting the past, Dee had concerned himself with the substance of the real world, and the possibilities of the future.

Working with William Blake, he had all but perfected the Anabasis Machines, incorporating spatial transportation abilities that none of the Caretakers had even begun to suspect were possible. That meant that his travel in the Summer Country was all but unrestricted, and his ability to leap back and forth in time, even more so.

It amused him to realize that it had been his younger self who last met with the Dragon Samaranth not far from this place, but a century in the future. To be older, and now standing in his own past,
was something that would have clouded the minds of lesser men—but he had never been that kind of a man, not even centuries earlier, when he first proposed the founding of the ICS to Queen Elizabeth.

It had taken him many years to establish it as an organization separate and apart from that of the Caretakers—and those they rejected from their membership had made excellent candidates for his. Especially the learned barbarian, Burton.
Yes,
Dee thought.
That one has potential. He could even be my successor—if, that is, I ever intend to step down from my position. So, Second in command, then.
Burton would have to be satisfied with that—as would Dee. None of the other recruits were even close to being in Burton’s league.

As if in response to Dee’s unspoken thoughts, there was a knock at the door. He turned to see Daniel Defoe walk in, wearing a cunning smile.

Defoe approached his master and quickly whispered his report. Dee frowned at first, and then, slowly, began to smile as broadly as his protégé.

“At Franklin’s, you say?” he said, mentally checking the box that said his intuition was sound. “And they carry the watches, as we do?”

“And the
Imaginarium Geographica
,” said Defoe. “The real one. They are Caretakers, I’ve no doubt.”

Dee turned and looked out the window again. He knew that the Caretakers had blundered badly in the future, and that the Archipelago was no longer connected to the Summer Country. More, he knew that the Keep of Time had fallen, and with it, their ability to use the Anabasis Machines.

He reached down and stroked the large, leather-bound book on his desk. It was only the maps he had recorded within, the maps of time, rather than space, that had preserved the ability of the ICS to travel in time—and the Caretakers had no Chronographer of their own. So if
they were here, in Revolution-era London, he mused, then they must have found a way to begin to reweave the threads of time. And that could not be countenanced.

“I don’t know who all the men are,” Defoe was saying, “but they also have several animals with them—talking animals—and three children. Two girls, one of whom can fly, and a young boy.”

“And why is this of interest to me?” asked Dee.

“The second girl,” said Defoe, “has no shadow.”

“Hmm,” Dee said. “That is interesting.”

There was another knock at the door, and Dee gestured for Defoe to leave, but not before giving him instructions. “Find out all that you can about them,” he said firmly. “Do not come back until you have.”

Defoe stepped out of one door as another of Dee’s associates entered through the first. “Greetings, Doctor,” Nikola Tesla said. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re right to wonder about the girl.”

“Who is she?”

“Rose Dyson,” Tesla answered. “The Grail Child.”

Dee whirled on his colleague. “The Grail Child! Here? Then the Caretakers who are with her . . .”

Tesla nodded. “Two of the three Caretakers of prophecy,” he said, “and several others—including Burton, and the End of Time.”

The Chronographer frowned and put his hand to his chin, stroking it in thought.

“Burton . . . ,” he said at last. “That . . . is an unexpected defection. We should keep a tighter rein on him. But he’s not my immediate concern—it’s the End of Time who could discern our true natures. Have him dealt with as quickly as possible. I’ll brook no delay in this, Nikola.”

“Fine,” Tesla said, chagrined at the other’s tone. “And the girl?”

“Defoe said she has no shadow,” he said at last. “This is an opportunity, Nikola. One we should not miss. Do we have a spare we could use, back at the House? Lovecraft’s, perhaps?”

Tesla shook his head. “We have assigned that one to Defoe. We do have Crowley’s, though.”

“Fine,” Dee said, waving his hand. “They are at Dr. Franklin’s—have the Lloigor fit her with the Shadow, as soon as possible. It will take time to corrupt her fully, if it can be done at all.”

The other shrugged. “She lost her own shadow,” he said blithely. “That is not coincidental. There is one other thing, Doctor. The boy—he is special.”

“How so?”

“Here,” Tesla said, holding out his ebony-colored watch. “Look for yourself.”

Dee examined the display on the watch for a moment, and a look of astonishment suddenly blossomed on his face. He looked at Tesla in disbelief, then took out his own watch to verify the other’s findings. They were correct.

“He has no zero points,” Dee murmured, “no life-thread binding him to this time, or any other. How is this possible?”

“He’s from a might-have-been,” said Tesla. “A possible future. That’s the only reason there are no zero points connected to him. They haven’t happened yet. But that isn’t the most significant thing about him.”

Dee waited. “Well?”

“His aiua,” Tesla said, smiling. “It’s almost identical to the Grail Child’s. His lineage is the same. So I thought he might be a candidate—”

Dee silenced him with a gesture. “Don’t even say the word,” he said sharply. “We put too much weight on Mordred as a candidate, and
now he is forever out of our reach. I won’t make that mistake again.”

He turned back to the window. “Keep an eye on Defoe. Have the cat deal with Burton’s guide, the Time Lord. And learn all you can about this child.”

“And if he is what he appears to be?” asked Tesla. “Do we bring him here, or . . .” He paused. “Kill him?”

“No,” said Dee. “They found him in a future, so we should hide him in the future . . . in a might-have-been. The Caretakers are far too enmeshed in the past—they will never think to look for him in a past that hasn’t happened yet. Have Defoe do it—he’s reliable, and expendable.

“And,” Dee continued, more to himself than the other, “when the time is right . . .

“. . . what is theirs will become ours. And this boy may be the key to winning it all.”

The open secret that was Verne’s Mystorians became much more open with the destruction of the Hotel d’Ailleurs, and the subsequent evacuation to the refuge that he had prepared for them.

It was a smaller place than the hotel, but it didn’t need to be larger than it was. It was built on one of the smaller of the Nameless Isles, just to the east of Tamerlane House. The island was also ringed about with rune stones, but these were not merely protective. They were essential.

Evacuating the still-living members of the Mystorians was not a problem—but moving out those who were ghosts took much more preparation. Their new home had to be identically prepared with the markings that allowed the ghosts to manifest, and Verne’s special trump had to be used to allow them to pass.
Kipling activated it just in time, and nearly didn’t make it through himself before the hotel roof collapsed in flames.

At Verne’s behest, the Caretakers Emeriti had gathered together to hear Kipling’s report. The tulpa had survived the flames but was not unscathed—his jacket was terribly scorched, and his hair and mustache were singed badly.

“And everyone is now safely here?” Verne asked when Kipling had finished.

“Almost,” he replied. “Young Joseph Merrick stayed the longest, to make certain everyone else was safe. But I didn’t see him come through the trump, and he has not as of yet manifested again at Haven.”

Verne dropped his head and sighed. “I see.”

“Is it the principal duty of the Prime Caretaker to form secret organizations?” asked an angry Alexandre Dumas. “And to keep it from his colleagues?”

“The principal duty of the Prime Caretaker,” Verne said slowly, “is that of finding, and training, the Imago—the one who will become the protector of this world.”

“Pfah,” Leonardo da Vinci snorted. “That is a myth.”

“It is not,” said Verne. “Rose may be such a being, but the lost prince may be also. That’s why the Cabal wanted him—and why we have sought him.”

“To use him for ourselves?” asked Dumas.

“No,” said Geoffrey Chaucer, in a tone that said he would brook no dissent. “To prevent the Cabal from turning him into the Archimago—the destroyer of worlds.”