The Search for the Red Dragon (12 page)

“Well, only one thing is certain,” said the Cartographer. “I’m finally going to get out of this damned room.”

He stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Now, you didn’t come up whatever stairs are still remaining to talk about my health,” he said wryly, “but anyone who’s indifferent to the fate of Edwin Drood is okay in my book. So what can I do for you?”

The companions took turns relating the story until all of the events had been laid out for the Cartographer, who sat at his desk and listened without comment. When they had finished, he simply turned away and began to work on his map.

John, Jack, and Charles looked at one another, bewildered, but Aven stepped to the desk and tapped the mapmaker on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she said. “But you might just be the rudest person I’ve ever met.”

The Cartographer put down his quill. “Really? What a boring life you must have led. I’m sorry—it was a lovely story—but was there a question?”

“About a million of them!” cried Jack. “Where have all the children been taken? And the Dragonships? Who’s burning all the other ships? And what happened to change history seven hundred years ago?”

The Cartographer sighed heavily. “No doubt you came to see me because of the nature of the keep, but my knowledge and understanding of it is rudimentary at best. I make maps. I make very good maps. I am the best mapmaker who ever lived. So if you need maps, I’m your man. But it isn’t my fault or responsibility that someone ruined a tapestry on Avalon, or wrecked history, or did whatever they did that has the Morgaine’s knickers in a twist.

“I also don’t have the slightest idea where the children are, or who is burning your ships. Sorry. And as to the missing Dragonships—the Morgaine already told you where they are, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the answers to some of your other problems come to light when you retrieve them.”

Even Bert looked puzzled at this, and the Cartographer let out an annoyed groan. “And you call yourselves Caretakers. The Morgaine said they were in the Underneath, guarded by the Chamenos Liber, did they not?”

“Sure,” said John. “But—”

“But nothing,” said the Cartographer. “The last time you paid me a visit, how did you find the Keep of Time to begin with?”

John blinked a few times, then his eyes grew wide and his face turned a deep crimson.

“I’d forgotten,” he said.

“So,” said the Cartographer. “The other shoe drops again.”

“We don’t have to go looking for Chamenos Liber,” John told the others sheepishly. “We’re already there. This chain of islands here was called Chamenos Liber in the notes in the
Geographica
.”

“I remember!” declared Charles. “You’d set it aside as unimportant because it was a mishmash of Latin and ancient Greek, and all the notes about it were otherwise in Italian.”

“Alighieri,” said the Cartographer. “Now
there
was a Caretaker. Even came back from the dead so his sons could finish that little poem. You’d never catch
him
whining about Drood this and Drood that.”

“So why did you call it that?” Jack asked the Cartographer. “Why Chamenos Liber?”

The mapmaker shrugged. “It wasn’t named by me. It was named by someone much older—actually a granduncle of sorts, now I think about it. But if your Caretaker Principia had paid just a bit more attention, half of your problems might be over already.”

“Why half?” asked Charles.

“As you’ve already noted,
Chamenos Liber
is mixed Latin and ancient Greek, and the meaning of Latin words can change with specific usage.
Liber
doesn’t mean ‘book’—it means ‘boy.’ Translated properly,
Chamenos Liber
means ‘Lost Boys.’”

At the revelation, Aven stiffened, although no one noticed but Jack—and he couldn’t tell if it was from dismay, or from shock like the rest of them.

“So the islands themselves guard the Underneath, whatever that is,” said John.

“You’re getting your wind, philologically speaking,” observed the Cartographer. “The rest should be a breeze.”

“The rest?” John said.

“And you were so close to having my respect,” said the Cartographer. “The Underneath is an extension of the Archipelago—another chain of islands formed of circles within circles beneath the surface of the Earth. It’s not recorded in the
Geographica
because no one really goes there anymore, so I never got around to making any maps for it. The Underneath is very, very old. Some of the islands even predate the Drowned Lands. And the last time I was there, I hadn’t yet learned cartography, and I even had a name.

“Thus, most of what is in the
Geographica
that concerns the Underneath was added later, by various Caretakers. Only three traveled there with any frequency—although I know others from your world have made their way to it now and again.”

“Who were the three?” asked Charles.

“Dante Alighieri, of course, and that Frenchman…what’s-his-name, who planned that foolish trip to the moon…”

“You mean Jules Verne?” Bert guessed.

The Cartographer snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. Verne. And the third was that young boy…a whelp. Can’t have been more than twelve, at most. Awfully young for a Caretaker if you ask me, but you lot seldom do anymore.”

“A twelve-year-old Caretaker?” exclaimed John. “That sounds pretty unlikely.”

“That’s what I told him,” said the Cartographer. “But he had the
Geographica
, after all, so I had to take him at his word. I think his name was ‘Barry’ something.”

Aven went white. “Barrie,” she said, her voice breaking. “His name is James Barrie.”

“What it is, what it is,” said the Cartographer, waving his hands dismissively. “I can’t keep you all straight anymore.”

“How do we get to the Underneath?” asked Jack.

“That’s simple,” replied the Cartographer. “The portal is straight down, through the center of the volcanic cone, and the phrase that opens the passage is inscribed in the
Imaginarium Geographica
, so accessing and opening the portal should be no problem.”

Reflexively, Jack, Charles, and Bert all looked at John, whose face began to turn several shades of red again.

Aven’s eyes narrowed, and she took an accusatory stance as she realized why John was suddenly so embarrassed.

The Cartographer sighed. “Oh, bosh and bother, bother and bosh,” he said, exasperated. “Now I remember you. Sigurdsson’s student. The soldier who fancied himself a scholar. Misplaced it again, have you?”

John began stammering out an explanation about the
Geographica
, and Laura Glue’s wings, and his car, and how they
did
have
copies
of the atlas that had been transcribed by a badger, which
might
have the information they need, and had started in on a halfhearted apology when the Cartographer held up his hands.

“No offense, but I don’t care,” he said matter-of-factly. “I can’t really be more helpful here, and considering that there are four Caretakers present and no
Geographica
, I’d say the criteria for choosing Caretakers is rather more lax than it used to be.”

“In a fashion, it actually
is
in the possession of a Caretaker,”
reasoned John. “The automobile is just down the street from James Barrie’s house.”

“Is that a defense?” said the Cartographer. “That you left it a world away, near the home of a Caretaker who actually walked away from the job?” He looked at Aven and raised his eyebrows. “Who are these people, the Marx Brothers?”

Aven smiled, resigned. “Anything you can offer us would be helpful,” she said. “Anything at all.”

The Cartographer regarded her carefully. “I remember you, too. You’re the angry one. But not so much anymore, I think. Why is that?”

Aven looked startled by this sudden focus on her. “I—I couldn’t say,” she stammered. “Perhaps I just grew up.”

“Maybe,” said the Cartographer. “I think there’s more to you than most people give you credit for. And I’ll bet my last drachma that you’re not through growing.”

Aven didn’t respond, but simply met and held the mapmaker’s gaze. After a moment, he looked away.

The Cartographer went to his window and looked out at the passing clouds. It was his solitary view, and changed only with the onset of nightfall. When he spoke again, it was more somberly than before.

“I am truly sorry. I cannot be of more help to you. What you need is beyond my means. I can offer only this: What has happened to the Keep of Time was the sum of all the events that have gone before. It wasn’t set into motion merely a thousand years ago, or seven hundred, or even nine, whatever any of you think.”

This last was said with an understanding look at Charles, who nodded in acceptance and no small relief.

“There may yet be other consequences, other effects springing from the cause. The tower is failing, and it was the loss of the lower part that has permitted crossings into the past where none were possible before. The doorways were focal points, nothing more—and the pathways to which they led are now drifting freely throughout the world. That something has already been changed seven centuries ago means that someone, somewhere, has learned how to make use of this fact. And I tell you this now so that you are forewarned, O Caretakers of the
Geographica
and the Archipelago. Be wary. Be watchful. For Time is now in the hands of your enemy.”

Charles moved around the desk and offered his hand. “I do want to apologize. Whether it was my fault or not, someone should tell you they’re sorry.”

The Cartographer hesitated, then shook the younger man’s hand. “Thank you, Charles. But do not think too badly of Mordred, either. The course of his own history may have gone very differently if only one time, long ago, someone close to him had apologized, or at the least, stood by him when it would have cost little to do so. But no one did. And we shall all pay the price for that error, I’m afraid.”

The companions each thanked the Cartographer in turn and left the map-covered room. He was back at his desk, working, before they closed the door.

The Cartographer of Lost Places scumbled lines on the parchment at a furious pace for several minutes before finally capping his quill and laying it aside. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, weary, and not for the first time. He suspected, but did not
know, not for certain, what was to follow in the Archipelago, and in the world beyond. But what was to take place in the Underneath was a complete mystery. All that he knew was that the Caretakers, particularly the one called John, must find their way through the maelstrom of events on their own. It would be the only way for them to be prepared when the imago finally arrived.

“So the end justifies the means, eh?” he murmured. “This is a dangerous game you play at, Jules. It’s beyond me—and I was more than three millennia old before you were born. But one of them should have been told. He should know that he will not see the end of it. It’s only right, only just. Isn’t it?”

He waited, almost as if he expected a response, but none came. With a deep sigh, the Cartographer picked up his quill, dipped it into the inkwell, and resumed his work.

The companions expected
an easier descent down the tower, but they soon realized it wasn’t to be. The rumbling they experienced earlier had resumed at an increasing pace, accompanied by vibrations that nearly shook them from the stairs. They kept close to the walls and moved as quickly as they dared. “I think it’s the instability the Cartographer mentioned,” Bert, in the lead, called over his shoulder. “More pieces of the tower are crumbling.”

“I hope we moored the ship high enough,” said Jack. “It would be a sorry mess to find it had drifted free because the wall it was tied to suddenly fell into the ocean.”

“Don’t worry,” Aven said. “Her crew is good. They’ll keep the airship close and will be watching for us.”

“Good to know,” said Jack, sounding less than reassured.

They were close enough to the bottom to see open sky below when a tremor struck and dislodged the entirety of the counterclockwise stair. It fell past, taking chunks of the clockwise stair with it, along with several doors.

“Glad we’re not going up,” Charles remarked. “Actually, I’m glad we’re leaving altogether.”

“Cut the line, Jack,” she said softly.

Bert stopped them, putting his arm out protectively. He looked at Aven, and her brow creased with worry. “We should have already come to the window where the
Indigo Dragon
was tethered,” Bert said. “That we haven’t only means that that part of the tower has already fallen.”

They were thirty feet from the disintegrating base, and below that was open air. Above, there were sections of steps missing. They could go no farther down, but neither could they go back the way they’d come. They were trapped.

“What can we do?” asked Jack.

As if in answer to his question, a familiar whirring noise rose outside the nearest window, and the
Indigo Dragon
came into view. One of the fauns expertly tossed a line through the opening. Aven caught it and secured it through the bracing under the steps, then pulled over the rope ladder.

“You first,” she said to Jack.

“I’ll wait, thanks,” he replied. “Charles?”

“Already over here,” Charles said, waving happily from the deck. “I was motivated.”

Bert went next, then John. Jack was about to cross when another violent shudder shook the tower, and the stairway collapsed.

Jack was halfway onto the ladder, but Aven had been standing on the steps. There was no time to shout. It was all she could do to flail about for some kind of purchase, and she managed to twist the anchorline around her wrist before she fell.

The other end was still tied to the bracing, which weighed several hundred pounds. Aven cried out with the pain and tried to reach up to Jack, but he was too far out of reach.

“Aven!” Bert screamed. “Jack, can you reach her?”

“I’m trying,” Jack gasped. “Give me a minute.”

That was more time than they had. The weight of the bracing was dragging Aven down—and pulling the
Indigo Dragon
dangerously close to the tower.

“Cut the line!” Aven hissed.

“Never,” said Jack. “Hang on, I’m coming!”

He wound his feet through the ladder and swung backward, upside down—but it was no use. Her outstretched hand was still too far to reach.

The airship lurched sideways again, and the propellers screamed with the strain. It was a losing battle. Slowly, the ship was being pulled closer to the wall.

“Cut the line, Jack!” Aven said again. “Save the ship!”

“I’m not going to do that!” Jack yelled back. “I made a promise to look after you, and I’m keeping it.”

The look in her eyes softened, but she saw the situation more clearly than he did. “I can’t reach my knife to cut myself loose,” she said. “Not like this. And we’re all dead if the airship smashes into the wall! Cut me loose! It’s the only way!”

Jack looked at her, only a few feet away, and stretched his arms in despair. Grinding his teeth, he called up to Bert. “Throw me a knife! Quickly!”

One of the fauns clambered out onto the ladder as the ship jolted close enough to the tower to scrape a propeller against the stone, sending a shower of sparks over them. He passed a short dagger down to Jack, who took a deep breath and looked at Aven.

“Cut the line, Jack,” she said softly.

And with a single stroke, to the horror of his friends, he did.
Aven dropped away into the mist without a sound.

“Jack!” Bert screamed as the shaken young man rushed across the ladder and onto the deck. “What have you done? What have you done?”

Jack ignored him and ran to the wheel. “We have two miles,” he yelled to the crew. “Cut away anything that will drag us back, and dive! We can still catch her! Dive! Now!”

The crew responded instantly, shifting the rudder, spars, and propellers to alter the pitch of the ship. With a vicious jolt, the
Indigo Dragon
tipped downward and began to drop.

John, Charles, and Bert grabbed hold of whatever they could and braced themselves. The fauns, seemingly oblivious to the danger, were cutting off anything that created wind resistance: the anchor, gone; the rope ladders, gone. Even the extra casks of food and drink were quickly tossed over the railing, to disappear in the airstream above them, so they could gain more speed. Faster and faster the ship flew—but in seconds, it was obvious it would not be fast enough. The time it had taken Jack to get aboard again and take charge of the ship would cost them dearly.

“We have to go faster!” Jack yelled, looking around. “The balloon! It’s creating too much resistance! We have to deflate it!”

“Are you crazy?” Bert shouted back. “It’s what’s keeping us aloft! It won’t do any good to save Aven if we crash and die right after!”

“No one’s going to die today,” said Jack. “John! Take the wheel!”

John staggered forward and clutched at the wheel, while Jack leaped over his friend and grabbed Aven’s sword from its place above the cabin door. Wrapping one of the guy lines around his
wrist, he jumped into the air and the line snapped taut, holding him parallel to the rearmost part of the balloon.

With one long stroke, Jack split the center seam on the back of the balloon, and the gases inside escaped with a roar.

In an instant, the airship had become an air rocket, and it was hurtling even faster toward the water.

“I see her!” John shouted, pointing.

Below them, now free of the line and the stair bracing that had trapped her, Aven was attempting to slow her descent by spreading her arms and legs. It was working—between her push against the wind and the plummeting speed of the ship, they would overtake her in moments.

And moments later they would hit the sea with the force of an explosion.

The fauns took hold of the wheel and maneuvered the ship until it was angled to fall below Aven. With excruciating slowness, they met, matched, and exceeded her speed, and the airship came up underneath her. Aven slammed roughly into the now-deflated balloon, and Jack caught her with his legs and free arm.

“Now!” he shouted to the fauns, who had anticipated his order and had already redirected the propellers. The force of the sudden shift slowed their speed, but ripped off one of the guide wings with a strangled screeching of torn wood and metal.

John threw himself against the wheel and turned it to compensate for the lost wing. The wind roared in their ears, and the water stretched across the horizon. The second wing ripped away, and suddenly their speed increased, but the Dragon at the prow acted as a natural rudder, and suddenly they also had direction—still down, but also forward.

But it wasn’t enough.

The ship hit the water at tremendous speed. It had pulled up just enough to avoid a straight-on impact, but it bounced off the surface of the water so violently that the rudder and both propellers were thrown off, and it hit thrice more before slowing down to a skimming glide, finally settling into the sea, and at last, stopping.

It was only by sheer luck that none of the companions had been ripped away in the barely controlled fall. They sat on the deck, too stunned to speak, as the perspicacious fauns began to clean up what still remained of the
Indigo Dragon
.

Aven, still breathing hard, looked at Jack and laughed. “The good old
Indigo Dragon
,” she said. “I knew she wouldn’t let me go.”

“I helped too, you know,” said Jack.

“I know,” said Aven. “I knew you would. That’s why I told you to cut the line.”

“That was exhilarating,” John commented from the foredeck. “And I never, ever, want to do it again.”

“Incredible,” said Bert, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I,” added Charles, standing up and looking around. “The
Indigo Dragon
is a boat again.”

It had been a miraculous rescue, but the damage to the
Indigo Dragon
was nearly total. There was no way to steer, no motive power, and the balloon had a twenty-foot-long gash in it.

“I don’t mean to be a sour apple,” said Charles, “but did you realize we’re in the middle of the Chamenos Liber?”

“That’s exactly where we wanted to be, isn’t it?” said Jack.

“Yes,” Charles replied. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s awfully hot, and it seems to be getting hotter.”

He was right. The cloying smell and thickened air were the result not of fog, but of steam rising from the volcano below.

“We still don’t know how to open the portal,” said Charles, “and I don’t think we can afford to sit here for very long.”

“If we can repair the balloon,” said Aven, “we may be able to reinflate it. Then we could at least move a safe distance away to reassess our situation.”

“Our situation may become a catastrophe, as a wise man once said,” stated Jack. “Can’t the
Indigo Dragon
motivate us out herself?”

“She may be float-worthy,” said Bert, “but remember: She was rebuilt as an airship. She’s not equipped to move about in the water anymore—not that freely, anyway.”

“Those are our options, then,” said John. “We try to repair her enough to get outside of the volcanic cone…”

“Or we get steamed to death,” put in Jack.

“Or someone might come looking for us,” said Charles, hoping to elicit a hopeful smile or two. But no one offered one. As the steam continued to swirl about the ship, the companions moved to separate areas of the deck and set about making whatever repairs they could.

They worked throughout the remainder of that day, and then long into the night. After assessing all the damage, a quick vote focused them on repairing the balloon itself as the most viable means to leave the Chamenos Liber. As Bert gently reminded the others,
the only course they could follow after that was to somehow get back to London to retrieve the
Imaginarium Geographica
, and then return to open the portal to the Underneath.

What was unspoken but clearly on the minds of them all was just how difficult that would prove to be.

The only ones who knew where they had gone were Artus and Tummeler. And it would be several more days at minimum before either of them would begin to worry that something was amiss—and even then, what could they do?

All the ships in the Archipelago had been burned. There would be no way for any rescuers to reach the
Indigo Dragon
, or for the
Indigo Dragon
to reach safe haven, in less than a month at best. It was possible the dragons could help transport them across the Frontier and back—but again, at present, the
Indigo Dragon
was all but marooned, and her crew and passengers were being slowly steamed to death.

And all the while, precious hours were passing. Passing, while the children remained missing and an unknown adversary wreaked havoc with history.

Aven was supervising the repair of the balloon. The fauns were remarkably versatile and had plundered the blankets in the cabin below to use for stitching material. The work was slow going, but Bert cautioned that despite their urgency, it was better to ensure that it was done right the first time—or else they might find themselves in hotter water later on.