The Search for the Red Dragon (8 page)

“Here,” he said to Magwich, offering a handkerchief. “Do wipe the, er, sap off of your face. That’s a good fellow.”

“But, but, you’re absolutely
right
!” wailed Magwich. “I’m a
terrible person, and I deserve everything that’s happened to me. Why, if there were any justice in the world, you’d just chip me up for firewood right now. And even then, the embers from my fire would probably burn a hole in your coat.”

He threw up his arms and started such a pitiful keening that even Bert had to cover his ears.

“Kindling! That’s all I’m good for! I’ll never do anyone any good!”

“Now, that’s not true,” said Charles. “I’m, ah, I’m sure you’re not completely devoid of redeeming qualities.”

“Really?” Magwich said, sniffing. “Like what?”

“Don’t look at us,” John said to Charles. “You opened the door.”

“Well, er,” Charles stammered, rubbing his temples. “Give me a minute—I’m sure I can come up with something.”

“You have to think about it?” sobbed Magwich. “I’m irredeemable, aren’t I?”

“No one is completely irredeemable,” said Charles. “But I must say…” His face went slack and his eyes widened as an idea occurred to him.

“You know, Magwich,” he suggested, “perhaps we’re looking at this the wrong way.”

“How so?” sniffed the knight.

“Every story has a villain or two,” Charles replied matter-of-factly, “and while you are more of a minor villain, I have to say you’re far more irritating than the Winter King ever was. In fact, being despicable may just be your great talent in life.”

“You really think so?” said Magwich. “I don’t understand.”

“Look,” Charles explained. “You know I despise you, right?”

“You’ve made it very clear, yes,” said Magwich.

“Well,” Charles continued, “whenever we’ve met, you’ve demonstrated all the qualities I don’t want to have. And I try to better myself so I don’t become like you. So in a way…”

“My bad example is making you a better person?” finished Magwich.

“Something like that,” said Charles. “If it wasn’t for people like you, I don’t think I would try so hard. And honestly, you’re the worst I’ve ever encountered.”

“Oh, you’re just saying that,” said Magwich.

“No, I really mean it,” said Charles.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Jack declared. “Charles, it’s time to go.”

Charles stood and clapped the Green Knight on the back. “All right, then?” he asked. “Good. Don’t ever change, Magwich.”

“Oh, I won’t,” said the knight, glancing backward across the island. “So, ah—d’you think the three ladies in the cave would like some company?”

Charles frowned. “Ah, I can’t say, Magwich. Wouldn’t hurt to ask,” he said, climbing up the ladder. “I think.”

“Farewell, Caretakers,” Magwich called over his shoulder as he clanked his way up the hill.

“What do you think will happen to him?” asked John.

“They’ll probably turn him into a toad,” said Charles. “But I don’t think he’ll notice.”

“We must get to Paralon immediately,” Bert said as the
Indigo Dragon
moved away from Avalon and toward the dark, roiling clouds that formed the Frontier. “Artus must be told all of this.
The Morgaine do not often offer information so freely. The situation must be very dire for them to have said as much as they did.”

Jack had moved to the rear of the deck, away from the others, thinking about the prince.

The High King’s son.

Aven’s
son.

A son who, in other circumstances, might have been his own.

Whatever course John, or Bert, or Charles might decide, Jack’s direction was clear. The others could pursue the missing Dragonships and find the children—but Jack would not let another night pass without doing everything in his power to find the missing son of his one great love….

Or perish in the attempt.

The journey to Paralon
was uneventful—too much so, in Bert’s estimation. He kept scuttling back and forth from port to starboard, peering over the edge, and making worried clucking sounds with his tongue. “It’s like the calm before the storm,” he confided to John.

“The weather is beautiful,” John said, looking around at the nearly cloudless sky.

“It’s not the weather I’m concerned with,” replied Bert. “It’s the fact that we’re almost to Paralon, and we’ve yet to see a single ship on the water below.”

“That’s right,” put in Charles. “There ought to be trade ships full of apples going to and fro—or at the least, several fishing vessels.”

“And yet not even a dinghy,” Bert said. “This bodes very ill, I’m afraid.”

The extent of Bert’s worries was confirmed as they approached the island kingdom itself. Smoke ringed the harbor ahead of them, and a haze in the distance indicated that other fires had been set elsewhere on Paralon.

In response to his call, an enormous black crow dropped down…

“You know,” said Charles, “I’d really like to visit this place when someone hasn’t set it on fire. Just once, mind you.”

Below, it was starkly obvious: There were no ships of any kind in the harbor or at the docks. There had been a few—but those were the source of the smoke. They’d been set ablaze. Far beneath them, they could see crews of workers and sailors trying vainly to staunch the flames on vessels that were already lost.

“What the devil?” exclaimed Bert. “I haven’t been gone a day. What can have happened in a day?”

“A lot,” Jack said darkly, “if the day in question happened seven hundred years ago.”

Bert piloted the airship past the smoke and headed into the city proper, which was built around and against the great tower of rock upon which the great castle of the Silver Throne stood.

He found a broad cobblestone plaza that was nearly devoid of people, and slowly set the
Indigo Dragon
down. The carriage settled heavily onto the street, and the propellers gradually came to a stop.

“The palace is just up the boulevard,” Bert said, “but I wanted to stop and pick up a spare
Geographica
, and say hello to an old friend while we’re at it.”

Across the plaza, amidst shops selling pieces of the North Wind (fifty centimes a bag), and bezoars, and enchanted violins, was a small shopfront that was apparently dedicated to the sale of a single item: the
Imaginarium Geographica
. Piles of the books were the only things on display within and without the store.

A small figure burst through the door to a jangling of bells. “Bless my soul,” he said, voice quivering with emotion. “Be it the scowlers, my friends, returned to us at long last?”

“Tummeler!” Charles shouted, as he raced forward and embraced the little badger. “Tummeler, it’s grand to see you again!”

“I be filled with joyful thoughts myself, Scowler Charles,” Tummeler said, wiping at his tear-filled eyes with a paw. “An’ Scowler Jack an’ Scowler John, too! This be a day of days, it be.”

Jack and John both greeted their furry friend warmly, while Charles stepped inside the shop.

“I say, Tummeler,” Charles began. “You have quite an enterprise going here.”

He handed copies of the oversize book to both Jack and John, and all three made noises of praise and astonishment.

The book was roughly the shape of the real
Geographica
, and had a tooled leather cover, but it also bore an illustrated jacket and was annotated entirely in English.

“Th’ language of Oxford scowlers, you know,” explained Tummeler proudly.

“Tummeler, I’m greatly impressed,” said Charles.

“I’m speechless,” said John, flipping through the pages. “Most of the major islands are here—and with better notes than I remember.”

“And look,” Jack pointed out, “it’s got an introduction by the king.”

“It was a favor,” Tummeler admitted. “But it helped get the word out.”

“How did you do this, Tum?” John asked. “You even have Terminus in here.”

The badger held up his paws and shrugged. “Badgers has good mem’ries,” he explained. “I just wrote what I remembered when
I came back to Paralon, and Bert helped me with copies o’ th’ maps.”

“I’m terribly impressed,” Charles said again, patting his small friend on the back.

“T’anks muchly,” said Tummeler, beaming. “I does what I can.”

“Don’t let the humility fool you,” said Bert. “He’s sold through four printings of the concise edition of the
Imaginarium Geographica
to date.”

“Five,” Tummeler corrected. “We’ve only just delivered th’ last of th’ inventory to the libraries at Prydain…at least, I hope they arrived, what with all th’ troubles.”

“What’s happened to the ships, Tummeler?” asked Bert.

“No one knows,” replied the badger. “But peoples think it’s a curse what began after th’ Dragonships disappeared.”

“What’s cursed?” Jack asked.

“The rest of the ships in the Archipelago,” said Tummeler. “They’re
all
cursed. In a single night, we found all of ’em sunk, or put to th’ torch. And worse, any new ships bein’ built seem to sink the minute they’re put to sea. Just fall apart before y’r eyes. And as a result…”

“Everything in the Archipelago has been disconnected,” concluded John somberly. “All the unity that was achieved by the creation of the
Geographica
and the rule of the High King…”

“Utterly in a shambles,” finished Bert. “At least we still have Tummeler’s copies of the
Geographica
. By now they’re on every land in the Archipelago.”

“So everyone knows where everything is,” said Jack, “but no one can get anywhere.”

“That’s been th’ problem,” agreed Tummeler. “Th’ king an’ queen have been using the Great Cranes of Byblos to take messages back an’ forth, but that only works f’r th’ nearby islands. The rest…”

“Are completely cut off,” Charles finished.

“We’d better get to the palace,” said Bert. “We must speak to Artus.”

He turned to Tummeler. “We find ourselves in need of a
Geographica
, Master Tummeler. We’ve ah, neglected to bring along our own. May we purchase a copy from you?”

“Purchase? Y’ mean buy a copy? Of
my
book?” Tummeler said, as his eyes grew wide. “Of course not! There be no charge for Oxford scowlers t’ have a
Geographica
!”

With that the little badger scurried around them, pulling two clean, undamaged copies from the bottom of the pile and handing them to Jack and Charles. Then he raced to a small office at the back of the shop and returned a minute later with another copy for John that seemed slightly different from the others.

With extreme sincerity and gravity, Tummeler presented the book to John.

“F’r th’ Master Caretaker,” Tummeler said soberly. “This be my own original book, copied from yours. I wants y’ t’ have it, Scowler John.”

“Tummeler, I can’t accept this,” John protested, holding up his hands. “You made it yourself.”

“That’s why I wants it t’ be yours,” insisted Tummeler. “It’s not as clean as th’ ones what we printed, but it’s got character.”

John finally acquiesced and took the gift as graciously as he
could manage. “Thank you, Tummeler. I’m sure it will come in very handy.”

“I say, Tummeler,” said Charles. “Would you mind signing mine? Just for old times’ sake?”

“Sign? Y’ mean, like a
autograph
? Oh, Master Scowlers,” Tummler said, nearly swooning. “This be th’ proudest day in ol’ Tummeler’s life.”

The little badger removed a quill from one of his pockets and carefully inscribed his name in all three books.

“One last favor to ask, if I may,” Bert began.

“No need t’ ask,” Tummeler said, beaming. “When I saw y’ landin’ th’
Indigo Dragon
, I already started up th’ Curious Diversity out back. I figured you’d be needin’ a lift t’ th’ archive.”

Charles thumped him on the back again and grinned. “Good old Tummeler.”

“We’re not going to the palace?” asked Charles as Tummeler guided the steam-belching vehicle onto one of the broad streets that led to the northern part of the island. “Don’t we need to consult with Artus, ah, that is, the High King?”

“That’s where I be taking y’, Scowler Charles,” the badger said without taking his eyes from the road ahead. “T’ th’ king.”

As they traveled, Bert explained just how drastically things had changed in the Archipelago, particularly in regard to the Palace of Paralon, where the High King and Queen sat on the Silver Throne. On the outside, it looked much the same as it had when they had last been there. It was still a mighty and impressive edifice, and a number of ministers and officials circulated around an axis somewhere in the center—represented by King Artus. But it
was no longer the true seat of authority in the Archipelago.

Rather than embrace and revel in the trappings of authority, wealth, and power, as would almost anyone who found themselves heir to a throne, Artus had apparently eschewed ceremony and was conducting the affairs of the kingdom in the ruins of the Old City, the first built by his ancestor Artigel, son of Arthur.

Artus reportedly liked to conduct affairs of state while sprawled on his stomach behind a makeshift throne in a vast hall with only half a ceiling. On the floor, he examined maps and parchments and a pile of various reports that was constantly being added to by the continuous stream of officials who made the trek from the palace.

“He wasn’t in Paralon for a year,” Bert said, “before he moved everything here, lock, stock, and powder horn. It turns out he had a passion for the old archives, and I daresay it’s made him a better ruler for it.”

“What do you know?” said Jack. “The potboy turned out to be a scholar after all.”

Tummeler guided the Curious Diversity along the bottom of the canyon, which had been recently paved. They glided smoothly past the great doors that led to Samaranth’s treasure hoard without so much as a swerve in its direction.

“Shouldn’t we be consulting Samaranth as well?” asked John. “After all, he’s probably the oldest creature in the Archipelago.”

“Considered,” said Bert, “but he’s gone with the rest of his kind, searching for the Dragonships. And he may be old, but his knowledge is broad, not deep. Other than the royal family and the Caretakers, he hasn’t paid as much attention to mankind as you’d think.”

“’At’s cause y’r still a young race,” Tummeler commented over his shoulder. “Give it time, an’ y’ might yet turn out t’ be an interestin’ people.”

“I can’t imagine that Aven agreed to come here,” Jack said, glancing around at the steep stone walls to either side of the road. “It would take more persuasion than I’m capable of to get her to move this far from the sea.”

Tummeler began to reply, but a raised eyebrow and slight shake of the head from Bert silenced him. Swallowing hard, the little animal increased his speed, and in short order they arrived at their destination.

“Well, Master Scowlers,” Tummeler announced, beaming as if he’d built the place himself. “Here we be. Th’ Great Whatsit.”

Before them, carved deep into the granite walls of a junction in the canyon, were several towers of stone, accented and buttressed by wooden beams and golden embellishments. The structures were carved along the strata of the rock, and so the entire edifice resembled nothing so much as a great, glittering mica pipe organ.

“Great Whatsit?” Jack asked.

“Oh, that’s just th’ nickname we animals give it,” said Tummeler. “On account of th’ king can never decide what it is. Is it a library? Or an archive? Or a city? Or just a pile of rock? Or all o’ that at once? So we just began t’ call it th’ Great Whatsit, an’ th’ name stuck.

“But don’t tell th’ king I told y’ that,” Tummeler said to Charles. “Decorum, an’ all.”

“Won’t breathe a word of it,” Charles assured him, as the companions said their farewells to the little mammal, thanking him again for the copies of the
Geographica
.