The Shadow Dragons (4 page)

. . . and onto Ransom’s outstretched arm.

The philologist smiled, then concentrated all his attention on the card, which began to grow bigger.

The patterns around the border began to glow with an ethereal light, and they pulsed with a rhythm very much like a heartbeat.

In moments it was the size of an atlas, and now hung suspended in the air of its own accord. It continued to expand, and within a matter of minutes it was a life-size looking glass that could be stepped through with ease. The only thing that was different about the wood in front of them was that five minutes earlier, there had been no tavern there—but otherwise, every tree and leaf was exactly the same.

Ransom stepped through the frame of the card and beckoned to the others. “Come along,” he said with a wry grin. “I assure you, it’s perfectly safe.”

Charles and Archie went first, with no hesitation. Rose was next, followed by Jack, and finally John, who inhaled sharply, checked his bag for the bulk of the
Imaginarium Geographica
to make sure it was secure, and stepped through.

Once on the other side, the portal shrank rapidly, until it was once more just a drawing on an old sheet of parchment, which Ransom carefully replaced in the book in his coat.

The philologist then turned about and flung out his arm as if he were the host of a party. “My friends,” he said brightly, “welcome to the Inn of the Flying Dragon.”

“That’s fantastic,” said John. “I think I like those even better than the doors in the Keep of Time.”

“It takes a certain knack to get the hang of them,” said Ransom as he walked toward the inn. “We’ve got our eye on a young fellow named Roger to become my own apprentice. He shows great promise, I think.”

Charles stroked Archimedes and frowned. “I’m sorry, old fellow,” he said placatingly. “I know it’s a bit dreary still, but we’ll need you to stay out here.”

Ransom stopped on the front steps of the inn and turned around. “Why is that? Bring him in. I’m sure they can accommodate him.”

The companions exchanged confused looks. “I don’t know how it is in your Cambridge,” said John, “but where we come from, an oversized talking mechanical owl tends to attract a lot of the wrong kind of attention.”

“Really?” Ransom said as he opened the door, a knowing smile spreading across his face. “Perhaps in Oxford that’s true, but it isn’t the case here. Please—come inside and see for yourselves.”

Stepping through the door into the Inn of the Flying Dragon was, on first glance, very similar to stepping inside one of their usual gathering places like the Eagle & Child. There was a burly proprietor tending the bar, and scattered patrons seated at the tables, with a few in the back playing a game of cards. The room was well lit and not terribly smoky. There was a scent in the air of charred spices, possibly from a curry being burned in the kitchen. The kegs of ale were stacked high, and the taps flowed freely.

A mop boy scurried over to the companions and offered to show them to a table, taking special notice of the pretty girl in their company. “May I take your owl, sirs?” he offered, trying not to look as if he had noticed Rose. “There’s a good spot in the stable behind, where he’ll be well looked after.”

Before any of them could reply, Archie opened his mouth. “I have very particular needs, boy. Are you prepared for a guest of my composition?”

John sighed. “He means he’s not a typical owl,” he explained as Rose and Charles both scowled at Archie. “He doesn’t really require the normal sort of food and shelter.”

“Well,” the boy said, “if it helps, there was a wizard here last week who brought a phoenix with him, and they seemed pretty happy when they left.”

“A wizard?” asked Jack. “Really?”

The boy nodded. “I forget his name—Bumble or Humble something-or-another. But I took excellent care of his phoenix.”

“This bird is, uh, not exactly natural,” said John.

“Ah,” the boy said. “A clockwork. We’ve had unusual birds before, and we’ll do our best to make him comfortable.”

“If that’s the case,” said Archie, “I want a copy of Einstein’s notes on relativity, and a stuffed gopher to chew on as I read.”

The boy squinted an eye and pondered this. “I can get you the Einstein notes, but only in German, unless you’ll be staying the night. And the only gophers we have are in the stew—but I can get you some mechanical mice instead.”

Archimedes beamed and hopped over to the boy’s outstretched arm. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

“Actually, my name’s Flannery.”

“Whatever you say, MacDuff.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said John.

They took seats around a table near the front corner, where they could watch the door and make use of it in a pinch. A stout, ginger-haired man in a floppy hat brought several mugs of ale over to the table.

“There are several such refuges throughout the world,” Ransom explained, gesturing around at the inn. “A good term for them might be ‘Soft Places,’ meaning places where the boundaries are not as solid as elsewhere, and where one might cross between them, with the right knowledge and training.”

“Is it luck or good planning that one of your Soft Places just happens to be a tavern?” asked John. “Not that I’m complaining in any way, mind you.”

“Not luck,” Ransom replied. “It’s essentially the power of the crossroads made manifest. A crossroads is important for what it represents, and what it in fact
is
—a junction between paths. Establishments such as the Inn of the Flying Dragon are much the same—junctions between places.”

“I’ve completely overlooked what may be the most appealing aspect of interdimensional travel,” Charles said jovially. “Are there more taverns like this, then?”

“A few,” said Ransom. “I’ve heard of one that’s supposed to be at the End of the World, but I can’t seem to locate it. All that’s on Terminus is a bunch of rocks and a gravestone.”

“Well, yes,” Jack harrumphed. “Where else?”

“There’s a nice place that was once called Harrigan’s Green, which is difficult to get to, but worth the trip. You can tell stories to pay for your room and board, so essentially, it’s merit-based. The best stories get the best room, and the best ale.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Charles, rising from his chair. “I’ll get the next round, gentlemen. Same for all?”

They all nodded. “And you, Rose?” Charles asked.

“I’d really like a glass of milk, thank you,” said Rose.

Ransom frowned for just an instant, then started to speak before John interrupted him.

“Pardon,” John said, turning to Rose. “I think Charles might need some help with the drinks. Would you be so kind as to give him a hand, Rose?”

“Of course,” the girl said cheerfully as she stood, pushing back her chair. “That will also give you and Uncle Jack the chance to ask Mr. Ransom why I make him so uncomfortable.”

“She’s a smart girl,” said Jack as Rose walked over to join Charles at the bar.

“More than smart,” said Ransom.

“So, since she brought it up,” said John, “why does she make you jumpy, man? Surely you know who she is.”

The philologist bit his lip and thought a moment before answering. “I know who she is,” he said finally, “but
what
she is is a conundrum.”

“Or an enigma,” Jack chimed in. “Or both.”

“What I mean,” said Ransom, “is that she isn’t supposed to be here at
all.
In practical terms, the girl doesn’t exist.”

“But clearly she does,” said John.

“What’s clear to you and me is not so clear to others,” Ransom pointed out. “Did you notice that when we entered, the barman didn’t bring anything for her, or even ask?”

“I just assumed that he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with children,” said John.

“No,” said Ransom. “There are children in here all the time, especially during the day. He didn’t see her.
Couldn’t
see her.”

Jack sat up straighter in his seat. “This isn’t the first time that’s happened,” he said, gripping John’s arm. “Remember? After we returned to England with Rose and Hugo? At the Bird and Baby?”

John frowned, then glanced over at the bar. “That’s right— Burton couldn’t see her either.”

“But that boy, Flannery, could,” said Jack. He eyed Ransom appraisingly. “But why would you say she isn’t supposed to exist?”

“Because,” Ransom replied, “in the original History, she actually
did
sacrifice herself to save Arthur. It
was
a life for a life. She was
supposed
to die.”

“It wasn’t necessary,” John said, leaning over the table. “She was willing, but that was enough.”

“You know that because you were there,” said Ransom, “but it wasn’t the way history recorded it. And when you chose to bring her here, you somehow removed her from history altogether.”

“Then why would some people see her while others can’t?” Jack asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I can’t tell you that,” Ransom replied. “But since you returned, everything has been in flux—that’s part of the reason I came to find you.”

“What’s that?” said Charles as he and Rose returned with their drinks. “Hope we haven’t missed anything good.”

“Just chatting,” John said as he took a mug from his friend. “Seems like a fine sort of pub, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Charles agreed, sitting. “But,” he added in a hushed voice, “I think the barman has a tail. And I’m all but certain that he has donkey’s ears tucked in around that ginger hair under his hat.”

“Oh, Lampwick’s a good enough fellow,” said Ransom as he took a drink, “but I wouldn’t mention the ears if I were you. He’s a bit touchy about them.”

“To your good health,” John said, lifting his glass in a toast to his companions. “May all our travels end in such favorable places.”

“Hear, hear,” said Jack. “This is almost like the Tuesday night meetings with the fellows back at Oxford.”

“Except for the fact that we’re at an inn named for a dragon, which we can only get to through a drawing on a card,” said Charles, “and we’re being served drinks by a barman with a tail and donkey ears.”

“Well, yes,” said Jack. “Except for that.”

CHAPTERTHREE

Pursuit of the Un-Men

Once they had settled in
with their drinks, John brought the conversation back to the point. “What’s so significant about 1936?” he asked. “Since you were aiming for 1943, why would it matter what year you landed in, as long as it was prior to your target?”

“It’s significant,” came the reply, “because it’s the first time the two of you”—he indicated John and Jack—“formally met
him,”
he finished, pointing at Charles.

John bristled, and his eyes narrowed. That didn’t sound valid. “If Verne did send you, then you both should have been aware that we’ve known Charles for many years now.”

“Sure,” said Ransom, “in
this
dimension. But not in others. In most of them, the two of you never met him until the spring of 1936. So there were things that could not be shared with you until the natural greater course of events had occurred. Even you three have realized this at some level,” he continued, gesturing at the trio of men, “else you would not have gone to such pains to keep the relationship a secret for all this time.”

“Bert said we must, not for temporal or dimensional reasons,” said John, “but rather to protect the knowledge of the
Imaginarium Geographica
and the Archipel—”

Their legs were those of birds, and ended... with

wicked-looking talons.

The quick, curt shake of Ransom’s head told John to stop speaking. It was a secret that needed protecting, and even here, in a small, out-of-the way tavern, sitting with an agent of Jules Verne, it was too great a risk to say some things aloud.

“Timelines must be protected as much as possible,” Ransom went on, “and even when changes are made, they must be done with an eye toward the ebb and flow of events that have already occurred—past, present, and future.

“You were brought together by the murder of Professor Sigurdsson, but you were already marked as potential Caretakers.” Ransom’s voice dropped to a whisper with the last word. “The, ah, problem was that you weren’t actually supposed to meet for a number of years. You two”—he indicated John and Jack—“in or around 1926, and you”—he pointed at Charles—“in 1936. The Winter King changed all of that. So the fact that some things have been kept from you is no commentary on your worthiness, but rather an effort by Verne to keep the fidelity of this timeline as pure as possible.”

“So the me who met them isn’t the me who was originally, ah, me?” said Charles. “Does that mean we changed time, or switched dimensions? I’d hate to think there’s another me running around somewhere.”

“There already is,” Rose said. “He’s you, but not the same you. I did like him quite a bit, though.”

“She’s right,” Jack declared, his face ashen with realization. “There
is
another Charles—or was, anyway.”

John nodded. “Chaz. We took him back in history, where he became the first of the Green Knights. He was from
another
dimension, but he’s still in our recorded Histories in
this
dimension. So there have been, in fact, two of you, Charles.”

“But not at the same time,” Charles retorted. “That’s impossible—isn’t it?” he asked, looking at Ransom.

The companions all paused as the barman approached. “Another round of drinks?” he asked.

“Yes please, Mr. Lampwick,” said Ransom. “And don’t forget the milk.”

Lampwick went back to the bar, and the companions again huddled closely around the table.

“Hasn’t Bert explained it to you?” Ransom began, leaning in to whisper. “Surely you have had occasion to meet with H. G. Wells at one time or another, and surely you realized they were not the same man.”

“I had, years ago,” said Charles, “and on occasion since.”

“As have I,” said Jack, “but Bert told us when we first became Care—uh, when we first met, that he was not the same person as our Wells. He told us that he was the time traveler from his book, and that he’d come from eight hundred thousand years in the future.”

“I’d always figured that he was exaggerating, for effect,” said John.

“He wasn’t,” said Ransom. “Didn’t you ever think it strange that Wells never mentioned you, or your group, or the book?”

“I did,” said Charles, “but I assumed it was for one of two reasons: Either he was being discreet, because we were always in some public place and were not able to address those topics; or he was not yet privy to, ah, our secret society. Our Bert is quite a lot older than Wells, you know.”

“So you think that his being recruited by Verne hasn’t happened yet?” asked Jack.

Charles shrugged and took a long draw from his ale. “Anything is possible with time travel.”

“It doesn’t fit,” said John. “He told us he wrote the books after having the real experiences, which he then fictionalized. So he had to have been recruited at a much younger age, as were we.”

Charles and Jack looked crestfallen. “I hadn’t thought of that,” Jack admitted.

“So what does that mean about
our
Bert?” asked Charles. “Is he or isn’t he H. G. Wells?”

“That’s the point I was bringing you to,” said Ransom. “He’s exactly what he said—he
is
H. G. Wells, he’s just not the one you know of.”

“My head is spinning,” said Jack.

“Think of dimensional travel as a sort of ‘Othertime,’” Ransom said as Charles jumped up to bring the new tray of drinks to the table. “Not going into the past, or future, or even the present, really—just a different present.”

“Or past or future as well, based on what you said,” Charles remarked. “You overshot by seven years, if you thought you were going to end up in 1943.”

“I was expecting to end up there, but ending up here is an accidental blessing,” said Ransom. “It means I have the opportunity to help you avert a terrible event.

“In the future, it is known as the Second World War,” the philologist continued, his face grave. “And unless we change events here and now, it may mean the literal end of the world for us all.”

“We’ve been to war, before,” said John, respecting the somber tone of Ransom’s voice, “both here and in the Archipelago.”

“Not like this,” Ransom retorted. “The weapons that will be brought to bear are effective on a continental scale. Cities will be destroyed with single explosive devices smaller than this room. Nations will crack; civilizations will be routed. And millions will die, or be forever enslaved.”

“And we’re to help you stop all that?” said Charles. “No pressure on us, eh, old fellow?”

“I told you that part of the reason why 1936 is so significant is because it’s the first time the three of you came together, publicly, as friends.”

“Yes,” John said. “What’s the other part?”

Ransom shifted about uncomfortably in his seat and stalled for time by sipping his ale. But he could not completely disguise the quick glances over at Rose.

“She is the other part of the reason,” he said finally. “Her being here doesn’t register as a zero point with Verne, but we think that’s only because she wasn’t meant to be here in this place and time at all. She is the key to everything that happens over the next seven years, which is why I was trying to reach you in 1943—so that we could try to discover alternatives.”

“Alternatives to what?” said Jack.

“Alternatives to whom,” replied Ransom. “She . . . is not available to us then, but there is no one else we could consult who could replace her.”

“Why isn’t she ‘available’?”

“Sometime in the next few months,” Ransom said grimly, “Rose Dyson, the Grail Child, will be murdered. And we have discovered no alternate timeline, or dimension, or world in which that does not take place.”

“You might have done that a bit more diplomatically,” said Jack, scowling at the philologist and scooting protectively closer to Rose. “She’s just a child, after all.”

“I don’t mind,” Rose said, smiling reassuringly at Ransom. “Mr. Ransom was just getting straight to the point. And besides,” she added, “in realistic terms, I’m actually older than all of you.”

“Maybe,” said John. “But I think Jack’s point is that you lack the life experience to deal with many of the things an adult might encounter. That’s why it’s been important for you to be in school.”

“And that’s why you’re taking me to Oxford as well, isn’t it?” Rose countered. “So that I can continue to learn from you, and Uncle John, and Uncle Warnie?”

Ransom groaned. “So you’ve already moved her to the Kilns, then?”

“We hadn’t decided,” John replied. “Does that matter?”

“That’s where it happens in the Histories,” said Ransom, gesturing at Charles with his mug. “The ones you’ve yet to write.”

“Is it risking anything, temporally speaking, for you to be revealing elements of the future to us?” Charles asked. “Not to be the damper of the group, especially since this is a topic of special interest to me, but I really don’t want to wake up tomorrow finding everything’s gone haywire.”

“Verne and Bert are very cautious about what we’re allowed to disclose,” said Ransom, “but bear in mind, from my point of view, I’m not telling you secrets of the future—I’m relating events that have already happened in the past.”

“So you expect nothing else to change?” asked Jack. “We will continue as we are, and still do what we’ve done, even if we know what you say will happen?”

“Yes. Nothing substantial will change.”

“Except for our preventing the death of Rose, which you say would cause this ‘Second World War.’”

Ransom nodded. “Except for that—which is being allowed for two reasons. Rose is an anomaly, and so her being here does not materially affect your primary timeline. But she does affect events in the Archipelago, which has a ripple effect here, and while it doesn’t start the war, it makes it far worse than it might have been.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about our future—um, your ‘past’—that isn’t dire and terrible?” Charles asked with a gloomy expression.

“You are all on the cusp of realizing great success in your careers,” Ransom noted.

“Oh, thank God,” said Charles. “After all those books, I was beginning to wonder if the things I’ve been writing about would
ever
catch on.”

Ransom squirmed. “Ah, well, yours not so much, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “But your association with your friends will keep your status high just the same.”

“I’m sure it shall be quite the reverse,” Jack said to Charles reassuringly. “Our friendship with you will be our passport to fame.”

“Yes, yes,” said Charles glumly. “Do you know how many stories I’ve published? How many poems? And still, I’m best known for works I conceived in part because of my relationship with you fellows, and the adventures we’ve had. And I’m a little tentative about some of those, seeing as they’re little but fictionalized versions of the Histories I’ve been keeping.”

“As have all your predecessors before you, Charles,” Ransom said placatingly. “It was their way of processing the myriad experiences they had, and writing the Histories alone was a gargantuan task, assigned only to those most worthy. That you have the skill to fictionalize some of those chronicles is an achievement without peer.”

“I appreciate the compliments,” said Charles. He wasn’t sure if the philologist was pulling his leg for decorum’s sake, or if the flattery was sincere. But he wasn’t going to argue. “It’s just that being well known and respected for one’s work has less, ah, emotional resonance when the only ones who do know and respect the work are essentially bound to keep their opinion a secret.”

“It’s to your advantage, though, Charles,” Jack observed. “You’re going to be known, in our world, for an increasingly progressive body of work, rather than for the one great book you feel has eluded you. Isn’t that what every writer truly wants?”

“It would be a ghastly thing indeed,” John chimed in, “to be known for only one or two significant works. That would drain the soul and temper the vinegar of any worthy writer. Don’t you agree, Ransom?”

Ransom swallowed hard and waved for the barman. “I think we should get more ales before I answer that,” he said, a pensive look on his face. “Several more ales.”

He turned in his chair and scanned the great room of the inn, but there was no sign of Lampwick, or of the boy, Flannery—or, for that matter, anyone else.