“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 dim
ension, 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.
The card players had gone, as had the three or four scattered patrons who had occupied other tables. The companions were alone in the inn.
“It’s only just past seven,” John said, checking his watch. “Shouldn’t this place be hopping with patrons?”
Ransom pursed his lips and slowly stood up. “It should. There are always travelers seeking a moment’s respite, and there is always someone tending to their drinks. Something is seriously amiss here.”
Suddenly Flannery’s bright face appeared at the edge of the bar, where he gestured to the companions to remain where they were. A finger to his lips told them that silence was also necessary.
“You’re being watched,” he whispered as he crept toward their table. “Do not let them know that you know. I was told to destroy your owl, but I hid him in my storeroom instead.”
The companions sat motionless, save for Rose, who finished her mug of milk. “How do you know this?” she said quietly as she wiped the foam from her lips. “Who are you to us?”
Smart girl, John thought. Find out if someone is on your side before you place yourself in their hands.
“I am a friend,” Flannery replied. “I’m to help you, if I can.”
Charles lifted his drink to his lips to cover his words. “If you’re a friend,” he whispered, “then you should have a sign that proves who you’re working with.”
“Oh!” the boy exclaimed, before dropping back to a whisper. “I forgot! I’m supposed to give you a kiss.”
Charles choked on his ale. “Pardon me?”
“A kiss,” Flannery repeated as he fumbled around in his pocket. “The Valkyrie said if I gave you a kiss, you’d know I could be trusted.” He held out his hand and showed them a small silver thimble.
“The kiss,” Flannery repeated quietly. “From one of the novice Valkyries of Paralon—Laura Glue.”
Instantly the companions’ demeanor changed. “He’s with us,” John said to Ransom.
“What would you have us do, Flannery?” Jack whispered.
“They’re outside,” he replied. “They’re waiting for their leader to come before they take you.”
“Who is waiting, Flannery?” Jack pressed. “They who?”
“Men. Un-Men. I—I can’t really say,” the boy replied. “But I don’t like them. They in’t natural.”
Ransom sat bolt upright. “Not natural? What do they look like?”
The boy scratched his head. “Big bird heads, but on thin bodies of men. And they’re dressed like they’re in a Shakespeare play.”
Grimacing, Ransom slowly rose from his seat. “Yoricks. This will be difficult, I fear.”
“Bar the door,” Flannery whispered. “It will hold them back a few moments.”
Together John and Ransom rose and made as if to approach the bar—then, in a single fluid motion, both men leaped to the door and threw down the large crossbeam. An instant later something slammed against it with a heavy whump. The creature outside the door let out a terrible shriek and threw itself against the door again and again. The crossbrace held—but only just.
“No time to waste!” cried Flannery, jumping to his feet. “Quickly! Follow me!”
&n
bsp; Protectively shepherding Rose ahead of them, Charles and Jack dashed to the bar, followed by John and Ransom. Flannery led them around an open door to a short corridor lined with doorways. He bypassed nearly all of them, then opened the last one on the right. It showed a dark, candlelit stairway to the cellar.
“Hang on,” Jack said cautiously. “If we go down there, we’ll be trapped.”
Flannery shook his head. “There’s a secret passage hidden under a barrel of ginger beer. It leads to my secret storeroom. Even Lampwick doesn’t know how to find it.”
If the companions were still hesitant to follow the boy, a crashing and splintering sound from the front of the inn convinced them otherwise. The stomping of boots and an otherworldly shrieking from the creatures Ransom called Yoricks was all the motivation they needed.
They all moved down the steps, and Jack and Charles bolted the door, then moved several large crates in front of it to buy more time from their pursuers.
Flannery grabbed a lamp from one of the walls and indicated a barrel among a dozen as the one that concealed his hiding place.
“Lots of travelers come through and need something hid,” he explained as Charles and Ransom moved the barrel aside. “I have a place that’s secure, and I make a bit of coin on the side. Lampwick doesn’t care, because it keeps the customers happy.”
“And they trust you to keep the items safe?” asked Charles.
The boy nodded emphatically. “The kind of people who need things secreted away in one of the Soft Places in’t the kind of people you want to betray.”
“I understand completely,” said Charles. “Lead the way, Flannery.”
The last of the companions clambered down into the tunnel just as the Yoricks began banging on the door above.
“Won’t they find this place eventually too?” asked John. “The room above isn’t that large, and the entrance isn’t that well concealed.”
“I couldn’t give a fig if they find this tunnel,” Flannery said as he led them down an earthen passage. “Once they get here, they could spend a year looking and never know where we went.”
The Shadow Dragons Page 4
