Dragon Secrets

by Christopher Golden

  “Why would you think such a dangerous endeavor would be fun?” Ivar asked.

  Timothy had no answer to that, so he gave none. He only held his breath and continued onward, the submersible gliding smoothly. More long minutes passed, and his hands and arms began to grow tired from working the ballast tanks to propel them. His muscles ached. He was thirsty.

  The interior structure of the sphere creaked with the pressure of the ocean around them.

  Only by summoning an image of the arrogant Constable Grimshaw into his mind could Timothy banish the anxiety that filled his heart. The man was hateful, and Timothy refused to allow him to succeed in his cruelty to Verlis. He himself had been treated like a criminal, not merely because he had challenged Parliament, but because they all knew what he was capable of. They all knew that he could move almost invisibly in their magical society, and it frightened them.

  When he had first come to this world, they had treated him like a spy, and so he had become one. And now that they were treating him like a criminal, he was about to become one of those as well.

  “There,” Ivar whispered.

  Timothy looked around. At first he saw nothing but the impenetrable darkness. After several moments, however, his eyes caught a flicker of light in the depths. He adjusted his course just slightly, and as he worked the controls, the lights of the undersea prison of Abaddon came into view.

  Constable Grimshaw was not to be denied. He stormed along the main corridor of SkyHaven with two of his aides following in the thunder of his wake, and the Grandmaster’s assistant, scurrying along beside him like some petulant child.

  “Constable, this is very improper!” Carlyle whined. The skinny little man seemed as though he were about to throw a tantrum. “Very improper! If you will simply wait in the main hall, as I asked, Grandmaster Maddox will be informed of your presence and will join you there. I’m afraid I must protest! You cannot simply—”

  With a thump of his boot upon the stone floor, Grimshaw spun on one heel and pointed a spindly finger at Carlyle. “Yessss!” he said, punctuating the word by poking the Grandmaster’s assistant in the chest. “Yes, I can. I have been commissioned as special investigator for the Parliament of Mages. I wield the authority of all the guilds, including this one. As constable, I will follow my investigations wherever they may lead. At this moment, I wish to speak with the freak. And I have been told by the sentries I placed here that the Cade boy is ill—still in his workshop, though I find it curious that a sick young man would be in his workshop rather than his bed.”

  “Supposed to be contagious, Constable,” one of his aides grunted.

  Grimshaw ignored him. Instead he leaned in and glared at Carlyle. “I sense deception. I smell mendacity at work here. You, simpering lapdog that you are, will beg scraps from whatever master owns the table at which you sit. So feel free to run and tell Professor Maddox that I am here. But I will continue on course. I am quite familiar with the location of the room the boy has chosen for his … workshop.”

  He felt his own mouth turn up in a sneer of disgust at this final word. The idea of such a workshop was wretched, like animals mimicking mages. Without magic, the Cade boy was no better. An abomination, he had heard it suggested. And oh, how he agreed.

  With that, Grimshaw turned, his cloak billowing out behind him, and strode toward the stairwell that curved down into the bowels of SkyHaven. His aides followed, but Carlyle scampered off to inform his master than they had an uninvited guest.

  His footfalls were heavy on the steps that wound down into the heart of the floating fortress, but his heart leaped with the pleasure of thwarting the hopes of his enemies. When he reached the appropriate level of SkyHaven, Constable Grimshaw hurried down a long hall and at last rounded a corner, where he saw two of the guards he had set at this post snap to attention when they noticed his approach.

  “The boy!” he snapped without preamble. “When was the last time you laid eyes on him?”

  “Why, this morning,” one of the guards said, brow furrowing in confusion as though the question had been difficult to answer. “He’s ill, Constable. Deathly ill.”

  “Is he?” Grimshaw replied, wondering if the chill of his sarcasm was lost on the thick-headed guard. “And you saw him this morning?”

  “Moaning, he was, under his bedclothes.”

  Grimshaw froze, glaring at the man. “Under his bedclothes?”

  The guard, too stupid to understand the implications of this, nodded, eyes flashing with concern. He knew he was in trouble, but could not fathom why.

  The constable glanced at the other guard. “Open it.”

  The guard hesitated. “Constable. Well, you see, he’s contagious.”

  Grimshaw began to shudder with fury. His hands twitched and contorted almost into claws, and he raised them abruptly. Jets of oily black magic erupted from his fingers, coiled instantly around the throats of the two guards, strangling them.

  They collapsed to the floor as he turned to his aides and gestured toward the door to the workshop. The nearest of them stepped forward and reached out a hand to the door. It shook in its frame, but did not open. Its spell should have opened for them, but something was blocking the way.

  “Open it!” Grimshaw shouted.

  The two aides drew back from the door and then slammed their shoulders into it. From within came the crack of splintering wood. Whatever had barred the door was breaking. He smiled grimly. They could have used a simple spell to blow the doors open, but he liked to have mages in his employ who were not afraid to get physical if such became necessary. That would be important when dealing with the Cade boy. The two mages in Grimshaw’s service drew back once more.

  “Constable Grimshaw!” a voice called, booming down the corridor.

  Grimshaw glanced up to see Leander coming around the turn in the hall, even as the doors to the workshop gave way and swung open. Framed in the open door was the metal man that the Cade boy had constructed. It, too, was an abomination.

  “I do not suppose you are very concerned with contagion,” the metal man said, and then a long whistle of steam erupted from a pipe that jutted from the side of its head.

  “Grimshaw!” Leander shouted again.

  The burly, bearded mage stomped up to him, and Constable Grimshaw sneered at him.

  “You’ll pardon my eschewing some of the formal niceties in this visit, Professor Maddox,” Grimshaw said. “I am in quite a hurry.”

  “I do not pardon your insulting behavior, Constable. There is protocol. There is common courtesy! And it is Grandmaster Maddox, if you please.”

  Grimshaw raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

  He followed his aides into the boy’s workshop, stomach churning with disgust as he saw the various strange inventions that sat upon every table and shelf. The metal man said nothing more, only withdrew to a corner and stood silently, as though hoping they would see him as just another invention. Near the window was a heavy blanket, and standing upon the blanket was the black-feathered bird who had been Argus Cade’s familiar. The rook stared at him with night-dark eyes.

  “A surprise party?” the bird said. “For me? You shouldn’t have, but … where’s my gift?”

  Grimshaw scowled and spat at the bird, which flapped its wings and jumped out of the way.

  “Learn how to knock, jerk,” the familiar muttered.

  The constable shook his head, feeling both anger and exultation at the discovery that the boy was gone. He had been thwarted, yes. But only for the moment. In the end, the boy had only fed the flames of Parliament’s suspicions about him.

  Constable Grimshaw smiled and glanced at Leander, who did not even attempt to explain the boy’s absence, or pretend that he was surprised to find Timothy Cade gone.

  “Grandmaster, eh?” Grimshaw said. “Leader of the Order of Alhazred?” He laughed softly. “Perhaps, Professor, but not for long … not for very much longer at all.”

  For several dreadful minutes Timothy was forced to entertain
the idea that he and Ivar might have failed, that they might have to return to the surface and leave Verlis imprisoned. Abaddon had several entrances, each of which was guarded only by a magical ward that would prevent any mage from entering without the proper spell-key.

  Caiaphas had told them that each of these entrances led to a short tunnel, which would itself end in a large emergence chamber, where they might surface and find themselves in a pool inside the prison. Timothy knew some of this, having been to the prison before, but he had been so overwrought with concern for Verlis that he had not paid as much attention as he perhaps should have, and so Caiaphas’s information had been quite welcome. There were very few visitors to Abaddon, the navigation mage had explained. And though he had himself used two of the entrances, he knew of a third which he believed was only ever used for the arrival of prisoners, never of visitors.

  It was possible—and their only hope—that the prisoners’ entrance would be largely ignored if there was no new captive set to be brought to the underwater prison. Logic was on their side—no one had ever escaped from Abaddon, and no one had ever entered the prison without authorization. Not ever. The magic spells that guarded the entrances were the most powerful that the joined skills and strength of the Parliament of Mages could weave. It was inconceivable to them that anyone should attempt what Timothy and Ivar were about to attempt, and so it was likely they could be taken by surprise.

  Even so, there was always the chance that the prisoners’ entrance would be monitored, that they would be discovered the instant they surfaced in the emergence chamber. But Timothy and Ivar had known the risk, known the odds against them, all along, and still had made the journey. They were not about to turn back now.

  “Move slowly, Timothy,” Ivar whispered. The yellow skin of the sphere glowed now with the illumination of the underwater prison, and when Timothy glanced at Ivar, the Asura had blended, his skin tone taking on the gleam of those lights. “Do not let your nervousness force your hand.”

  Timothy took a deep breath. “I won’t.”

  His hands worked the levers slowly, and he vented a single spurt of water from each ballast tank. The submersible rose several inches and drifted forward. They had been at a complete standstill in the water. Now the sphere glided toward the prisoners’ entrance to Abaddon. They passed beneath an overhang, into a dimly lit, unpleasant alcove in the lower portion of the prison.

  “Now,” Ivar said.

  Timothy gnawed his lower lip, his breath coming in short gasps, and he let go of the levers and leaned forward. By stretching as far as his body would allow, he was able to place his hands on the inside wall of the sphere, the fish skin rough beneath his fingertips.

  He closed his eyes.

  The un-magician, they called him. At first it had seemed ridiculous. Magic did not work on him. But he was beginning to like the name, the word, for it seemed more appropriate now. With his eyes closed, he could feel an odd numbness in his fingers, in his skin, in the air around him. He had begun to notice this feeling whenever there was powerful magic nearby. And if he focused, he could make the feeling go away.

  Through trial and error, he had learned what this meant.

  When he forced that numbness away from him, he was expanding the null area that existed within him, the space in which magic would not function.

  Now, as the submersible drifted forward, slowing down since he had stopped venting water from the ballast tanks, Timothy concentrated harder than he ever had. Lids closed, he could almost see in his mind’s eye an image of that null field expanding. For just a moment, he felt something resisting that numbness, that un-magic, and then it gave way as simply as a bubble popping.

  An opening appeared in the magical barrier that guarded the prison. The submersible slid through the prisoners’ entrance and along a short tunnel, into the ominously silent belly of Abaddon.

  Chapter Nine

  Grimshaw snarled in frustration, his face flushing deep red. Dark magic danced upon his fingers, but his nostrils flared, and he lifted his chin as though he was disgusted at having to involve himself in matters he felt were beneath him. Leander watched him with a certain fascination, wondering what he might do next. He did not have to wait long to find out.

  “Arrest Professor Maddox at once,” the constable snapped, fixing Leander with a menacing stare, barely acknowledging the presence of Sheridan and Edgar.

  The constable’s deputies acted without hesitation. The pair murmured in unison what could only have been a spell of containment, and their hands began to glow as if suddenly white hot.

  Leander reacted in kind. How dare they treat me like some lowly criminal? He had expected repercussions, but he would not be dealt with this way. The burly, shaggy mage summoned his own magic. “You dare conjure against me as though I’m some petty thief or gutter rat? In the home of my order?” the Grandmaster growled.

  The air around him stirred with the arcane energies he was prepared to unleash, the power of the unnatural wind ruffling his hair and robes. The deputies cautiously stepped back, and he could see a touch of apprehension in their eyes.

  “Just who do you think you are?”

  “Master Maddox,” Sheridan began, a puff of steam venting from his head.

  Leander ignored the metal man’s warning tone, ready to combat Grimshaw’s thugs if necessary. The pair looked briefly to their master and then back to Leander. The magic that Leander commanded was an anxious predator, eager to leap forward, but he held it fast, the air about him snapping and sparking from the restraint.

  “They are deputies in my service,” Grimshaw declared, stepping forward to aid his men if they required it. “Servants of order who have sworn their allegiance to the centuries-old laws set forth by the Parliament of Mages—the laws you have broken, Professor.”

  Edgar cawed loudly and said nothing, though the bird seemed poised to attack if there was a battle to be fought.

  Grimshaw raised his hands, mystical energies poised for release. “Stand down, Leander Maddox,” he commanded, his tone leaving no doubt that he would unleash the full fury of his power if he was not obeyed.

  Leander gritted his teeth, unwilling to give way, yet he was faced with a most precarious situation. He was infuriated by Parliament’s inability to change—to see beyond their fears and prejudices—and here, standing before him, was the physical representation of that ignorance.

  “I tell you, stand down,” Grimshaw ordered. “Do not force our hand.”

  And with those words, Leander caught the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of the constable’s mouth and the light of anticipation in his eyes. You want this! he realized. Nothing would make you happier than to strike me down.

  Despite his better judgment, Leander could not bring himself to surrender. There was a moment in which the magics of the opposing forces in the room hummed and pulsed as if taunting each other, but still he and Grimshaw and the constable’s deputies all held fast, neither side willing to make the first move. Leander had to wonder what Argus Cade would have done.

  The sound of metal clanking upon the workroom’s stone floor disrupted the tension momentarily. All eyes turned to find Sheridan approaching.

  “Stand your ground, monstrosity!” Grimshaw bellowed. With a flick of his wrist, the constable sent a spark of oily black magic snaking out to touch the mechanical man, and Sheridan froze, paralyzed by magic.

  “Please, Master Leander,” the metal man pleaded. “Don’t make a bad situation worse.”

  A streak of black feathers moved through the shadows, and Edgar perched atop the head of the unmoving metal man. “Caw!” cried the rook. “Sheridan has a point. There’s a time to fight. Now isn’t it. You’re not helping anyone that way.”

  He knew they were right. The immensity of destructive power present in the room at that moment was startling, and he shuddered with the thought of it unleashed. If this were to go on, it would help no one, Timothy least of all.

  “Listen to your accomplices, Pr
ofessor,” Grimshaw prodded. “It appears that they are now the voices of reason.”

  Leander took a long breath and let it out slowly. His fury began to abate, and he lowered his defenses. The power that thrummed inside him receded to the vast reservoir of magical energies that powered the world, to be used, he hoped, for something more beneficial than the pursuit of violence.

  “Constable,” Leander said, “that is probably the first thing you’ve said that I agree with.”

  Abruptly released from Grimshaw’s spell, Sheridan staggered closer as Edgar hopped down from atop his head to land on the mechanical man’s shoulder. Partners in crime, the Grandmaster thought as they stood defenseless before the constable and his deputies.

  “We surrender,” Leander said, raising his hands, palms out to show that there was no longer any magic at his disposal.

  “A wise decision,” the constable sneered, the power he had amassed at his fingertips dispersing with a sputter and crackle. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you cannot be trusted. Incapacitate them.”

  Leander reacted, but too slowly. The beginnings of a spell that would have shielded them was at the tip of the mage’s tongue when he and his so-called accomplices were struck down by an attack from Grimshaw’s deputies. Pain seared through Leander, and he was driven down into darkness.

  Timothy had seen little of Terra, but already there were at least two locations in this world he never wanted to see again. One was the Tower of Strychnos, the headquarters of the guild, for his memories of the place were unsettling. The second, however, was far worse. If not for his loyalty to Verlis, if not for his promise, he would have been happy never to see Abaddon again.

  Yet here he was.

  The diving sphere bobbed in the docking berth as he and Ivar carefully peeled away the sap that affixed the craft’s door. It came away from its frame with the faintest sucking sound, and the oppressive aroma of the prison facility wafted inside to welcome them. It was an odd stench—a stale smell, and something else more foul: a stink made from the fear and oppression of the poor souls forced to reside in this awful place.