The First Dragon (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica, The)

by Owen, James A.

  Uncas drew a breath, intending to ask what they were busy doing, but Quixote kicked him in the shin and shut him up. “Hello, Aristophanes,” the knight said pleasantly. “We’d like to ask a favor, if you don’t mind.”

  Aristophanes looked back into the room at his dark, quiet companion and snorted. “Don’t insult me. The Caretakers need a favor, you mean.”

  “We need you to find a shipbuilder,” Quixote said, ignoring the deflection. “Someone of approximately your own vintage.”

  “My vintage?” Aristophanes said in honest surprise. “There’s no one living who . . .” He paused, eyes widening.

  “Back in the day, he built a ship you might have heard of,” said Quixote. “It was called the Argo.”

  “Argus,” the detective said, shaking his head. “You want me to find Argus.”

  “Ah!” Uncas said brightly. “You know him!”

  “I was supposed to execute him,” said Aristophanes. “Plans changed. Mistakes were made. And now I’m being harassed by a geriatric knight and a talking beaver.”

  “I’m a badger, you—you—unicorn,” Uncas replied before he noticed the slight gleam in the detective’s eyes. He was teasing.

  “So,” said Aristophanes, “the Caretakers have need of finding a shipbuilder, do they?”

  “Yes,” the knight said, nodding, “and we need you to do so right away.” He reached into a knapsack at his side and drew out a small bag, which he handed to the detective. “We came prepared,” he said somberly. “Thirty pieces of silver—your usual fee, I believe.”

  The detective’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t answer. Instead he reached out a hand and pressed the bag back toward Quixote.

  “All debts were paid,” he said softly, the gruffness gone from his voice. “Tell Verne that he was as good as his word, and I have rejoined the flow of the world.”

  “So, do you think you can find Argus?” Quixote asked.

  “Consider it done,” Aristophanes said brusquely, as if trying to regain his earlier gruff demeanor. “I can take you to him now if you like.”

  “Really?” asked Uncas in astonishment. “That’s pretty amazing.”

  “I’m actually very good at this,” the detective said as he cast a longing, heartfelt look at Beatrice, then grabbed his hat and coat. “Also, if I’m not actually charging you to find him, then there’s no point in dragging things out to drive up my expenses.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Together, the three unlikely companions crossed Shakespeare’s Bridge to the Kilns, where they kept the Duesenberg. It was no ordinary vehicle—it had been modified with a special spatial projector that could transport them instantly to any number of places that were depicted on an assortment of special slides. It made missions like these a great deal easier to manage.

  “Is that a new hat?” Uncas asked as they clambered into the car.

  “It is,” Aristophanes said, trying and failing to hold back a wistful smile. “A gift from Bea. I’m no longer poison to the touch, but I’m apparently still a unicorn,” he went on, fingering his fedora, “so I still need a hat if we’re going to go mingle with civilized society—or whatever passes for that where we’re going.”

  “You’re the guide,” said Quixote as he started up the car. “Where to, Steve?”

  “Here,” the detective said, holding up a slide. “Thousands of years in obscurity, and the Caretakers have a portal that leads almost right to his door. Amazing.”

  Aristophanes inserted the slide, and the Duesenberg roared forward just as the portal opened up on the side of a building a few hundred yards from the Kilns. The car slid to a stop atop a grassy hill, in the bright afternoon sunlight of Greece.

  “Welcome to Lemnos,” Uncas said, flipping off the projector. “Where to now?”

  Aristophanes pointed ahead to a fork in the road, indicating that they should drive to the right. Then, consulting a small notepad he pulled from his coat, he told Uncas they’d be looking for a seaside cottage about three miles farther along.

  “This seems like a nice little hamlet,” Quixote observed as they passed a number of small but tidy houses. “Hardly where you’d think an ancient shipbuilder could find peaceful refuge away from prying eyes.”

  “It’s the standing stones,” the detective said, pointing them out as the car passed between two sizable rocks that stood alongside the road. “They act as a sort of screen, keeping out the looky-loos and troublemakers. They’re as good as hiding in plain sight, because someone living within the boundaries of the stones can’t be found—not by the methods the Caretakers use, anyway.”

  “And what method do you use?” asked Quixote.

  “That,” Aristophanes said, pointing at the small red book he carried in his breast pocket. “With that and a stub of graphite, I can keep track of anyone I like. I just write it down.”

  He frowned at the look of incredulity on the old knight’s face. “What?” said the detective. “Like everything has to be done with magic?”

  “It’s like our Little Whatsits,” Uncas said, nodding in approval. “Very wise.”

  “Thank you, badger,” said Aristophanes.

  “Don’t mention it,” Uncas said, pointing at a small cottage. “Look—I think we’ve arrived.”

  “Please,” he said. . . . “Feel free to look around . . .”

  Chapter THREE

  The Shipbuilder

  The cottage was a traditional whitewashed stone structure common to the Greek isles, save for the windows, which were stained glass that depicted ancient Greek myths in spectacular bursts of color. There were chimes outside the doorway that swayed gently in the breeze of their passing and announced the companions’ presence to the occupant inside.

  The shipbuilder’s shop at the rear of the cottage was bright and airy and had tall, whitewashed walls that curved up into ceilings. At the center of the room, the proprietor was descending a staircase carrying a box of supplies. He paused when he saw the three visitors, then smiled and continued down the stairs.

  “Please,” he said, setting the box on the floor, then gesturing around the room with his hands. “Feel free to look around at my work. Much to see, more to buy, as long as the price is right.”

  All around the room were tables and low shelving laden with globes, clear glass jugs, and bottles, and in them floated miniature ships of various designs. Some appeared to be simple, traditional sailboats, but most were of a far more elaborate design, incorporating scrollworks and ornate carvings in the hulls. But what was most intriguing to the companions was that every ship bore a masthead that resembled an insect. Several had the aspect of a praying mantis, but most of the others were moths or butterflies with magnificent, delicate wings. As Uncas watched, some of the wings appeared to flutter with the gentle motion of the water in the bottles.

  The shipbuilder was pleased to see them admiring his handiwork, and he smiled a lopsided grin. “For some reason,” he said matter-of-factly, “I seem to be skilled in merging creatures that fly with craft that float.”

  “That’s why we’ve come seeking you,” Quixote ventured. “We understand you have had some experience with merging a ship and a larger creature—say, a dragon?”

  “Hah!” The shipbuilder exclaimed. “You want someone to make you a Dragonship? Easier to ask for the Golden Apples of the Sun, or a sword made by Hattori Hanzo.”

  Aristophanes snorted. “Hattori Hanzo doesn’t exist.”

  “True,” the shipbuilder replied, “but that doesn’t stop people from seeking out his swords.”

  Uncas slumped, dejected. “So it isn’t possible to make ships larger than these toys?”

  “Oh, it is possible, but I seldom have,” Argus replied, sitting. “And not for a very long time. You don’t want me, anyway. You’d be better off with my master, Utnapishtim. He’s the true virtuoso for what you want.”

  “Utnapishtim?” Quixote said, puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve heard . . .”

  “Sorry, sorry,”
Argus said, rolling his eyes. “I forgot he took a different name when he’d crossed over for good. You might know him better by his Greek name, Deucalion. Or perhaps as . . .”

  “Ordo Maas,” Uncas finished for him. “All th’ Children of th’ Earth knows Ordo Maas.”

  Argus reached out and scratched Uncas on top of the head, which Quixote thought would offend his little friend, but oddly, the badger didn’t seem to mind. “Yes, your kind would know of him, wouldn’t they, small one?” he said gently. “Ordo Maas—that’s who you want.”

  “ ’Cept we can’t ask him,” Uncas replied. “He’s not findable. Not anymore.”

  Argus frowned. “How is he not findable? The last I knew, he had his own island in the Archipelago.”

  “That’s exactly the problem,” said Quixote. “The Archipelago is no more.”

  The shipbuilder’s eyes narrowed. “You lie.”

  “Knights never lie,” said Uncas. “What happened was this, see, there was a fire—”

  “I don’t want to know,” Argus said flatly. “It’s none of my business. Not anymore.” He stood up as if to indicate that the discussion was over. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to find someone else to build you your Dragonship.”

  “But, that’s just the thing,” Uncas protested. “We don’t want’cha t’ build a ship—we need ya t’ unbuild one.”

  Argus turned and looked at the badger, who was all frizzy with earnestness, then up at Quixote. “I’m sorry—as I said, my master was the true creator of such things. I cannot help you.”

  Quixote looked at Aristophanes, who had been quiet throughout the entire encounter. The Zen Detective shrugged. “You hired me to find him, not to compel him to do anything for you,” he said brusquely as he turned for the door. “If he doesn’t want to help you, that’s no business of mine.”

  Quixote sighed heavily and put his arm around Uncas. “Come along, my squire. Let’s go explain to the Caretakers that their ship the Black Dragon is going to remain just that—a ship. And nothing more.”

  The sound of a glass jug shattering against the stone floor stopped the companions in their tracks. They turned back to see Argus kneeling amid the shards of glass and spilled water, gently trying to lift a Monarch ship out of the mess without damaging the wings.

  “The Black Dragon,” the shipbuilder said as he delicately installed the tiny ship in another jug. “You told me a ship—you didn’t say which.”

  “Well, now you know,” said Aristophanes. “And if you’re willing to help, I’m sure you’ll be well compensated.”

  Argus folded his arms and considered them carefully for a moment. Then he pursed his lips. “A boon,” he said at last. “Your masters will owe me a boon, whatever I ask. That is my price.”

  “Are we authorized to agree to those terms?” Uncas asked Quixote, obviously worried. “Scowler John never said anything about offering him an open ticket.”

  “Well, it did work out the last time,” Quixote whispered back, “except for, you know, the betrayal and all that.”

  “The Caretakers have always known my terms,” the Zen Detective remarked, winking at Uncas, as the shipbuilder gathered his tools together in anticipation of an agreement. “I get my fee, plus expenses. And if the expenses mean agreeing to pay whatever the mark asks for, then that’s the client’s problem, not mine.”

  “I think I like your job,” Uncas said. “Not much seems t’ bother you. It’s a very Animal way t’ live.”

  “We need him,” Quixote said simply. He turned to Argus. “I think your terms will be acceptable. We can go now, if you like.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “For a moment there,” the Zen Detective said to the shipbuilder as the foursome clambered into the car, “I thought you weren’t going to come with us.”

  “For a moment there,” Argus said as he took the seat behind Quixote, “I wasn’t.”

  “What changed your mind, if I might ask?” said Quixote.

  Argus paused a moment, as if the question had violated some invisible boundary of etiquette, then realized that it was, in fact, an entirely appropriate question under the circumstances. “It was the ship,” he answered. “The Black Dragon. Any of the others would have been made by Utna—by Ordo Maas. But that one’s the exception—the only one he never touched.”

  “How did you know that?” Uncas asked as he started the car.

  “Because,” Argus answered over the roar of the engine, “I’m the one who built it, as payment for a promise made . . . long, long ago. I made the Black Dragon, at the request of Mordred, the Winter King.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It took a few hours for the excitement surrounding the Black Dragon to fade away, and soon things were humming away as usual at Tamerlane House, with one exception: Nathaniel Hawthorne had doubled the patrols along the islands and the guards at the bridge, just in case the appearance of the Dragonship was somehow a precursor to another attack.

  “Remember,” he warned them, “discovering the Architect of the keep and rescuing our friends is not our sole concern. The Echthroi have other agents, and this ship spent a thousand years crossing from a Shadowed Archipelago. I simply want to be cautious—you never know who might also be lurking about.”

  John knew without asking that Hawthorne was referring to Dr. Dee and his Cabal. Dee had enlisted the Zen Detective as a double agent to locate the Ruby Armor of T’ai Shan, which was said to give the wearer almost unlimited control over time and space. But not just anyone could wear the armor—it had to be an adept; someone like Rose. Someone the Histories referred to . . .

  . . . as the Imago.

  The problem was, Dee had just such a personage: a boy, a distant descendant of Rose, who had been rescued from the Archipelago and taken into the past, where he was then kidnapped by Dee’s agent, the traitor Daniel Defoe.

  Defoe put the boy prince, called Coal, into a might-have-been, a possible future, for safekeeping. But he made one mistake: Defoe gave the boy a watch—an Anabasis Machine, the time-traveling device all the Caretakers carried. And, being an adept, the boy figured out how to use it on his own and spent a lifetime learning how the world worked. And finally, when Dee pulled him out of the future and gave him the Ruby Armor, the boy Coal, now grown, revealed he had been hiding in plain sight as one of Verne’s Messengers, calling himself Dr. Raven.

  Then, in the crucial moment when the adept could have turned the tide against either the Caretakers or the Cabal, he instead gave himself a new name and disappeared. Moments later Dee, his house, and the entire Cabal also vanished. Ever since, the Caretakers had been on guard, waiting, watching for the attack they believed was inevitable.

  “Understood,” John said to Hawthorne. “Keep me posted, and keep your silver sledgehammer at the ready.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  As they waited for news from Uncas and Quixote, John, Jack, and a few of the Caretakers Emeriti accompanied Shakespeare back to the smaller island, to assist him with some minor adjustments he wanted to make to the Zanzibar Gate. As the poet-inventor worked, the Prime Caretaker examined the still impressive stone structure.

  “You’ve become quite the creator, Will,” John said in honest admiration. “I think you missed your calling in life. You ought to have been an architect.”

  “Thank you,” Shakespeare said gravely, bowing to the younger Caretaker, “but I think I am responsible for too much stress and strife already, and all I’ve built was that cursed bridge.”

  “If it wasn’t for that bridge, sirrah,” said Twain as he stepped across the path and joined the others near the gate, “none of us might be here now.”

  “That somewhat resembles my point,” said Shakespeare. “So much of this is my fault.”

  “Responsibility, you mean,” said Twain.

  Shakespeare shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

  “That answer,” said Twain, “is what makes you a good Caretaker.”

  “No,” said Jack. “That answer is what makes him a g
ood man.”

  Shakespeare blushed, and bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. “That is exceeding gracious of you to say, Jack,” he said, “but my responsibilities now are less than those of others. I cannot fathom how, as the current Caretakers, you grapple with the care of the world. It is so much larger than in my time.”

  “I’m just happy that we aren’t expected to do even more than we are,” said Jack. “I have enough trouble just running the Kilns—”

  “Ahem-hem,” said John.

  “Ah, that is, Warnie and I have enough trouble running the Kilns,” added Jack.

  “And Mrs., uh, Whatsit,” John said helpfully.

  “Her too,” Jack admitted, “or rather, her mostly. My point is, I could never run a university, much less a city. And heaven forbid that I’m ever given my own country. I think I’d go mad—probably just lock myself in a tower and shut out the whole world while I stay in my room and read.”

  “And that’s different from what you do now, how?” asked John with a smirk and a wink at Twain.

  “Oh, shut up,” said Jack.

  At that moment, they all turned to see Dickens walking purposefully across the path toward them. “Blast it all, Samuel,” he said as he drew near. “Are you going to tell them or not? Time’s a-wasting.”

  “I was getting to it, Charles,” Twain said. “Nothing is as urgent as exchanging pleasantries as gentlemen ought, before going to business.”

  “What business?” said John.

  “The major has summoned us to the Kilns,” Dickens replied, looking at Jack. “Your brother says that our agents have returned and are bringing a guest.”

  “The shipbuilder?” asked Jack. “I hope.”

  “This is Quixote and Uncas we’re talking about, remember,” John said as the group followed Dickens back to the small ferryboat that Twain piloted. “For all we know, they’ve brought back the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

  “Don’t,” said Jack, “even joke about that.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The Caretakers crossed over Shakespeare’s Bridge fully armed, and prepared for any contingency. Warnie, Jack’s brother, was already waiting for them, as were Quixote and Uncas. The detective and the new arrival were still in the Duesenberg, but as the Caretakers approached, Aristophanes climbed out, tipped his hat at John, and moved over to join Warnie, who kept glancing at the detective’s skin tone as if it were a trick of the light.