The Dragon's Gate
Page 1
DEDICATION
For Brit, the most magical potter I know
MAPS
EPIGRAPH
To kindness and wisdom we make promises only.
Pain we obey.
—MARCEL PROUST, IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME
CONTENTS
Dedication
Maps
Epigraph
Prologue: A Thief in the House of Wisdom
Part One: The Oracle Bone Map Chapter 1: The Names
Chapter 2: A Memory of Fire
Chapter 3: The Silk Road
Chapter 4: Shark Bait
Chapter 5: The Eight Immortals
Chapter 6: Drawing Lots
Chapter 7: New Amsterdam
Chapter 8: Whitehall
Chapter 9: Rogues
Chapter 10: The Magician Reveals Her Tricks
Chapter 11: Secrets and Stones
Chapter 12: The Oracle Bone Map
Chapter 13: Change of Plans
Part Two: The Dragon’s Gate Chapter 14: The Rotterdam Straits
Chapter 15: The Temple of the Five Lords
Chapter 16: Into the Vast Land
Chapter 17: Big Rattan Gorge
Chapter 18: Three Bridges
Chapter 19: The Road to Agra
Chapter 20: The Dragon King’s Daughter
Chapter 21: The Tea of Silver Needles
Chapter 22: The Armies of Paper and Clay
Chapter 23: The Tomb of Qin
Chapter 24: The Old Woman of the Mountain
Chapter 25: The Dragon’s Gate
Epilogue: A World Apart
About the Author
Books by Barry Wolverton
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
A THIEF IN THE HOUSE OF WISDOM
As he crested the hill, perched on the back of his Arabian horse, what struck him was how the whole city seemed to be made of sand. Tan houses and towers and mosques scooped right out of the surrounding desert and packed into perfect squares and rectangles and half circles. It seemed impossible that the fierce desert winds wouldn’t one day reduce the whole thing to dunes.
“Are you regretting not changing your clothes, Lord Winterbottom?”
The Persian gentleman smiled at him as he asked the question. He had tried to get Lord Winterbottom to dress like the locals—blowzy pants and robes, with the traditional Persian headgear—but the Brit had insisted on wearing his official uniform as Royal Surveyor of Britannia. That was, after all, the reason he was here.
“A little,” he admitted, wiping his brow. His navy wool jacket, adorned with ribbons and medals of rank, was soaked through with sweat. His thighs, which had been straddling the large horse for half an hour, were on fire with heat rash.
The Persian nodded. “It will be cooler inside,” he promised.
They continued along the main road, passing a minaret—a narrow tower of baked bricks encircled with arches near the top.
“The Tower of Death,” said the Persian, with a sweep of his arm. “We throw prisoners from it.”
“Indeed?” said the Brit.
“Our city’s name translates to ‘The Place of Good Fortune,’” added the Persian, “but you aren’t very fortunate if you fall from there.”
“I would imagine not,” said Lord Winterbottom. But any fears he had of plunging to his death were erased when they came in sight of an imposing brick wall, visible through a promenade of palm trees, and the tall wooden gates set within—the entrance to the House of Wisdom.
Two soldiers met them at the outer wall.
“This is Lord Nigel Winterbottom,” said the Persian, handing a scroll to one of the guards, “in the care of Sufi Rouhani, faithful servant of the House.” The guard studied the Brit’s papers, which were like a small work of art, written in calligraphy with the shah’s colorful seal at the bottom. He returned the scroll and the two soldiers withdrew into the recess of the wall to the wooden gates, holding them open for the visitors.
Lord Winterbottom’s guide escorted him inside, where he found a courtyard that reminded him of the quad of his beloved Jordan College back in Britannia—except with stone tiles instead of a lush square of grass. Directly in front of them was a two-story building with a grand, barrel-vaulted entrance of ornately carved stone. On either side of this main building were identical buildings stretching off into the distance.
“A city within a city,” said Sufi Rouhani. “One built on a foundation of knowledge, growing larger and more resplendent through the ages. Come, let me show you around.”
Lord Winterbottom, who had paraded through some of Europe’s grandest palaces and cathedrals, was in awe of what he saw that day. The interior of the buildings was a puzzle of geometric wonder and trickery. Every wall, it seemed, was carved with dramatic arches and arabesques, a honeycombed hive of stone and mosaic tile and filigree.
The House of Wisdom was indeed a city within a city. Or perhaps, a university was more accurate—one surpassing Oxford and Cambridge in size and splendor. Within were separate buildings dedicated to the study of mathematics, medicine, science, art, philosophy, and literature. A music room was carved with niches in the shapes of different instruments—not just for decoration, but to enhance the acoustics of the dome-shaped room. There was an observatory with the largest telescope Lord Winterbottom had ever seen, and within the zoology building was an actual zoo filled with exotic animals. The main library, boasted Sufi, was the largest repository of texts in the known world, and as if to prove it, he led his guest through room after room of books, scrolls, and other manuscripts stacked floor to ceiling.
As they walked, the Persian told Lord Winterbottom this story:
“It was early in the thirteenth century that the Mongol horde tried to destroy the House of Wisdom. A young scholar named Tusi, apprentice to the Royal Astronomer, had calculated the rate of expansion of the Mongol Empire, and had determined the precise date the horde was likely to arrive. Sadly, his warnings were ignored. So he began to dig a hole—”
“A hole?”
“Yes. Under the floor in one of the study rooms of the library. And night after night, he would secret out books under his robe and hide them underground—more than four hundred thousand manuscripts in all—until the invasion came.”
“Four hundred thousand?” said Lord Winterbottom. “How large was this hole?”
“Just listen,” said Sufi. “I’m sure you know the story of the great siege? The fires, the looting, the massacres. When the Mongols defiled the library, books were torn from their shelves and thrown into the river. The waters ran black with the ink. But Tusi did a very remarkable thing.”
“More remarkable than single-handedly hiding four hundred thousand books, one at a time?” said Lord Winterbottom.
“A few at a time,” said Sufi. “I never said one at a time.”
“Very well. Go on.”
“The very remarkable thing,” he continued, “was that Tusi diverted the ink-stained river into a vast underground cistern, until he had collected all of the bleeding texts. You see, the volumes he hid were but a fraction of those that were destroyed, and he refused to let the others be lost forever. So he devised a special pen that, when dipped into the cistern, allowed him to transcribe all the works the Mongols had tried to destroy. The diluted words flowed through him, as if by magic, and re-formed through the nib of his pen.”
“That is truly remarkable,” said Lord Winterbottom.
Sufi nodded. “Through all the years of turmoil that followed . . . the Mongols, Tamerlane, the Ottomans . . . the House of Wisdom persevered.”
They walked on in silence for some time, through what seemed like endless passageways and
studies, until they came to a deep green leather door.
“And now we come to what you really want to see,” said Sufi. “The Hall of Maps.” He pulled forth a large silver key, inserted it into an ornate keyhole, and slowly pushed open the green door, which swung silently on its hinges. Lord Winterbottom followed him inside.
At first glance, the interior of this room seemed like all the others: arched recesses from floor to ceiling, filled with books; ornate rugs; scholars sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading books propped in X-shaped stands. Every bit of wall not devoted to bookshelves was covered by maps, as might be expected of a Hall of Maps, but when Lord Winterbottom looked more closely, he could see that these were no ordinary maps.
Along with Persian maps of antiquity were scientific maps of the human body—brain, nervous system, circulatory system, even the systems of humors and emotions. There was a map showing the birthplace of every Persian ruler through history, and another highlighting the places where the prophet Zarathustra had overcome major obstacles on his way to composing the seventeen holy hymns. There were maps of the moon and the wind, as well as maps of Heaven and Hell.
When he glanced down to avoid stepping on a scholar, Lord Winterbottom noticed that the lush rugs he was walking on were also maps, arranged so that the floor of the hall as a whole showed a map of the known world. In a corner, a scholar was hunched over a glass case where a beetle was making tracks in a tray of sand, and the scholar was carefully recording the pattern.
“Extraordinary,” mumbled Lord Winterbottom as Sufi guided him out of the main hall, down another corridor, through another locked door, and into a small chamber where on a blue-and-gold pedestal a book two arms long and two arms wide lay open.
“The Atlas of Ptolemy,” said Lord Winterbottom with reverence.
“The only known copy in the world,” said Sufi. “Rescued from the Library at Alexandria.”
“Some would say stolen.”
“Would those people rather the Atlas had burned with the rest of that long-lost city?”
Lord Winterbottom reached out a hand to touch it, but Sufi stopped him.
“I must insist that you do not,” he said apologetically. “Quite delicate, you understand.”
The Brit arched a thin, plucked eyebrow at his host. “But then how am I to examine the Atlas? Was this not part of Queen Adeline’s arrangement with the shah? In preparation for our survey of India, and the mutual benefits it will bring to our two nations?”
“No need for a lecture,” said Sufi. “I will turn the pages for you. All of the rare-book librarians here have had our fingertips cauterized, so that they secrete no oils or sweat.”
“Indeed?”
“Quite painful, but necessary,” said Sufi. “Now, please, if you will clasp your hands behind your back and remain perfectly still, no matter what. No matter what,” he repeated, quite emphatically.
Lord Winterbottom reluctantly obeyed, and promptly felt something cold and dry winding around his wrists.
“What the . . . ?”
“Don’t move,” said Sufi. “The Persian asp strikes only if provoked. Remain calm and all will be well.”
“Easy for you to say,” said the man fighting the urge to panic.
“Just be still; breathe normally,” said Sufi, carefully opening the large book to the midway point. “The first half is a treatise on cartography and astronomy. Rather tedious. Here now, we come to the maps.”
Sufi turned the page to a spread entitled ROME, followed by SARMATIA, NORTHERN BARBARIAN LANDS, AFRICA, and then THE ORIENT.
“Hold on now,” said Lord Winterbottom. He was growing agitated yet desperately trying to remain calm. “Where are the maps?”
Sufi smiled. “Ptolemy left no maps. Only detailed instructions for making maps.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Shall I go on?” said Sufi, turning to a spread entitled NETHER REGIONS and another called THE HIDDEN SEA.
Lord Winterbottom almost flinched, but caught himself. “There,” he said. “Tell me more of this one.”
But Sufi Rouhani was now standing behind his guest. Lord Winterbottom was about to protest when he felt the Persian’s hands come up and grasp him across the chest.
“What the devil are you doing, Rouhani?”
“Don’t move,” said Sufi. “Remember—your hands are tied.”
“Are you mad?”
“No, just lonely. We servants of the House are required to take . . . vows. Also, I’ve lived in Persia for thirty years now, where men and women dress quite similarly. I’ve learned to tell the difference.”
“Sufi . . .”
“You’ve got fewer curves than I like, and you’re not very pretty, especially with that fake mustache. But I could tell you were a woman the moment I saw you.”
“Sufi, I have to sneeze.”
“What?”
“Dust,” said the Brit, his long nose twitching. “From the pages, I think.”
“No dust here.”
“In the middle of a desert?” His nostrils were spasming now. His narrow mustache was wriggling like a worm.
“I assure you, this is a highly controlled environment. . . .”
“I can’t stop it. . . .”
“You’re bluffing,” said Sufi. “Remember, the asp . . .”
Achoo!
It all happened in an instant. Lord Winterbottom flung up his hands to cover his nose. In that same moment, the Persian cried out. Sufi Rouhani looked at his guest, who slowly pulled his hands away from his nose to reveal a wicked smile. Sufi held his own hands up to his face, just in time to see the asp pull its venomous mouth from his thumb.
“Sorry, old chap,” said Winterbottom as Sufi collapsed to the sandstone floor and the small asp slithered away into the darkness. The Brit turned to the Atlas, ripped out the page open before him, and a moment later the person known as Lord Winterbottom was running down the corridor, back into the Hall of Maps, screaming, “There’s been an accident!”
In the chaos that followed, Lord Winterbottom fled the hall, the shiny medals on his bright blue coat going clankety-clank. He ducked into an empty nook of another reading room, where he stripped off his coat, vest, shirt, boots, and trousers, leaving him in the blowzy pants and kaftan that Sufi had given him the day before. Even in this traditional Persian man’s garb, it was obvious that Sufi had been right—the lord was a lady. She kicked her old clothes into the darkest corner, peeled off her mustache, covered her head, and strolled back the way Sufi had led them, stopping briefly in a room of ancient weapons, where she nicked a sword that had caught her eye—a brilliant scarlet sheath with gold ornament, and a gold and scarlet hilt with a gold pommel. Just in case. She hid the sword under her baggy clothes, and then walked out of the House of Wisdom into the bright, broad daylight.
PART ONE
THE ORACLE BONE MAP
CHAPTER
1
THE NAMES
Bren had never much remembered his dreams, until this one: a house at the base of a mountain where two rivers meet. And a door made of wide planks of larch wood, hanging on heavy, black iron hinges. The door is inscribed with writing that is foreign to Bren, and yet he understands it. It is a list, read from top to bottom: David Owen; Emily Owen; Brendan Owen.
The next time he comes to the door, though, his mother’s name has been crossed out and another has been added. The door now reads: David Owen; Emily Owen; Brendan Owen; Archibald Black. The third time, Mouse’s name has been added to the bottom. But the fourth time he comes to the door, everyone’s name but his mother’s has been struck.
“Mouse, what sort of dreams do you have?”
She was hunched over their makeshift game board. She had taught him how to play Go, an ancient Chinese game of strategy involving black and white stones. She had drawn the board in the firm sand near the water, and had collected light and dark pebbles from one of the island’s streams.
“Dreams?”
“Yeah. I
don’t mean hopes and dreams. I mean the kind you have at night. Do you remember them?”
Mouse shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Do you ever have the same dream over and over?”
“I guess,” she said. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Bren examined his remaining black stones. The object of Go was to capture more space than your opponent by surrounding her stones with yours. In their three days since being shipwrecked on the island, Bren had not yet won a game, and Mouse currently had him cornered all over the board.
“I don’t mean the exact same dream. I mean, almost like one big dream, chopped up. That you have in a particular order, night after night.”
She looked up, and even though her face and eyes rarely showed any expression, he could tell she was confused. “Never mind,” he said. Back to the board. “I resign. Again.”
Mouse carefully set up the board once more, this time giving Bren white and herself black. “You give up too easy,” she said.
“Maybe you should let me win once.” Mouse moved her first stone. Bren just sat there, then realized he was fingering the black stone around his neck. “Mouse, what did you do with the jade eye?” If she had used it, or tried to use it, since the night in the cavern, Bren hadn’t seen her do so.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the milky white stone they had found in the cave. The stone had been set into the eye socket of a girl named Sun, who had been exiled to this island from China in the company of Marco Polo when she was only a child, because Kublai Khan had feared she was a sorceress prophesied to overthrow his empire and restore the Ancients.
Admiral Bowman had wanted that stone, and the great power he believed came with it.
Mouse held the stone up in the palm of her hand, and Bren felt his stomach lurch as she struck the same pose she had then, summoning the quicksilver dragon to attack the admiral.
In that moment Bren had been terrified of Mouse. And then, when it was all over, she had gone back to normal. Marooned together, they had just been two children foraging for food, playing games, praying that part of the Albatross crew had survived the storm and would find them. They hadn’t talked much about what had happened in the cavern. But now Bren was reminded that Mouse was never just a child. She was the orphan with a fantastical past, a soul-traveler, a friend he knew less about the longer he knew her. And now she had this . . . object.