The Dragon's Gate

by Barry Wolverton

  “Welcome to New Amsterdam!” bellowed the presumed leader. “Castor, down!”

  His elephant slowly bent its front legs until it was kneeling, and then did the same with its rear legs. The man riding it was still ten feet above the ground, though, and a small coterie of assistants helped him out of his pavilion and onto the ground. He fussed with his waistcoat and sleeves, rearranged his hat, and then walked over to where Sean and Bren were standing.

  “Welcome to . . . I already said that.” He cleared his throat. “I am Governor Wycoff, at your service.” He removed his hat and bowed. He reminded Bren of a jollier Mr. Richter, the wealthy businessman from the Dutch Bicycle & Tulip Company that Bren had despised. “My lieutenant governor, Gertjan Oomen,” he added, waving his hat at the man atop the other elephant.

  “Governor Wycoff, my name is Sean Graham, formerly bosun of the Albatross.”

  “The Albatross?” said the governor. “Reynard Bowman’s ship?”

  Sean nodded. The governor craned his neck to see who else was with them.

  “Where is he?”

  “The thirteen you see before you are all that’s left,” said Sean, and he proceeded to introduce Bren, Mouse, and the other ten surviving crewmen. “I apologize for our appearance, and our unannounced arrival. I’m afraid we’ve had a . . . bit of an ordeal.”

  The governor clapped his hands together. “Of course, how rude of me! You will share your story later, over a welcoming feast. But now you men clearly need fresh food and water, and rest. And, I daresay, a bath.”

  Bren could tell Mouse and he were thinking the same thing: Please let us ride an elephant to wherever we’re going. Once the governor had remounted his elephant, and it was standing again, Mouse walked over and stood right next to its trunk.

  “Careful now, little one,” said the governor, but Mouse reached out a hand and gently ran it along the elephant’s trunk, which twitched up into a J and danced a little back and forth. The elephant’s ears flapped up and back several times, and Bren could have sworn he saw something like delight in the giant’s eyes. Even the governor was impressed.

  “Extraordinary!” he said. “Would you like to . . .”

  Before he could even finish, the elephant wrapped its trunk around Mouse’s legs and hoisted her straight up like a torch, setting her on its back right behind its ears. The governor let out a great laugh.

  “Would anyone else like to—”

  Bren was at the other elephant’s side before the governor could complete a sentence. The governor laughed again.

  Bren was helped into the pavilion with the lieutenant governor, an owlish Dutchman who smiled and nodded and patted the cushioned seat next to him. Sean and the rest had had enough of riding unpredictable vessels, and were grateful for solid ground beneath their feet.

  When the elephants rose, Bren felt as if he were halfway up the mast of the Albatross again. And then the beasts began to walk . . . a slow, rhythmic rocking, not unlike a ship in calm waters. Still, Bren felt nervous, afraid he might fall right out of the open pavilion if the elephant suddenly changed its stride or stepped on a limb.

  Mouse, of course, took to the elephant like it was old habit, tucking her knees behind its ears, stroking the stiff hairs atop its head.

  “You really saved us, Governor Wycoff,” said Sean, who was walking between Bren and the governor. “I never would have dreamed a day ago that we’d all have the chance to return home so soon . . . if at all.”

  The governor laughed. “Well, don’t be too hasty, Mr. Graham. After a night or two with us, you may never want to leave!”

  Once they arrived at the village, Bren decided the governor might be right. Back in Map, he had always measured his father’s shabby wooden house against the stone and slate homes of the wealthy. Here the Netherlanders had built a beautiful village from the resources they had: large wooden houses made of palm wood; streets of crushed shells that glittered like jewels; wooden aqueducts carrying freshwater.

  “Is this what all the Eastern Netherlands looks like?” Bren asked Sean.

  “Not exactly,” he said, taking in the village with as much awe as Bren. “Most look more like fortified trading posts. This reminds me more of Cape Colony, which until now I had thought of as the crown jewel of the colonies.”

  “Maybe this is the new crown jewel,” said Bren. “The governor did call it New Amsterdam.”

  “Aye,” said Sean. “He did say that.”

  Their welcome feast that night took place outside, since the weather was perfect, and though Bren was starving, he took his seat warily. He had only attended one banquet, back at Cape Colony, and he shuddered at the thought of how that one had ended. After everyone else was seated, the governor appeared, and Bren, Sean, and the others, following the lead of the thirty or so Netherlanders, held their palms together over their heads, bent forward, and said, “Prosperity.”

  Governor Wycoff bowed and said, “Prosperity,” in return.

  “Where are we exactly?” said Sean, once the banquet was under way.

  “New Amsterdam!” said the governor. “Oh, you mean geographically, of course. I couldn’t tell you in sailor’s terms . . . such and such degrees north and west and all that jibber-jabber . . . but I can tell you we’re a week or so’s journey southwest of the Dragon Islands. I had been stationed at Sunda, doing typical governor’s work, when I was asked to lead a group looking for new resources on nearby islands. Turns out this place is filthy with tin.”

  “Tin?” said Sean.

  The governor nodded. “Important in making bronze, you know. Bronze artifacts have been found all through the archipelago. The company figured there must be a wealth of tin around here somewhere.”

  “How on earth did you get elephants here?” said Bren.

  The governor laughed. “With much difficulty!”

  There seemed to be so many other questions to ask, but for now the group of weary sailors, having narrowly avoided a terrible fate, seemed more than happy to enjoy the feast and the local wine, and, best of all—real beds. After the feast, the governor took them to a longhouse of sorts, the floor of which was lined with wood-frame beds topped with cozy down mattresses and pillows.

  “Do you frequently expect large parties?” said Sean.

  “A good host is always prepared,” said the governor, and he bid them good night.

  Bren took a bed next to Sean, and before everyone collapsed from exhaustion, he said, “Sean, I get the feeling something is wrong. That something’s bothering you.”

  Sean finished undressing and lay down on his back, clasping his hands together behind his head.

  “Aye, I suppose you’re right, lad. Something feels a bit off to me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, I’ve been sailing Far Easters with the company for several years now, and I’ve never heard talk of a New Amsterdam, and certainly never ported here. And I’ve never heard of a Governor Wycoff, either.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  WHITEHALL

  Winter in London is cold, but even worse, it’s wet. The rain puddles in the holes and ruts left by horses and carts, softening up the mud until streets are pocked with minor sinkholes. For David Owen, a slight man whose worn boots already looked like old potato skins, this presented little difficulty. But Rand McNally—powerful British map mogul who also happened to be a man of no less than three hundred pounds—was finding himself calf-deep in the muck in his brand-new, handmade leather riding boots. He had, in fact, planned to ride into London for an audience with the queen properly, on a fine horse, except that none could be found to support him.

  “Why don’t you just ride on the cart with the equipment?” said Owen as McNally extracted his right leg with a great sucking sound. McNally turned his beady eyes on him.

  “I’ll not be carted to Whitehall like an invalid,” he snapped.

  They had come this far by boat, hiring out a small craft from the seaside port town of Map, sailing up into the Ch
annel and then along the Thames. McNally didn’t like coaches, and the roads this time of year from Map to London were treacherous. But once off the boat, they had only been able to hire out a rickety cart for their things, along with a couple of swayback horses, from the closest livery stable.

  The roads into the palace grounds were little better, furrowed by the daily comings and goings of dignitaries in ornate carriages that must have weighed twice as much as a typical coach, what with the weight of precious jewels and metal on both the carriages and their occupants. David Owen realized that he and McNally must look like a couple of wandering tinkers come to sharpen the queen’s knives.

  The palace guards must’ve thought that too, judging by their faces, and McNally’s Papers of Invitation did little to impress them. They could’ve been stolen, after all.

  “You’ll have to go around to the servants’ entrance,” said the first guard. “Mind your shoes.”

  “Happy to,” growled McNally. When they were both seated in a mudroom, cleaning their boots under the supervision of a stern butler, he said, “You’re here to assist me, Owen, nothing else.”

  “I am aware.”

  “Be invisible until it’s time for the queen’s gifts, and then disappear again when you’re done.”

  “I understand.”

  “This is good for your family, too, you know,” said McNally. “Head draftsman for the queen’s Royal Surveyor? And you’ll get proper credit for your work on the new instruments.”

  While I’m being invisible, thought Owen, but it was something else McNally said that almost overwhelmed him—good for your family, too.

  What family was that? His wife, Emily, had been gone for almost three years now. And his only son, Bren, had been gone from home more than six months. David still remembered their exchange on the dock as if it had just happened. The Dutch admiral promising Bren not just treasure, but the most extraordinary treasure he could imagine. The admiral couldn’t have known how reckless that promise was, could he have? David Owen knew just how limitless his son’s imagination was.

  And then his boss, Rand McNally, who could have put an end to it all right there. Who had the power to overrule the admiral. Instead, he gave the final shove—I can’t knock sense into him, maybe you can.

  He glanced at McNally, who looked like a muddy boulder right now, hunched over his filthy new boots. Why hadn’t he made Bren stay? He was the one who had been so determined for Bren to apprentice at McNally’s Map Emporium, and then at the moment of truth he’d driven him away.

  David Owen didn’t understand, and he would never forgive him.

  Once McNally had made himself presentable, the butler led them from the mudroom, through the larder and kitchen, down a long and winding corridor past the servants’ work areas, upstairs, and into a long, high-ceilinged hall that was somewhat less impressive than David Owen had been expecting. No thrones, no tapestries, no gold ceilings . . . just a simple marble floor, tasteful paintings on the wall, and at the far end a raised area with a single wooden chair. Scientific appointments obviously didn’t get the lavish treatment of military or royal events.

  Their equipment had been brought in and was waiting there, near the platform, covered with a cloak. A guard walked them to the front, where they were instructed to stand until the queen arrived.

  The queen obviously had better things to do; David Owen and Rand McNally waited there for no less than twenty minutes, Owen quietly fidgeting while McNally began to boil, judging by his ever-reddening bald head.

  Finally, a curtain parted, and Queen Adeline was escorted in, dressed neck to feet in a blue and silver brocaded gown, a funnel of pearls around her neck, and her hair done up like a hornets’ nest. She came to the edge of the stage and stood there while her two guests knelt. When David Owen rose he saw that the queen was trying to suppress a smile, and that’s when he noticed that Rand McNally was having trouble hauling himself back off the floor.

  “A hand, Owen?” he whispered.

  David Owen hooked an arm under McNally’s, but instead of lifting his boss up they both nearly went down in a heap.

  “I’ll wait over here,” the queen said drily, and she turned away and walked over to her chair, making a big show of arranging her gown while the bumbling mapmakers got themselves upright again.

  Queen Adeline looked McNally up and down. They had met, once, during the queen’s Ruby Jubilee, when she had toured Britannia to celebrate her twenty-fifth year on the throne. She had thanked McNally for his prominent role in elevating Britannia’s global trade profile, which led to her granting him additional legal prestige for his so-called treasure maps. She had toured the Map Emporium and the Explorers’ Club (though not the vomitorium, where Bren was once employed), and within weeks of her departure, ladies in Map were sporting fashionable new clothes from London and Cloudesley Swyers had designed a whole new line of royalty-inspired wigs.

  So, she knew what McNally looked like, and how large he was, and upon seeing his tight pants and knee-high boots, she asked, astonished, “Did you ride here on a horse?”

  There was a faint sound of sniggering from her attendants.

  “No, Your Majesty,” he said. “I had planned to, but—”

  More sniggers.

  “Enough,” said the queen. “This is a solemn ceremony, is it not?”

  She went through a short but formal presentation of naming Rand McNally the Royal Surveyor, explaining the title’s duties and privileges therein, and then the previous Royal Surveyor came forward, a somewhat frail older man, holding a royal blue coat that was the size of a horse blanket—McNally’s official new uniform.

  The queen glared at the man. “And where is your jacket, Lord Winterbottom? You were quite proud of it, as I recall. With all those medals pinned to it, one normally heard you coming long before they saw you.” More laughter.

  Lord Winterbottom cleared the phlegm from his throat. “It was stolen, Your Majesty.”

  “Stolen?” she said. “Who on earth would want to steal the coat of the Royal Surveyor? And how did they get away unnoticed with all the jangling?”

  Lord Winterbottom raised a fist to the heavens: “Your Majesty, I can only speculate at the knavery that led to such a dastardly deed.”

  The queen turned back to McNally; it looked to David Owen like she was trying not to laugh.

  “Mr. McNally, you see what a dangerous world we are living in. We have mercenaries involved in the Mogul War in India, Iberia is growing stronger, my treaty with King Max of the Netherlands has been jeopardized by a rogue admiral of the Dutch Bicycle and Tulip Company, and now Lord Winterbottom has lost his coat. Are you quite prepared to assume the risks of becoming Royal Surveyor?”

  “I assure Your Majesty that I am,” said McNally, “and that I will see to the repair of the treaty with the Netherlands. The benefit to both our countries is too great to let a traitor and his rogue crew muck it up.”

  The queen waved McNally to the stage, where Lord Winterbottom helped him into his official new coat. The new Royal Surveyor then asked permission to present the queen with a few gifts.

  First, there was the map.

  McNally was very proud of this, and David Owen had spent many long nights at the Emporium in order to finish it in time for the London trip. It was a map of the future—one that showed how large Queen Adeline’s realm would be after the signing of two vital treaties, one with the Netherlands and one with the Mogul emperor Akbar. The Netherlands would receive Britannia’s military help against the growing Iberian kingdom of Spain and Portugal. They would also get access to Rand McNally’s valuable maps of the New World. In return, Britannia would get a share of the Netherlands’ coveted foothold in the East.

  This is where the Mogul alliance came in. Akbar had already expanded Babur’s empire from the Himalayas to the Deccan Plateau, in the middle of India. But the growing empire was proving unwieldy, so Britannia would help Akbar strengthen his current territory in return for Britannia’s license to
colonize south of the Deccan, including the islands of Ceylon and the Maldives. Britannia would then share control of the Indian Ocean with the Netherlands.

  The queen’s green eyes out-sparkled the many jewels she was wearing when she saw the map, with all the new territory swathed in Britannia blue. McNally smiled; he was back on firm footing now, in every way.

  “As for the other gifts,” he said. “Mr. Owen, if you please.”

  David Owen went to the covered table and removed the cloak, revealing a number of strange mechanical devices.

  “Dear me,” said the queen, “I hope you aren’t planning to torture me.”

  McNally laughed politely, waving his assistant forward with the first device: a long staff attached to a single circular object the size of a wagon wheel. It made a clicking noise as David Owen approached the stage.

  The queen frowned. “Is it broken?”

  “Not at all, Your Majesty,” said McNally. “This device will revolutionize surveying. Owen, make the room.”

  David Owen walked parallel to the stage to the wall, made a right turn, walked the length of the hall, along the back wall, down the other side, and then back to the front of the stage.

  “That clicking noise!” said the queen, whose face was a mask of irritation.

  “It’s a counter, Your Majesty,” said Owen, who looked down at a small box where the wheel met the handle. “Two hundred fifty feet!”

  “The size of this room, Your Majesty,” McNally explained. “You see, with this device a single man can more accurately measure distance in far less time than a team with the Gunter’s chain. Enough men with enough instruments, and we can survey southern India in a fraction of the time it would otherwise take.”