The Dragons of Winter

by James A. Owen

  “Even this,” he continued, standing up. He set down his mead and walked to the corner, where he lifted up a long, black sword. “I finally won something valuable—a magic sword—but every time I remove it from the sheath, it starts singing. Do you know how embarrassing it is to go into battle with a singing sword that won’t shut up?”

  “The sword of Turambar,” the detective murmured, making a mental note to remember where it was. “Interesting.”

  “We’re sorry to hear about your troubles,” said Uncas. “We’ve actually come looking for a different magical object.”

  “Well, you won’t have much luck here,” said Kullervo glumly. “About the only other thing I’ve got is a brooch—but it’s not worth very much. Would you like to see it?”

  “Yes,” Uncas said, and nodded. “We would, please.”

  The fisherman reached into a basket of straw hanging on a hook and, after rummaging around in the straw, removed a small, red brooch. “Here you go,” he said, tossing it to Uncas. “If you’re interested, I’ll part with it for cheap.”

  “How cheap?” asked Aristophanes, suspicious. Easy was acceptable, once in a while. But this was going a bit too smoothly for his liking.

  Kullervo shrugged. “I’d really like some fish.”

  Uncas blinked. “Aren’t you a fisherman?”

  He shrugged again. “Not a very good one, I’m afraid. And the fish aren’t as plentiful here as they once were.”

  Aristophanes leaned over and looked at the object Uncas held. It was indeed the Ruby Brooch.

  “We don’t have time to go fishing,” he whispered. “I think we should—”

  “Don’t sweat it,” said Uncas. “I got this.”

  The badger stood up. “I got six bottles of pickled trout in my car,” he said brightly. “Is it a trade?”

  Kullervo thought it over. “Is trout like herring?”

  “It’s fish,” said Uncas, “what’s been pickled.”

  “Deal,” said Kullervo. “The brooch is yours.”

  “Why in Hades’s name,” Aristophanes asked as they drove away in the Duesenberg, “would you have six jars of pickled trout in the boot of the car?”

  “In case of a ’mergency,” said Uncas. “Also, I really like pickled trout.”

  “Two for two,” Quixote said from the rear seats. “So far, so good. And it’s been Uncas who’s done all the bartering!”

  “Yes, well,” said the detective. “As I said—we make a good team.”

  “Just remember you said that,” Uncas chortled, “when you gets my bill.”

  As the car vanished into the distance, the cloaked man stepped out of the shadow of the fishing hut and walked around to the door, which was open. Kullervo was waiting.

  “Did I do it right?” he asked, the tone of his voice an odd mix of both longing and resignation. “I did as you wanted—I took off the brooch so their machine would find me, and then I treated them like guests and gave them the brooch.”

  “Yes,” the Messenger said. “You did fine, Kullervo.” He looked inside the hut. “Would you like to do it now?”

  “Weeelll,” the fisherman replied. “I just came into some pickled trout. So I thought, if you wanted to join me, we could have a bite first?”

  The man nodded. “Of course.”

  The trout was excellent, especially with some dark bread that was just stale enough to be really good, and when they had finished, the Messenger walked the fisherman to the edge of the cliff, where he used the long black sword to lop off the old man’s head. He tossed the sword in after, then removed his watch and spun the dials.

  As he disappeared, he imagined he could still hear the sword singing. It probably was.

  The next piece the companions asked about was the helmet, and the machine and the map guided them to a much smaller place than a country or an island—a place even smaller than the Inn of the Flying Dragon.

  “It’s a shop in Vienna,” Aristophanes said, “but what’s inside the Abraxas House isn’t quite as unusual as the building itself.”

  “How so?” asked Quixote.

  “You’ll see,” the detective said.

  It took several hours of driving around the twisty Austrian streets before they actually found the place they were searching for. “There!” Aristophanes exclaimed, pointing through the windshield. “That’s it just up ahead.”

  The Abraxas House was located mid-block just past the intersection of Laimgrubengasse and Gumpendorferstraße. The streets were lined with small cafés and pastry shops, which fronted the ground floors of stately old Viennese hotels and apartment buildings. Thus, the Abraxas House was a bit of an anomaly—but then again, as Aristophanes explained, it was an anomaly in just about every other way as well.

  The first unique characteristic was obvious—the entire building was seven stories tall, but only a dozen feet wide. It was deeper than it was wide, but not by much, because it backed up to a common square used by the buildings adjacent to it and on the street one block over. That was what made it unusual from the outside. What made it unusual on the inside was that it appeared to be infinitely large; room after room after high-ceilinged room stretched away past every corner they looked around. Minuscule on the outside, the Abraxas House was massive on the inside.

  The shelves were primarily full of books, but there were various other artifacts scattered in and among them: ornate boxes, weapons, earthenware, and even armor.

  “It’s a Whatsit,” Uncas said, awed by the sight. “It’s just like th’ Great Whatsit, on Paralon, ’cept there are pastry shops on either side. Brings a tear to one’s eyes, it does.”

  Quixote saw an elderly gentleman with an apron moving boxes in another room, and gestured to him for service. The man nodded in acknowledgment and came toward them, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  “Greetings,” the white-mustached shopkeeper said, apparently unruffled to be waiting on a purple man, a badger in a waistcoat and jacket, and a knight with all the fashion sense of a novelist. “What can I do for you today?”

  Aristophanes made a judgment call and decided that in a place of commerce, he could play it straight. “We’re looking for the Ruby Helmet.”

  The shopkeeper tapped his fingers on his chin and pursed his lips. “I had an ebony helmet once, but that tall, pale fellow came back for it not long after he sold it to me. I traded two houses of secrets and mystery for it, and he bought it back for seven dreams. I also had Mercury’s helmet—the one with the wings—but sold that one to a man called Garrett, or Garrick, or something like that.”

  “The one we seek,” said Aristophanes, “is part of a larger set, called the Ruby Armor . . .”

  “Of T’ai Shan!” the shopkeeper said, snapping his fingers. “I thought that sounded familiar.”

  He walked to a circular bookcase in the next room and pulled a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince out just far enough to release a catch hidden in the shelving. A panel slid back, revealing the Ruby Helmet, sitting on a pedestal.

  “There have been inquiries over the years, of course,” he said as he returned to the companions, holding the helmet, “but few willing to pay an acceptable price. Pieces this old are not easy to come by.”

  “How old is it?” asked Uncas.

  “Nine, perhaps ten thousand years old,” said the shopkeeper. “It was a little before my time, so I can’t be certain.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” Aristophanes said cautiously. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t,” came the reply, “but as you’ve asked, it’s Trisheros.”

  The Zen Detective went pale—this apparently meant something significant to him. “Thrice Great?” he whispered.

  “No,” Trisheros said, shaking his head. “You’re thinking of my father. He’s considerably older and doesn’t come into the shop much anymore. What did you say your name was?”

  “His name is—,” Uncas began.

  “Steve,” the detective interrupted. “It’s ju
st . . . Steve. A pleasure, I’m sure.” He gestured at the helmet. “What would you like for it?”

  “Hmm,” the shopkeeper mused, rubbing his chin. “I don’t really know that I need much of anything right now,” he said apologetically. “Unless you happen to have a photograph of the Painting That Ate Paris.”

  “Uh, no,” said Quixote. “I don’t think we do. But pray tell, why would anyone?”

  “Oh, no one wants the actual painting, to be sure,” the shopkeeper said, “but the photograph can fetch a good price from collectors in the know. And it doesn’t devour anything—just gives the viewer a vague sense of unease. Very avant-garde.”

  “Is there anything else you’d consider?” Aristophanes asked, feeling that the shopkeeper might be the bartering kind—especially considering his lineage. “We have access to a great many things.”

  “I assumed you were not the principal buyers,” said Trisheros. “For whom are you working?”

  The companions looked at one another. Finally Aristophanes chose to answer. “The Caretakers.”

  “Ah,” the shopkeeper said, as if this answered more than one question. “Then the price is a simple one. I would like a copy of the Imaginarium Geographica. If you can do that for me, the helmet is yours.”

  “No problem!” Uncas said as Quixote grinned and Aristophanes slapped his head and groaned. “I gots twelve copies in—”

  “In the back of the Duesenberg,” the detective finished. “Of course you do.”

  “How many would you like?” asked Uncas.

  “Er, ah . . . ,” Trisheros stammered. “Just one will do, thank you.”

  The little mammal rushed out the door, then popped the lid of the trunk and jumped inside to get the book.

  “Why would he—,” the shopkeeper began.

  “I’ve learned to stop asking,” Aristophanes said as Uncas returned with a copy of the fifth edition of Mr. Tummeler’s abridged, annotated Imaginarium Geographica. “Just smile and nod.”

  “It’s even signed by King Artus,” Uncas said proudly. “No extra charge.”

  “Thank you,” said Trisheros.

  “What was that ‘Thrice Great’ business about, anyway?” Uncas asked as they drove away from the Abraxas House. “You seemed t’ know who he was f’r a minute there.”

  “Not him, actually,” the detective answered pensively. “His father—Hermes Trismegistus. ‘Thrice Great’ is what the name means. He’s one of the oldest beings alive—far older than I am—and some people think he was a god. And,” he added, “he might have been.”

  “I’ve read about him,” said Uncas. “In th’ Little Whatsit. He’s the one who communed with angels, right? Learned their language an’ . . .” The little mammal stopped suddenly, whiskers twitching. “An’ taught it all to . . . John Dee.”

  “Maybe,” Aristophanes said, features darkening as he turned to look out the window. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Trisheros knew just the place to shelve his newly acquired copy of the Imaginarium Geographica. There was space on a special shelf in the Rare Books Room, right next to the Encyclopedia Mythica, The Journal of Ezekiel Higgins, The Book of All Stories, and the copy of the Little Whatsit he had acquired some years earlier from an agent of the Caretakers who called himself a Messenger. His name had been Ransom, and he had been welcomed as both a seeker of knowledge and a customer.

  Not so the one who was hovering around outside the door.

  Trisheros murmured a few words ripe with ancient power, and the runes above the doorway—above every doorway—glowed with eldritch energies.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly, not looking up from his work. “But this is one of the few places, anywhere, anywhen, that is barred to you. I know who and what you are. Once, I might have become as you are now myself. But I chose this, and I’m all the happier for having done so.”

  He paused and cocked his head, as if listening to an answer. “Nor do I wish you any harm,” he said. “Quite the opposite. I wish you luck. And . . .” He paused again, listening.

  Whoever it was that had been outside was gone now, and the old man sighed.

  “And,” he finished, more for himself than for the entity with whom he’d been speaking, “I wish you peace. But I fear that is not a card in the hand you were dealt. And I’m sorry, boy. Very sorry.”

  He filed the Geographica on the shelf with the other books and turned out the light.

  “This will be most difficult,” Aristophanes said when they’d arrived at their next destination. “Not many people ever come here. And those who do almost never return.

  “It’s called Tartarus,” he explained, “although it’s not the common one most people would think of.”

  “The Greek underworld,” said Quixote. “I’ve read my mythology.”

  “Have you now?” said Aristophanes. “Your mythology won’t have told you about this place—it’s about as dank and foul a region as exists. The only reason I’m here is that I expect a great reward at the end. And I’d better get it.”

  “I’m sure Verne will take good care of you,” Quixote said, peering through the gloom. “Access to the inner circle, and the like.”

  “Right,” said the detective. “Verne. That’s what I meant.”

  The wall ahead was foreboding and seemed impossibly high. From below, the companions could just make out the shape of heads set along the length of the uppermost stones.

  “Brr,” said Uncas. “Are those f’r reals?”

  “Plaster,” said Aristophanes. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  “There’s no gate,” said Quixote after a brief trot around the walls. “The road encircles it, but there’s no way in.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” said the Zen Detective. “One of these stones along the path is a catch that releases an opening in the wall.”

  “How do you know which one?”

  “Because in a past life, I was a philosopher of unknown things,” came the reply from the now-irritated detective, “and finding unfindable things is what I do best.”

  Aristophanes walked slowly around the pathway, not even really examining the stones but more getting a feel for the atmosphere of the place. He had explained to Uncas that sometimes being a Zen Detective was nothing more than imagining oneself as the person or thing that was lost, and then going to the place that they would go. It was apparently a very successful technique, because in less than ten minutes, he waved them over to where he stood.

  Aristophanes pointed to a roundish, nondescript stone half-buried in the path and covered with scrubby grass. “There,” he said. “That’s the one.”

  Without waiting for a consensus, he stepped firmly on the stone, and immediately a section of the wall in front of them came crumbling down in a torrent of stones and dust. In moments they were looking through a broad hole into the interior of the wall.

  “Oh my,” said Uncas. “I thought a door would swing open, or the stones would magically rearrange themselves into an entrance, or something like that.”

  “Maybe in the entrance to an alley of shops in London, it would do that,” Aristophanes said as he stepped over the pile of rubble and inside the wall, “but this isn’t that kind of place. Don’t worry about it, though,” he added. “It’s charmed—the wall will be back in place within the hour.”

  “Then how d’ we get out again?” asked Uncas.

  “We make sure we’re already gone when it closes,” Aristophanes said gruffly. “Come on. Follow me.”

  Within the wall the companions found a thick, tangled wood of ancient dead trees. A black river flowed through the wood, and Aristophanes advised the others not to touch the water. Along the banks, someone had placed a variety of stuffed animals, perhaps to use as a lure for unsuspecting travelers. Up ahead, the trees gave way to a clearing, where there stood a crumbling Moravian church, ringed about with willows.

  “That’s what we want,” Aristophanes said. “There should be a staircase inside that leads
into the catacombs.”

  There was indeed a staircase, and the companions lit a torch to follow the steps down. Inside the catacombs, they followed a winding path, led only by the Zen Detective’s innate sense of direction. Eventually they came to a large chamber lined with openings in the walls.

  “Boy,” said Uncas, “we could sure use some Lightening Bolts right about now.”

  Aristophanes looked at the badger like he was insane. “Are you insane?” he asked. “The last thing we need here is a thunderstorm.”

  “I didn’t say ‘thunderstorm,’ I said we could use some Lightening Bolts,” said Uncas. “You know, the kind that ’luminates stuff. We had a couple in the boot o’ the Duesenberg.”

  The detective sighed and looked at Quixote. “Do you ever win an argument with him?”

  “No,” said the knight. “He’s usually right.”

  In one of the openings they could see the skeleton of a man. It had been partially gilded—the ribs and thighs glistened with gold. In another was a glass bust of a beautiful maiden.

  As they passed through the chamber, they found many more such talismans: a willow rod that Aristophanes said had been used to beat to death a forgiven penitent; a carved wooden toy that resembled a top, which he said would tell the day of one’s death when spun; a collection of black paper hearts; and the skeleton of a dwarf, which he told them belonged to a son of the biblical Lilith.

  In the last opening was the breastplate.

  Aristophanes started to reach for it, but Quixote stopped him. “Wait,” he explained, pointing to the far end of the chamber. “First we must make certain we have permission.”

  Another skeleton sat, watching them. It held an aeolian harp in its arms, and one hand was poised to play. As Aristophanes reached for the breastplate, the hand moved nearer to the strings.

  “And if we don’t?” asked the detective.