Secrets of the Dragon Tomb

 

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

 

Thank you for buying this

Henry Holt and Company ebook.

 

To receive special offers, bonus content,

and info on new releases and other great reads,

sign up for our newsletters.

 

Or visit us online at

us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

 

For email updates on the author, click
here
.

 

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.

 

For Stephanie—

Without you, this book would never have been.

 

And for Ben—

I think you would have liked this one.
Sorry you never got to see it.

 

PART ONE

Uninvited Guests

 

1

A Complete Disaster

Mars, 1816

I was dangling from a rope, fifty feet up the side of a great pillar of red Martian rock, with my arms buried in a sopping curtain of tanglemoss and bury-beetles trying to build a hill over my head, when I finally realized I had chosen the wrong summer vacation.

My friend Matthew, Viscount Harrison's son, had invited me to spend the summer with him. But no. I'd decided to come home instead.

What an idiot.

Right about now, Matthew's family would be settling down for their tea or going for a quiet stroll in the warm afternoon air. In the evening, when the glitterswarms rose from the depths of the Valles Marineris to spread like a cloth of gold across the sky, they would raise a toast to King George, like any normal family on British Mars.

What they would absolutely, definitely not be doing was swaying dangerously halfway up a giant stack of rock, hunting for an angry bushbear.

This hadn't exactly been my plan when I got up this morning.

What I
had
planned was to get my latest copy of
Thrilling Martian Tales
, lock my bedroom door, and be left alone until lunchtime. I'd finished my chores and even made a great big “Do Not Disturb” sign for my door—to keep my little sister, Putty, out.

In the last issue of
Thrilling Martian Tales
, Captain W. A. Masters, British-Martian spy, had been left hanging by one hand from a mountain temple while the tyrant's dragon swooped down upon him.

I'd hardly been able to sit still all month, waiting to find out what would happen in the next issue. If
I
had been Captain Masters, I would have waited until the dragon was almost upon me, then launched myself onto its neck, clambered onto its back, and battled the tyrant riding it. But Captain Masters always did something unexpected.

Today, I would find out what.

Or I would have, if our malfunctioning ro-butler hadn't wandered off, taking the mail with him.

I caught up with the ro-butler just in time to see him coming down the attic ladder carrying three parasols and a wig stand, but no mail. So, with a sigh, I climbed up into the horrific chaos of our attic to see where he might have put it.

I didn't find my
Thrilling Martian Tales
, but what I did find was an infestation of crannybugs. The tiny creatures had snuck in during the night and built their little glass palaces under the rafters. Now they were hanging out their miniature silk flags. Soon, they would be multiplying.

I put my head into my hands and groaned.

Matthew had every issue of
Thrilling Martian Tales
, back to the rare issue no. 1 with the free clockwork death spinner that Captain Masters had used to destroy the Emerald Tyrant's flying palace.

I'd never even read that issue. And there wouldn't have been any crannybugs in Viscount Harrison's house. If there had been, I wouldn't have had to deal with them. Viscount Harrison's valet would have sent out to Isaac's Xenological Emporium for a consignment of catbirds to chase the crannybugs right back out of the attic. Or, if Isaac's was out of catbirds, he might have sent the automatic servants up to the attic, armed with dusters and drills, to clear away the crannybugs' palaces, and hope the creatures would leave in a huff.

But no. Here I was instead, while my family tootled about in their own little worlds, leaving it all to me.

Any
normal
family would do something that would actually get rid of the crannybugs, before they ate completely through the rafters and collapsed the roof down on top of us all.

Not my family.

My family is not good at that kind of thing. They wouldn't notice the crannybugs until the house collapsed and they were sitting there in the dust and rubble, wondering what had happened.

Which left it to me to save us all from complete disaster, as always.

That was why, an hour later, Putty and I found ourselves on top of one of those pillars of rock, searching through the thick curtains of tanglemoss for the only thing—other than a catbird—that could clear out an infestation of crannybugs: a bushbear.

The bushbear is an evil-looking creature, all spikes and tongues and damp, moldy fur. It lives deep in the wet, slimy folds of tanglemoss, only peeking out at sundown with tiny, bloodshot eyes. If you can drag it into the daylight, it curls up tighter than a hedgehog and you can take it back with you to deal with the crannybugs.

Bushbears try to eat crannybugs, but that's not what bothers the crannybugs. What they really don't like is the bushbear's horrible appearance and general bad temper. Put a bushbear nearby, and the crannybugs get so offended they move out.

Of course, first I had to find one, and that was turning out to be harder than I'd hoped.

From up here on the pillar of rock, I could see the whole of Papa's estate. The house itself was a great, sprawling mess of a building on the shores of the Valles Marineris. To either side, thick stands of fern-trees whispered and chattered to each other whenever the wind blew, but in front of the house, the lawns stretched down to the water, and good English oaks lined the drive.

Right now, the lawns were being covered by stalls and trestle tables for Mama's long-planned garden party, which was due to take place tomorrow afternoon. Ridiculous, fake native Martian hovels were being erected on the edge of the fern-trees, and workmen were arguing over the half-finished, towering dragon tomb that Mama was having built beside the water's edge just for the party. Beside it, a steam lifter stood motionless, its enormous arms spread wide, puffing steam from its mouth into the clear sky.

The dozens of pillars of Martian rock behind the house formed a maze of gullies and dead ends. Mama had wanted them flattened so she could have a proper, carefully designed wilderness like the one on her father's estate, but Papa wouldn't hear of it.

Which was a good thing, because without the pillars, the blankets of tanglemoss wouldn't grow, there would be no bushbears, and we wouldn't be able to do a thing about the crannybugs that would soon collapse the house around our ears.

So, as I said, Putty and I were on top of a pillar of rock. Although, when I said “on top,” I meant Putty was on top, looking after the rope, while I swung halfway down with the rope around my waist, clawing through the thick moss.

I tried to imagine myself as Captain W. A. Masters, battling my way to the lair of a tyrant of Ancient Mars. Except Captain W. A. Masters would have a helichute or sharp-clawed grip-gloves and would swing easily down the precarious rock face. He certainly wouldn't have to rely on Putty keeping him safe.

There's something you should know about Putty. First, her name isn't Putty. She's my little sister, and her name is Parthenia, but “Putty” fits her far better. Putty is nine years old, three years younger than me. She is incredibly enthusiastic and as impressionable as wet putty. Show her a new idea, and she'll throw herself into it like a diver from the top of a cliff.

A month ago, for instance, she met a photonic mechanician and spent the next few weeks poring over books about photonic capture and emission devices. Before that, she read an article by the celebrated xenologist Frank Herbert Kynes and decided to dedicate her life to the study of sandfish. She even got halfway through building a sandfish containment tank in the corner of her bedroom before she encountered the photonic mechanician. And before that … Well, you get the idea. Right now, Putty had decided she was going to be Papa. This was one of her more common obsessions. At least once a year, she turned herself into a little doppelgänger of Papa, complete with tweed jacket, disheveled hair, and eyeglasses she didn't need, to Mama's complete despair.