The Dragons of Winter (40 page)

“I don’t know,” said Uncas. “They seem to go together, judging by the carvings in this tower, but I have no idea who that is s’pposed t’ be. An’ I thought I knew all th’ great Dragons.”

“She does look familiar to me, though,” Quixote said, scratching at his beard. “Something about the way the light falls on the sculpted features . . .”

Suddenly his eyes grew wide, and he moved closer to better examine the frieze. “Does she look like the Sphinx?” he asked Uncas. “The one we brought Master Verne last year?”

“Naw,” Uncas said. “That’d be too unlikely t’ believe.”

“If you’re done interpreting the art on the walls,” said the detective, “I could use a little help here. I’m stuck. Stumped. Don’t know what to do next.”

“But,” Quixote interjected, thinking about the blood at the entryway, “haven’t you had business here before?”

“Yes,” Aristophanes replied, disgruntled, “but on the fifth tier. I haven’t had to open anything on the third tier before. I don’t know how to resolve the cipher.”

“Ahem-hem,” Uncas said, clearing his throat. He removed a small parcel from his pocket. “This is, I believe,” he said with a slightly puffed-out chest, “the very reason you brung me. Bringed me. The reason I’m here.” He opened the Little Whatsit and, humming a little badger tune, began thumbing through its pages.

Aristophanes leaned in to ask a question, and the badger scowled. “Give me some room,” he said without looking up from his task. “I’m
workin’
here.”

The Zen Detective held up his hands in surrender and retreated to the far end of the room.

“It’s some combination of pictographs and Aramaic,”
Aristophanes whispered to Quixote. “It’s pretty unlikely that he’ll find any reference to those languages in his little handbook, don’t you think? Shouldn’t we consider—”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Uncas murmured, still absorbed in his task. “If only you had the faith of a mustard seed, oh, the mountains you could move.”

Aristophanes snorted. “Now he’s going to quote scripture at us? And badly at that.”

Uncas turned and looked at the detective, one eyebrow raised. “Scripture?” he said. “Naw—I’m quoting Gran’ma Badger. Moved a mountain t’ plant her mustard seeds. Made th’ best mustard in th’ whole of the Archipelago. Can’t eat potatoes without it.”

He turned back to the frieze and, with no hesitation, swiftly touched five spots on the pattern. A foot above his head, a heavy stone slab slid open to reveal a hidden chamber. Inside, pulsing with an unearthly red light, were the Ruby Gauntlets.

“Don’t underestimate Gran’ma Badger’s mustard,” Uncas said, pointing a claw at Aristophanes, “and don’t be disrespectin’ th’ Little Whatsit.”

“Unbelievable,” said the detective.

“That’s my squire,” Quixote said proudly.

At the Ring of Power on Corinth, the companions stood in stunned silence and disbelief at the terrible act Aristophanes had just committed.

He wiped the blade on the regent’s cloak, then moved back to stand behind Medea.

“Why?” Rose cried.

“I made a deal,” he said simply. “Medea meant to feed me to
the fishes, but she said that if I were to win your confidence and your trust, and discover what you were doing here, she would free me.

“Then he asked to come here, and she warned me what might happen—but said I could repay my blood-debt by slaying the regent. And so I have.”

“I thought we could trust you,” Charles said dully. “We did trust you—have trusted you, far more than you realize.”

“Of course you can trust me,” Aristophanes replied. “Right up until the point where you can’t.”

Of all the pieces of the Ruby Armor found thus far, the comb was the easiest to locate—a fact that both delighted and vexed the Zen Detective.

The sixth oracular parchment and the corresponding map pointed them to a place called Taprobane, which was a densely wooded island at the mouth of the Indus River. Aristophanes told Uncas and Quixote that he had often heard the island referred to as “Tanelorn,” and that deep within the forest there was supposed to be an impossibly old city. Fortunately, they did not have to venture that deeply—the box containing the comb, a smooth black stone, and a human finger bone was buried underneath a stone marker on the edge of Taprobane’s northern shore.

A marker that bore the sign of a Caretaker.

“Which one?” Aristophanes asked.

“My old friend, Cyrano de Bergerac,” answered Quixote. “Interesting that he should have come here, but not recorded it in any of the Histories.”

“Maybe he took the record with him,” suggested Uncas, “before he got lost riding that comet.”

“Before what?” Aristophanes asked as he pocketed the comb and closed the box.

“Long story,” said Uncas. “Six down, one to go.”

The final objects they needed to complete the Ruby Armor were the shoes. The last of the oracular parchments led them to a place that had no map, because no map was necessary. It was in London, in the secret subbasement of the Natural History Museum.

Unlike some of the other Soft Places, it could be gotten to without a slide, or a trump, or by other mystical means. But like Lower Oxford, the entrances to the secret level were all but impossible to see for most people, who weren’t looking to begin with.

The lower levels of the museum were already a treasure trove of Egyptian artifacts and fossilized dinosaur bones, but the real worth of the collection was to be found farther down.

A docent called Trent, who appeared to be of Elven descent, met them at the reception desk and listened to their request for the shoes with a growing look of incredulity.

“I can’t sell you the shoes,” he said flatly. “The Board of Regents would simply never stand for such a thing. I’d be dismissed, and they’d be very, very vexed. As it is, they’re still in a bad mood after someone managed to steal our Sphinx last year.”

“That’s a shame,” Quixote said, reddening. “These things happen.”

“I’ve dealt with regents before,” Aristophanes muttered under his breath. “This could take a while.”

Uncas, however, noticed that the docent had taken a keen interest in Don Quixote, and decided that they might have more leverage than they thought.

“How would the board feel about a trade?” Uncas offered. “The helmet of Don Quixote de la Mancha, in exchange for the Ruby Shoes of . . . uh . . .”

“Marie Antoinette,” said the docent, who seemed to be considering the offer. “She apparently couldn’t get them on in time and . . .” He made a chopping motion with his hand. “Well, you know.”

“My helmet?” whispered Quixote. “I’ve had it for centuries—it’s just now broken in.”

“Shush,” said Uncas. “We’ll get you a new one, with a phoenix feather or something.”

“Deal,” said Quixote.

“Deal,” said Trent. “I’ll get the shoes. But,” he warned, “be careful with them. You don’t have to be wearing them to use them—just in contact with them. We’ve lost three janitors, a schoolboy from Surrey, and a beagle that way.”

“I have to tell you,” Aristophanes said as they opened the trunk of the Duesenberg, “you’ve been the most unusual, helpful, and irritating clients I’ve ever had. And despite my initial reservations, I’ve actually enjoyed working with you.”

“Thanks,” said Uncas. “I think.”

“Here,” the detective said to the others. “Gather up the ends of that tarpaulin, will you?”

Together the three of them made a makeshift sack out of the tarp, which held all the ruby objects, as well as the Infernal Machine.
Aristophanes lifted it out of the car and slung it over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” asked Quixote. “Aren’t we taking all this back to Tamerlane House?”

“We have one more little trip to take,” said the detective. He unwrapped the Ruby Shoes and slipped them into his pockets—then took hold of Quixote’s arm.

“Uncas,” he said, “please take my arm.”

“Okay,” said the badger. “But . . .”

In a trice, the trio vanished, leaving the empty Duesenberg sitting outside the museum.

“. . . whyfor?” Uncas finished, as the three companions reappeared on the grassy slope of an island that was definitely not England.

“Well,” said Quixote. “At least now we know the shoes work.”

“Where have you brought us to?” Uncas said, looking around in wonder. In the distance, they could see the mist-shrouded statues, great elongated heads, that stood along the paths of the island as silent sentries.

“This is the only actual island of the Archipelago that stayed on this side of the Frontier,” said Aristophanes. “Welcome to Easter Island.”

“Fascinating!” said Quixote. “I’ve always wanted to come here. Although,” he added, “all the giants are long gone.”

“Yes,” the detective said. “They are.”

“Maybe we should come back on a different day,” said Uncas. “After we’ve taken the Ruby Armor t’ Scowler Verne.”

Aristophanes sighed, deeply and long. He turned to the badger and the knight, his expression a mix of regret and resolve. “Have I ever told you that you shouldn’t trust me?”

Quixote and Uncas looked at each other, puzzled, then back at the detective. “No,” Quixote said slowly. “I don’t think so. And we haven’t felt the need to ask—not for quite a while, anyway.”

A pained look crossed Aristophanes’s features. “Well then,” he said abruptly, “I’m sorry to tell you this—but you shouldn’t have trusted me.”