The Dragons of Winter (6 page)

“As a covert identifying marker, however,” said Verne, “the method was far from infallible and had been subverted more than once.” He gestured at the half-formed cat wrapped around John’s shoulders. “And Grimalkin is correct,” he said. “To accept a ring is to accept the Binding that comes with it. And once accepted, it cannot be taken from you, and can only be given if offered freely, and accepted on the same terms. And those are terms,” he finished, “we know the Cabal will never accept. Not while they serve the Echthroi.”

“Why not?” asked Jack.

“Because,” said Verne, “the Binding invokes Deep Magic, which can only be used by one of noble worth, in a cause of selfless intent—and the Echthroi have only ever served themselves.”

“Enough speechifying, Jules,” said Bert. “Let’s just get on with this, shall we?”

One by one, each of those gathered at Tamerlane House accepted a silver ring from Verne. When they had all been given out, Rose read the passage in the
Geographica
that Chaucer indicated. As she spoke the last word, a wave of energy swept over the entire island.

“Well,” said Verne. “That’s it and done. Unless someone has one of these rings, or is already here, they’re not setting foot in the Nameless Isles.”

“Amen,” said Grimalkin.

After the ceremony of the rings, the Caretakers separated briefly to reflect on the events of the day and plan their next strategies.
John, Jack, and Charles, however, held back, and indicated for Twain to do the same. After a few minutes, the room had cleared, and they were alone except for a few of the Elder Caretakers who were still talking at the far end.

“What can I do for you boys?” asked Twain.

“Bert has been very, ah, anxious this entire time,” said Jack, “no pun intended. I’ve seen him under stress before, and it’s always been like water off a duck’s back. It never sinks in with him. So why is he so testy now? It can’t just be because he wants to go find Weena.”

“It isn’t,” Twain said, drawing them away from the others into the corridor so he could speak to the three friends in complete privacy. “Our friend is operating under a severe time constraint. And he’s aware of every tick of the clock.”

“What kind of constraint?” asked John. “Is he ill?”

“Nothing like that,” Twain replied. “You know that he is an anomaly, that he has a temporal near-twin, correct?”

“Sure,” said John. “Herb—the real H. G. Wells, or at least, the one Verne started with.”

“Precisely,” said Twain. “And you know that our Bert has aged a great deal more than Herb, due in large part to all his wandering around time and space.”

All three companions nodded, afraid to speak of what they feared was coming.

“Bert is,” Twain said softly, “the only non-tulpa time traveler, but he is still bound by the rules of Chronos time, or real time, here in the Summer Country. And the person he was, the person he may still have a connection to, is about to kick the bucket.”

“Oh dear,” John said, closing his eyes.

“What?” Charles said, looking at Jack. “I don’t . . .”

“What I mean to be clear about, and apparently failed at,” said Twain, “is to tell you that in seven days, H. G. Wells is going to die. And that means Bert may too. So he has just one week left in which to go find his ladylove.”

The statement hit the three companions like a thunderclap, shaking them so badly that for a moment, none of them was able to speak.

“Like Ransom, when Charles . . . ,” John said finally, swallowing hard. “Like that.”

“Yes,” said Twain. “That’s exactly what we expect to happen.”

“That’s awful, of course,” said Charles, “but if I can offer my own very informed opinion, I died, and I got over it. Won’t Bert? I mean, after the fact, he’ll still be a Caretaker. And we have ways of dealing with these things.”

“Yes,” Twain agreed, “except you chose to become a tulpa, whereas Bert has never strayed from the plan that when he eventually perished, he would join the rest of us here in the portrait gallery. We’ve tried to convince him to do otherwise, but he simply won’t be swayed. His will to do what he believes is best is simply too strong.”

Finally it dawned on Charles what the real urgency was. If Bert became a portrait, he might never be able to travel through time again—and certainly not into the far future or the deep past. There was simply too great a risk that he would not make it back to Tamerlane House in the allotted week. And then . . .

“What happened to Stellan could happen to him,” Jack said, completing Charles’s thought. “No wonder he’s so stressed.”

“Indeed,” said Twain as he began to guide them back into the room where the other Caretakers had started to gather again. “So, best efforts, eh, boys? For Bert, if for no other reason.”

“That,” John said, “is more than reason enough. And all the reason we’d ever need.”

The Caretakers were gathering again in the meeting hall because there had been a crossing over Shakespeare’s Bridge. Two of Verne’s most trusted agents had just returned, and just in time—because they would be needed to fulfill the next part in his battle plan.

“Well met,” Don Quixote said, bowing deeply as he entered the meeting hall. “Greetings, Caretakers.”

John and Jack both stood to take the knight’s hand—which John noticed already bore one of Verne’s silver rings—and Rose gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, which made him blush. It was a deserved warm welcome—but it was nothing compared to the response his squire Uncas got.

Every time Uncas visited Tamerlane House, with or without the old knight, there was the equivalent of a hero’s reception and parade held in the library. The library of Tamerlane House had been all but taken over by two dozen foxes and hedgehogs, all Paralon-trained librarians and archivists, who were led by the new head librarian—a fox called Myrret. And to these animals, Uncas was not merely a knight’s squire or an associate of the Caretakers—he was a legendary badger.

“Since I became Don Quixote’s squire,” Uncas had explained to the starstruck animals, “I hadn’t had as much time as I’d liked to visit back t’ th’ Archipelago. It was only luck that we wuz doing
a secret errand for Scowler Jules that spared us bein’ lost with everyone an’ everything else.”

“Your name was well known to all the Children of the Earth,” Myrret said admiringly. “The son of the great badger Tummeler, who saved the Scholar Charles in the battle with th’ Winter King . . .”

“‘Saved’?” asked Charles.

“Poetic license,” said Jack, “I’m sure.”

“. . . and the father of the Caretaker Fred,” Myrret went on, “you deserved the honors given to you and monuments named for you—even if you did not perish so long ago, as we once believed.”

“How many badgers can there be with the name Charles Montgolfier Hargreaves-Heald?” asked Charles.

“In point of fact,” said Myrret, “there were eleven. Not counting juniors and thirds.”

“All right then,” said Charles. “I’m so glad I asked.”

“I have another mission for you,” Verne explained to Quixote and Uncas as he handed them a slender, cream-colored envelope. “Your instructions are there, as per usual. And yes,” he added, with a wry look at Uncas, “you get to use the Duesenberg.”

“Hot potatoes!” Uncas said, jumping onto his chair. “Let’s get going!”

Several of the Caretakers accompanied the knight and his squire back to the bridge and over it, to the Kilns. Charles relished each opportunity to return to the Summer Country, given that he could only do so occasionally since he’d become a tulpa. To Jack it was simply going home. And for John, it was a chance to keep the world he lived in connected to the one he’d become
responsible for. At times, long years passed between visits to the Archipelago—and it sometimes seemed as if that other world was only a dream. But now that it was gone, John thought wistfully, it seemed more real than ever. And he missed it.

“We no longer have the resources of the Archipelago to draw upon,” Verne was saying, “but that does not mean we are wholly without resources—however questionable some of them may be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Jack.

“That we use what resources we have,” Verne said as he opened the door to the 1935 Duesenberg that sat alongside the house, “and we call in the favors that we can, from those who are able to grant them.”

Uncas gleefully took the wheel as Quixote bent his lanky frame in the seat beside the badger. “We’ll be back soon, Scowler Jules,” Uncas said as the engine growled to life. “You c’n count on us.”

“I know,” Verne said, almost inaudibly. “I know we can, little fellow.”

“Is it really prudent to just let them go driving around in the Duesenberg like that?” John asked as the vehicle roared away, scattering gravel as the tires spun.

“It’s not really a problem,” Verne replied. “Everyone in England drives like that. No one will notice one more insane driver.”

“That’s not what I meant,” John persisted. “Quixote may be able to pass, but isn’t it a little irresponsible of us to let a talking badger go driving around out in the open? In the old days, that would have gotten us in a lot of trouble.”

“Ah, but it isn’t the old days anymore, is it, young John?” said Verne. “The world is turning its attention away from certain
things, and the loss of the Archipelago has made this even more pronounced. No one sees . . .

“. . . because no one is looking. Not anymore.”

“That’s terrible, Jules,” said John. “Someone should look. Or at least, remember.”

“That’s a large part of the reason it’s our practice to recruit writers as Caretakers,” Verne replied, looking intensely at his protégé. “It’s part of your job to write down the stories so the world doesn’t forget.

“So no one ever forgets.”

Verne held John’s eyes a moment, then wheeled about, waving to the others. “Come on, then,” he called out over his shoulder as he strode back to the bridge. “We’ve done what we can do for now. It’s up to Uncas and Quixote to see where we’ll go next.”