The Clockwork Dragon

by James R. Hannibal

  “Um . . . He is?”

  The scowl intensified.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much,” said Gwen, pulling Jack toward the room. “Snug is a bit generous, if I’m honest,” she whispered once the two had squeezed inside.

  The dying firelight hardly breached the threshold, making the little room uncomfortably dark. Jack could make out a single table, a couple of chairs, and a leather bench against the back wall. All were empty. “I think that barkeep is messing with us.”

  But as his eyes adjusted, a falcon and a dragon took shape in the wood moldings above the bench. Jack had seen them together before, on an heirloom from his father’s armory. “Gwen, there’s—”

  “I see them.” She pulled out her phone, letting the glow from its screen wash over the panel. The wings and tails of the two creatures touched to form a seal, with a Latin phrase etched beneath. “Familia in Aeternum,” read Gwen. “Forever family. What do you suppose it means?”

  On a hunch, Jack pressed the seal inward, and heard a soft clank, followed by a scraping of wood. The bench, along with a section of the wall behind it, rotated outward. He laughed. “It means the barkeep wasn’t messing with us after all.”

  Chapter Six

  A FALCON, THE SYMBOL of the trackers.

  A dragon, the symbol of the dragos.

  Familia in Aeternum.

  Forever family.

  There was more to Sir Drake than Jack had first supposed.

  A spiral staircase, lit by a hissing gas sconce, beckoned them onward. Three steps down, Jack pulled an iron lever, and the bench and panel swung back into place, closing them in.

  At the bottom of the steps, they found a tavern built from an old crypt, with patrons wearing anything from chalk-striped suits to ragged street clothes. A kid with green spiky hair and a black leather jacket glanced up from a nearby table. He gave Jack an indifferent nod before returning to a plate of bread and cheese.

  “This is . . . odd,” said Jack, and he wasn’t talking about the crypt layout or the mixed scent of bread and blackberries. A girl circled a finger in the air, gathering a disc of vapor into a globule of water. She flicked it away to splash against a boy’s head at the next table over. Across the room, two little boys of Arab descent sat back to back, each with half of a chess set on a separate board. One slid his queen diagonally across the squares. The other dropped his forehead into his palm and knocked over his rook.

  Gwen lifted Jack’s chin to close his mouth, which had been hanging slightly open. “Why have we never heard of this place?” She pointed to several men and women brooding over a table strewn with maps. “There’s the arbiter.”

  The moment she spoke, Sir Drake looked up, smiled, and gestured toward an empty table.

  Jack answered with a nervous nod. “It’s like he sensed we were here. That’s not disconcerting at all.”

  The three took their seats, and a fourth chair slid over from the table next door of its own accord. A well-dressed teen with shiny black hair sat down opposite Gwen. “Hello, miss. Remember me?”

  Jack did. “Will.” He narrowed his eyes. “How’d you do that?”

  Will touched two fingers to his temple, as if that was the answer. “Welcome to Fulcrum, Master Buckles. It’ll be good to ’ave a tracker ’round ’ere again.”

  “Whoa,” said Gwen. “Slow down. What is Fulcrum, some kind of tracker-drago speakeasy?”

  The clerk laughed. “Not likely. There’s no alcohol down ‘ere, too much business goin’ on. And we are Fulcrum.” He used an elbow to point at the patrons around them. A few answered with solemn nods. “This speakeasy, as you call it, is the Cellar—a right and proper lair.” He took a swig from the wooden mug he had brought with him, leaving a swath of pink foam on his upper lip. “Best brambleberry cider-milk in the Elder Ministries.”

  Jack tried to wrap his brain around that one. “Brambleberry what?”

  “Want some?” Will wiped his lip and stood up again. The chair moved out of his way on its own. “ ’Course you do. Two cider-milks coming up.”

  As Will sauntered off, Jack turned to Sir Drake, raising a finger. He meant to ask what Fulcrum was all about, but the Royal Arbiter answered that very question before he got the chance to ask it.

  “We are the secret society within the secret societies, Jack—a catalyst of equilibrium, using our modest skills to keep the balance of power among the Elder Ministries.”

  Gwen sat forward in her chair, lips parting with a question of her own.

  “What sort of skills?” asked Sir Drake, doing to her what he had done to Jack. “For one, the sort of skill that allows me to finish your sentences. I can hear your most prominent thoughts, moments before you speak them.”

  The slightest smile lifted the corners of Gwen’s mouth. “You’re Merlinians.”

  Will sat down again, setting two mugs of frothy pink cider on the table. “And Arthurians, yeah?” The mugs slid over to Jack and Gwen on their own. “In my case, that means telekinesis. Pretty cool, eh?” He winked at Gwen. Her freckled cheeks flushed.

  Jack glowered at him. “I thought the Arthurians were a subset of the dragos, and the Merlinians were a subset of the spooks, fire-wielders and mind-readers from—”

  “The bloodlines of Arthur and Merlin,” said Sir Drake. “True. But Fulcrum stands apart, Jack. Think of us as . . . outcasts.” He bent forward. “Just. Like. You.”

  “Ahem.” Gwen found her tongue, turning away from Will. “Are you saying Jack is part drago? Or part spook?”

  “Both, I should think. As all trackers are.” Sir Drake sat back and snapped his fingers. Spiky-green-hair kid strolled by, sliding a plate of rolls, apple slices, and cheese onto the table. “The same sensitivity that allows me to see the thoughts on the tip of your tongue, allows a tracker to experience every piece of his environment in four additional dimensions.”

  Will rotated a finger, and Gwen’s mug moved in a circle, pink foam curving to a swirly peak. “An’ the same brand o’ telekinesis that lets me to do that, lets Jack, ’ere, read the molecules of a door knocker. It also lets a drago ignite the air molecules in ’is palm.” He raised his mug in toast. “But you know all about fire, don’t you, Jackie Boy?”

  Jack wasn’t about to confirm his budding abilities with fire in front of the judge—not after Gall’s accusations. He kept silent, but he raised the mug to appease the clerk.

  Will took a great big swallow and smacked his lips. “Aah. Good, yeah?”

  Jack tried to match him, but he wound up coughing into his sleeve, eyes watering. “It’s . . . sharp,” he wheezed.

  “That’d be the brambleberry juice. If it weren’t for the moose milk, you’d never get it down.”

  Sir Drake frowned at them both. “Jack’s ancestor Johnny Buckles was the first to discover the connection. At the same time, he saw the dragos with their raw power, the spooks with their secrets and mind-reading, and the toppers with all their money, and realized that any one ministry might quickly overpower the rest.”

  “So he created Fulcrum to keep the balance.” Gwen took a swig of her cider without so much as a flinch.

  Will grinned. “That-a-way, miss. Very nice.”

  “Johnny Buckles,” said Sir Drake, ignoring the exchange, “searched among orphans like himself for the unacknowledged children of the ministry aristocracy. He found many with . . . unique . . . variations of the Arthurian and Merlinian skills.”

  “Like a girl who can make water magically appear.” Jack took a roll and a slice of cheese from the plate. Discovering a new secret society had made him hungry.

  Sir Drake cast a glance at the girl in the corner. “Kaimana doesn’t use magic, Jack. She draws moisture out of the air, making London a veritable playground for her.”

  “And the twins playing chess?”

  “Ahmed and Rahim. They remotely sense each other’s movements, but only each other’s for the moment.” Sir Drake picked up an apple slice and popped it into his mouth. “We shall see w
hat time reveals.”

  Jack split his roll down the middle and slipped the cheese into the gap, making a perfect little sandwich. As he tried to take a bite, the roll flew out of his hand, straight into Will’s.

  “Thank you, Jackie Boy.”

  Sir Drake placed a cautioning hand on the clerk’s arm, as if to say be quiet for a bit. “That brings us to Jack’s grandfather, John Buckles the Eleventh. As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, he was Fulcrum. During his last assignment, keeping Gall’s power in check, we lost him. All we know is that he fell from a cliff in the Bavarian Alps, a few miles south of Salzburg.”

  Will polished off Jack’s roll and called another from the platter. It flew right past Sir Drake’s nose. “That’s where you come in, Jackie Boy. We need ya to find out what ’appened, connect his death to Gall.”

  There must have been twenty people in that secret underground lair with untold telepathic and telekinetic skills. Jack sat back, crossing his arms. “Why me? Why not Will or Water Girl?”

  “This mission needs a tracker.” Sir Drake picked up another apple slice. “And you’re motivated. You have the most to lose.”

  “But aren’t you the Royal Arbiter?” Gwen laid her elbows on the table. “Can’t you rule in Jack’s favor? Besides, Jack is the accused. He not supposed to leave the Keep, let alone London.”

  “That is not quite correct, Miss Kincaid. Jack is the object of a complaint, nothing more. What the Ministry of Trackers chooses to do with him is still their own affair. And I am an arbiter, not a dictator. I am but one voice on the council.”

  Another roll flew off the platter. Sir Drake intercepted it and slapped it into Will’s hand. “Stop that. I feel as if I’m caught in a reverse food fight.” He let go of the roll and sighed. “Jack, I’ve left this mystery unsolved for far too long. Gall’s actions tell me that battle lines are being drawn. We must have answers if we are to be ready for the fight.”

  Jack took an absentminded sip from his mug, forgetting the pink-burning-death-drink lurking within. He coughed. “What . . . will we . . . find in Salzburg?”

  “Evidence, I hope.” Sir Drake removed a yellowed paper from his inside pocket and laid it on the table, covering its faded script with his hand. One edge was ragged, as if the page were torn from a book. “Your grandfather gave his life racing against Gall in the hunt for a powerful artifact—the Mind of Paracelsus. That is why he went to Salzburg. Find that artifact’s trail and you’ll find his.” He lifted his hand. “This may help—the last words of Paracelsus, translated from an entry in an innkeeper’s ledger.”

  Gwen passed a magnifying glass over the script. “I know this handwriting. This is the missing journal page.”

  She handed the glass to Jack, and he read the words aloud. “ ‘Once I held a treasure worth the fortunes of pope and king. It rests on high beneath the seasick saint, now far beyond my reach.’ ”

  “Your grandfather found the ledger in a New York bookstore,” said Sir Drake, folding the paper again. “After recording these lines, he had that ledger destroyed to keep Gall from finding it.” He handed the paper across the table.

  Jack tucked it away. “But what is this Mind of Paracelsus?”

  Sir Drake’s expression turned grave. “The Mind unlocks the one treasure that powerful men cannot take for themselves—the one treasure that would enable a man like Gall to hold on to power indefinitely.” He stood, indicating that the interview was over. “The search for the Mind is the search for immortality.”

  Chapter Seven

  JACK AND GWEN WALKED north of Baker Street, avoiding the Keep for a while longer. They found a quiet bench in Queen Mary’s Rose Garden. The lamps were doused for the night, but Spec hovered above, spreading a cone of yellow light around them.

  “Do you have it?” asked Jack, holding out an open palm.

  Gwen shoved a hand into her pocket, rummaged around for a few seconds, and produced a mother-of-pearl lighter with the initials JB in gold lettering. “You know, if my Uncle Percy catches me with this, he’ll think I’ve started smoking.”

  Jack pressed his lips together. “Uncle Percy knows you better than that.”

  When Jack had first confessed his budding ability with fire, Gwen had suggested a policy of dual control—given Jack’s history with the zed. The little sphere had gradually sucked the life out of him for a year, all while he thought it was boosting his abilities. It had been a life-threatening addiction. Gwen worried that the fire thing might turn out the same, so she kept the lighter, and Jack practiced his fire-craft only under her supervision. Recent events, however, had made it clear that this new power was beyond either of their control.

  It had started a week earlier, when Jack woke up to a charred pillow. Then, three nights later, he burned a hole through his blanket. Both had occurred after the clockwork dragon nightmare. The chair fire had been the worst yet. He shuddered to think what might have happened if the flames had reached his dad’s oxygen tanks.

  Jack could produce fire in his sleep, like an Arthurian drago. But he could not duplicate that skill while awake. He could only play with an existing flame.

  Gwen drew the lighter back. “Are you sure you want to do this? Now?”

  “It helps me think.” Jack lowered his outstretched hand. “And you used to think my fire-play was cool. But I guess it’s not as cool as making food fly across a table.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I could practically see your heart flutter when Will winked at you. If you’re into guys with bad grammar and no manners, I’m sure I could get you his number.”

  “Now you’re just being absurd.”

  “Am I?” Another zinger had made it halfway from Jack’s brain to his lips when Spec dropped down and bonked him on the head. “Hey!”

  The nano-drone zipped around Gwen, messing up her hair, and settled in front of them, camera twitching back and forth, looking from one to the other.

  “Oh, relax,” said Gwen, straightening her hair. “We’re not fighting. We’re just talking.”

  “Speak for yourself,” grumbled Jack.

  Spec pushed in closer.

  “Fine.” Gwen struck the lighter. “We’re sorry. Look. I’m giving him the flame.” She put on an exaggerated smile. “Everyone’s happy. Right, Jack?”

  “Uh . . . right.” Jack matched her ridiculous smile and passed a hand across the lighter. He opened his palm, showing Spec the little tongue of fire.

  The nano-drone stayed put for a moment, then slowly rose into the air, canting toward them as if to say, I’m watching you.

  A long while passed before either spoke again. Jack played with his flame, holding it in his palm and twirling it with his finger. He tossed it from one hand to the other, which was his best trick. Not very impressive. Whenever he tried to throw a flame as he had done in the nightmares, it snuffed itself out within a few feet. He checked to see if Gwen was watching, and then tried something new, rolling the fire from his palm to his knuckles and back again. It worked.

  “You are getting better,” said Gwen, bumping his shoulder. “And I noticed your hands are getting farther apart when you toss it. Pretty soon you’ll be throwing fireballs like a true drago.”

  Jack held the flame in both hands and lowered them to his lap. He sighed. “How are we supposed to get to Salzburg?”

  She gave him a smile, a devious lift of her freckles that Jack knew all too well. “I’ve been working that out. Come on. Douse that light. It’s time to get you home.” Gwen explained her plan as they walked.

  It could work.

  Maybe.

  Gwen followed him partway down the Great Stair, instead of going home to her mother’s flat near King’s Cross. The two had an early training session with Ashley Pendleton the following morning, so she would sleep in her uncle Percy’s office on the quartermaster level. “Just so you know,” she called, pausing in the doorway as Jack continued down the steps, “if I want Will’s number, I can get it myself.”<
br />
  The door fell shut behind her.

  Chapter Eight

  THE NEXT MORNING, JACK met Gwen on the quartermaster level. He leaned against a walnut panel in a long, arched hallway lined with oil paintings. Men and women in bowlers and top hats posed with canes, bullwhips, and copper discs—the ministry’s most famous quartermasters, trained in the many arts required to get trackers deep into trouble and out again.

  Jack tugged at his sweats. The waistband itched, needling the back of his brain with orange and yellow spikes. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Anytime now, Gwen.” They didn’t want to be late. They had to stay on Ash’s good side if they wanted his help with the plan.

  “Relax. I’m right here.” Gwen emerged from her uncle’s office wearing black sweats with the word APPRENTICE down the right arm and QUARTERMASTER down the left. She had her favorite black-and-purple striped scarf wrapped around her shoulders.

  “Nice scarf,” said Jack, pushing off the wall and walking beside her.

  She nudged him with an elbow. “Have you forgotten how cold it gets in the arena? Trust me. You’ll wish you had one before the hour’s over.”

  A leather-padded side-a-vator brought them along a jerking, lurching route to the arena—the Keep’s indoor stadium. Jack had seen the ministry’s workforce of Quantum Electrodynamic Drones, or QEDs, configure the place into everything from a castle setting to a garden village. Most mornings it was empty, nothing but a giant ironwood cylinder.

  Jack swayed as the side-a-vator stopped. “Are you going to ask him, or should I?”

  The doors slid open. Gwen just looked at him and walked out.

  Jack nodded. “You’re right. It’s better if you ask him.”

  “Ask me what?” Ashley Pendleton waited on a simple ironwood walkway that ran around the upper level. White clouds collected above, near the lights. Thanks to its size, the arena had its own weather system. The dashing black quartermaster tipped up his newsboy cap with a wolf’s-head cane. “I’m sensing an ambush,” he said, then twirled the cane and pointed at his trainees. “I can see it on your faces.”