The Dragon’s Apprentice

by James A. Owen

  Burton checked his watch. “Hmm,” he mused. “1768. That’s not too shabby. And at least we’re in the right hemisphere.”

  “1768?” Houdini repeated. “Are you certain?”

  Burton simply scowled in response.

  “Drat,” said Houdini. “I’ve missed him by more than a dozen years.”

  “Missed who?” asked Doyle.

  “Katterfelto,” the magician replied. “The Prince of Puff, one of the great performers of the age. He doesn’t arrive in London until 1782, blast it.” He paused and rubbed at his chin in thought. “Then again,” he said, his countenance brightening, “there was an influenza epidemic that year too, so I suppose it’s not all bad.”

  “Not all bad!” John exclaimed. “We’re in the eighteenth century! And worse, the entire Archipelago is all but destroyed! Are you out of your bloody minds?”

  “Calm down, little Caretaker,” said Burton. “They’ve traveled in time more often than you have and adjust more quickly to the novelty of it.”

  “If we’re home,” said Rose, “shouldn’t there be someone who can help us? Another Caretaker, maybe?”

  “Who is the Caretaker in this time?” Jack asked. “I can’t recall offhand.”

  John removed the Imaginarium Geographica from Fred’s pack and unwrapped it. He turned to the endpapers, where all the Caretakers had inscribed their names, and ran his finger down the list. “It was after the point when they chose to enlist three Caretakers at a time,” he said as he read the names, “so it’s possible we could meet up with more than one.”

  He frowned. “Goethe, from what I can tell. But he may still be too young to have been recruited, and he’ll be in Germany, not London. And Swift, although he would be at Tamerlane House by this point, having died already.”

  “William Blake?” Jack suggested, peering over John’s shoulder. “I know he later went renegade with some of the others, but he was a Caretaker around this time.”

  “Not yet,” Burton said, ignoring the remark about renegade Caretakers. “He’s only about ten years old here. He won’t be approached by the Caretakers for another decade, and he won’t start painting the portraits for years after that, so Swift is right out too.”

  “Then who?” asked Jack.

  “I can’t tell,” said John. “There’s a gap here. No one is minding the store, so to speak, until Blake comes of age, and then Schubert after him.”

  At this Houdini, Doyle, and Burton exchanged surreptitious glances, but said nothing.

  “Then we’re on our own,” Burton said as he snapped shut his watch. “Brilliant, young Caretaker.”

  “You have one of the watches?” Fred exclaimed, as his face wrinkled up in an expression that was a mix of both shock and distaste. “Aren’t they s’pposed t’ vanish when you become a traitor?”

  Jack tried to hush the little badger, but Burton brushed off the implied insult. “It depends on what you’ve become a traitor to,” he said, fingering the watch. “I’ve always remained true to my own code, and I’m guessing the watch would recognize that—if,” he added with a dark smile, “it was one of your cheap Caretaker watches.”

  “It’s not?” Jack said in surprise.

  “Of course not,” said Burton. “I gave that one back to Dickens ages ago. I got mine from Blake—and it doesn’t have any image of a false god on the cover to slow it down.”

  “Samaranth isn’t a god,” Jack countered, “and you’re still as misguided as ever, Burton. You scorn the wrong things, you’re slow to learn, and you see yourself as infallible, even in the face of evidence that proves you aren’t.”

  “You know what they call a person like that?” said Burton. “Caveo Principia.”

  “I’m nothing like you, Burton,” John shot back. “Nothing.”

  “I’d be disappointed if you were,” said Burton.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen,” Houdini interrupted, “but is this really the best time? People are starting to stare.”

  “We’re just having an argument,” Jack retorted. “Why would that be anyone else’s business?’

  “I’m not saying it is,” Houdini said mildly, “but if none of us being dressed like the locals doesn’t eventually get someone’s attention, the two dozen talking animals and girl with wings will.”

  “You’re right,” said John, slapping his forehead. “Of course you’re right. We’ve got to find someplace where we can regroup and get our bearings. It won’t do the timeline any good if we end up in jail in eighteenth-century London.”

  “Speak for yourselves,” said Houdini. “At worst, I’ll start an entirely new career by escaping.”

  “What do you want to do, John?” Jack asked.

  John pointed to a sign that was attached to the wall above their heads. “The door from the Keep of Time brought us here,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “Let’s have a look around and see why the Dragons thought this was an important time and place to visit.”

  The Caretakers explained to the animals of Paralon that they would have to remain in the back of the alley while the humans found a place for them to stay. The animals, being well-educated and mostly librarians at that, readily agreed.

  “We lived in secret on Paralon for all these years,” Myrret said with understanding. “We can certainly manage to stay hidden in an alley for a few hours.”

  “Maybe,” Jack said, looking around nervously, “but there you were locked in, and almost everyone else was gone.”

  “Point,” said Myrret.

  “I can help with this,” Houdini said, stepping forward. He licked his thumbs and peered up at the walls that framed the alleyway. Reaching up, he touched his thumbs to points just above his head on both walls, and then repeated the motions on several points farther down. All the while, he was murmuring words in some strange tongue.

  “There,” he said, straightening his vest. “As long as they stay behind this spot, no one on the street will be inclined to look inside the alley.”

  Doyle and Jack tested Houdini’s claim by stepping out into the street and turning around. The illusionist was correct—from without, none of the animals or companions were visible.

  “That’s not an illusion,” Burton murmured to Houdini. “That’s something real—someone else’s magic. And knowledge like that comes with a price.”

  “I paid it,” said Houdini primly. “It’s my magic.”

  “That’s them taken care of,” said John. “What of the rest of us?”

  Houdini excused himself for a moment, then disappeared around one of the corners before John could protest. He reappeared only a minute later carrying period clothes for all the men, the two young women, and the little prince.

  “We’ll be able to move more freely if we look the part,” he explained. “Everyone, strip.”

  The men hung a sheet in the alley so the girls would have a place to change in semiprivacy, while they dressed on the outside.

  “Where did you get these, Harry?” John asked as he pulled on a pair of breeches. “More magic?”

  “Mmm, probably best not to ask,” said Doyle. “Harry has a bit of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when it comes to this sort of thing.”

  “Wonderful,” Jack grumbled. “Stolen. What happens if we end up in jail?”

  “As I mentioned, I’d be fine,” said Houdini as he pulled on a nicely appointed topcoat, “but the rest of you would probably be hard-pressed to find a way out.”

  “You wouldn’t leave us there?” Laura Glue exclaimed from behind the sheet.

  “Of course not!” Houdini called back. “I’m sure I’d break you all out—eventually.” He smirked at the Caretakers.

  “Rose? Laura Glue?” John called out as he and Burton helped the prince with his shirt. “Are you ready yet, or do you need a few more minutes?”

  “They’re both dressed,” said Fred.

  “How did you know?” Laura Glue asked as she pulled back the sheet. “Were you peeking, Fred?”

  “Not i
ntentionally,” Fred answered, “but you did hang the sheet kind of high, and I’m pretty short.”

  “So you watched us dress?” Rose asked. “Fred. For shame.”

  The badger rolled his eyes and made gestures with his hands that said he was embarrassed, but the broad smile on his badger face said otherwise.

  “Fred, you scamp,” said John. “If you were my son I’d take a switch to you.”

  “Oh, leave him alone,” said Burton. “That’s the first thing he’s done since I met him that’s made me not want to eat him.”

  “Uh, thanks,” said Fred. “I think.”

  The clothing Houdini had gotten for the young women was innocuous enough and fit them well, but not even the hooded cloak he gave to Rose could cover the fact that she was shadow-less. Occasionally her shadow came close enough to look normal, but then it would swing around in the wrong direction, or jump underneath a crate or passing carriage.

  “I know it’s making you crazy,” Jack told her. “Best if you try to ignore it for now. It probably won’t go too far, and most people won’t notice that it’s not playing by Hoyle.”

  “All right,” Rose said, not entirely convinced. “I just hope it doesn’t cause any trouble.”

  “It won’t,” Jack assured her. “It’s still you, Rose. It’s only your shadow—it can’t do anything real, or harmful, while it’s still yours. It’s only when you give it up that it starts to stir things up on its own.”

  “So it’s your shadow that makes people do terrible things?” she asked.

  “It’s more like your conscience,” Jack replied. “There’s no shadow if there’s no light. As long as you are the light, you’ll have a shadow. That’s why giving it up willingly, as your father, Mordred, did, or”—he swallowed hard—“as I myself once did, is so terrible. You aren’t giving up your shadow—you’re giving up your light. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” she answered, still pensive.

  “Good,” Jack said as he stepped over to the other Caretakers. “Don’t worry, Rose. It’s usually the grown-ups who make all the stupid choices, not children. So you ought to be just fine.”

  Rose didn’t respond to his last remark, but instead looked down at her shadow, which was floating underneath her, almost touching her.

  Almost.

  Archimedes became a one-bird reconnaissance squad, being the only one of the group who could observe and report on where they were without drawing any undue attention.

  “I was here once, you know,” he said as he landed next to Rose to give his report. “The air was cleaner, but because of the horses, the streets were filled with more—”

  “And that’s enough of that,” said John, clearing his throat. “Decorum, Archie.”

  “What?” said the bird. “Rose was raised by an old fisherman, and the Valkyrie didn’t bathe until she was twelve.”

  “I’m not worried about them—I’m talking about the boy,” said John.

  “What boy?”

  “Oh, no,” John said, looking around. “I thought you were watching him, Burton.”

  “He was here just a moment ago,” Burton snapped. “He can’t be far.”

  They started out into the street, when a tall, finely dressed man with an imposing manner and a cane stepped into their path. His dress and markings said that he was the local magistrate—and his cane and tilt of his head said that he was blind.

  “If it’s a young lad you’re looking for,” the magistrate said, “you might follow the laughter and the running children.” He lifted his walking stick and pointed to the far end of the street, where several boys were indeed streaming past, whooping and hollering.

  “You could tell that just by listening?” Houdini asked, honestly curious.

  “These old ears still hear very well,” the magistrate replied. “I can distinguish among all the children in London, in point of fact.”

  “Can you now?” John said. He smiled and glanced at Jack, who seemed to be having the same thought. This was a preposterous claim on the magistrate’s part, but a harmless one. No point in antagonizing the old fellow.

  “I can hear well enough to catch that thought,” he said to John, much to the Caretaker’s surprise and chagrin, “and to know you are a stranger to London.”

  “Not a stranger, exactly,” John stammered, “but yes, I’m not from around here.”

  “Hmm,” the magistrate sniffed. “Oxford. And … a little Yorkshire.”

  “Impressive,” said Jack.

  “Hah,” replied the magistrate. “You’re perceptive, for an Irish.”

  At this Fred let out a short, sharp laugh—and was immediately silenced by a look from Burton. Rose put her finger to her lips and quietly shook her head, just for good measure.

  At the sound of the badger’s laugh, the blind magistrate stopped and lifted his head. “What was that?” he asked, turning his head from side to side. “There are no dogs on Craven Street.”

  Craven Street, John thought. I thought some of these buildings looked familiar. “The boy found it over near Trafalgar Square,” he said quickly, gesturing apologetically to Fred. “He chased it here, and then we lost him.”

  “I see,” the magistrate said, not sounding wholly convinced. “In any regard, follow the children, and you should find your boy.”

  “Thank you,” said John, as he and the others turned to head down the street. “Good day to you.”

  “And to you,” the magistrate replied.

  “That was close,” Jack said when they were a safe distance away. “We’re going to have to wrap Fred in a scarf or something.”

  “Why is it always a dog?” Fred complained. “I never have this problem in the Archipelago.”

  “Just try to keep your head down and don’t talk,” Jack advised. “It’ll be fine.”

  “He should have stayed with the other animals,” said Burton. “We’re taking an unnecessary risk bringing him along.”

  “He’s a Caretaker,” Jack responded, half-ashamed that he did, in fact, agree with Burton. “He goes with us.”

  “There,” said Doyle, pointing. “The boys are all congregating there.”

  At the end of the street that ran perpendicular to Craven Street was an open plaza. It was not quite a park, and not quite a broad intersection. There were trees and grass, and a bustling market at which vendors sold geese, and vegetables, and even hot cakes.

  In the center, near the trees, a dozen or so boys were flying kites and cheering.

  The kites were made in several different styles and were painted in a rainbow of colors. Some of the tails were too long and kept getting caught up in the trees, but others were flying free and high above the rooftops.

  One of the boys in particular was having a lot of difficulty getting his kite out of an elm. He pulled at the string as if he’d never held a kite before—which, in point of fact, he hadn’t.

  “There he is,” Jack said, exhaling in relief. “That was a bit of a scare. Let’s go get him.”

  But at that exact moment, a constable appeared on the far side of the park, and he shouted at the boys with the kites.

  “Oi! You lot!” he called out harshly. “No kites here! Stop where you are, in the name of the magistrate!”

  John thought it was strangely funny that the magistrate knew all about the boys and their kites and didn’t seem to care less. But this constable was certainly stirring things up. The boys were scattering in all directions—but several were coming straight toward the companions, with the constable in hot pursuit.

  “Quick!” John yelled. “Grab Coal!”

  Burton dodged between the fleeing boys and caught the little prince, who was clutching a green kite for all he was worth. “I have him!”

  Two more boys plowed into Fred, knocking him sprawling. Rose and Laura Glue immediately jumped in to pull him up.

  The constable stopped. “Is this your boy?” he asked Burton sharply. “You ought to know better, my lords.”

  Jack suddenl
y forgave Houdini for stealing the clothes. His good taste might have just saved them from a lot of trouble.

  “I’ll mind the boy’s business,” Burton said haughtily, “and I’ll expect you to mind yours.”

  The constable flushed, then tipped his hat and ran on after another of the boys.

  “Good enough,” Jack said. “No harm done.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Fred, who was frantically searching around in his pack. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “What’s that?” asked John, kneeling. “Are you all right, Fred?”

  “I’m fine, but it’s gone!” Fred exclaimed, his whiskers atremble with anxiety. “I think one of those boys took it!”

  John had a sudden sinking feeling. “Took what, Fred?”

  “The Imaginarium Geographica!” the little badger cried. “It’s gone!”

  Magistrate Hawkins made his way down to the other end of Craven Street and found a familiar door. He knocked twice, then again, until a voice from the inside yelled out, “Come in!”

  He entered and closed the door behind him, sniffing at the air inside the house as he did so. “Sulfur,” he said, more of a statement than a question. “Calling up an evil spirit, or constructing some kind of infernal device?”

  “What’s the difference?” the occupant replied, his voice cheerful. “Either way, I’m likely to learn something new. What can I do for you, Magistrate?”

  “I just thought you ought to know,” the magistrate said as he settled into a chair with the familiarity of a frequent guest, “that some very unusual people have just come to Craven Street.”

  “I know many unusual people,” came the reply, “including several on Craven Street. So you are bringing this to my attention, why?”

  “Several of them are men who speak with strange accents,” the magistrate replied, “and there are two young women, who speak the same. But what makes them really intriguing is the talking dog.”

  “A talking dog?” came the reply. “Do tell, Magistrate. Do tell.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Reluctant Mapmaker

  “Which boy was it?” Jack asked. “Could you tell?”