The Dragon’s Apprentice

by James A. Owen

  “I don’t have the skill my father had, and not even he could keep up with old Elijah,” Ernest spat, making no effort to conceal the bitterness in his voice. “What does it matter, anyway? The age of piracy is over. Not even the privateers are called upon any longer, so of what use is a mapmaker to pirates?”

  “There are other uses for a mapmaker,” Jack said softly, “than to work as an errand boy for pirates.”

  Ernest wheeled about in a fury, ready to unleash venom in response to the insult—but when he saw Jack’s face, he understood. It was not an insult. It was a respectful call to action.

  Ernest set his jaw and considered whether to say anything, then turned away. He used a bell to summon Lauren, and when she appeared he murmured a few words to her, then dismissed her. She returned a few minutes later with a tray of tea and cakes. Ernest McGee might not have liked the reason his guests were there, but he was still going to treat them as guests.

  “It’s been more than two decades since my father died,” he said at last when they’d drunk the tea and eaten the cakes, “and almost ten years since I compiled that cursed atlas.” He gestured at the workbench near the corner. “The Pyratlas, they called it. It was to be a complete assemblage of three generations of McGee family maps, bearing all the secrets of the pirates.”

  “And yet you forbade your own son from following in your footsteps,” said John. “Why is that?”

  “I forbade it,” Ernest continued, drawing resolve from well-worn arguments, “because mapmaking has already consumed too many decades of my life, and I’ll not see it destroy his.”

  “It didn’t destroy your father, or his,” Jack replied. “They were the best in the world, according to Edmund.”

  Ernest responded to the compliment with a half smile, appreciating the effort, even if Jack was exaggerating the truth. “We were silversmiths,” he said, shaking his head as if he were recalling another life, or a half-remembered dream. “My grandfather was one of the most renowned in the world in his trade, before he became a mapmaker to pirates. He passed along the craft of silverwork to my father out of a sense of tradition more than anything else, which ended up being arbitrary anyway. My father was the one who fully embraced the family calling, as he referred to it, and we have been nothing but mapmakers ever since. At times I’ve thought we ought to just throw in entirely and become pirates. It would not have changed our lives overmuch had we done so.”

  “Forgive my noticing,” Jack said, looking around at the well-appointed room, which would have been more in place in a house at the other end of the street, “but being mapmakers to pirates seems to have benefited you rather handsomely.”

  “You think I’m ungrateful, don’t you?” Ernest retorted. “Well, perhaps I am. There has always been enough—more than enough—money for my family to do as we pleased. But I think that would have also been the case had we remained silversmiths….” His voice trailed off as he stood at the window, staring out into the street.

  “If only Elijah had never started,” Ernest said at last, “if only that pirate, Morgan, had never taught him the craft, our lives might have been very different.”

  “Morgan?” John and Jack exclaimed together.

  “Which Morgan?” asked Jack.

  Ernest turned to them in surprise. “I thought you would have known,” he said. “The pirate governor, Henry Morgan, was the man who first recruited Elijah to be a mapmaker, and he taught him how to do it besides. Everything that’s happened to my family started with him.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Pirate’s Biographer

  The best thing about being a magician, Houdini had decided long ago, was that people believed that magicians could do anything. Which, in point of fact, was not too far removed from the truth where he was concerned. No cell could hold him, no locks could bind him. He could not be drowned, or burned, or sliced in two.

  He could make anything disappear, given proper preparation, from a mouse to a freight train. And he could dazzle a crowd with nothing but a handful of ordinary household items and his rolled-up shirtsleeves.

  He was a showman, no doubt. And his life was the stage. But when he met and befriended Arthur Conan Doyle, another aspect took hold and soon became the force that motivated everything he did.

  Sir Arthur believed in an ethereal world of spirit, where magic was commonplace and the dead communicated with the living. Harry believed that magic was the result of skill and hard labor, and that the world of spirit was the realm of tricksters and charlatans. And he never believed in the ability to communicate with the dead until he became dead himself.

  Harry had often promised his wife that if there was some means of communicating with her from the great beyond, he would. What she didn’t expect was for him to actually turn up at her door, flowers in hand, still young and in his prime, in the company of his dead friend, the writer of detective stories, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  She declared him a fake and a fraud and threw him out. For years after, she still dutifully held a séance on his birthday, in the belief that the real Harry would somehow contact her.

  Since then, he had thrown himself into his new calling: going about the business of the world, trying to save all of history, partnered with his friend who had embraced this new life to become that which he admired most—a Detective. But as for Harry, dead or alive, he remained what he always had been, a showman.

  “What do you think, Arthur?” Houdini asked as they passed Trafalgar Square. “Is this a rational plan of action, or sheer madness?”

  “All the best plans are always slightly mad,” Doyle replied, “but I think the only way the Caretakers are going to sort this out is if we give them a hand.”

  Houdini chuckled. “They always underestimated us as Caretakers, and Burton wasn’t much better,” he said, nicking a couple of apricots from a nearly stand, then paying the vendor with a penny from his own till. “They’re good about practical matters, but they just don’t have any sense of style. Except maybe for the badger. He shows promise.”

  “Rose, too,” Doyle said, taking one of the apricots, “as long as she is allowed to have her own head about things. She’s growing up faster than any of them realize.”

  “If we don’t figure out how to reattach her shadow soon, she may grow up faster than anyone is ready for,” Houdini replied.

  “Don’t I know it,” said Doyle.

  “Over here, this way,” Houdini said, pointing. “There’s a street where there are horses and carriages, and it’s smoky and noisy. That means blacksmith shops.”

  “It’s as I’ve always said, Harry,” Doyle mused. “These Caretakers lack focus. Always, they lack focus. Oh, a few of them have vision—but they’re never going to be able to see anything through while they’re stuck in that gallery, or arguing all the time.”

  “I completely agree,” Houdini answered as he finished the apricot. He dropped the pit into the tin cup of a match girl and waved his hand over the cup. A shoot of green sprouted up from the pit, and in a few moments it was a miniature tree, full of leaves and bearing fruit of its own.

  “They’re so preoccupied with having come through the doorway,” he continued, “that they’ve completely forgotten the most important thing …

  “… who it was who came through the door last.”

  The visit with Ernest McGee ended cordially enough, with John and Jack thanking him graciously for his time and trouble, and Ernest agreeing, somewhat reluctantly, to meet with them again. The revelation that Hank Morgan had been Elijah McGee’s teacher was too significant not to share with the others—but they did not yet know enough about this family of mapmakers to speak of it openly in front of them.

  Lauren saw them to the door, pausing a moment longer than was needed to say good-bye to Edmund, who was returning with them to Franklin’s house.

  “I still have some work to do,” he explained. “I was supposed to finish earlier, but it was too good a day to waste being indoors, and not flying kites.
”

  At Franklin’s door, they found Theo waiting for them outside. He asked to speak with Jack privately, and so John and Edmund went inside, leaving the others to talk.

  “I have felt our enemy,” Theo said quietly. “The Echthros followed us through the door. It’s here, with us, now.”

  Jack looked around, his hackles rising with panic. “Here? On Craven Street?”

  Theo nodded. “I have felt its presence at the edges of my mind since we arrived, but I have only just decided that it was a certainty.”

  “Is it going to attack us like it did the ship?” Jack asked, scanning the sky above, which was sparsely dotted with clouds. “Or will it attack us more directly?”

  “The Echthroi corrupt and subvert,” he replied. “This one’s goal was to stop us, and at the Frontier that meant stopping the ship. At Paralon it tried to summon its allies. Here I do not yet know what it intends—but we must be alert.”

  “Could it be the star?” Jack suggested. “Rao? The animals said it had become a Lloigor.”

  “No,” Theo said. “Not the Lloigor from the Archipelago. The Echthros—the same that has followed us all along.”

  “Should we discuss it with the others?” asked Jack. “Warn them?”

  “No, not yet,” Theo replied. “The Echthros can take any shape, appear to be anyone. It may have already done so.”

  “Great,” Jack groaned. “So how do I know you aren’t the Echthroi—Echthros?”

  “If I were, you would already be dead.”

  “If we do discover our enemy, what then?”

  “I have a way to control it,” Theo replied, “so that we may escape.”

  “Escape to where? We’ve been in the Archipelago, and we’ve gone back in time. Where else can we go?”

  The End of Time pondered this. “You are right,” he admitted. “We can’t hide. So we must be successful, or perish.”

  The night passed uneventfully, which was a blessing to the companions, who had had more than enough of commotion and chaos in the last few days. Better than just settling in, the animals had proved to be amazingly compatible with Doctor Franklin and had, in a single evening, reorganized his entire library.

  “I can’t find a single thing!” Franklin said, beaming. “It’s glorious.”

  He was a gracious host and had asked Edmund for the loan of the McGee’s maid to help prepare breakfast. The flapjacks went over extremely well with everyone, as did the fresh bread and fruit, but there was a minor diplomatic incident when Lauren lifted the cover on a platter of sliced ham.

  The foxes were all for it, but the hedgehogs threw a fit and threatened to have a public protest. It didn’t help matters when the ferret started quoting a book on cross-species ethics that had been written by Fred’s grandfather.

  Eventually everything settled back to a dull roar, and the animals went back to work while the others set about planning their day.

  “I’m concerned,” John began. “We haven’t heard anything from Houdini and Doyle. Perhaps we should have Laura Glue out looking for them.”

  “Oh, please,” said Burton. “You’re worried about them, but not the effect that might be caused by a flying girl being spotted in London?”

  “What else can we do?” asked John.

  “Wait,” Burton said firmly. “Simply wait. They’ll find their way to us.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. That was too pat an answer, too assured. “Sir Richard,” he said casually, “is there something you’re planning that we should know about? After all, they are your acolytes.”

  “I’m here as your ally, Caretaker,” Burton replied. “Don’t question my motives or take me for a fool.”

  “All right, enough,” John said, standing. “We don’t need to be arguing. Houdini and Doyle will just have to look after themselves.”

  Theo had basically taken up the post of watchman at Franklin’s house, which was serving as their de facto headquarters on Craven Street, and Laura Glue was helping him. Fred had been conversing with Franklin on a number of topics and chose to stay. So John, Jack, Burton, Rose, and Archie followed Edmund and Lauren back to Ernest McGee’s.

  The Caretakers’ second reception at the house of Ernest McGee was much warmer than the first. He had been poring over his father’s journals and seemed to have found something that changed his outlook on the strange visitors his son had brought to his house. Ernest set Edmund and Lauren to doing other tasks in the house while he opened one diary for his guests.

  “Here,” he said, showing them a particular passage he’d underlined, “in one of his diaries, from when he was very young. He had been working closely with his two best friends on their History, and on the Pyratlas, and he mentions that they were doing it in hopes to become apprentices to someone called a Caretaker.”

  John and Jack didn’t respond to this, but Burton let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. Rose scowled at him, and Archie simply looked on.

  “That’s, ah, very interesting,” said John. “Why are you showing this to us?”

  “Because,” Ernest said as he led them upstairs, “I remember once, when I was very young, sneaking into my father’s study and seeing the Caretaker. He was a Frenchman with a high-born manner and a very prominent nose. I remember little of what they discussed, but I will never forget,” he added as he opened the door to a large room, “that he wore a silver pocket watch, with the picture of a dragon on the case.”

  “Centuries,” John whispered as they followed McGee into the room. “We spend centuries trying to keep the secrets of the Archipelago, and when we drop, unannounced, into eighteenth-century London, everyone we meet seems to know about the Caretakers.”

  “A validation of my arguments,” Burton said with a wry smile, “and a preview of your life to come, eh, Jack?”

  “I don’t even want to think about it,” said Jack.

  “Excuse me,” said a voice from somewhere in the back of the cluttered workshop, “but if you’re burglars, as I suspect you must be, then I’d ask that you take me along with you. It’s dreadfully boring being in here all the time, and I’d do just about anything for a change of scenery.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ernest said as he cleared away some of the debris that blocked the space between the shelves. “I didn’t mean to leave you here so long, Charles.”

  “I know that voice!” Rose exclaimed. “Archie, don’t you? Do you remember?”

  Ernest pulled aside a tarpaulin and uncovered a large oil portrait inside an elaborate oval frame.

  It was Captain Charles Johnson.

  “Hello,” Rose said. “It’s nice to see you again, Captain Johnson.”

  “How is it that you know me?” Johnson said, the suspicion in his voice quite clear. “To the best of my recollection, we haven’t met.”

  “We have,” said Rose, “or rather, we will. In your future. You may not remember, but I do.”

  “Ah, the future,” said Johnson. “That would explain it. You aren’t old enough to have met me in the past, when I was still among the living. Not that I’d remember you anyway, young lady. I was quite the rake, you know. I do like your bird, though.”

  “Pardon me for saying this,” offered Archimedes, “You may not be among the living, but you aren’t exactly dead, either.”

  “I might as well be,” Johnson retorted. “I’m stuck in this stupid painting, and even my best friend’s son manages to forget I’m here.”

  “I did say I was sorry,” said Ernest.

  “What are you doing in here?” asked John.

  “I’m a spy, don’t you know,” said Johnson. “I’m spying on the family McGee for Daniel Defoe.”

  “Pardon my asking,” Jack said, looking at Ernest then back at the portrait, “but isn’t part of the point of being a spy that you try to keep it a secret from the people you’re spying on?”

  “Yes,” said Johnson, “except that I really, really hate Daniel Defoe.”

  “That would do it,” said Burton.

 
“The last thing I remember before waking up in this portrait,” said Johnson, “was one of my best friends, Daniel Defoe, pointing to something interesting over the side of a ship. One good shove later and I’m condemned to a glorious second life in oil paint.”

  “He murdered you?” asked John. “Not really a very good best friend.”

  “Don’t I know that,” Johnson said glumly. “Anyroad, he told me that if I spied on the McGees for him and tried to discover where the treasures were hidden by watching the maps they made, then he’d make sure I got credit for my book.”

  “You’re speaking of A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates, aren’t you?” said Jack. “Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news for you.”

  “I don’t care what the bad news is as long as my name’s on it,” retorted Johnson. “It’s practically the only thing that proves I ever existed.”

  “Uh-oh,” said John.

  “Never mind that,” Rose said, steering them to another topic. “Can you tell us anything about Henry Morgan?”

  “Ah, Morgan,” said Johnson. “A gentleman and a pirate, in that order. He was the one who taught Elijah McGee how to make maps, and started this whole family down the pirate road. He never made much noise about his own skills, although he certainly could teach. It’s funny.” He paused, thinking. “He’s the one who pressed Elijah to teach Eliot, and young Ernest here. He said it would take generations for them to be ‘good enough,’ although I never got to ask him what they needed to be good enough for.”

  “Why not?” asked Rose.

  “Because,” said Johnson, “after old Elijah gave him the last map he requested, Morgan up and vanished.”

  “You mean he died?” Burton asked.

  “No,” said Johnson. “I mean he disappeared, right in front of Elijah. All he left behind were the treasure maps and a note I stuck in my other book, The Maps of Elijah McGee. He said that the note was to be given to anyone who came looking for him who wore a silver pocket watch.”