The Dragon’s Apprentice

by James A. Owen

  “Do you still have the note?” John said excitedly. “Is it still in your book?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” replied Johnson. “I’m afraid I lost it. I haven’t seen it, page or cover, in over fifty years.”

  It took the Magician and the Detective the better part of a day and a night to deduce the answer they were seeking. They bribed, cajoled, and otherwise sweet-talked half of lower London into giving them clues, and finally they found the shop they were looking for—although it was not the one they had expected to find.

  A young man, not quite a master, but obviously not merely an apprentice, was sitting in the open door. He was working over a piece of leather on a stool that seemed designed for the purpose. His tongue stuck out from his mouth as he concentrated on the leather.

  “Pardon me,” Doyle said to the man, “but we’re looking for your master.”

  “He isn’t here,” the man said without looking up. “Come back tomorrow. It’ll be done then.”

  “What will be done then?” asked Houdini.

  “Whatever book it was you ordered,” said the man. “It’ll be done tomorrow, I swear.”

  “We’re not looking for a book,” said Doyle, “just your master. Is he”—he leaned back and looked over the shop—“is he really a bookbinder?”

  “My master?” the young man asked, surprised. “Of course he is—the only one-armed bookbinder in London, as a matter of fact.”

  “A one-armed bookbinder,” Houdini said, scowling at Doyle. “Who would have thought?”

  “It’s not my fault,” said Doyle. “The last I knew of him, he was a blacksmith.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” the man said as he resumed his work, “but if you want to see him, he’s in the back room.”

  Houdini and Doyle walked through the small but clean shop, which was filled with decoratively bound books, sheaves of paper and parchment, and new leather, waiting to be tooled. Toward the rear, with his back to the door, a large, stout man was working with a brush and paint on a large illuminated manuscript.

  “He’s a good boy, is Roger,” the man said without turning around. “Mark me—in a few years Roger Pryce will be known as the greatest bookbinder in Europe.”

  He turned around on his stool, and Houdini couldn’t help but gasp as he saw the arm that ended in a bright, curved hook.

  “What can I do for you?” Madoc asked.

  Doyle swallowed hard and looked at his friend, who took another step forward.

  “Not to put too fine a point on it,” said Houdini, “but we’ve come seeking a Dragon.”

  “More specifically,” Doyle added, “a Dragon’s apprentice. And we were hoping you might be able to tell us where we might find him.”

  Madoc’s self-control was such that he didn’t immediately react to their question. Instead he silently regarded them for a moment, then turned and strode to the door. He said something to his apprentice, who rose and left. He closed the door, then lifted the heavy crossbar that was leaning next to the frame and dropped it into the brackets.

  “Uh, begging your pardon,” Doyle asked, tugging at his collar, “but are you hoping to keep someone out, or keep someone in?”

  Madoc ignored the question and walked to the cupboard in the corner, where he retrieved a small stoppered bottle. He pondered the bottle for a few minutes, turning it over and over in his hand before finally opening it and shaking a few drops of the liquid inside it onto his other arm, just above his scars.

  “I was never much for scented oils,” he said slowly, “but my brother favored them in our youth, and he once concocted a mix that was mostly cinnamon. I could always tell when he had been in a room by the lingering scent it left behind.”

  He turned and looked at them. “It smells of Greece to me, and of happier days.”

  Houdini and Doyle said nothing. Both were experienced enough showmen to know when someone was speaking in preamble. They waited, and Madoc continued to speak.

  “The Dragon’s apprentice,” he said, voicing the words as if he were rolling them around in his mouth, tasting them. “That’s something I never expected to hear spoken of again, not in this lifetime or any other. Especially now that the Dragons are all gone.”

  “We were told that Samaranth took on an apprentice once, long ago,” said Doyle, “and as you are the only person we know in London who was there at the time, we were hoping you might be able to tell us who the apprentice is.”

  Madoc puffed on the pipe for a while, appraising them.

  “Your watches give you away as Caretakers or their ilk,” he said finally, “so I’m guessing that they are whom you represent.”

  “They are,” Houdini said with a straight face, only slightly hesitant about the white lie. “Did Samaranth have an apprentice?”

  “He did,” Madoc confirmed. “He had exactly one apprentice …

  “me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Namers and Un-Namers

  The Bard wiped his brow and set his quill aside. It was done—or at least, as done as it was likely to be. Tycho Brahe had been of more help than he’d anticipated, but then, he was the only one among the Caretakers Emeritis who had been personally acquainted with Dee while they were still living, and before they had become Caretakers.

  The fact that Brahe was looked down upon by some of the other Caretakers made his contributions especially sweet. Hierarchies were troublesome, especially among equals. And if they were not truly equal, being dead, then what was the use in trying to be accepted at all?

  He shook his head to ward off the thought. That was past, when his facade was up. Now all the ruses had fled him, and he was being looked to for a glimmer of hope—even by those who had mocked him for a simpleton.

  But, he reminded himself, that was yesterday. Today the name of Will Shakespeare might mean something different.

  At least, he hoped it would.

  “All right,” he called out to the others. “I think I’ve gotten it. Let’s see what we may see.”

  • • •

  Several of the other Caretakers who had chosen to remain out of their portraits for the vigil clustered around the Bard to view his handiwork. “I’ve adapted the trump so that we might be able to see what’s happening in the Archipelago,” Will explained. “I used some of Tycho’s calculations and a few of Jules’s notes from the Watchmaker to give us a clearer image.”

  “Will we be able to use it to go through?” Kipling asked. “If so, I’d like to mount a rescue for our friends.”

  Shakespeare shook his head. “I don’t think so. The time differential is too great—that’s why we can’t see anything through the trump. The passage of night and day is creating a strobing effect that renders the card gray to us. Our side of the card simply can’t keep up.

  “What I hope I’ve managed to do is to convert the card to resemble a one-way mirror,” Will continued, noting the new symbols he’d etched onto the card. “Instead of a portal that must take both sides into account, it will simply function as a window we can look through.”

  “Will you be able to convert it back?” Chaucer said with concern in his voice. “These cards are willing scarce.”

  Will shrugged. “Who’s to say? But we can’t use it now, so there’s no harm in trying.”

  “Go ahead,” said Chaucer, nodding approval to open the card. “Let us see what we can.”

  Tycho Brahe swallowed hard and gave Shakespeare a thumbs-up. Will rolled his eyes and inhaled deeply, then activated the trump.

  The card shuddered slightly; then, to everyone’s surprise, the image came into focus.

  “Paralon,” Verne said. “Well done, Will.”

  Shakespeare blushed at the compliment but kept his focus on the card. “It seems to be fuzzy at the edges,” he said, puzzled. “The structures on the island don’t seem quite right.”

  Verne’s shoulders fell as he realized what they were seeing. “The picture’s fine,” he said tersely. “It’s the isl
and itself that is fading.”

  He was right. The castle, which lay in fractured pieces, the great statues, even the island itself were being eaten away by the passage of time. The edges were indistinct because they were crumbling into dust.

  “It’s speeding up,” Will said. “I’ll try to expand it so we can see better.”

  He touched two of the symbols at diagonal points of the card, and it trembled, then expanded to the size of a large atlas. The detail made the process of decay even more difficult to witness—the principal isle, the seat of the Silver Throne, was falling apart as they watched.

  “Look, there!” Chaucer said, pointing to the rear of the island. “What is that shape?”

  A dark, shapeless mass was beginning to cover what remained of Paralon. In seconds—centuries in the Archipelago—it had overwhelmed the island and begun spreading across the ocean itself.

  Suddenly the card went black. Shakespeare tapped it once, then again. “What’s happened?” asked Brahe. “What’s wrong? Is it broken?”

  “No,” Verne said heavily. “I think something just covered the sun.”

  “The Lloigor,” said a voice from up above. Poe was watching from somewhere in the upper hallways. “The enemy has taken over the Archipelago of Dreams.”

  “I can’t believe he lost it,” Jack said as they returned to Franklin’s house. “A message from Morgan! It could be invaluable!”

  “It could be nothing,” Burton said dismissively. “For all we know, it could just be his last will and testament.”

  “Or instructions on how to make another map, like the one he used to return to Tamerlane House. That could be really useful.”

  “Because the other one worked so well,” Burton sneered. “Thanks, but no. I’d prefer to get back while I’m still in my first century.”

  “Says the tulpa,” Jack retorted. “You’d probably do fine, as would your fellows. It’s those of us who are still in our Prime Time that I worry about.”

  A small figure appeared in the doorway and tugged hesitantly on John’s coat. “Master John?” he said quietly. “Master Jack? Do you need any help?”

  “Oh, Coal,” John said, barely glancing up. “No, we’re fine, thanks. Why don’t you go play with Myrret?”

  “He’s busy,” Coal answered, “and he didn’t need any help either.”

  “Well, I’m sure there’s plenty to read, isn’t there, Coal?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I’m sorry, Coal,” Jack said, hustling the boy out of the room. “We have some important grown-up business to conduct.”

  “So you still think he shouldn’t have come?” Burton asked. “Or do you just tend to dismiss children out of hand?”

  “There’ll be time to deal with Coal later,” said John. “For now, we need to speak with Franklin.”

  “A book by Captain Charles Johnson?” Franklin said in bemusement. “He didn’t really exist, you know. He was an invention of Edmund’s grandfather, Eliot, and his writer friend Crusoe.”

  “Defoe,” Jack corrected. “Have you ever seen such a book? We thought that if anyone would know the whereabouts of such an esoteric book of maps, it would be you.”

  “You flatter me,” said Franklin. “I have one of the finest libraries in London and the best collection of books of maps. You’re welcome to avail yourself of it, if it will help.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” John said. He turned to Rose. “When Edmund gets back from doing his chores at his father’s house, will you tell him I’d like to see him? He may be able to help us.”

  “Can’t I help you look for the book?” Rose replied. “I might be able to see something you’d miss.”

  “We’re scholars,” said John. “Books are our business. We’ll have a better idea of what we’re looking for, Rose. But thank you for the offer.” He glanced at the door. “Edmund?”

  “Of course.” Rose nodded. “I’ll watch for him outside.”

  “While you’re chasing paper,” said Burton, “I’m going to go look for Theo. I haven’t seen him today.”

  “Fine,” Jack said as he and John entered the library. “We’ll let you know if we discover anything.”

  John thumbed through a stack of books on Franklin’s desk, then handed several to Jack. “Has it ever occurred to you,” he said, pondering, “that our presence here, at this particular time, and the disaster in the Archipelago, might be part of the impetus for the Revolutionary War? You know, the way the Winter King spurred the Great War?”

  “I can’t tell if you think we should get credit or blame if we were responsible,” Jack said as he emerged from underneath the desk and took the musty books. “It might have been nice to retain control of the Colonies for a while longer, but then again, without the Americans we wouldn’t be winning World War Two either.”

  “Just think it through,” John continued. “Events in the Archipelago mirror those in this world and vice versa. Do you think something is about to happen there that results in the conflict here, or is it the crisis in time that’s somehow reverberating backward?”

  “If it’s going backward, then I’m worried it might reverberate forward, too,” said Jack. “Like the ripples in a pond. Anyroad, I don’t think the Revolutionary War has as much to do with us as it does a bunch of plantation owners getting their knickers in a twist.”

  “Probably,” said John. “But it can’t be coincidence that we’re here, with other Caretakers, and in the same basic era that Morgan had jumped to.”

  “Not coincidence,” Jack stated flatly. “We’re here because that’s where the door opened.”

  “Yes,” John agreed, “but the builders of the keep chose to place the door here for a reason, and I think it’s because our coming here has made it one of Verne’s zero points.”

  Jack stopped, mouth agape. “That’s a really good argument,” he finally said. “I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Funny,” said John. “That’s just what Charles would—” He swallowed hard. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

  “I miss him too.”

  John looked down at the sheaf of maps in his hand, then shoved them back into a drawer. “I think we’re done. If the book is here, I can’t find it. I’m awful at espionage anyway. We should have asked Fred to do this.”

  “He wouldn’t have fared any better,” Jack replied. “And is it really espionage when you have permission?”

  “I don’t think we really know what we’re looking for anyway,” said John as he opened the door. “And I don’t think we should underestimate Fred.”

  “Point taken,” said Jack. “Shall we go find some dinner?”

  “Sounds good to me,” said John as the door closed behind them. “Lay on, Macduff.”

  Rose went to wait for Edmund, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that that was all she was able to do—wait. She hadn’t slept well, having nightmares about the dark thing on Paralon, and she felt that she was of little help with the Caretakers’ efforts here in London. So far, the most important thing she had done was not make things worse—which wasn’t really helping at all.

  Then again, she thought as she absentmindedly played foot tag with her shadow, the Caretakers never really ask for my help, or my opinion. Not really. To them I still seem to be a child.

  Without Rose, the Shadow King would not have been defeated. Without Rose, Arthur would not have been saved. When there was a crisis, and she was the solution, they listened, because they had no choice—and that felt really good to her. To be the hero who saved the day. Perhaps it was selfish, but in a small way, she understood that was why she was frustrated—she wanted them to listen to her, to help, so that she could save them all again. Maybe, she thought, that’s why heroes do the things they do, anyway.

  She had been out on the street for only a little while when she saw Edmund coming across the cobblestones. She started to raise her hand in greeting when he suddenly turned left into an alley at the end of the block.

  She s
tarted walking in that direction when she saw Lauren, who had been following Edmund from some distance behind him. Rose crossed the street behind a wagon, so as not to be seen, and then moved to the opposite corner where the alley was in full view.

  Edmund was at the far end of the alley …

  … with Laura Glue.

  They were simply talking, nothing more. But it was obvious by the efforts they’d made to meet in private that they wanted to keep their meeting a secret. They were partially successful.

  Closer to the street, Lauren was also watching, and it was obvious that she was feeling heartache over Edmund’s interest in Laura Glue. Rose decided she should speak to the girl, but she didn’t want the others to know they’d been seen. She moved farther down the street before crossing, so that she could approach Lauren quietly.

  At that moment several horsemen rode by, stirring up dirt and muck, and when they had passed, Lauren was nowhere to be seen. The girl had vanished.

  “Lose someone, dearie?” a voice croaked from behind her. “Or something?”

  It was an old beggar woman. She smiled at Rose with a faintly frightening snaggletoothed grin.

  “Hello, Moonchild,” the old woman said. “You have come to another crossroads, I think—else I would not have been drawn to you here.”

  Rose looked the woman up and down and only barely concealed the expression of distaste that was rising on her face. The woman was a beggar, or possible an escapee from a sanitarium, or both. She was humpbacked and seemed to be missing several teeth. She smelled awful, and her clothing was an assorted mishmash of rags, discarded blouses, and skirts, which she had layered with no particular finesse, and a collection of belts and necklaces that would have outfitted the entire British navy. She wore boots and carried a tattered umbrella.

  “Been having bad dreams, have we, dearie?” the old woman asked. “Would you like to tell Auntie Dawn about them? You might feel better if you do.”

  “Did Mother Night send you?” Rose asked, looking around warily. Her shadow was nowhere to be seen, and she wished she had thought to bring Archimedes with her.