The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [126]
“With which,” Quixote said, “a journey of a thousand miles may be taken. But as always, it is for you to choose the direction.”
“And which direction are you going?” asked Fred.
“A knight must needs have a squire,” Quixote proclaimed as he knelt before the badgers, “and at the moment, I find myself sorely lacking.” He leaned closely to Uncas and pointedly raised an eyebrow.
“Well,” Uncas said thoughtfully, “we could help you advertise, put up flyers and whatnot. Maybe we could get Aven t’ sponsor a competition or summat, like a contest for a maiden’s handkerchief, except you’d be the handkerchief. But not a maidenly one,” he added quickly. “More like a manly kind of handkerchief.”
Fred rolled his eyes heavenward and elbowed his father in the back. “He’s talking about you, Pop. He wants you to become his squire, right?”
Quixote nodded, and Uncas’s eyes grew wide with the realization of what was being offered to him.
“Y’—y’ mean, go with you? On adventures, and heroic quests, and, uh, adventures? Do I get a sword?”
“A dagger, perhaps, would better suit one of your stature,” Quixote replied. “But you get a hat with a feather in it.”
“And a horse?” said Uncas. “I get to ride a horse?”
“Actually,” said Quixote, “I know of an ogre who has a donkey that might be just the right size and temperament for you.”
“What’s the donkey’s name?”
“Donkey,” said Quixote.
“That’s perfect!” Uncas said, hitting a fist into his other paw. “I can remember that! But . . . ,” he continued, his expression suddenly sorrowful, “I have responsibilities here. I mean, the press . . .”
“Will do just fine without you, Father,” Fred said hastily.“ You’ve trained me well, and it practically runs on its own, anyway.”
“True, true,” Uncas said. “But I’m the seniormost member of the RARS. I can’t possibly deprive them of my wisdom an’ guidance an’ . . . uh, smartness.”
Fred continued to press the point that this was a great opportunity, but it wasn’t until a dozen other badgers who’d heard of Quixote’s offer rushed forward to reassure Uncas that somehow the Royal Animal Rescue Squad could struggle along without him, that he finally acquiesced.
“All right,” Uncas said to his son. “As long as you’ll be able to muddle through on your own.” He turned to Quixote. “It would be my privilege,” the little mammal said as he bowed deeply, “to become the squire to the great knight, Don Quixote Enchilada.”
“De la Mancha,” said Quixote.
“Gesundheit,” said Uncas.
“We have one last matter to attend to,” said Poe. “Caretaker Principia? If you’ll come with me.”
“Of course,” said John.
Poe led John to the atelier, where Basil Hallward was just completing the varnish on a painting. Even from across the wide room, the visage was impossible to mistake.
On the easel was a portrait of Daniel Defoe.
“Are you crazy?” John said to Poe. “We’d just gotten rid of him, and by his own choice, essentially! Why do this now?”
“He was a Caretaker once,” said Poe, “and we look after our own. We could not let him die the final death, when we had the means to prevent it.”
“By creating a new portrait?” asked John.
Poe shook his head. “By creating the first portrait. And the last, for him. The other portrait was a fake, very much like the one we created for Kipling to use. Defoe had prolonged his life through other means. He had never truly been among those Caretakers in the gallery.”
“And no one noticed the painting wasn’t one of Basil’s?”
“It was close enough to fool us all,” said Poe, “because it had been painted by Basil’s teacher—William Blake. He’d created other portraits, such as the painting of Charles Johnson, but never one of Defoe.”
“Good,” said John. “Two Defoes would be twice the trouble.”
“By a strange quirk of the Pygmalion resins,” said Poe, “they can be used for a person only once, and never again. So this picture cannot be duplicated. And he will never again leave Tamerlane House.”
“That’s good for you lot,” said Defoe’s image. “If there were more of me,