The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [15]
“Is there anything you can tell us about our future—um, your ‘past’—that isn’t dire and terrible?” Charles asked with a gloomy expression.
“You are all on the cusp of realizing great success in your careers,” Ransom noted.
“Oh, thank God,” said Charles. “After all those books, I was beginning to wonder if the things I’ve been writing about would ever catch on.”
Ransom squirmed. “Ah, well, yours not so much, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “But your association with your friends will keep your status high just the same.”
“I’m sure it shall be quite the reverse,” Jack said to Charles reassuringly. “Our friendship with you will be our passport to fame.”
“Yes, yes,” said Charles glumly. “Do you know how many stories I’ve published? How many poems? And still, I’m best known for works I conceived in part because of my relationship with you fellows, and the adventures we’ve had. And I’m a little tentative about some of those, seeing as they’re little but fictionalized versions of the Histories I’ve been keeping.”
“As have all your predecessors before you, Charles,” Ransom said placatingly. “It was their way of processing the myriad experiences they had, and writing the Histories alone was a gargantuan task, assigned only to those most worthy. That you have the skill to fictionalize some of those chronicles is an achievement without peer.”
“I appreciate the compliments,” said Charles. He wasn’t sure if the philologist was pulling his leg for decorum’s sake, or if the flattery was sincere. But he wasn’t going to argue. “It’s just that being well known and respected for one’s work has less, ah, emotional resonance when the only ones who do know and respect the work are essentially bound to keep their opinion a secret.”
“It’s to your advantage, though, Charles,” Jack observed. “You’re going to be known, in our world, for an increasingly progressive body of work, rather than for the one great book you feel has eluded you. Isn’t that what every writer truly wants?”
“It would be a ghastly thing indeed,” John chimed in, “to be known for only one or two significant works. That would drain the soul and temper the vinegar of any worthy writer. Don’t you agree, Ransom?”
Ransom swallowed hard and waved for the barman. “I think we should get more ales before I answer that,” he said, a pensive look on his face. “Several more ales.”
He turned in his chair and scanned the great room of the inn, but there was no sign of Lampwick, or of the boy, Flannery—or, for that matter, anyone else.
The card players had gone, as had the three or four scattered patrons who had occupied other tables. The companions were alone in the inn.
“It’s only just past seven,” John said, checking his watch. “Shouldn’t this place be hopping with patrons?”
Ransom pursed his lips and slowly stood up. “It should. There are always travelers seeking a moment’s respite, and there is always someone tending to their drinks. Something is seriously amiss here.”
Suddenly Flannery’s bright face appeared at the edge of the bar, where he gestured to the companions to remain where they were. A finger to his lips told them that silence was also necessary.
“You’re being watched,” he whispered as he crept toward their table. “Do not let them know that you know. I was told to destroy your owl, but I hid him in my storeroom instead.”
The companions sat motionless, save for Rose, who finished her mug of milk. “How do you know this?” she said quietly as she wiped the foam from her lips. “Who are you to us?”
Smart girl, John thought. Find out if someone is on your side before you place yourself in their hands.
“I am a friend,” Flannery replied. “I’m to help you, if I can.”
Charles lifted his drink to his lips to cover his words. “If you’re a friend,” he whispered, “then you should have a sign that proves who you’re working