The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [48]
“Certainly,” said Grimalkin, eyeing Archimedes. “Do I get the bird to play with?”
“Define ’play,’” said Bert.
“Oh, never mind,” said the cat as his body faded out to nothingness. “Come this way.”
“He’ll take care of you,” said Bert. “Just follow his head.”
“I could use a rest, I think,” Quixote said. “Thank you, master Caretaker.”
As the two companions and the reluctant owl followed the bobbing cat’s head down a corridor, Bert turned back to the Caretakers. “Now we can talk as men do, about things of import and consequence.”
“Will she be safe here, Bert?” asked John.
“Safe as houses,” Bert replied, “or at least, as safe houses. She has nothing to fear here. Grimalkin will look after her, and no one may come here who wasn’t invited. That’s one of the reasons these islands have remained nameless, and why no map of them exists in the Geographica. This place is our own version of Haven, to withdraw to when we must, or when circumstances are most dire.”
“Well, we’ve certainly got a map now,” Charles said, scratching at his side. “Does it keep moving even when we’ve arrived here?”
“The Cartographer cornered you for the duty, eh, Charles?” said Bert with a grin. “It’s easier when you’re traveling with friends. My first trip here was solo, and I had to use a mirror.”
Suddenly a flock of birds barreled down the hallway, each carrying silverware and china place settings. As in the Great Whatsit on Paralon, the servants of the house were large black birds, who were dressed nattily in vests and waistcoats.
“Crows?” Jack asked as the last of the birds flew out of the hallway.
“Ravens,” Bert corrected him. “A full unkindness.”
“I’ll take an unkindness of ravens over a murder of crows any day,” said Charles.
“Your jokes are still both literate and unfunny,” said Bert, hugging Charles around the shoulders. “It’s so good to see you again, lad!”
Bert led the three friends through room after room, but other than the ravens, the house appeared empty.
“Is there anyone here?” Jack asked, peering up at a stairwell that ended, inexplicably, at the high ceiling. “The place seems to be abandoned.”
“The master of the house is indeed here in residence,” said Bert, “but he seldom chooses to appear. You may meet him after the Gatherum.”
“The what?” asked John.
“Better I simply show you than try to explain,” Bert said with deliberate mystery and a touch of glee. “Here—I want to show you the Pygmalion Gallery,” he continued, waving them down another long corridor. “In fact, I’ve wanted to bring you here for a very long time.”
“What prevented you?” asked John.
“Those evil stepsisters, Necessity and Planning,” Bert replied as they approached a set of tall polished doors. “One always gets too little attention, and the other too much—and they never seem to balance out.”
The doors were covered with cherubs, and angels, and all manner of ornate and byzantine carvings. In the center, where the doors met, were three locks. Bert removed a large iron ring with two heavy skeleton keys from his pocket. He unlocked the first lock, then the next.
“Three locks,” Charles said, “but only two keys?”
“The third key is imaginary,” explained Bert. “It’s a safety feature.” He made the motions of choosing a key and inserting it into the third lock, and the companions were all surprised to hear a loud click.
“It’s always the most difficult,” said Bert. “You have to turn it just so.”
The gas lamps came up as they entered an anteroom. Beyond was a spacious gallery, with velvet-lined walls, lush oriental carpets, and high ceilings that irised to a circular skylight. The walls were covered with paintings—portraits, John noted, that were almost life-size and large enough to step through.
“An astute observation, young John,” Bert said. “Do you recognize any of the portraits?”
“Any of them?” said Charles excitedly. “I recognize them all!”
In the center of the north wall was a full-figured portrait of Geoffrey Chaucer, and slightly smaller portraits of Sir