The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [49]
Kepler was there, as were William Shakespeare and Nathaniel Hawthorne. Jack was almost as good as Charles at identifying the portraits, but John was having a harder time of it.
“I recognize Twain, and Dickens,” he said to Bert, “but I’m really at a loss for several of the others.”
“Surely you know Daniel Defoe”—Bert indicated an exceptional portrait set in a rather ordinary frame— “and of course Alexandre Dumas père.
“This is where the most important debates about the Archipelago of Dreams take place,” he went on somberly, his voice hushed as the four men walked deeper into the gallery proper. “Within this room is the greatest collection of knowledge and wisdom to be found in any world.”
“I thought that was the Great Whatsit, on Paralon,” said Charles.
“That is a great repository of learning, yes,” said Bert, “but you cannot have a discussion with a book, or debate with a parchment.”
“And we’re supposed to fare better talking to paintings?” Jack said as he leaned close to examine a portrait of Washington Irving.
“That may depend more on your own skills,” Bert replied mysteriously, “than on the conversational skills of any particular painting.
“Gentlemen,” he announced with a flourish, “I’d like you to meet your predecessors, those who have gone before you in the most important job in creation: Behold the Caretakers Emeritis of the Imaginarium Geographica”
“All of them?” John said in unvarnished awe.
“Mostly, yes,” answered Bert. “The only ones we don’t actually have here are Wace, Bacon, and Dante. We do have a picture of Geoffrey of Monmouth, but when we told him what it was for he panicked and fled, and so the portrait remains unfinished and cannot be used to bring him through.”
“Bring him through what?” Jack exclaimed.
“Through to here—into Tamerlane House,” said Bert with a twinkle in his eye. “Watch and learn.”
Bert removed his silver pocket watch and walked to the portrait of Hans Christian Andersen, where he inserted the watch into a small, semicircular indentation at the bottom of the frame. He pressed a button on the side of the watch, and a jet of eldritch light shot around the frame. Then, as the astonished companions looked on . . .
. . . Andersen stepped out of the frame and into the gallery.
“Very nice to be out,” he said, stretching his arms. “Not that I mind hanging around in here with the rest of the brethren, but in the picture, it’s impossible to scratch if you get an itch.”
“I imagine it is,” Bert said as he inserted the watch into the next frame, and Cervantes joined them on the floor. “Don’t frown so, Nathaniel,” he called to the painting of Hawthorne. “I’m getting to you next.”
As Bert continued the process of liberating the former Caretakers from their frames, Charles commented on the fact that several portraits were turned to the wall, and one even appeared to have been scorched in a fire.
“You already know why,” Bert said in answer. “Those are portraits of Caretakers who either failed their duties badly, or betrayed them, or both.”
“So, Houdini and Conan Doyle—,” Jack began.
“No,” Bert replied quickly, cutting him off. “Their portraits are not here. And we don’t speak of them, not here in this house.”
“If their portraits aren’t here,” said John, “then how is it possible that they exist past the dates of their death?”
“And the burned one?” asked Charles.
“If you get a moment, you might ask Percy Shelley about that one,” said Bert. He turned to Jack. “Better yet, you should do the asking.”
“What?” Jack said, confused. “I—” He stopped with a lurch. “Oh, dear Lord above,” he whispered. The blood drained from his face as he pointed to one they’d overlooked. “Is that . . . ?”
On the far end of