The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [58]
“He must have used a similar one to come into the gallery,” said Jamie, “and merely pretended he was being summoned from his portrait as the rest of us were.”
Bert moved over to the painting and tapped on it lightly with his fingertips. “No,” he said. “This was an actual portrait done with Pygmalion resins, as all the rest have been. He only needed a means of escape that we couldn’t easily duplicate.”
“Can we follow him?” asked John. “Through the painting?”
Bert grimaced and shook his head. “They’re meant to be one way, and they don’t actually go to a place,” he said resignedly. “When the Caretakers go back, they aren’t somewhere—they’re just in a painting.”
“He’s going to report to his masters,” Jakob cried. “We’ve got to do something! He must be stopped!”
“I left the doors to the gallery unlocked,” said Bert. “How was it that Kipling locked them so quickly, since I have the only three keys, and one of those is imaginary?”
“The place you’re seeking . . . isn’t there.”
“I don’t know,” Jakob said. “He closed them behind him, and as I caught up, I found I couldn’t get them open. But believe me, I was pushing as hard as I could.”
Defoe stood behind Jakob and closed his hands into fists. “Perhaps we have another turncoat in our midst,” he said with obvious menace in his tone. “Where’s your watch, Jakob?”
With a few fumbles born of fear and haste, Jakob rummaged around in his pockets and finally, with a great sigh of relief, produced his watch.
“You’re good, then,” Defoe said. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Brother Grimm.”
“Thanks,” said Jakob, still visibly shaken. “I’m sorry about the doors. Wilhelm would have been smart enough to do it the right way.”
“So Kipling knows all our secrets,” said Defoe.
“Not all of them,” Bert said in admonishment. “He was only a part of the whole. We have the books, and we have the three Caretakers of Prophecy. They will see this through, regardless of Kipling’s betrayal.”
“This may be the worst possible time to bring this up,” said John, “but we had already suspected Kipling was a traitor. We just didn’t tell anyone.”
Quickly he related the rest of the details about their flight from the Inn of the Flying Dragon, and the fact that Jack believed Kipling had been leading their pursuers.
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” asked Hawthorne. “We might have found him out all the sooner.”
“He didn’t tell,” Twain said, lighting up a fresh cigar, “because he is not an ass, and neither are his two compatriots. They came here today and have listened to a great many impossible things without blinking. But they also saw us turning on our own like a pack of hungry dogs.
“We questioned Charles Dickens’ loyalty because two of those he trained turned out to be traitors themselves—never mind the fact that he also trained our Prime Caretaker. We questioned Alexandre Dumas, not for what he chose to do, but because of the choices of his son. And we were one minute away from lynching poor Jakob because we know his brother to be allied with Burton, and he couldn’t produce his watch quickly enough.
“No,” Twain said with finality. “Young John did exactly the right thing. He watched, and waited, and when it was time to act, he used his best judgment. And that’s all anyone can ask of a Caretaker.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clemens,” said John.
“You don’t have to thank me, boy,” said Twain as he stepped out into the corridor, puffing on his cigar. “I’m deceased, remember? At this point, I’m just here for the entertainment.”
“I am sorry,” Jakob said again. “Not just for myself, but for . . . for my brother.”
“He made his own choices,” said Bert, “but of the two of you, we got the better man. Come,” he called to the others, gesturing broadly. “Let us retire to the conservatory for drinks and more discussion. Our schedule has just taken an unexpected leap forward.”
The conservatory was in the very center of Tamerlane House, and the ceiling inside the room rose to an impossible height. It had to be ten stories high and was capped