The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [75]
“That’s the annoying thing about time travel,” said Charles. “You always feel like you’re late to the party, even when you aren’t.”
There were other familiar faces as well: Eledir the Elf King; Falladay Finn, of the Dwarves; and the Valkyries, led by Laura Glue.
“We have everyone,” she said to Aven and Artus. “Everyone still loyal to the Silver Throne. We’re almost ready to go.”
“Are you abandoning the Archipelago?” Jack asked in astonishment.
“No,” said Aven. “We’re moving the base of operations for the true government to a safer place.”
“We’re consolidating our power,” said Bert, “and we’re going to do it in the Nameless Isles.”
“Is this a coup?” asked Laura Glue. “I think we’re starting a coup.”
“We might be at that,” said Aven. “We’re only waiting for one more ship to arrive.”
“Oh, yes,” said Artus. “Of course.”
“He came through with one of the Time Storms a year ago,” said Artus, pointing out into the cove. “I think you’re in for a real surprise, Jack.”
Just past where the White Dragon was moored, the surface of the water had begun to bubble and roil about. A ship was surfacing. A very familiar ship.
The great, gleaming bulk of the Yellow Dragon rose up out of the water, and the port hatch lifted. A man both familiar and not stepped out onto the hull and crossed his arms defiantly.
Charles looked on in wonderment, while Jack reeled with the shock of the sight before them.
The man was scarcely out of his teens, if that, but his manner and bearing—and his arrogance—were instantly familiar.
“Speak, and be recognized,” called out Uncas. “Who be ye, and where be y’r allegiance?”
“My allegiance is to my ship and crew,” the youth replied, dropping off the ship onto the dock, “and to the Archipelago and those who serve her. And as for me,” he finished, jabbing a thumb at his chest, “I am the seventh son of the seventh son of Sinbad himself, and I’m here to pick a fight.”
He strode over to Jack and stuck out a hand in greeting. “Nemo is my name.”
The gatekeeper was a blind man . . . covered in tattoos . . .
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Abaton
Geoffrey Chaucer called the Gatherum of Caretakers to silence, then addressed the first order of business. “This is one of the reasons we required you to stay at Tamerlane House,” he said to John. “We are the historic Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographica, but we are also past our times. Outside of these walls, we can influence very little, and for too short a time.
“But you are still young and vital—and you are the current Caveo Principia. The Principal Caretaker. And so while we may debate, and offer opinions and counsel, the ultimate decision must be yours.”
“Which decision is that?” asked John.
“Whether or not,” Chaucer said evenly, “Richard Burton is right.”
The concept stunned John into silence. Right about what? About the Archipelago? Were they actually considering the position of their enemy as being more worthy than their own?
“I understand what you must be thinking,” Charles Dickens said. “After all, I was the one who recruited him as my apprentice. But ever since your first clash with him, we have been debating whether or not there might not be some merit to his point of view.”
“Secrecy has been the mandate,” added Twain. “It always has been. But there comes a time when we must acknowledge that the horse may have left the stable long before we barred the doors.”
“What do you mean?” asked John.
“These,” Hawthorne said, tossing a copy of Tummeler’s Geographica on the table. “They’re everywhere.”
“Everywhere in the Archipelago,” John corrected. “We were very clear about that. Tummeler was more than happy to comply, and I know Artus was keeping an eye on his operation.”
“That’s part of the problem,” said Chaucer. “This move Artus made to turn the kingdom into a republic has only made his affinity for the ways of our world grow stronger. We fear that an embargo may not be sufficient.”
“Copies are bound to slip across the Frontier,” said Irving, “and we no longer believe that Artus would see that