The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [99]
“Most of them flat-out ignored me,” Johnson said, “except when they needed something. So I never got more than the occasional name, like ‘Coleridge’ or ‘Blake.’ But I did catch what they called themselves as a whole—they said they were part of the Imperial Cartological Society, and that they’d been commissioned by royalty. That makes them privateers, which is as bad as pirates in my book.”
“I agree,” the professor said, looking somberly at his companions. They were all thinking the same thing: that Defoe, who was among the Caretakers Emeritis, was in league with Burton—and they had no way of telling anyone at Tamerlane house. “Did any of them survive the, ah, sea-beastie attack?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” said Johnson. “After the first blow, I ended up where you see me—and my peripheral vision isn’t what it used to be.”
“I’m impressed that you even made it this far,” said the professor.
“We used your own notes, Professor,” Johnson replied. “Yours, and those of someone called Bert. They were given to the society by someone called Uruk Ko.”
Professor Sigurdsson lowered his head. That was the hat trick. If the Goblin King had aided the Imperial Cartological Society, the Goblins had to be in league with the Winter King’s Shadow.
“The notes,” he said suddenly. “Did any survive the wreck?”
“I doubt it,” said Johnson, “but I can recall most of what was written on them. They had to do with the precautions, I believe.”
“Precautions?” asked Quixote.
“There are seven islands that must be crossed,” said Johnson. “You cannot simply bypass them. Each one is akin to a gate, and gates must be entered properly.”
“I remember,” said the professor. “We’ve come prepared.”
“That’s good,” said Johnson, “since we weren’t. We didn’t take the cautions seriously, and as a result, the Aurora was lost.”
“Professor,” Rose whispered, “you have one of the pocket watches—is it possible to release Captain Johnson from the portrait?”
“An interesting thought,” said the professor. “Let’s find out.”
They explained what they wanted to try, and Johnson responded with considerable enthusiasm. Archimedes retrieved several scraps of cloth and timber from the wreck, and Quixote fashioned a sort of sling-on-a-pole to scoop up the portrait.
It took only a few tries for him to succeed, but when they had the picture onboard, their expressions fell.
There was no place on the frame to insert the watch. Johnson was trapped within.
“That’s all well and good,” he said. “I’ve gotten used to it, anyway.”
“It may be for the best,” said the professor. “There’s a time limit unless you’re at a particular location. And that would literally ruin your week.”
“Will you still take me with you, anyroad?” asked Johnson. “I’m really tired of seeing the same fish and coral day after day, and there’s only been one other person come over the falls since I got here, and he died straightaway. He’s just over there, to the right.”
Quixote steered the Scarlet Dragon over to where Johnson had indicated, and sure enough there was a skeleton, facedown in the water. It could not have been there very long, as the coral had not yet begun to form around the bones, and scraps of his clothing that had not yet rotted were still floating about.
“I think this is Wilhelm Grimm,” the professor said sadly. “He must have displeased his master.”
“And he was simply dropped over the waterfall?” Rose exclaimed in horror. “If he died, then what hope do we have of finding Madoc alive?”
“Your father is a man of unusual mettle,” said Sigurdsson, “and I suspect, as Samaranth probably knew, that just dropping him over the falls would not be enough to kill him. The same might not be true for mere mortals like myself.”
“No, look,” said Quixote, pointing. A dagger was lodged firmly between two of the skeleton’s ribs, next to its spine. “He was killed, then discarded. Truly, an ignoble act.”
“Do you think it was Burton who did it?” Rose asked quietly. “Or someone else?”
“Whoever it was, my dear child,” the professor said, turning her away from the sight, “this person is past worry.