James Owen - Here, There Be Dragons

Chapter Eight

“Undoubtedly,” said Charles.
The stone floor was covered with an assortment of Persian rugs of varying sizes. The largest lay squarely before them, where the dragon indicated they should sit.
“This is quite an honor,” Bert whispered to John as they seated themselves in a semicircle at the feet of the dragon. “There are no other dragons left in the Archipelago. Haven’t been since the old king died. But to share tea with Samaranth…”
“What’s special about Samaranth?” John whispered back, keeping a wary eye on the dragon, “as opposed to, well, regular dragons?”
“He’s the first,” Bert replied. “The oldest. The original dragon of the Archipelago. In fact, he may be the oldest creature alive.”
“Perhaps you are correct,” Samaranth said, smiling. “I may indeed be the oldest. But time, as you well know, Son of Adam, is relative.”
Bert reddened at this and folded his arms, bowing. “I meant no disrespect, Samaranth. I am indeed honored to meet you. And, ah, to partake of your hospitality.”
The dragon bowed his head to Bert in acknowledgment, then to each of them in turn, pausing only at Bug, to whom he bowed a bit more deeply, and for a moment longer than the others. Bug, for his part, blushed visibly.
Samaranth straightened and gestured toward the badger, who was standing to one side, beaming. “And you, Child of the Earth—will you join us?”
“Certainly,” said Tummeler. “Y’ wouldn’ happen t’ have those crackers I fancy, would y’?”
Samaranth made a huffing noise not unlike a steam engine, which after a moment the companions realized was laughter.
“Yes,” said Samaranth. “I have the Leprechaun crackers. One moment, and I’ll get them.”
“They ain’t made from real Leprechauns,” Tummeler confided to Charles. “I just calls ’em that.”
The dragon returned with a silver tea service delicately balanced on one arm, and a small bundle of crackers on the other.
“Mistress,” he said to Aven. “Will you do the pleasure of serving?”
Aven began to retort something about not being servile to men, but the dragon’s tone and manner was so respectful that she could not refuse. She took the tray from him, and Jack rose to his feet to help, taking the parcel of crackers.
“These are tea biscuits,” he said, puzzled. “Just like we have at home.”
“There are those who trade with your world,” said Samaranth, “and they in turn trade with the animals, who in turn trade with me.”
“Umm-hmm,” Tummeler said happily through a mouthful of crackers.
“What do you trade?” Charles asked. “Jewels? Gold?”
Samaranth turned to him. “Is that all you see of worth here, O Son of Adam? The riches of the Earth?”
Charles shrank back. “Ah, just wondering.”
“Knowledge,” Bert interjected. “You trade in knowledge.”
“Hurm,” the dragon growled in satisfaction. “A Caretaker of the Geographica would understand this.”
“That’s the second thing you’ve said that indicates you know me,” said Bert. “Pardon my asking, but have we met before? Because I’m certain I would not have forgotten, I assure you.”
“No,” said Samaranth, “but it is in my interests to keep abreast of what occurs in the Archipelago—and those who seek to influence its affairs. And to that end,” the dragon continued, “tell me what it is that has brought you here to have tea with an old dragon.”

It took them the better part of an hour to recount everything that had happened, from the murder of Professor Sigurdsson to the flight from London, to the prophecy of the Morgaine, the battle with the Black Dragon, and the Grand Council at Paralon. They also recounted, much to John’s embarrassment, his failure to translate the differing languages of the Imaginarium Geographica, and the urgent need to do so, that they might find a way to defeat the Winter King.
The dragon said nothing but merely listened, pausing only to refill the teapot with fresh tea and to replenish the Leprechaun crackers for Tummeler, who had not stopped munching them the entire time.
When the companions finished their accounting, Samaranth said nothing, but sat, considering. When he finally spoke, it was about the past.
“Ages ago,” Samaranth began, “the Archipelago of Dreams was guarded by thousands of dragons. The skies were filled with them. Then, not all that long ago, they began to disappear, until they were all gone, save for myself. And the only knowledge that remained of them was found in myth, and legend, and in books.” This last was said with a rather pointed look at John.
“We guarded the boundary between the Archipelago and the world beyond, using flame and fear to turn back travelers that ventured too close. But I have not seen another dragon for almost twenty years, and men like the one you call the Winter King have risen to power—men who would learn the secrets of the lands not to rule justly, but to conquer cruelly.”
“He has already placed many lands in Shadow,” said Bert, “and for some reason, he believes that possession of the Geographica will aid him in his efforts.”
“Why he wishes to possess the Geographica, I cannot say,” mused Samaranth, “but there are already too many plans afoot in the lands, and were it to fall into his hands, it would not bode well for the Archipelago.”
“Then what can we do?” said Bert. “There is no king, and not even a real Parliament to give counsel. Worse, there apparently hasn’t been a real Parliament in some time—and the revealed deception ended the possibility of unity in the Archipelago.”
“Yes, that is a problem,” said Samaranth, turning to face Tummeler. “Would you care to tell us, little Child of the Earth, just what the animals were thinking?”
Tummeler froze, a half-eaten Leprechaun cracker hanging out of his mouth.
“The animals?” said Aven. “Do you mean to say that they built those imposters in the Parliament?”
“It makes sense,” said Charles. “They are the only ones aside from Nemo who know how to build the vehicles, and the clockwork kings and queens were at least as complicated as that.”
The companions turned to look at Tummeler, who was twisting the ends of his vest and twitching his whiskers mournfully.
“Aye, ’tis true, I be afeared to say,” Tummeler began. “We—the animals, that is—built them several years back, to avoid just this sort o’ calamity.”
“But why did you build them?” Jack asked. “There are plenty of humans on Paralon who could have served.”
“Not kings and queens,” wailed Tummeler. “Th’ Parliament must be kings and queens of the greater islands of the Archipelago, and none wuz left alive.”
“None of them?” Bert said. “That’s not possible.”
“Both possible an’ true,” said Tummeler. “With no High King, no royal heirs, an’ no real kings an’ queens in Parliament, it were only a matter o’ time before the other kingdoms would start to fight for th’ Silver Throne.
“So it were decided that we—th’ animals—should build replacement-likes, to keep a Parliament t’gether so’s a new High King could be decided on.”
“Who decided that you should build the replacements?” Bert asked.
Tummeler wiped a paw across his snout and shrugged. “I don’t know. I never saw. Ol’ Tummeler never did anyfing but drive supplies to and fro in the Curious Diversity.”
“The Steward,” said Charles. “Was he clockwork too?”
Tummeler shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“It stands to reason,” said Charles. “If no one knew the other kings and queens were being murdered, as the High King’s family had been, then they could be replaced with fakes.”
“But why would anyone want to do that?” Jack asked.
“Consensus,” said John. “Only the continuity of human rule kept the other races in check. And a consensus of Parliament and the delegates of the other kingdoms could put someone on the Silver Throne—someone like the Winter King, which is exactly what the Steward was trying to do.”
“And Bert stopped him,” said Charles. “Well done, Bert.”
“Of course, now the capital city is on fire, and the entire Archipelago may be at war,” said Jack. “But let’s not dwell on the past.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Aven. “Whatever is occurring among the races, the Winter King will still be pursuing the Geographica, and we can’t let him find it.”
“Agreed,” Samaranth said. “As much as it pains me to suggest, the Imaginarium Geographica must be destroyed.”
“We tried that,” said Jack. “Nemo threw it on a brazier, but it wouldn’t burn.”
“No,” said Samaranth. “Only he who created it can destroy what he has wrought. It must be taken,” the dragon finished with a smoky exhalation, “to the Cartographer of Lost Places.”
“That brings us full circle to our original problem,” Aven said with a contemptuous glance at John. “We don’t have any way to read all but the most basic maps and annotations in the Geographica—and with no way to translate the rest of the maps, we can never find our way to the Cartographer’s island, even if he still really exists.”
“Oh, he still exists,” said Samaranth. “He created maps constantly for the Caretakers in years past, although he has since come to distance himself from contact with anyone from either world.”
Bert nodded in agreement. “I never met him myself,” he said, “but Stellan did on several occasions, very early on in our Stewardship of the Geographica. The last three maps were all added under our watch. Unfortunately,” he added, “they are all for islands on the outer edges of the Archipelago, and will be of no use to us in finding the Cartographer.”
“So,” the dragon said, turning to John, “you were not properly trained as a Caretaker?”
“I was trained, but I never knew the import of my studies,” said John. “I have a basic functional knowledge of several languages, but know almost nothing of the rest of them.”
“Nothing?” snorted Samaranth. “Not even a single letter?”
“Single letters, sure,” John said, “but not enough to translate from map to map.”
“Nothing?” the dragon repeated. “Not even a single recurring phrase?”
“That’s right,” John said. “But wait, I forgot—there was one thing I could translate right away.”
He took the oilskin-wrapped book from the pack on Bug’s back, unwrapped it, and flipped to a map near the center of the book.
“There,” he said, pointing to an engraving of a dragonlike creature and the annotation below it. “It’s much like the caution on an old mariner’s map I once saw: ‘Here, There Be Dragons.’”
“Correct,” said Samaranth. “With one difference.”
The companions crowded around John and the Geographica, but none of them understood what point the dragon was making. Finally, the realization dawned on John.
“It’s to the east of the lands depicted,” John said. “On the mariner’s map at the British Museum, the caution is on the western edge—the outermost edge of the world as it was known then; but all these,” he continued, paging through the maps, “are on the eastern edge.”
“Correct again,” said Samaranth, leaning closer to John. “One more gives you the tournament.”
John studied the maps, paging from one to another before he saw it. “It’s on every one,” he said.
Samaranth bowed his head. “That same phrase, in one variation or another, is on every map, and,” he concluded, “in every language.”
“A primer,” Charles said. “John, you said you’d studied all of the languages, at least a little.”
“Yes,” said John. “I see where you’re going. I can use the common phrase as a primer to work out grammar and syntax, based on the differences between versions.”
“If you work from the back of the atlas forward,” offered Bert, “you can also unravel the languages chronologically. Most recent languages first.”
“What do you say, John?” Charles asked. “Do you think you can do it?”
John looked doubtful, but he was quickly becoming absorbed in the maps. “Old English to Teutonic, to Italian, and…mmm, Latin…,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Aven and Jack exchanged skeptical glances, but Bert smiled broadly, as did Bug. Charles offered a pencil from his vest pocket, and without another word, John sat on the rug and began to make notes, now fully absorbed in his task.
“Well,” said Samaranth. “It seems as if you had your translator with you all along.”

As John worked, Bug and Aven cleaned up the tea service while Bert, Charles, Jack, and Tummeler discussed their strategy with Samaranth.
“The seas will be treacherous,” said Bert. “The trolls will be out en masse, if they are not already.”
“Arawn,” Samaranth said with a hiss, spitting embers across the rugs that Jack hurried to stamp out. “Spoiled brat of a troll. His father is a diplomat—but that one would burn a tree to cook an apple. And then he’d discard the apple, and beat his servants for not putting out the fire.”
“If only something of the old Royal House of Paralon remained,” sighed Bert, “then we could simply have a coronation and get back to business.”
Samaranth laughed in that huffing way and arched an eyebrow at the little old man.
“If only it were that easy,” the dragon said, “you’d already be done.” Bert started to ask what he meant by this, but Samaranth continued speaking. “Quests are never easy—at least, any that are worth their while.
“You want a coronation?” Samaranth said, rooting around in one of the honeycomb caches in the walls. “Take this—maybe you can put it on anyone foolish enough to sit on a throne, who seeks to rule a kingdom.”
With that, the dragon tossed a small object to Bert, who looked at it briefly before tossing it back, eyes wide.
“Hah!” Samaranth snorted. “So quick to turn away a kingdom, are you, little Traveler?”
“What is it?” Charles asked.
“A ring,” said Bert. “The High King’s ring.”
“Indeed,” said Samaranth. “It was I who made it, and I who gave it to each king in turn as they assumed the Silver Throne. And it was I who took it back, when the last king demonstrated through the choices he had made that he was no longer worthy to bear it.”
“But it’s just a ring, isn’t it?” asked Jack.
“The High King’s ring—called by some the Ring of Power—was the symbol of his office,” said Bert, “and was said to be the source of his power in the Archipelago.”
Samaranth seemed surprised by this. “You think so? There are many rings in the Archipelago. The Elves bear rings, as do the Dwarves. And Men. Is it the ring that makes the wearer, or the wearer that makes the ring? It makes no difference to me whether you take it,” he finished, proffering the ring in his open claw.
“Although,” the great dragon added, considering, “it may not be what you—or the Winter King—expect it to be.”
“That’s all right,” Jack said, reaching to take the ring from the huge palm of the dragon. “Maybe we’ll discover its power along the way.”
“Power is a thing earned,” Samaranth said, “not something that may be passed along with the possession of objects like thrones…or rings, for that matter.
“Power, true power, comes from the belief in true things, and the willingness to stand behind that belief, even if the universe itself conspires to thwart your plans. Chaos may settle; flames may die; worlds may rise and fall. But true things will remain so, and will never fail to guide you to your goals. Isn’t that so, Master John?”
As they talked, John had come up behind his companions. There were graphite marks on the corners of his mouth, and oddly, on his forehead, but his eyes were shining, and there were a dozen strips of cloth with scribbled notations sticking out of various parts of the Geographica.
“John, dear fellow,” said Charles. “What is it?”
“I’ve done it,” John said, his voice trembling in triumph and excitement. “There’s still a lot of footwork to do, but Samaranth gave me the key, and I’ve been able to make sense of most of the maps.”
“Does that mean…,” Bert began.
“Yes,” said John. “I’ve found the island. I know how to find the Cartographer of Lost Places.”

The companions’ farewells to Samaranth were considerably less strained than their introduction. The great dragon showed them how to reach a northern inlet where the Indigo Dragon would most likely be waiting, far removed from the fray at Paralon, and then saw their provisions for the ship restocked from his own stores.
Each of the companions thanked him in turn for his assistance and hospitality, save for Bug, who jumped when Samaranth winked at him, and John, who was too consumed with notetaking and translating to notice they were leaving until they were actually sitting in the Curious Diversity. A short ride later, and they were once more out of the canyon and approaching the inlet. Sure enough, the Indigo Dragon was there, gangplank at the ready.
In less than an hour, they had unloaded their supplies and were prepared to set sail for the Cartographer’s island. Somewhat shyly, Tummeler tugged at Charles’s coat.
“Master Scowlers?” said Tummeler. “I—I have somethin’ I’d like t’ be givin’ y’, if you don’t mind.”
Charles and John knelt down next to the small animal, as he offered them a largish book that smelled of crisp ink and freshly bound leather. “What is it, my good fellow?” said Charles.
“I wrote an’ published it myself,” Tummeler said, twisting the ends of his vest in his paws. “It’s a cookbook.”
The cover was embossed with the title: Mr. B. Tummeler Esquire Presents Exotik Foods of the Lands and How They Is Cookt.
“Very impressive,” Charles said with genuine sincerity. “How’s it doing for you?”
“Oh, y’ know how it goes, bein’ an Oxford scowler an’ all,” said Tummeler. “I published it durin’ th’ high season, and set up shop on Rivington Lane down at th’ merchant district. I even had a sign what said ‘Locale Author’ on it, but, ah…”
“Haven’t sold any?” said Jack.
“Not a one,” admitted Tummeler. “But I’ve got prospects.”
“Well, I think it’s an admirable effort,” said Charles. “Thank you, Tummeler.”
“Y’know,” the badger said, “bein’ as I’ve not sold any, I’d have more than enough f’r you all t’ have copies of y’r own….”
“No, no, one will be fine,” said John. “We already have one very important book to look after, remember? Having one more will be as much as we can handle.”
Tummeler beamed so much at the compliment it seemed the buttons on his vest were about to pop off. “Very wise, Master Scowler. Be well on your journey.”
The badger stood on a small rise, waving his farewells, as the Indigo Dragon pulled away from the inlet and headed for open waters, and he continued to wave long after the ship had disappeared from view.
Part Three