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James Owen: Here, There Be Dragons

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James Owen Here, There Be Dragons
  • Название:
    Here, There Be Dragons
  • Автор:
  • Издательство:
    Simon & Schuster
  • Жанр:
  • Год:
    2006
  • Город:
    USA
  • Язык:
    Английский
  • ISBN:
    978-1416912279
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    5 / 5
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Here, There Be Dragons: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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An unusual murder brings together three strangers, John, Jack, and Charles, on a rainy night in London during the first World War. An eccentric little man called Bert tells them that they are now the caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographica -- an atlas of all the lands that have ever existed in myth and legend, fable and fairy tale. These lands, Bert claims, can be traveled to in his ship the Indigo Dragon, one of only seven vessels that is able to cross the Frontier between worlds into the Archipelago of Dreams. Pursued by strange and terrifying creatures, the companions flee London aboard the Dragonship. Traveling to the very realm of the imagination itself, they must learn to overcome their fears and trust in one another if they are to defeat the dark forces that threaten the destiny of two worlds. And in the process, they will share a great adventure filled with clues that lead readers to the surprise revelation of the legendary storytellers these men will one day become. An extraordinary journey of myth, magic, and mystery, Here, There Be Dragons introduces James A. Owen as a formidable new talent.

James Owen: другие книги автора


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Фото

The gray drizzle of the evening had become a truly miserable English night, and the business of the murder investigation had kept the three newfound companions out past the last scheduled trains.

“I know a club just a few streets over,” Charles offered. “Shall we repair there and remove ourselves from this dismal, damp night? We can catch our trains in the morning, after we’ve had a bit of warmth and a nip of something to settle our nerves.”

Jack and John concurred, and they let Charles lead the way through the labyrinth of streets.

“Funny that he was a book collector,” Jack said after they had gone a few blocks. “A Shakespeare scholar, even.”

“Funny? In what way?” asked John.
Jack shrugged. “Because—he was killed yesterday, on the fifteenth.”
Slowly it dawned on John, then Charles. “Julius Caesar,” John said.
“Yes,” said Jack. “It may not have meant much in Caesar’s time, or even in Shakespeare’s, but it would’ve been a warning well heeded last night, if anyone had been around to sound it.
“Beware the Ides of March.”

As it turned out, the club to which Charles led them had literary allusions of its own. It had been a privately rented flat not two decades earlier, and had since been transformed into a club accessible to a private group from Oxford, of which Charles was a member.
“221B Baker Street?” John said with a hint of incredulity. “Are you quite serious, Charles?”
“Completely,” Charles replied. “Oxford paid for its conversion, and it’s very useful to have such a retreat when on business in London.”
He opened the door and ushered his two companions into the entry hall. The main establishment consisted of a couple of private meeting rooms and a single large, airy sitting room, with adjacent entryways to what John assumed were the neighboring flats, converted to a similar use. The large room was cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows that looked out onto a solitary gas lamp and the worsening gloom of night and storm. The fireplace, attended to by an inconspicuous manservant, was at full roar and brightened their spirits considerably as they moved toward it, their clothes exchanging dampness for a light draping of steam.
“Much better,” said Jack.

Jack took up residence in an immense Edwardian wingback chair and made himself quite at home. John preferred to lean on the hearth, the better to warm himself and dry his clothes, while Charles, with an ease born of familiarity, opened the liquor cabinet at the far side of the room and began pouring drinks.
“I’ve let the manservant go for the night,” said Charles. “I don’t expect any other members will be turning out on a night such as this, and to be candid, after our adventure with inspector Clowes, I rather appreciate the privacy.”
“I’m looking forward to doing as you have, John, and joining the war effort,” said Jack. “I was hoping to get in a term or two at school, but it seems the chancellor has other plans.”
“You’re young,” said Charles. “You may find time and experience curb your taste for adventure.”
“That was a bit of an adventure tonight, wasn’t it?” Jack continued. “Imagine getting mistaken for the student of a dead professor…”
Charles’s scowl wasn’t quick enough to cut off the younger man before a pained look crossed John’s features.
“Oh, dear—Look, John, I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s all right,” John said, staring into the fire. “If the professor had been here, he’d have thought it was funny.”
“You must mind your decorum,” Charles admonished Jack. “Especially once you’ve begun your courses at…Jack—I say, are you listening to me?”
The younger man shook his head, stood, and crossed the room.
“There’s a very strange man outside,” said Jack. “He was standing across the street under the lamp for several minutes, and then he crossed to the corner, where he stood for several minutes more, and he is now standing outside with his face pressed to the window….”
As one the three companions swung around to meet the surprised gaze of a strange apparition: a smallish man, seemingly cloaked in rags and wearing an outlandishly tall pointed hat. He was indeed pressed to the window, his nose pushed flat and his handlebar mustache askew with dampness.
The tatterdemalion at the window abruptly disappeared. Almost immediately came a solid rapping on the door.
“…and now he’s at the door,” finished Jack.
“Bother,” said Charles. “This is a members-only club. We can’t simply be catering to every vagrant who hasn’t the sense to be home on such a night.”
“Oh, come now, Charles,” said John, rising to answer the door. “If it wasn’t for you, Jack and I would be in the same boat, and we’ve only just met.”
“That’s different,” Charles sniffed. “You’re Oxford men.”
“I haven’t actually begun yet,” admitted Jack.
“A technicality,” said Charles.
John opened the door and the strangest little man any of them had ever seen stepped inside and shook himself like a mongrel, spraying water all throughout the entry hall.
His appearance was what might result if you shredded an illustrated edition of the works of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, then pasted the pieces back together in random order. His coat and trousers were equal parts Old Sultan, Rumpelstiltskin, and Hans-My-Hedgehog; his shoes, the unfulfilled aspiration of a hundred cobbler tales. And his hat was some ruthless combination of The King of the Golden Mountain and The Shroud. His eyes twinkled, but his hair and mustache were sopping, and he looked as if he’d been beaten about the head and shoulders with some sort of shedding forest mammal. The only organized aspect of his appearance was a large parcel wrapped in oilskin, which he clutched tightly under one arm.
“Dreadful night,” said the man, still dripping. “Dreadful. Twenty pounds of misery in a ten-pound sack. If I’d ever known such a night was going to come about, I’d have told my own grandmother not to bother having my father, just to avoid the trouble.”
“Well, once you’ve dried off a bit, you’ll have to leave,” said Charles, covertly hiding the good bottle of brandy behind the inferior brands. “This is a private club. What were you doing watching us?”
“Is this a question for a question?” asked the man. “I answer yours, then you answer mine?”
“Can’t say that isn’t fair, Charles,” said Jack.
“All right,” said Charles.
“Good,” said the strange visitor. “I was watching to make sure no one else was.”
“What kind of answer is that?” sputtered Charles. “That’s not a proper answer.”
“Oh, come on,” said John. “Be a sport.” He turned to the little man. “Your turn. So what’s your question?”
“I thank the gentleman,” the man said with a slight bow. “And now my question:
“Which one of you is John? And do you know that Professor Sigurdsson is dead?”
Chapter Two

An Unusual Tale

After a brief stunned silence, John regained his composure. “That would be me,” John said, standing and proffering his hand.

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