Chapter 44

November 20, 1987, 9:54 a.m.—five hours remain before the Timed Death Sentence.

Outer London, Lambeth, Waterloo Station.

Baron bought the latest edition of the London Times, learned the newest password and address for boarding the dragon-train, then used the Mimic's Chain to slip past the station police and stow away to the platform, same as last time.

Waterloo's dragon-train station looked much like the one he'd seen at New Street: same vaulted ceiling, same iron ribs—only the murals on the pillars had changed to a special "Inside Waterloo" edition starring Napoleon.

Baron gave the fresco a cursory glance and understood the battle's true history.

The world remembers the French defeat at Waterloo and Napoleon's downfall at the hands of the tardy Marshal Grouchy. What it does not know is that Grouchy had his reasons. He was not the inflexible mediocrity history painted him to be; he had simply run into something beyond ordinary reckoning.

According to the plan, Grouchy had been ordered to pursue the fleeing Prussians with thirty-three thousand men, then wheel in from Wavre to plant himself between Blücher and Wellington, choking off allied reinforcements. But Blücher had slipped Grouchy's leash earlier than anyone realized and was already marching to the sound of the guns. Grouchy, refusing to split his force as his staff suggested, clung to the Emperor's literal order and led a parade of thirty-three thousand men down empty roads in pursuit of phantoms. They could even hear the opening cannonade miles away.

Impossible—unless an alchemical array had its fingers in the affair. Then the impossible becomes merely inconvenient.

The Inside must not interfere with the Outside; that is the creed every Old-Blood in the world swears by. Yet Tower Master Isaac Newton had once, as a mere apprentice, set a veiling array around Waterloo for a routine field exercise. At the time, Napoleon was still on Corsica, climbing an old chestnut tree with his older brother Joseph to prove who was braver, gazing across the sea at the continent he would one day conquer.

After the battle, when the French Old-Blood lodged charges in the International Old-Blood Court, Isaac Newton mounted the stand and declared, "Who could have guessed a casual array buried years earlier would sway an empire's destiny?"

The French were furious, but his speech swayed jury and judge alike. They ruled Isaac Newton innocent—though not quite scot-free.

"In truth the Tower paid nothing. By then Isaac was already a Silver sorcerer, a lock for Gold. No one trifles with a future Gold."

Jack appeared at Baron's elbow. To avoid notice he wore a long trench coat and a knitted cap that tamed his blond hair; pale sunglasses hid half his face, and a cup of coffee steamed in his hand. If Baron hadn't recognized that familiar, slightly insolent voice, he would have taken Jack for some City banker on his morning commute.

"Why assume he'd reach Gold? Doesn't the Rule of Three limit each calling to three Golds at most?" Baron lifted an eyebrow.

Jack sipped his coffee. "The Rule of Three exists because any broken Law splits into three fragments. Only a bearer recognized by one of those fragments can ascend to Gold. The Wizard's Law was founded by Lytton, then Tower Master. At the time he was the only Gold wizard."

He didn't need to finish. Two seats remained, and Isaac Newton was certain to claim one. After Lytton's death the wizard's seat had stood empty; now Isaac alone occupied the Gold tier—two-thirds of the triad still waited to be filled. Little wonder so many Old-Blood families sent their children to wizard schools, dreaming their offspring might grasp the remaining two crowns.

Baron grinned. Parents everywhere, it seemed, harbored the same tiger-mother ambitions.

A loudspeaker crackled. The dragon-train hissed to a halt amid clouds of cooling mist. Baron moved to merge with the crowd, but Jack tugged him toward the dragon's snout.

"Pursuers?"

Baron glanced at the chain at his hip; he had been feeding it steady trickles of spirit. No chance of exposure.

"Not pursuers—fare dodgers. A Westminster Grade-D agent learns thrift. One ounce of gold for a ticket? Only an idiot pays." Jack shot him a suspicious look. "Tell me you didn't buy one."

Baron shrugged. "Does it look like I ever pay for anything these days?"

He glanced at the bone dragon; its empty sockets glowed faintly as it stared back. Steam from the cooling jets billowed around the snout. Conductors were busy at the rear; the two of them stood alone.

"Even if we're dodging, why here? Planning to ride the roof?" That was Third Brother's trick.

"Follow me."

Jack hopped off the platform onto the tracks, dwarfed by the dragon's massive, skeletal head. Baron half expected him to draw steel—until Jack pulled a ridiculously long... candy cane from his ring.

He placed it against the dragon's snout. The embers in its sockets flickered, considering. Then the lower jaw dropped, wide enough for a man to crawl inside.

Jack fed the cane in first, then waved Baron after him. They climbed into the dragon's maw.

...

The dragon-train thundered along the rails. Inside the skull, wind howled through the eyeholes. Jack's explanation was simple:

"Bone dragons love sweets. One big lollipop buys you a hiding place. Every Grade-D agent passes the secret to the next."

Baron muttered that only museum cat-burglars turned a civil-service gig into a hereditary art.

Jack looked momentarily blank, then straightened with righteous indignation. "Everything in the British Museum was looted from the colonies. I sell it back to local dealers. I'm returning artifacts to their rightful homes—philanthropy!"

Baron: "..."

Half an hour later, soaked by spray through the eye sockets, the two of them tumbled out of Waterloo Station with the disembarking crowd. More ducking and weaving through Inner London brought them at last to Baggin's clinic on Prussia Street.

Jack made one last blunder on the doorstep, mistaking a passer-by for the legendary Mr. Baggin—whom he had never seen. Before Baron could stop him, Jack threw an arm around the stranger's neck. "Master Baggin, I've got a shipment—purest grade..." The poor man fled in terror.

Only when Don Quixote opened the door with Sanji in his arms did Jack realize his mistake. He dropped to one knee, draped an arm around the diminutive master, and winked:

"Master, I've got goods—pure stuff, plenty of Time for alchemy. Say, Master, ever wish you were taller? American growth tonic—guaranteed results..."

A thud. Baggin's fist connected; Jack folded, clutching himself, while Don Quixote quietly closed the door.

The master looked Baron up and down, stroking his beard.

"Still not dead, boy?"

That's the greeting I get?

Without another word the Dragon-Knight flashed the Dragon-Gall ring; an herb shaped like a clock-hand fell into his palm.

Baggin's face twitched, a thousand unspoken words flickering across it. In the end he said only one:

"Good."