We Sled With Dragons (2 page)

EVERYTHING WAS GOING
wrong.

The stuffy storeroom behind the Saba Importing Company was too hot, and the sweat was soaking through his heavy makeup. The large gentleman could feel his face beginning to run, like a sad clown stuck out in the rain. If his disguise failed, it meant doom not just for himself, but for the Navel family, for Corey Brandt, and for one unfortunate chicken named Dennis.

“Bwak,” said the chicken, who was in a cage sitting on top of a stack of imported carpets. A dim lightbulb hung from the ceiling in the center of the room, swinging slowly clockwise, casting ever-shifting shadows.

“Mrmml hurml mrrmm,” said the teenager with the perfect hair, teardrop freckle under his eye, and greasy cloth in his mouth. He was tied to a metal folding chair across a wooden table from the big sweating man. Even bigger men with tattoos and knives stood guard by the door.

Next to the teenager sat the pirate captain Bonnie, a great-great-great-great-granddaughter of one of the most notorious pirates ever to sail the seas. Bonnie had taken over her ship when the previous captain was . . . how to put this politely? Forced into early retirement, perhaps?

To put it impolitely, he was murdered by Bonnie and his own crew tossed him overboard into the churning sea, where sharks made a meal of his remains.

Pirates are not known for their manners.

“You look ill.” Bonnie sneered at the sweating gentleman. “Are you going to pass out? That would cause a problem for our deal.”

“It's just very hot in here, that's all,” the gentleman told her, forgetting himself and mopping his dripping brow with his tie.

“You've ruined your cravat,” said Bonnie.

“Huh?”

Bonnie pointed at the gentleman's necktie. A blob of heavy makeup had smeared off his forehead and covered one of the cheerful ducks embroidered into the silk.

“What did you say your name was?” Bonnie frowned at him. Two of her big associates inched closer to him, gripping their knives.

“My name . . . is . . . um, Mr. Chaterjee,” the gentleman said. He wished he could stop sweating. Why had they arranged to meet in this sweltering room? He could barely breathe. He had warned Claire Navel that this plan was a bad idea. He was no good at disguises. He'd jinx the whole operation. “Aloysius B. Chaterjee, just like I told you on the telephone.” He tried to sound confident.

“I think not.” Bonnie squinted at him. “I've heard of another man who wears ties with ducks on them. Professor Rasmali-Greenberg, the president of the Explorers Club. He is famous for his duck ties. I do hope, for your sake, that you are not this professor in disguise.”

“Is this a duck?” Professor Rasmali-Greenberg—for that's who he really was—pretended to study his tie.

“It is a duck,” said Bonnie coldly.

“I thought it was a pigeon,” the professor lied.

“It's a duck,” said Bonnie.

“Or a moose? Maybe a lemur.” He rubbed it with his thumb. “I am certain that it's a lemur.”

“It is a duck,” Bonnie repeated.

“Regardless, your accusation is absurd,” said the professor. “I am Aloysius B. Chaterjee, a movie producer from Bombay, and I am here to buy this teenager to put him in my movies back in India.”

“Mumbai,” said Bonnie.

“Huh?” said the professor in disguise.

“The city is called Mumbai now, not Bombay. They changed it years ago.”

“Of course.” He smiled. “I am just old fashioned.”

“Uh-huh.” Bonnie studied him. “So, why do you want the chicken?”

“I thought you said it was a duck?”

“Not on the tie,” said Bonnie. “The chicken in the cage.”

Dennis clucked.

“Also for my movies,” said the professor. “I am thinking of making a musical about a teenager who falls in love with a bird, who is really a princess living under a curse that transformed her into a chicken.”

“This chicken is a rooster,” said Bonnie. “A boy chicken.”

“Well, I can put a dress on it and add eyelashes,” said the professor.

“You're lying,” said Bonnie.

“How do you know? Have you ever tried to attach eyelashes to a chicken?”

“No,” said Bonnie. “You are lying about being a movie producer.”

“I am certainly not lying,” lied the professor. “I am an important producer of Bollywood films, a pioneer of Indian cinema. Now, if we could continue to move this deal along, I must get back to Mumbai to finish filming my latest picture.”

“Mrmrmrmr mrmrm,” groaned the teenager, squirming in his chair.

“I have the money here, in my briefcase.” The professor reached for his briefcase, pouring sweat.

“Stop!” Bonnie commanded. The professor froze.

They stared at each other in silence for a time, the light still twirling above them.

“Bwak,” said Dennis, breaking the tension. It is quite well known among poultry farmers that chickens cannot stand tension. It is for this reason, perhaps, that pirates do not often keep chickens as pets aboard their vessels. Piracy is fraught with tension.

“I know who you are,” Bonnie said at last. “Don't deny it any longer. You are Professor Rasmali-Greenberg, president of the Explorers Club. You have come to rescue Corey Brandt, and that is a duck on your tie!”

The professor's shoulders slumped.

“I do wish the Navels would have come themselves,” Bonnie continued, “so I could get rid of you all at once, but I guess I will have to start with you alone.”

“I had hoped we could do this without anyone getting hurt.” The professor sighed. “You are right, of course. I am Professor Rasmali-Greenberg, president of the Explorers Club, collector of duck ties, and friend to the Navel family, but you are wrong about one thing.”

“What's that?” Bonnie demanded.

“I am not alone.”

The professor snapped open the clasps on his briefcase, and out leaped a very aggrieved gray howler monkey with a shock of black hair on his head and an even more aggrieved
Heloderma horridum,
also known as a bearded lizard.

For those of you who have never watched
Wally Worm's Word World,
one of Celia's favorite educational programs, you should know that
aggrieved
means a sense of having been unfairly treated. Wally Worm uses a rhyme to remember it:
If ever you are not believed, don't feel angry, feel aggrieved.

The aggrieved lizard was named Beverly, and she was aggrieved because she had just spent three hours squished into a briefcase with a howler monkey. The monkey's name was Patrick, and he didn't enjoy his time in the briefcase either.

For those of you who have never been attacked by an aggrieved lizard or howler monkey, I do not recommend it, and I do not think that Bonnie and her pirate thugs would recommend it either. The beaded lizard has a venomous bite that is quite unpleasant, causing convulsions, vomiting, unconsciousness, and, in some cases, death. Oddly, for those who do survive, lima beans taste much better.

The howler monkey just has very sharp teeth, which he does not hesitate to use.

As soon as Beverly and Patrick leaped, hissing and howling, from the briefcase, Beverly chomped on the ankle of one of Bonnie's thugs, who shouted and cursed in Mandarin Chinese. Then he fell unconscious. Patrick knocked the knife from another pirate's hands and bit him hard on the wrist. The words the pirate shrieked were unclear, either because they were in Norwegian or because the monkey was also choking him with its tail.

Professor Rasmali-Greenberg shot to his feet and dove across the table, knocking Corey away from the blade of Bonnie's knife. The chair toppled over backward and the large Explorers Club president landed on top of the teenage celebrity with a bone-crushing thud.

“I hot orby ant,” the young man moaned through the gag in his mouth and promptly passed out.

Bonnie was on her feet, knife in hand, preparing to throw it into the professor's back, when Beverly hopped onto the table in front of her.

“Hiss!” said the beaded lizard.

“Aieee!!!” said Bonnie, dropping her knife and running from the room. Not one of her unfortunate guards was still standing, and it was doubtful that any of them would be able to stand for some time.

“Well, it wasn't pretty,” said Professor Rasmali-Greenberg as he scooped Corey's limp body up and tossed the teen over his shoulder. “But we got what we came for.”

“Bwak,” added Dennis the chicken.

The professor picked up Dennis's cage and slipped out of the Saba Importing Company storeroom with Corey Brandt still unconscious over his shoulder. Patrick the monkey and Beverly the lizard followed close behind. The small band kept to the back streets and dark alleys, weaving their way through the Djibouti night.

Neither man nor lizard nor monkey nor chicken noticed that a small figure with thick scars on his forehead scurried behind them, following from the shadows.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO
Corey?” Celia cried, rushing across the beach to meet Professor Rasmali-Greenberg as the sun rose over the ocean.

The professor set the teenager down on the sand and then let Dennis the chicken out of his cage. Patrick and Beverly watched Dennis closely, no doubt considering whether he was a friend or a meal.

“Things did not go quite as planned,” the professor told the Navels as he wiped the rest of his runny makeup off with a handkerchief.

“But the Prague Proposition is foolproof,” objected Claire Navel.

“You mean the Djibouti Jinx,” said Oliver. He turned to the professor. “I renamed it.”

“
We
renamed it,” corrected Celia, kneeling down to check if Corey was still breathing. She was the teenager's biggest fan, after all, and felt a certain duty toward him.

Oliver rolled his eyes.
Access Celebrity Tonight
called Corey Brandt a teen heartthrob. Oliver imagined that a heartthrob was a serious medical problem. It didn't seem to bother Celia that Corey might be a serious medical problem. His sister always got weird around him. Maybe she needed to see a doctor.

“Your plan may have been foolproof,” the professor told them, “but it was not pirate proof. Bonnie saw right through my disguise. Things got out of control. Bonnie escaped, young Mr. Brandt was knocked out, and I ruined one of my favorite ties.”

“No!” Celia popped up and backed away from the unconscious celebrity.

“I'm afraid so,” said the professor. “You can see for yourself that the tie is ruined. Makeup stains right across the embroidery.”

“No,” said Celia. “I mean, Corey Brandt was
not
knocked out.”

“Celia, honey,” her father said, putting his hand on her shoulder, “he was knocked out. Look. He's right in front of you. Have you been drinking enough water? Too much water? In fact, we aren't supposed to drink the water here because of toxic parasites.” He turned to his wife. “I think Celia has toxic parasites.”

“I don't have toxic parasites,” said Celia. She pointed at the unconscious celebrity. “
That's
not Corey Brandt.”

Oliver kneeled down to get a closer look. He wiped his thumb under Corey's eye.

“Oh man!” he groaned. He raised his thumb to show his parents the black smudge. Corey's teardrop freckle was gone. “It's Ernest,” Oliver said sadly. “Again.”

“That sneaky, lying, no-good pirate,” said the professor. “She tricked me!”

“I can't believe you fell for that,” said Celia.

“Again,” added Oliver.

“I feel like we're stuck in a rerun!” Celia shook her head.

Ernest was a celebrity impersonator. He had pretended to be Corey Brandt before. He was voted off of
Dancing with My Impersonator
for his bad impression of Corey Brandt (he was too old) and his even worse dancing (he couldn't waltz). His impression of the teenager got better, though, because he had tricked the Navels into going with him to the Amazon, pretending he was Corey Brandt the whole time, until they figured it out and he tried to kill them.

He had tried to kill them a few times since then too, but not dressed as Corey Brandt. Every time they thought they had escaped him, he turned up, just like a bad case of the hiccups.

Up close he looked way too old to be a teenager. On TV, older people played teenagers all the time, but in real life, Celia and Oliver could tell the difference. They were pretty upset that Professor Rasmali-Greenberg couldn't.

“Young people all look the same to me,” the professor explained.

“Well,” Dr. Navel—their father—said. “This is a problem.”

“Yeah,” Dr. Navel—their mother—agreed. “We need to find the real Corey Brandt and get out of Djibouti. Sir Edmund will probably be on his way to Atlantis by now.”

The twins gave each other a nervous look, just like they did whenever someone mentioned Sir Edmund. He was a ruthless billionaire explorer who had pursued them all over the world, from the high mountaintops of Tibet through the Amazon and to a remote island in the South Pacific.

As far as enemies went, he was even worse than a celebrity impersonator or a vicious pirate. He kept a private zoo for rare, dangerous, and mythical creatures. His breath smelled worse than a sandwich abandoned at the bottom of a school locker for six months. He wanted to find Atlantis because he thought he could raise it from the depths of the ocean and rule the world. He was a very little man with a very big mustache and an even bigger ego.

While their mother was determined to stop him from finding Atlantis, Oliver and Celia were determined not to get thrown out of any more airplanes or chased through any more jungles or forced to battle any more giant squid. They just wanted a normal life, like normal kids, even if that meant that they had to go back to sixth grade.

Of course, first they had to rescue their friend from the pirates in Djibouti, which was hardly a normal thing for a sixth grader to do.

“Ugh,” Ernest groaned, slowly coming to.

“You!” Celia shouted at him.

His eyes snapped open. “Huh? What? Navels!”

“That's right,” said Oliver.

“Oh thank you!” Ernest pushed himself off the sand and threw himself at Oliver and Celia's feet. “I'm so glad to see you! I can't take it any longer . . . the pirates are terrible. They beat me and mocked me and make me waltz for their amusement.”

“You can't waltz!” said Celia.

“I know.” Ernest wept. “I hoped you'd come to save me. I prayed you'd come!”

“We didn't come for
you,
” Celia sneered at him. “We came for Corey Brandt.”

“Oh.” Ernest looked down at his clothes and slumped back onto his knees. “Right.” He sighed and looked at Claire and Ogden Navel. “But you could take me with you, right? I promise I won't cause any trouble. Just don't make me go back to those pirates.”

“We would never do that,” said Ogden Navel.

“Well,” his wife shrugged, “I wouldn't say
never . . .
”

Ernest dove onto his face, groveling at her feet. “Mrs. Navel, please! I'll do anything!”

“It's
Doctor
Navel,” she corrected. “I had my PhD before my husband did.”

“I don't test well.” Dr. Navel blushed.

“Doctor Navel,
Doctors
Navel!” Ernest whined, writhing on the ground like an agitated eel. “Pleeease!”

“You have to promise not to disguise yourself again or betray us in any way,” said Claire Navel.

“I promise,” said Ernest.

“And you cannot, under any circumstances, try to kill my children,” she added.

“Again,” grumbled Celia.

“Of course not!” Ernest pushed himself off the ground. He looked at Oliver and Celia with wide, wet eyes. “I'm sorry, Oliver. I'm sorry, Celia. I never should have tried to kill you. I fell in with a bad crowd. Sir Edmund and his Council and his grave robber accomplices. They made me do it. I would never want to hurt children.”

“Lying snake,” Oliver snapped at him.

“And we're tweens, not children,” Celia added. She turned to her mother. “Mom, you can't be serious about helping him.”

Ernest looked back and forth between mother and daughter, whimpering like a sad puppy.

“Can it!” Celia shouted at him. Ernest stopped whimpering.

“We'll be turning him over to the police as soon as possible,” Claire Navel told her daughter. “And you”—she narrowed her eyes at Ernest—“you will confess everything. Kidnapping, attempted murder, identity theft.”

“Don't forget destruction of property!” Professor Rasmali-Greenberg added. “I hold him personally responsible for ruining my tie!”

“But—” Ernest objected.

Claire held her hand in the air and gave him that look that only mothers, teachers, and dictators of small Latin American countries can give. Ernest fell silent.

“You will also tell us where the real Corey Brandt is being held,” she added.

“He's in one of the pirates' desert strongholds outside the city,” said Ernest.

“Why would pirates be in the desert?” Celia scoffed. “He's lying. We should look for their ship.”

“I'm not lying. I can draw you a map to the place. The pirates only use their ship to stage attacks,” Ernest said. “They are normally based on land, outside the city, where the corrupt local governor gives them protection.”

“Protection from what?” Oliver wondered. Why would pirates need protection from a governor?

“From the law,” said Ernest. “And from people like you.”

Oliver puffed his chest up a little. He liked the idea of pirates needing protection from him. Celia rolled her eyes and Oliver deflated again.

“So how are we supposed to get them?” Oliver wondered.

Claire and Ogden Navel gave each other a quick glance and a nod.

“It will be very dangerous to invade a pirate stronghold,” their mother told them. “I know you two have faced danger before, but someone will need to guard Ernest. The professor, your father, Patrick, and I can take care of the rescue operation at first light, when the pirates will still be asleep.”

“Pirates are not morning people,” the professor explained.

“Exactly,” said Claire Navel. “So I think we'll get a hotel room. Oliver and Celia will take Beverly and Dennis and our prisoner and stay behind to—”

“Okay,” the twins said in unison. They didn't need to be convinced to stay in a hotel while their parents took care of the dangerous adventures. Maybe they'd get lucky and there would be a TV in the hotel room; maybe it would have cable.

It was about time they got to relax while somebody else saved the day.