The Last Dragonslayer Page 7

  As Mother Zenobia had said, the last Dragon to die had been M’foszki, the Great Serpent of Bedwyn, whose lair was on what was then the Marlborough Downs. Quite suddenly the marker stones stopped humming and a daring lad named Bors stepped across into the Dragonlands, walked the empty hills until he entered the Dragon’s lair, a deep underground cave worn smooth by M’foszki’s hard skin. There he found a lot of cattle and sheep bones, some jewels and gold and a very large and dead Dragon. Bors took the Dragon’s head-jewel and swapped it for a handsome townhouse. As for the Marlborough Dragonlands, every square inch was claimed within twenty-four hours; a rare pair of Lesser-spotted Bworks were shot and stuffed by a passing hunter, and the land is now used for farming.

  I stared into the empty Dragonlands, then at the people who were still arriving, following the call of cash as if in some deep-rooted herding instinct. The milk of human kindness was turning sour.

  Patrick and the Childcatcher

  * * *

  Tiger Prawns was in the lobby when I got back, and I asked him why he wasn’t manning the telephone as he had been told.

  ‘Very funny,’ he said.

  ‘I see you’ve met Patrick of Ludlow,’ I replied, trying to stifle a giggle, for Tiger was thirty feet up in the shabby atrium, perched high upon the chandelier. ‘How long have you been up there?’

  ‘Half an hour,’ he answered crossly, ‘with only a lot of dust and Transient Moose for company.’

  ‘You’ll have to suffer a few jokes in good humour,’ I told him, ‘and consider yourself lucky that you have witnessed both passive and active levitation in the same week.’

  ‘Which was which?’

  ‘Carpeteering is active; heavy lifting is passive. Could you feel the difference?’

  He crossed his arms and sulked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did your fillings ache when he lifted you?’

  ‘I don’t have any fillings,’ he replied grumpily.

  ‘They would if you did,’ I said as I walked off towards the Kazam offices. ‘I’ll ask Patrick to get you down.’

  Our heavy lifter was eating biscuits in the Avon Suite when I arrived. Patrick of Ludlow was a year shy of his fortieth birthday, and was amiable, a little simple and quite odd looking: like most sorcerers who made their living using passive levitation, he had muscles mainly where he shouldn’t – that is to say, grouped around his ankles, wrists, toes, fingers and the back of his head.

  ‘How did the clamping removals go?’ I asked.

  ‘Eight, Miss Jennifer, which brings my score to four thousand, seven hundred and four. The most popular car colour for people who don’t care where they park is silver; the least popular, black.’

  ‘Was it Wizard Moobin who told you to put Tiger up there?’

  I knew he wouldn’t have done it on his own.

  ‘Yes, Miss Jennifer. Was that wrong of me?’

  ‘No, it was just a joke. But get him down now, yes?’

  He waved his hand in the direction of the lobby, and a minute or two later Tiger walked back into the office with a scowl etched upon his forehead.

  ‘Patrick, this is Tiger Prawns. Tiger is the seventh foundling, here to help me run the place. Tiger, this is Patrick of Ludlow, our heavy lifter, who was told to put you up there by a wizard or wizards unknown, and is thus blameless. You will be friends and not hold a grudge.’

  Patrick jumped up politely, said how happy he was to meet him and thrust out a hand for him to shake. Tiger blinked. The hand looked like a joint of boiled ham with fingertips poking out of the end, and I watched to see what Tiger would do faced with an appendage so misshapen. To his credit, he didn’t flinch and instead held one of the fingertips and shook his hand. The lack of any reticence pleased Patrick, who grinned broadly – although he’d come to terms with the way he looked, he’d never really got used to it.

  ‘Sorry about putting you up there,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ replied Tiger, who had become more cheery now he knew the prank wasn’t malicious. ‘The view was very pleasant. How do you hold things with hands like that?’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ replied Patrick, and demonstrated by raising his tea to his lips by thought power alone.

  ‘Useful,’ said Tiger. ‘Who was the person on the other chandelier?’

  ‘What?’

  Tiger repeated himself and I went out to the lobby to check. Tiger had been right, and when I saw who it was, I had to bite my lip to avoid giggling.

  ‘Patrick,’ I shouted down the corridor, ‘would you let the Childcatcher down, please?’

  Patrick reluctantly let the man down, but not so lightly as he had Tiger, and the truant officer landed heavily on the carpet.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I replied to the truant officer, even though I wasn’t, ‘but Patrick has a long memory, and you and he didn’t get along, now did you?’

  ‘It’s an unpopular profession,’ said the Childcatcher, brushing himself down, ‘but someone must do it.’

  The Childcatcher had a weaselly face covered in unsightly pustules which was framed between two curtains of lifeless black hair.

  ‘He should show greater respect to a servant of the Crown.’

  ‘And he will,’ I assured him. ‘We take any disrespect to King Snodd’s representatives most seriously.’

  ‘Good,’ said the Childcatcher, although I could tell he wasn’t wholly convinced. ‘I understand you have a new foundling, and I want to know why he has not been enrolled into any schools.’

  Tiger and I exchanged glances. He’d be too busy for school, and working at Kazam was education enough. Besides, if he did need to learn anything truly academic, we could always get one of the wizards to help. A book hidden under an enchanted pillow at night to seep up into the head works wonders. Sadly, the school board didn’t see it that way.

  ‘Unless I have a very good reason for Master Prawn’s non-attendance, we shall be forced to send him to school against his will.’

  I didn’t know what to say. Mr Zambini had bribed the Childcatcher when he came for me, but that had been a different Childcatcher – one that had eventually gone to prison for taking bribes. I wasn’t sure it would work this time around, and using sorcery to bend the will of a civil servant was not only outrageously illegal, but unethical.

  ‘I don’t need to go to school,’ said Tiger loftily, ‘because I already know everything.’

  The Childcatcher laughed.

  ‘Then answer me this: what did the “S” stand for in General George S. Patton?’

  ‘Was it “Smith”?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the Childcatcher suspiciously, ‘probably a lucky guess. What are the prime factors of 1001?’

  ‘Easy – 7, 11, and 13.’

  I stifled a laugh and attempted to look serious as Tiger reeled off the answers that the Remarkable Kevin Zipp had given him the previous day. It was just as well he had memorised them.

  ‘Okay, that was quite impressive,’ said the Childcatcher. ‘Final question: what is the capital of Mongolia?’

  ‘Is it Ulan Bator?’

  ‘It is,’ replied the Childcatcher uneasily. ‘Looks like you are what you say you are. Good afternoon, Master Prawns, good afternoon, Miss Strange.’

  And he stomped angrily from the hotel.

  ‘Well,’ said Tiger, ‘I know now why Kevin carries the accolade Remarkable. How did he do at the races? I expect he made a fortune.’

  ‘Lost every penny he owned,’ I replied, ‘and the shirt off his back. Soothsayers are like that. They see many futures, but never their own.’

  Norton and Villiers

  * * *

  I shut up the office at five after completing the form P3-8F for Wizard Moobin’s accident and all the B1-7Gs for the day’s work. Once they were signed by the magician they related to, my day was done. But as I walked along the corridor towards the lobby the Quarkbeast’s hackles rose and he made growly Quarky noises deep in his throat. It was easy to see why. There were two men wait
ing for me beneath the spreading boughs of the oak tree.

  ‘Call the Quarkbeast off, Miss Strange,’ said one of the men. ‘We’re not here to harm you or it.’

  The two men were well dressed and very familiar. They were Royal Police, and were always the ones assigned to investigate any possible deviation from the Magical Powers (amended 1966) Act. I’d known them for as long as I had been here, and two things were certain: one, they would go away empty handed, and two: they always began with the same introduction, even though they knew exactly who I was – and I them.

  ‘I’m Detective Norton,’ said the taller and thinner of the two, ‘and this is Sergeant Villiers. We work for the King and we would like you to help us with our inquiries.’

  Sergeant Villiers was a good deal heavier in body and face than Norton, and we often joked that the pair of them looked like the ‘Before and After’ in a slimming advertisement.

  The Quarkbeast sniffed Villiers’ trouser leg excitedly, and wagged his tail.

  ‘You have a new wooden leg, Sergeant,’ I observed, ‘made of walnut.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Walnut is catnip to a Quarkbeast. If you still have your old one, I’d wear it next time you come round.’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ he said, peering nervously at the Quarkbeast, who was in turn staring intently at his leg, his razor-sharp fangs dripping with saliva. He’d have eaten the leg in under a second if I’d allowed him, but Quarkbeasts, for all their fearsome looks, were dutiful to a fault. They were one tenth Labrador, and the rest was a mix of velociraptor and kitchen blender. It was the tenth that mattered.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘how can I help?’

  ‘Is Mr Zambini back yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘I see. You have a few soothsayers and pre-cogs on yours books, I understand?’

  ‘You know I have,’ I answered, ‘and they both hold Class IV Premonition Certificates.’

  ‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast, sensing the defensive tone in my voice.

  ‘Have any of your pre-cogs mentioned the death of Maltcassion?’ asked Norton.

  ‘It doesn’t take any special skills, Detective. Take a look up at the Dragonlands. Besides, doesn’t the King have a seer of his own?’

  Villiers nodded in agreement. ‘He certainly does. The Inconsistent Sage O’Neons has predicted the death of the Dragon, but also mentioned that the Dragon was to be killed by a Dragonslayer. Does this sound correct?’

  ‘No one can enter the Dragonlands but a Dragonslayer, Villiers. I think perhaps Sage O’Neons is less astounding than you think.’

  ‘Insulting the King’s advisers is an offence, Miss Strange.’

  I’d had enough of all the beating-around-the-bush stuff.

  ‘What do you want, Norton? This isn’t a social call.’

  Villiers and Norton exchanged glances. The door to the Sisters Karamazov’s apartment opened and they both popped their heads out.

  ‘I’m fine, sisters, thank you.’

  They nodded and withdrew. It was Villiers who spoke next.

  ‘Sage O’Neons said a young woman named Strange would be involved in the Dragondeath.’

  ‘There must be hundreds in the phone book.’

  ‘Perhaps, but only one has a Quarkbeast.’

  The Quarkbeast looked up quizzically.

  ‘Quark,’ he said.

  They both stared at me as though I was somehow meant to account for myself appearing in one of the royal seer’s visions.

  ‘Pre-cogs,’ I began, measuring my words carefully, ‘even royal ones, don’t always get it right. Any seer worth his salt will tell you a premonition is seven-tenths interpretation. And remember, Strange isn’t just a name, it’s an adjective.’

  Villiers and Norton shuffled uneasily. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to them either, interviewing someone on the basis of a vision, but when the King speaks, they have to do his bidding.

  ‘We’re just following a number of leads, Miss Strange. I hope you would consider your allegiance to His Majesty King Snodd IV (may he live for ever) above all else?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Villiers nodded.

  ‘Then I would expect a call if you knew anything?’

  ‘Goes without saying.’

  They knew I didn’t mean it, and I knew they knew. They bade me good afternoon and left, purposefully leaving the front door open.

  I went up to my room and switched on the television. It was as I had feared: the news about the potential Dragondeath was going national. The Ununited Kingdoms Broadcasting Corporation was running a live feed from the Dragonlands – they had even sent their star anchorwoman.

  ‘This is Sophie Trotter of the UKBC,’ announced the reporter, ‘speaking live from the Maltcassion Dragonlands, here in the Black Mountains. A wave of premonitions about the death of the last Dragon has given rise to a gathering in the Marcher Kingdom of Hereford. No one can say for sure when this event will happen, but as soon as the repulsive old lizard kicks the bucket you can be sure that there will be a wild race to claim as much land as possible. When he dies, the good people of the Ununited Kingdoms can finally sleep easily in their beds, secure in the knowledge that the last of these loathsome worms has been eradicated from the world. The question that is on everyone’s lips is: when? An answer that we, as yet, do not know. But when the Dragon finally croaks you can be sure that UKBC will be in with the first wave of new claimants. Next up, an exclusive interview with leading Herefordian knight Sir Matt Crifflon, who explains why the dragon needs to die, and plays his latest hit song: “A Horse, a Sword, and Me”.’

  ‘Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’ said a voice from the door. It was Wizard Moobin, none the worse for the explosion that morning.

  ‘Sir Matt Grifflon’s new song?’ I asked. ‘No, I thought it was quite good – if you like that kind of thing.’

  ‘The Dragonlands. If I had my way I’d make them a national park, a safe haven for wild Quarkbeasts. Isn’t that right, lad?’

  ‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast happily. I gave him two unopened tins of dog food. He crunched them up happily, can and all.

  ‘We agree on that,’ I replied, ‘but if you’re going to play jokes on the new boy, can you please not ask Patrick of Ludlow to help out? He’s very impressionable.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. Watch this.’

  And so saying, he put out his hand and narrowed his eyes. There was a crackle in the air and a vase displaced itself from my dresser and flew across the room to his outstretched hand. The Quarkbeast Quarked excitedly; there was now a bunch of flowers in the vase as well.

  ‘These are for you,’ said the Wizard gallantly, presenting the roses with a flourish.

  I took the flowers carefully, for they were not real in any sense of the word, just images conjured up by the wizard. They twinkled with small sparks of electricity in the dimness of the room, and changed colour slowly, like the setting sun. They were beautiful, but wholly out of Moobin’s league.

  ‘They’re fantastic!’ I muttered, adding: ‘Don’t think me rude, but . . . ?’

  ‘I’m as surprised as you are,’ he confessed, pulling a small device from his pocket. It was a portable Shandarmeter – a device for measuring wizidrical power. He turned the gadget on and handed it to me. I pointed the meter at him as he levitated the vase.

  ‘What did I get?’

  ‘3000 Shandars.’

  ‘Last week I could barely manage 1500,’ said Moobin excitedly. ‘Even if we discount the lead/gold switcheroo as a surge, I’m still twice as powerful as I was two days ago.’

  ‘You think it’s connected with the Dragondeath?’

  ‘A definite link between Dragons and magic was never proved, but the nearer I am to the Dragonlands, the stronger my powers. The same jobs I might try in London take a lot more effort.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ I replied drily. ‘I can’t send Mrs Croft to do anything worthwhil
e farther than Oxford, and Roger Kierkegaard failed utterly when he was on that geological survey in the Sinai.’

  The wizard sighed.

  ‘I rarely like to work much farther than Yorkshire, yet my father was powerful as far away as the Great Troll Wall.’

  ‘There were more Dragons then,’ I answered. ‘More dragons, more magic, fewer dragons, less magic. The thing is,’ I added, ‘when Maltcassion dies, does magic go with him? All this might be the last knockings – the brief surge an engine will give before it runs out of petrol.’

  Moobin went quiet.

  ‘There could be something in what you say. Sister Karamazov mentioned a Big Magic, but I have my doubts.’

  ‘Big Magic?’

  Moobin shrugged.

  ‘It’s an old wizard’s legend – of a massive burst of wizidrical power that changes everything.’

  ‘Good or bad?’

  ‘No one knows.’

  We stood in silence for a moment.

  ‘Perhaps if I were to talk to the Dragonslayer?’ I ventured.

  ‘Is there one?’

  ‘There has to be, doesn’t there? It was part of the Dragonpact.’

  ‘You could try. It’s possible that the Dragon may not die. After all, seers and pre-cogs only see a version of the future. There are few premonitions – if any – that can’t be altered.’

  Wizard Moobin left soon after and I gazed at the roses as they twinkled and faded as the magic wore off. Then Owen of Rhayder knocked on my door. He was our second carpeteer. Owen had defected to Hereford from the ramshackle Cambrian Potentate in Mid Wales about ten years previously, which wasn’t hard to do if your particular skill was carpet.

  ‘Look at this, Jennifer, girl,’ he said crossly, unfurling the carpet and letting it hover in the middle of the room.