The Last Dragonslayer (16 page)

Stamford was a sallow man with greasy hair. He peered at me cautiously and shook my hand.

‘You’re here because of the Dragondeath?’ I asked.

‘I think so,’ he replied after a moment’s thought. ‘You know that feeling when you go into a room and then can’t remember what it is you’re there for?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s
exactly
like that. I don’t know why I’m here, I just feel that I should be.’

And he fell silent.

‘He’s the third to arrive since this morning,’ said Wizard Moobin. He paused for a moment. ‘Tiger Prawns was out of order doing what he did, you know.’

‘I know. He was doing it to stop me resigning.’

‘It was noble, I grant you that. We respect honour. Sadly, Lady Mawgon doesn’t. She wanted to have you both replaced and asked Mother Zenobia to send a shortlist of new foundlings so we could start interviewing.’

‘That’s not how it works.’

‘It’s how Lady Mawgon works.’

‘What happened?’

‘Mother Zenobia told her they’d run out.’

I smiled. Mother Zenobia had hundreds of foundlings, but she was supporting Tiger and myself by telling Lady Mawgon there weren’t any. It must have made Mawgon even
more
angry.

‘So what’s she doing now?’

‘Lady Mawgon? Marching around the corridors gnashing her teeth, I expect. If ever there was a time to go and hide, this might be it.’

It seemed a good time to tell Moobin what had happened. He was, after all, the sorcerer I got on best with, and Mr Zambini’s successor, if there was one.

‘I’m the last Dragonslayer.’

‘Yes,’ said Moobin, ‘I saw it on the news. You’re no longer a bystander, Jennifer, you’re a player.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but how?’

Moobin took out his Shandarmeter and turned it on. I looked over his shoulder as the small needle bobbed against the scale.

‘The background wizidrical radiation has risen almost tenfold since yesterday,’ he mused. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’ I asked Brother Stamford. ‘Like moths to a light?’

Stamford answered by firing a shimmering globe from his fingertip that buzzed round the room before vanishing.

‘I couldn’t do that yesterday,’ he announced. ‘You may joke about Big Magic, but it’s real and it’s true and it’s going to happen very soon.’

‘But what is it?’ I asked.

They both looked at one another. Wizard Moobin was the one who answered.

‘There was a time before magic, and there will be a time when magic has gone. In between those times the power of magic will ebb and flow like the tide. But like it or not there will come a day when the tide will recede and never return – the power of magic will vanish for ever.’

‘But that’s unthinkable!’

‘It’s not all bad. There is always an opportunity to rekindle that spark and bring the tide of power back into flood – and with the flood bring on renewal. Renewal of the power of magic.’

‘And that opportunity is Big Magic?’ I asked.

‘A chance to recharge the batteries, so to speak. But at times of low power, sorcerers are less likely to see the signs of a Big Magic. We never know when it will be, or what form it will take. The last time Big Magic took place was two hundred and thirty years ago, with the appearance of the star Aleutius in the evening sky. If Brother Thassos of Crete had not seen it for the sign it was, magic might have vanished for good.’

‘But where does magic come from?’ I asked. ‘And where does it go?’

‘Explaining magic is like explaining lightning or rainbows a thousand years ago; inexplicable and wonderful but seemingly impossible. Today they are little more than equations in a science textbook. Magic is the fifth fundamental force, and even more mysterious than gravity, which is
really
saying something. Magic is a power lurking in all of us, an emotional energy that can be used to move objects and manipulate matter. But it doesn’t follow any physical laws that we can, as yet, understand; it exists only in our hearts and minds.’

‘And the Dragonlands? What do they have to do with it?’

‘I wish we knew. But one thing is crucial. With the way that the power of magic has been deteriorating over the past fifty years, this happening – whatever it is – might be the last chance to regather the power before it goes completely.’

‘What are the chances it will happen?’

‘A renewal is a risky undertaking. Chances are twenty per cent, at best.’

And on that note, Moobin returned to his tidying, and I wandered up to my room. My window faced west and I watched the deep orange sun sink slowly behind the marzipan refinery at Sugwas, the heat from the refinery’s gas flares making the air wobble and distorting the image. I sat down on the bed.

‘Do you want some pizza, Tiger?’

‘Yes, please,’ came a small voice from inside the cupboard. It seemed Tiger still wasn’t happy sleeping on his own. ‘Hey,’ he added, ‘is this a Matt Grifflon poster you’ve hidden in here?’

‘I’m looking after it for a friend,’ I said hurriedly.

‘Right.’

I left Zambini Towers at midnight and spent the rest of the night at the Dragonslayer’s apartment. The crowds of press hadn’t gone by the morning, and pretty soon I had to leave the phone off the hook after two radio stations, the lifestyles section of
The
Daily Mollusc
, the features editor of
The Clam
and a representative from Fizzi-Pop all called me within the space of forty-seven seconds. All was not bad news, however. Gordon had excelled himself at breakfast, and I was soon tucking into a massive stack of pancakes. I was just reading in the paper about a border skirmish between the Kingdom of Hereford and the Duke of Brecon when there was a knock at the door.

‘If it’s that idiot from Yummy-Flakes tell him I’m dead,’ I said, not looking up from the newspaper. It wasn’t the Yummy-Flakes man. It wasn’t even the theme park guy. It was a royal footman in full livery who ignored Gordon and approached me at the breakfast table. He had a pomaded wig, scarlet tunic and breeches. His shirt had deep frilly cuffs and his starched collar was so stiff he could barely move his head.

‘Miss Strange?’ he asked in a thin voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Dragonslayer?’

‘Yes, yes?’

‘I am commanded by His Majesty King Snodd to convey you to the castle.’

‘The castle? Me? You’re joking!’

The footman looked at me coldly.

‘The King doesn’t make jokes, Miss Strange. On the rare occasion that he does he circulates a memo beforehand to avoid any misunderstandings. He has sent his own car.’

The footman and chauffeur didn’t say a word as we drove out of Hereford towards Snodd Hill, traditionally the place of residence of the Monarch of Hereford since the Dragonpact, as it nestled comfortably – and strategically – against the eastern edge of the Dragonland and was thus completely free from attack in at least one direction. The high ramparts and curtain walls grew larger as we rattled over drawbridges on our way to the inner bailey. I didn’t have time to ponder much as the car pulled up outside the keep and the door was opened by another footman in impeccable dress. He beckoned me to follow and I almost had to run to keep up as we negotiated the winding stairs of the old castle. After a brief sprint he stopped outside two large wooden doors, knocked and then flung them open with a flourish.

The doors led into a large medieval hall. The high ceilings were decorated with heraldic shields and from the massive oak beams hung tapestries depicting the Kingdom’s dubiously won military triumphs over the centuries. At the far end of the room was a large fireplace, in front of which were two sofas which seated six men. They were all watching a young man who was outlining something on a blackboard. None of them seemed to take the least notice of me so I walked closer, listening intently to what was going on.

‘. . . the trouble is,’ said the man at the blackboard, who I recognised instantly as His Gracious Majesty King Snodd IV, ‘that I have no idea what that rascal Brecon is up to. My sources tell me . . .’

His voice trailed off as he noticed me. I suddenly felt very small and naked as all the High Lords of the Kingdom swivelled their heads to stare at me. I knew most of them by sight, of course – they quite liked to get on TV. There was one in particular who was on our screens more than the rest – Sir Matt Grifflon, who was Hereford’s most eligible bachelor and about as handsome as any man could be. He smiled at me and I felt my heart flutter. Despite this, there was an uneasy silence. The other men on the sofas were all clearly military men, although the only one I recognised for sure was the Earl of Shobdon; Kazam had once charmed all the moles off his estate.

‘Your servant, Sire,’ I stammered, curtsying clumsily. ‘My name is Jennifer Strange; I am the Dragonslayer.’

‘The Dragonslayer?’ echoed the King. ‘The Dragonslayer is a
girl
?’

He said the last word with a tone of derision. I watched silently as he started chortling with small grunty coughs. I have to say I had taken a dislike to my King already. The others started to laugh too and I felt a hot flush of anger rising under my skin. The King raised a hand and the laughter stopped.

‘Aaaah!’ said the King in alarm, before quickly recovering and clapping his hands in delight. ‘My goodness! A real live Quarkbeast!’ He snapped his fingers and a footman appeared.

‘Some meat for the Quarkbeast,’ he said without turning. ‘A
most
unusual pet, Miss Strange. Where did you find him?’

‘Well, it was more of a case of him—’

‘How
fascinating
!’ replied the King, cutting me dead. ‘You are loyal to the Crown?’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘That’s a relief. Tell me, Miss Dragonslayer, do you have an apprentice yet?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

The King moved closer to me and I found myself backing away. I had to stop when I came up against a pillar, and he took the opportunity to regard me minutely through a monocle that he had screwed into his eye.

‘Hmm,’ he said at last. ‘You will fire your apprentice and hire the man I send to you. That is all. You are dismissed.’

I started to leave but then stopped as I realised my sixty-second accelerated Dragonslayer course had furnished me with one or two snippets about despots and how to deal with them. Instead of hurrying off, tail between legs and heartily intimidated, I stood my ground.

‘Are you deaf, girl?’ he repeated. ‘I said dismiss! Away with you! Shoo!’

‘My Lord,’ said I, my voice cracking as I stared into the beetroot-red face of the monarch, ‘I wish only to serve my King and will do anything that he reasonably expects of me. But I must point out that by the Mighty Shandar’s decree and ancient law, the concerns of the Dragonslayer are of no consequence to my noble King.’

There was a deathly hush. One of his advisers started to giggle but wisely changed it into a cough. The King’s monocle dropped from his face. He turned to his advisers and asked in an exasperated tone:

‘Was that a refusal?’

His aides all muttered to one another, nodded their heads and generally made noises of assent. The King turned back to me and wagged a slender index finger in my face.

‘You dare to speak of a higher authority than I? Where, might I ask, is this so-called Mighty Shandar? He has not been seen for a hundred and sixty-one years, yet you tell me that he is the last word on Dragons? You are in big trouble, young lady.’

‘No, Sire, I think she does you greater honour by her refusal.’

The voice was raw and gravelly and sounded like that of the janitor from the convent. It was one of the King’s advisers. He rose from his sofa, disturbing one of a pair of greyhounds that had been asleep at his feet, and approached us both.

‘What is the meaning of this, Lord Chief Adviser?’

The Lord Chief Adviser was a tall man of advancing years. His hair and beard were snow white and he walked with a limp. He smiled at me and I breathed a sigh of relief. It stood to reason that a king had others to advise him who were, well,
smarter
.

‘I remember the last Dragonslayer, my Lord, perhaps you do not.’

‘Of course I do,’ snapped the King. ‘Frightful bounder by the name of Spalding. He was insolent too.’

‘Perhaps. Then you know that a Dragonslayer has a position quite unique. They are answerable not to one king, but to all of us. The independence of the Dragonslayer should not be compromised, and never coerced.’

‘Speak English, damn you! Besides, who’s coercing?’ asked the King in a shocked tone. ‘I am ordering. It is
quite
a different matter. Guards, lock this Dragonslayer up in the most frightful room of the highest tower and feed her on powdered mouse until she agrees.’

‘You cannot, Sire.’

‘Cannot?’ asked the King, his face growing red with anger. ‘Cannot? I am the King. I WILL BE OBEYED!’

‘As powerful as my Lord is, not even your finest squadron of super-dreadnought landships can come close to the power of magic.’

‘Magic? Pah!’ scoffed the King. ‘This is the twenty-first century, Lord Chief Adviser. I think you accord too much relevance to antiquated notions.’

But the Lord Chief Adviser was not going to be defeated.

‘Your father never dismissed magic so readily, and neither should you.’

The young King bit his lip and looked at me. The Lord Chief Adviser continued:

‘I do not advise you to hold a Dragonslayer against their will, Sire. I also think you should apologise to Miss Strange and welcome her to the court.’

‘What?!’ said the King, his monocle popping out of his eye again. ‘Outrageous!’

At that moment the footman arrived with a small plate of meat for the Quarkbeast.