‘I don’t know,’ I replied, ‘but there’s a reason Kazam is based in the Kingdom of Hereford. We’re twenty miles away from the Dragonlands, and while a link between Dragons and magic has never been fully proved, there’s more than enough anecdotal evidence to connect the two. In any event,’ I added, ‘I think we need to find out more.’
‘By the way,’ said Tiger, ‘is the Quarkbeast allowed to chew corrugated iron before breakfast?’
‘Only galvanised,’ I replied without looking up, ‘the zinc keeps his scales shiny.’
There was an excited buzz in the breakfast room that morning, and not just because Unstable Mabel had agreed to cook waffles. The talk was about Moobin’s accomplishment and how everyone’s power seemed to have increased. Although they had all gone off to try the ‘lead into gold’ gag for themselves, no-one else had succeeded, leading me to believe that Moobin had managed it only because he was the sole person up that morning, and the battery of wizidrical power that was Zambini Towers had been available to him and him alone.
Aside from the brief excitement, there seemed to be little going on that morning. I had a job for Full Price to divine the position of a wedding ring that had been flushed accidentally down the loo, and another tree-moving job that the Green Man and Patrick of Ludlow could handle. I sorted through the mail. There were a few cheques so at least I could speak to the bank manager again. There was also a letter that carried the official seal of the Hereford City Council, and it informed me that our contract to clean the city’s drains would not be renewed. I called my contact at the council to try to find out why.
‘The fact is,’ said Tim Brody, who was acting assistant deputy head of drains, ‘that Blok-U-Gon, the well-known and TV-advertised industrial drain unblockers, have undercut your price, and we have a budget to think of.’
‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,’ I said, trying to act how Mr Zambini might. Some work we did at a loss, either simply to keep the sorcerers busy, or to give us a presence in the marketplace. We needed the public to see us working in order to gain their trust and promote wizardry as simply a way of life. The last thing we needed was for the fifteenth-century view of sorcerers to spring to the fore, and for the citizenry to regard those at Kazam with loathing and mistrust.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘a drain cleared by magic is the best way. It doesn’t smell, no fuss, you don’t have to be embarrassed by what you blocked it up with, and besides, I offer a good guarantee. If it blocks again within twenty-four hours we redo the job for free and charm the moles from your garden – or your face: the choice is yours. I even do the form B1-7Gs for you. Besides, it’s traditional.’
‘It’s not just the cost, Jennifer. My mother used to be a sorceress so I’ve always tried to use you guys. The problem is that King Snodd’s useless brother has recently bought a five per cent share in Blok-U-Gon, and, well, you see?’
‘Oh,’ I said, realising that this was bigger than both of us, ‘right. Thanks for your time, Tim. I’m sure you did your best.’
I hung up. Although King Snodd IV was in general a fair and just ruler who seldom put people to death without good reason, he was not averse to making edicts that were of financial benefit to him and his immediate family. There was nothing I could do. He was the King, after all, and, indentured servitude or not, I and all those who held Hereford nationality were loyal subjects of the Crown.
‘We just lost the drain unblocking contract to King Snodd’s useless brother,’ I said.
‘I don’t know about his useless brother, but Mother Zenobia took us all to see King Snodd on Military Hardware Parade Day,’ remarked Tiger thoughtfully.
‘What did you think?’
‘The landships were impressive.’
‘I meant about the King.’
He thought for a moment.
‘Shorter than he looks during the weekly TV address.’
‘He does the address sitting down.’
‘Even so.’
But Tiger was right.
‘The six-foot-tall Queen Mimosa doesn’t help him,’ I observed. ‘She used to work here thirty years ago when she was plain Miss Mimosa Jones. Mr Zambini said she could pollinate plants over seven times more efficiently than bees. A good little earner, he said, given Hereford’s fruit exports. But then Prince Snodd took an interest, proclaimed his undying love and she renounced her calling to be the princess, later Queen. Mr Zambini was sad to lose her, but the bees were relieved to be back to full employment.’
‘She’s very beautiful,’ said Tiger.
‘And witty and wise,’ I added, ‘what with all the stand-up comedy she does, and the Troll Wars Widows charity.’
‘Quark.’
The door to the office cracked open and a large man with a sharp suit and a fedora put his head round the door. He soon noticed the Quarkbeast. Hard not to, really.
‘Does he, er . . . bite?’
‘Never deeper than the bone.’
He jumped.
‘My joke, Mr . . . ?’
The large man looked relieved and entered. He removed his hat and sat in the chair I offered him while Tiger was dispatched to fetch a cup of tea.
‘My name is Mr Trimble,’ announced the man, ‘of Trimble, Trimble, Trimble, Trimble and Trimble, attorneys-at-law.’
He handed me a card.
‘That’s me there,’ he said, helpfully pointing to the third Trimble from the left.
‘Jennifer Strange,’ I replied, handing him a brochure and rate-card.
There was a pause.
‘Can I speak to someone in charge?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Oh!’ he said apologetically. ‘You seemed a little young.’
‘I’m sixteen in two weeks – I think,’ I said. ‘And I’ve had a driver’s licence since I was thirteen. You can talk to me.’
The Kingdom of Hereford was unique in the Ununited Kingdoms for having driving tests based on maturity, not age, much to the chagrin of a lot of males, some of whom were still failing to make the grade at thirty-two.
‘Commendable, Miss Strange, but I usually speak to Mr Zambini.’
‘Mr Zambini is regrettably . . . unavailable right now.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Indisposed,’ I replied firmly. ‘How can I help?’
‘Very well,’ said Mr Trimble, once he could see I would not be moved. ‘I represent the Consolidated Useful Stuff Land Development Corporation.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I replied. ‘But unless you really want to change, there’s not a lot we can do.’
‘I don’t regard it as a problem, Miss Strange,’ he replied testily.
‘Oh,’ I said, having got the wrong end of the stick, ‘sorry.’
‘Never mind. Do you have any reliable pre-cogs on your books?’
‘I have two,’ I answered happily, glad that this morning wouldn’t be all bad news. The Consolidated Useful Stuff Land Development Corporation was the property arm of Consolidated Useful Stuff, and there wasn’t much that ConStuff didn’t do and own. They even had their own kingdom in the chain of islands to the east of Trollvania, which managed to make cheap and shabby goods far more cheaply and shabbily than anyone else – a clear advantage that allowed them to dominate the Ununited Kingdoms’ cheap and shabby goods market. It was said that of every pound, spondoolip, dollop, acker or moolah spent, one in six went into ConStuff’s pocket. No one much liked them, but few didn’t shop there. ConWearStuff had recently introduced an ‘all you can wear for five moolah’ section, and on my miserable allowance, I couldn’t afford to shop anywhere else. To my credit, I felt guilty afterwards.
‘Two pre-cogs?’ said Trimble, taking a chequebook from his pocket. ‘That’s excellent news. I wonder if any of them have predicted the death of the loathsome Maltcassion recently?’
I hope he didn’t see me flinch.
‘Why?’
‘Well,’ continued Mr Trimble genially, ‘it’s just that my aunt had a vis
ion last night of the Dragon’s death.’
‘Did she say when?’
‘No; this year, tomorrow, who knows? She’s only rated a 629.8, so her predictions are a bit wild. But I can’t ignore it. All that land ripe for claiming. The precise time of the Dragon’s death would be invaluable to a property developer, if you get my meaning. Land is so much better managed when there is only one company administering it. Having the general public own dribs and drabs here and there and everywhere can be highly irksome, wouldn’t you agree?’
He smiled and handed me a cheque. I gasped. It was for two million Herefordian moolah. I’d never seen so many zeros in one place without ‘overdrawn’ written next to them.
‘If you can tell me the precise time and date I will return and sign that cheque. But only for the correct time and date. Do you understand?’
‘You . . . want to cash in on the death of the last Dragon?’
‘Precisely what I mean,’ he said happily, mistaking my sense of annoyance for one of agreement, ‘I’m so glad we understand one another.’
Before I could say another word he had shaken my hand and walked out of the door, leaving me staring at the cheque. His offer would clear our overdraft and quite possibly see all of the wizards into a cosy retirement – always a possibility, given the diminishing power of magic.
‘By the way,’ he said, popping his head round the door again, ‘there seems to be a moose in the corridor.’
‘That would be Hector,’ said Tiger, ‘he’s transient.’
‘Perhaps so,’ replied Trimble, ‘but he’s blocking the way.’
‘Just walk through him,’ I said, still deep in thought, ‘and if you’ve ever wanted to know how a moose works, stop halfway and have a good look round.’
‘Right,’ said Mr Trimble, and left.
I leaned back in my chair. The apparent word of Maltcassion’s demise was getting about. The death of a Dragon was a matter of some consequence, and such things are not to be treated lightly. And when I’m in need of advice, there is only one place to go: Mother Zenobia.
Mother Zenobia
* * *
The Convent of the Sacred Order of the Blessed Lady of the Lobster was once a dank and dark medieval castle but was now, after a lick of paint and the introduction of a few scatter cushions, a dank and dark convent. The building overlooked the Wye, which was pleasant, and was right on the edge of the demilitarised zone, which wasn’t. Successive King Snodds had looked upon the Duke of Brecon’s neighbouring duchy with envious eyes, and a garrison from each had faced each other across the ten-mile strip of land which was their only shared border. The upshot of this was that King Snodd’s artillery was behind the convent, and used to fire a daily shell across the building to fall harmlessly into the demilitarised zone beyond. The Duke of Brecon, whose sabre-rattling was more frugal given his poorer status, had his artillerymen yell ‘bang’ in unison by way of a returned salvo, and reserved live shells for special occasions, such as birthdays.
Despite the stand-off on their doorstep, the Sisterhood grew and supplied vegetables, fruit, honey and wisdom to the city in exchange for cash, which allowed them to continue to bring up foundlings like myself and Tiger. To us, the artillery camped out in the orchard was a matter of singular unimportance, except that you could tell the time by the single shot, which was always at 8.04 precisely.
I parked my car outside the convent and walked silently through the old gatehouse in an attempt to surprise Mother Zenobia, who was dozing in a large chair on the lawn. She was well over one hundred and fifty, but still remarkably active. She was a Troll War widow herself and had taken to the Lobsterhood soon after the loss of her husband. There were hushed rumours of a former riotous life, but all I knew for certain was that she had held the 1927 air-racing record in a Napier-engined Percival Plover at 208.72 m.p.h. I can be specific because the trophy commemorating the feat was kept in her small room – even Ladies of the Lobster are permitted one small vanity.
‘Jennifer?’ she asked, reaching out a hand for me to touch. ‘I saw you drive up. Was your car orange?’
‘It was, Mother,’ I replied.
‘And you are wearing blue, I think?’
‘Right again,’ I replied, amazed at her observations. She had been totally blind for nearly half a century.
She clapped her hands twice and bade me sit next to her. A novice ran up and Mother Zenobia ordered some tea and cake. She tickled the Quarkbeast under the chin and gave it a tin of dog food to crunch, which is a bit like waving your hand near an open food blender with your eyes closed. The Quarkbeast had never given me any trouble, but the sight of his knife-like fangs still unnerved me.
‘How is young Prawns settling in?’
‘Very well. He’s answering the phones as we speak.’
‘A special one, that,’ remarked Mother Zenobia, ‘and destined for great things, even if a bit troublesome. He managed to pick the lock of the food cupboard no matter how many times we improved security.’
‘I didn’t see him as a thief.’
‘Oh, he never stole anything – he just did it to demonstrate that he could. He’d read the entire library by the time he was nine.’
She thought for a moment.
‘Tiger’s father was Third Engineer on a landship in the Fourth Troll Wars. Vanished during the Stirling Offensive. Only tell him when he asks.’
‘I’ll be sure to.’
‘Is this a social visit?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I confessed, having learned long ago that you never lie to Mother Zenobia.
‘Then it’s about the Dragondeath.’
‘You can feel it too?’
‘Given the power of the transmission, there won’t be anyone who hasn’t by the end of the week.’
‘Tell me about Dragons, Mother Zenobia.’
Mother Zenobia took a sip of her tea, and began:
‘Dragons, like four o’clock tea, crumpets, marmalade and zip-up cardigans, are a peculiarity of the Ununited Kingdoms. They were fierce fire-breathing creatures of great intelligence, dignity and sensitivity who could and did converse on matters of great importance. It was said that a Dragon named Janus was the first to suggest that the Earth went round the sun, and that the pinpoints of light to be seen at night were not holes in a velvet blanket, but stars like our sun. It was also rumoured – although man’s deceit prevents it from being anything more than a legend – that it was Dimwiddy, a small Dragon from the island of what is now ConStuffia, who first discovered the mathematical law of differential calculus. It is also said that “Bubbles” Beezley, the fabled pink Dragon of Trollvania, was a very good comedian who would capture victims and bombard them with jokes until their hair was turned snowy white by the experience. But for all their intelligence, wit and social graces, Dragons still had one habit that made them impossible to ignore.’
‘And that is . . . ?’
‘They liked to eat people.’
‘I thought that was just to frighten children?’
‘Oh no, it’s true all right,’ replied Mother Zenobia sadly, ‘and don’t interrupt. For centuries the population of these islands maintained an uneasy peace with the Dragons. Since Dragons didn’t like crowds and favoured feeding at night, it was best to stay indoors and avoid going for long walks on your own. If you did then it was a wise precaution to wear a large spiked helmet of copper, something Dragons find highly unpalatable. But for all these precautions, Dragons did still eat people, and the country lived in fear. Before the Dragonpact, knights were the only method of Dragonslaying, and many a fearless young knight, driven by the promise of a king’s daughter’s hand in marriage, would boldly sally forth to attempt to kill a Dragon, returning – he hoped – with the jewel that a Dragon had in its forehead as proof of the conquest.’
‘And?’ I asked, as Mother Zenobia seemed to have fallen asleep. She hadn’t, of course; she was just gathering her thoughts.
‘The problem was, not many managed to kill a Dragon. Inde
ed, out of a recorded 8,128 attempts by knights, only twelve managed to succeed, mostly due to a lucky charge with a brave horse and a providential jab in the unarmoured section just beneath the throat. After two hundred years of this, the interest in becoming a knight and marrying a princess started to wane, and following the time when five knights tried a multi-pronged attack and were all returned impaled on a lance like a giant kebab, knights were forbidden to Dragonslay, which caused a great deal of relief, but generally only among the knights.’
‘What happened then?’
‘For two hundred years, not very much. Even the discovery of gunpowder failed to make a dent on the Dragon population. Cannonballs just bounced off a Dragon’s hide, giving it nothing more than indigestion and a sore temper. Many a thatched village was set on fire in the middle of the night by a Dragon who had been much annoyed at being shelled when he was sunning himself quietly in the afternoon. The only solution to the Dragon Question seemed to be in the use of magic. But since Dragons are fine practitioners of the sacred arts themselves, it required the arrival of a magician so utterly powerful that it was said his footprints spontaneously caught fire as he walked—’
‘The Mighty Shandar?’
‘Have I told you this story before?’
Mother Zenobia was suspicious that I was humouring an old person with a flaky memory; she would have narrowed her eyes if she had any.
‘Not at all. It’s just that the sorcerers back at Zambini Towers often speak of him.’
‘He is the yardstick for magicians everywhere,’ replied Mother Zenobia solemnly. ‘That is why we measure magical power in Shandars.’
Making a toad burp requires about two hundred Shandars; boiling an egg can use over a thousand. My own power had been rated at 159.3, which is not far from the national average of 150, which gives you a good idea of how bad I was at it.
‘Where were we?’ asked Mother Zenobia, who had lost track of the conversation.
‘You were telling me about the Mighty Shandar.’
‘Oh yes. No one knew where he came from, nobody knew where he went, and few people even know what he looked like or what he liked to eat. But in one respect everyone was agreed: the Mighty Shandar was the most powerful mage the planet had ever known. Greater than Mu’shad Waseed, the Persian wizard who could command the winds, more powerful than Garance de Povoire, the French wizard of Bayeux, or even Angus McFerguson, the Scottish sorcerer who made the Isle of Wight a floating isle, which could be towed by tugs to the Azores for the winter, and to the best of my knowledge, still is.’