‘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 vision 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.’