Exit the Dragon (Newport Pagnall Book 1)

by Heide Goody

  “Can everyone just calm down?” I called out. They ignored me. I might as well have shouted into a hurricane.

  I reluctantly dipped into my repertoire and cast Voltan’s Magnificent Voice.

  “EVERYBODY! STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AT ONCE!”

  That did it. Stinking seal-lovers and their hideous fish-wives stopped choking each other, bashing holes in their own homes and generally setting fire to anything that wasn’t too damp to burn. Snöflinga and his wrestling partner stumbled apart, panting with exhaustion and unfocused rage.

  “WHAT ARE YOU ALL DOING?” I demanded.

  “He was going to steal my best boat!” shouted out a drunkard with a smashed oar in his hand.

  “She was giving my dog a funny look!” added another.

  “He’s got posh trousers and he knows it!” added a third. And then there was a tumult of cries.

  “People are jealous of my hut!”

  “He’s been kissing my wife!”

  “For the last time, I’m not your wife!”

  “I’m not happy with who I am! You know, on the inside!”

  “SILENCE!” I commanded. “HOW CAN YOU HOPE TO FACE STRANGOL WHEN YOU ARE LIKE THIS?”

  In the light of many fires, dozens of eyes blinked. I am a clever man but I don’t always work things out as quickly as I would like.

  “THIS IS STRANGOL, ISN’T IT?” I said. “THIS DRUNKEN FRENZY.”

  An entire village nodded sheepishly.

  “IT’S STUPID.”

  They nodded some more, their chins disappearing into their beards.

  “AND DO YOU THINK YOU COULD JUST STOP IT AND CALM DOWN?”

  Knubbig looked at me sideways and mumbled, “s’pose.”

  “No!” cried Bredskär, careering towards me, wearing a headpiece that mimicked the head and shoulders of a seal. As she drew nearer, I saw with horror that it was the head and shoulders of a seal, which had somehow been hollowed out into a fleshy, stinking face mask.

  She clambered unsteadily onto the catapult beside me and pointed an accusing finger at them all, swivelling to glare at each and every one of them.

  “Strangol has fled while moon’s still up?” she slurred. “How can this be?”

  “We’ve just sort of stopped,” said Knubbig. “You know, cos it’s stupid.”

  Bredskär was having none of it. “Only witchcraft can explain such a thing! Salt-witch!” she screeched and pointed her accusing finger at me.

  “IT’S NOT WITCHCRA –” I cancelled my spell with a wave. “It’s not witchcraft,” I said. “These men have simply woken to the foolishness of their actions.”

  “That is exactly what a salt-witch would say!” she screeched.

  I may have rolled my eyes at that point, which didn’t help.

  “Storfeten demands we drink fiskö,” she screeched. “Fiskö brings Strangol. Strangol is sacred!”

  “But we smash our things up and upset everyone,” said Knubbig. “We could just... not do it, maybe?”

  “Heresy! You must atone for that immediately. Go and break something! Yes, now! You first and then the rest of you can kill the salt-witch. That should get the party going again.”

  Knubbig picked up a hammer from the wreckage that surrounded us and cast about for something to smash. His heart was clearly not in it. He came over to the catapult, which saddened me slightly. I’d been rather proud of it.

  “Do it!” yelled Bredskär. “Appease the gods!”

  Two things happened pretty much simultaneously. One was that I realised Bredskär wasn’t just standing on the catapult base like me but had stepped into the cup to place herself above me. The other thing was Knubbig’s hammer whacking the retaining pin from the launch mechanism.

  Bredskär was flung high into the sky towards the sea. I was the only one sufficiently sober to register what had happened. The rest of the tribe just looked confused at Bredskär’s sudden disappearance, blinking and looking around to see if she was hiding.

  “Where’s she gone?”

  “Magic!”

  “Salt-witch!”

  “Ah,” I said and prepared to run like never before when I saw that, rather than racing to seize me, they were cowering before me. Knubbig was unwillingly thrust forward to speak to me.

  “Mighty salt-witch. Please don’t be angry with us.” He wrung his hands together pitifully.

  “Look, I’m not a —” I sighed. “Fine. Yes. I’m a salt-witch. And I’m angry.”

  “It was Bredskär!” said Snöflinga. “She did it.”

  “And look what happened to her,” I said pointedly. I’m not usually one for flinging pickled old women into the sea but now it had occurred I was going to exploit it.

  “How can we make amends?” pleaded Knubbig.

  “Well…”

  I looked towards the sacred pole and the pieces of dragon shell that had been inexpertly put back in place.

  I was gone before dawn, heading towards the marshy hinterland as quickly as possible, as though idiocy was contagious and I didn’t want to catch it. As I hurried off, I fancied I could hear the sound of sorrow-drowning fiskö being poured into tankards.

  Chapter 11

  “You made that up,” said Maegor.

  “I did not,” said Pagnell. “On my word of honour.”

  The five of them sat around the fire, Chrindle with her feet in the tub of still steaming water. The smell she had brought in which her had not gone but it had diffused and spread, become diluted until it was more of a background honk, rather than a direct assault on the nose. Having most of the roof missing and the wind blowing through must have helped.

  “When we met you in here two days ago…” said Maegor.

  Pagnell raised an eyebrow.

  “You said you were a new appointment to the privy council,” said Maegor.

  “You assumed I was a new appointment to the council.”

  “I assumed you were a cleaner.”

  “I should have carried a broom with me.”

  “So, who are you?” said Cunnan, worrying at an apple from his plate.

  “A dentist, a wizard.”

  “But who sent you?”

  “No one. I’m a wizard. I just turned up, unexpected like.”

  “See?” said the lord admiral. “I told you that was what wizards were meant to be like.”

  “Come looking for dragon eggs,” said Jynn.

  “That too,” said Pagnell.

  Jynn stretched, picked his flagon of beer off the short table before him and inspected the dregs.

  “So, Mr Wizard, which of the thanes downstairs do you think should be made king?”

  “That’s not for us to decide,” said Chrindle.

  “Not us, no,” said Jynn. “We are but humble servants. But he’s not even one of us. He’s a foreigner to boot, aren’t you?”

  “Depends who you ask,” said Pagnell. “And where.”

  “But you’ve seen them all.”

  “From afar. Bickering mostly.”

  “Maybe you should take a look at their teeth,” said Chrindle. “Can a tooth-mage predict a man’s future from his teeth?”

  “Only if he’s ever likely to enjoy tough steak again,” said Pagnell. “They’ve all got fair claims on the throne. They’ve been keen to point out each other’s suitability for the role ever since the dragon left. But, of course, they’ve all been keen to sing their own praises sufficiently that when the next king fails – as anyone who has to restore the kingdom after a dragon will fail — that they are the second best option in the land. No one truly wants to be the king but to be power behind the throne…”

  “But who?” said Jynn.

  Pagnell sighed. “Aegis the Short has the strongest blood claim to the throne but being related to the last mad king or the mad dragon queen who deposed him is probably not a good selling point. Waldau the One-Handed is certainly the most experienced warrior of them all but great warriors do not make great kings… Red Salka is a fierce woman and she spok
e out against the dragon queen from the start but I suspect her reign would start with the settling of some old scores…”

  “So who then, man?” said Cunnan.

  “No one,” said Pagnell. “None of them at least. You want my opinion?”

  “I believe we asked for it,” said Jynn testily.

  “Stick a dummy on the throne and put a crown its head.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Maegor.

  “Put a dummy, a guy, an empty shell on that throne. Let it wear the crown. The crown is round and meaningless, like a zero in mathematics, but just as important. The king’s head is nothing but a place to store it. Put the crown on a dummy and let the privy council get on with the business of ruling. If it’s worked for the last few days, it can work for a few months, maybe even years.”

  They all stared into the fire and gave it some thought.

  “If we do that, would that be treason?” said Chrindle slowly.

  “I don’t know,” said Cunnan equally slowly.

  Jynn raised himself up out of his slouch and tapped Maegor with his fingertips.

  “You owe me a crown,” he said.

  “We owe…?” said Maegor, startled. “The crown?”

  “A crown,” said Jynn and pointed at Chrindle. “Our wager. The master of horses here fell in.”

  Maegor shook his head.

  “That’s not falling in, lord treasurer. She barely got her feet wet.”

  “In is in, master of seals, and don’t pretend otherwise.”

  “I wagered a crown that she would be fine.”

  Jynn wafted his hand in front of his nose. “You call that fine? Her boots will never be the same again.”

  Chrindle stood and struck an indignant pose. It would have looked far more effective if she hadn’t done it in a knee-high tub of water.

  “You two were betting on my life?”

  “Just thought we’d make it interesting,” said Jynn.

  “Me risking my neck in service of the city wasn’t interesting enough?”

  Jynn shrugged. “Death is common here. Common and dull. But money, money is always interesting.”

  Maegor passed him a crown coin to shut him up.

  Chapter 12

  Chrindle walked to the castle shortly after dawn. She had chambers in the castle as befitted her station but, as master of horses and lord commander of the city watch, she preferred to spend most of her nights down in the barracks in the city. Red cloaks told her it was an honour to have her lodge with them although she suspected that this wasn’t true and that they’d rather have their commander stay at some distance. However, like it or not, she was sure they respected her for it and she made a point of being up and out with the earliest patrols of the day.

  Her route from the north barracks to the castle required some small detour in order to avoid the shallow but growing lake that had formed around the River Turge. The waters met with the ash that still filled the streets and formed a grey pasty sludge. Charcoal collectors splashed about in their efforts to gather blackened wood from incinerated houses nearest the lake. Temple acolytes in the various colour-coded robes of their respective gods, walked around with buckets and carts, scooping up ash and bone and trying to look all holy and dignified while they did it.

  “Excuse me, are you protected?”

  Chrindle gave a small start. A little man with a nasal voice had somehow materialised at her elbow. He wore priestly robes that weren’t exactly golden but had golden thread sewn through them in sufficient quantity to provide a general impression.

  “What?” she said.

  “Protected? Are you protected?”

  Chrindle drew an inch of her sword blade, hoping that would make the point.

  “Oh, no,” the little man burst out laughing. “Oh, that is funny. No, I didn’t mean that. That is priceless, my lady.” He sighed as though utterly overcome with mirth. “Not ‘protected’; protected.”

  “It is too early in the morning to put up with gibbering nonsense,” she said. “Now, I must be about my business.”

  “Oh, I know,” said the little man. “Important role in the castle. Mistress of horses —”

  “Master of horses.”

  “I stand corrected, indeed I do. Master of horses. Apologies, my lady — my lord? — And what an important job, a dangerous job. Which is why I ask if you have protection.”

  Chrindle’s hand twitched on the pommel of her sword. She didn’t want to set the poor mad chap into further paroxysms of laughter and she feared that if she did she would be tempted to use the sword on him.

  “At Dragon Mutual Assurance (a subsidiary of the Temple of Dragon),” he added in a quick, quiet tone, “we know that life has ups and downs and that all those little ‘it’ll never happens’ happen all too often.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Life insurance, my lady.”

  “Life insurance?”

  “Exactly that. You are a sharp one, my lady. I knew you’d understand.”

  Chrindle had had enough, turned about and marched on then, seeing she was about the marching into the Turge lake, took a sharp left and marched that way in step. The little man from the Temple of the Dragon scurried to keep up with her.

  “For just a small weekly premium, we can insure yourself and all your worldly belongings from harm.”

  “You guarantee I won’t be harmed?”

  “Or we pay appropriate compensation. Say if you were to lose that sword — and it’s a beautiful sword, isn’t it? — then we would buy you another one.”

  “Why would I lose my sword?”

  “Who knows?” said the man enthusiastically. “It might be stolen.”

  “The commander of the red cloaks have her sword stolen?”

  “How mortifying that would be. And all the red cloaks would be running around looking for it, tooting their whistles —”

  “Red cloaks don’t have whistles.”

  “Don’t they? But the song…”

  “Entirely inaccurate.”

  “Oh. And your sword has vanished without a trace then —”

  “It would never be stolen.”

  “Then dropped in the river.”

  “Have people been talking?”

  “Or melted by dragon fire.”

  “Along with the rest of me?”

  “Ah, but we insure your life also. Dragon-related losses are our speciality.”

  Chrindle slowed, confused. “You’d pay for a replacement me?”

  “Ah, sadly, not within our remit as of yet but we would make a very generous pay-out to your loved ones. We can also, with our executive package, arrange for prayers to be said for your soul (mortal or immortal, beliefs may vary, please read the small print),” he said in his weird quick voice. “We can ensure you have the best chance of favourable outcome post-mortem.”

  “This is nonsense, isn’t it?” she said.

  “It’s the future, my lady. The two are often indistinguishable.”

  She put on a fresh turn of speed and walked fast enough to soon leave the little insurance salesman far behind.

  “I’ll send you one of our brochures, my lady,” he called faintly after her.

  She crossed the tiny trickle that was the downstream end of the River Turge. She took the wooden bridge by the Temple of the Dragon, not that the bridge was necessary any more. Pedestrians crossed the river bed easily and even local buildings were starting to expand out into the freed up space.

  She entered the castle, climbed to the meeting hall and found the privy council already in session, the four councillors gathered around a set of weighing scales while a rather miffed priest of Buqit looked on.

  “For one thing, it’s wet,” said Maegor.

  “And?” said the priest.

  “It stands to reason that wet ash is heavier than dry ash.”

  “Does it?” said the priest stiffly. “I wouldn’t know about such things. There is a time for all things but I am unaware of when it would b
e time for a priest to compare wet ash with dry.”

  “It’s flaming obvious, man,” said Cunnan and dug his hand into the bucket. “Wet ash weighs more and since you’re being paid for the disposal of the dead by the tonne we’d rather the ash you’re disposing off was dry!”

  “And yet… and yet…” said the priest in the airy tones of one who was about to go off into flights of whimsy, “it is curious that a bucket full of dry ash contains as much actual ash as a bucket full of ash and water.”

  “Curious how?” said Maegor, nonplussed.

  “That the bucket, so perfect a metaphor for the human individual, is composed entirely of the physicality of human existence, the meat and bones as it were and yet — and yet! — has room for the water, the divine essence that too fills us all, the immortal spirit if you will.”

  “I don’t see the relevance,” said Maegor.

  “Don’t you see? Here we are quibbling over the weight of a quantity of water. Are we not quibbling over the weight, the valuable weight, of the human soul?”

  Everyone thought about this for a moment.

  “No,” said Cunnan. “No, we’re bloody not, you daft apeth.”

  “But who can say what weight, what heft the soul takes on after death?”

  “This man,” said Meagor and indicated Pagnell the wizard. “He’s done his experiments.”

  “I have,” said Pagnell.

  “With his burnt sausage.”

  “I did.”

  “That reminds me,” said Cunnan, “I heard a song in the tavern last —”

  “In fact, I am worried about the quality of these ashes,” said Pagnell, cutting off Cunnan’s recollection of what he’d heard the night before. “I’m not sure if these are human ashes at all.”

  “Of course they are,” said the priest of Buqit. “Look. There’s a finger.”

  “Artfully placed,” Pagnell agreed. “But these have the general look of wood ash, possibly even paper.”

  “You can tell?”

  “I can tell,” said Pagnell. “Not only will you need to make sure the ashes are dry but that they are human.”