The Twelve Dragons of Albion

by Mark Hayden

  Desirée was avoiding me in a subtle way that I didn’t like. She’s Vicky’s best friend – the only one Vicky’s mentioned by name so far – and I’m sure that my partner has said a lot about me to her. All I know about Desirée Haynes is that she’s on the fast-track in Salomon’s House and that she likes going out. I even know her mother far better.

  I am a long way from seeing the Invisible College as the enemy of the Watch, but there’s definitely something out of kilter in the relationship. I had to trust Vicky, and I needed to know sooner rather than later if I could trust her friend.

  ‘I’m glad you arranged this meeting,’ I said to Desirée, forcing her look at me. She was about to deny it when I pressed on. ‘It was really awkward yesterday. For both of us. We don’t have to pretend any more that we’d never met.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I wish we hadn’t. No offence.’

  Vicky went bright red. ‘Pack it in, Desi. Conrad did us a favour by keeping his mouth shut about Club Justine, you know.’

  Desirée looked at me but spoke to her friend. ‘The jury’s still out on that one, Vic. If he hadn’t gone spying on us, you wouldn’t be about to chase round the country after a flaming Dragon, would you?’

  Vicky held her ground. ‘Aye, and you’d be up before the Proctor an’all. Did you get the glasses?’

  Desirée reached into her bag and pulled out two wine glasses while Vicky opened one of the many boxes lying around and pulled out a bottle of wine. She looked at her friend. ‘Two glasses? Howay, man.’

  Before they could start a tug-of-war over who got the glasses, I spoke up. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea? I haven’t eaten, and I’m the one who needs a clear head.’

  There was a scuffed sideboard in the corner, c1950, with one door missing. A grubby tray on top held a kettle and the makings. Vicky shook the kettle and found it wanting. She couldn’t ask Desirée to go, and I’m not allowed out on my own, so, reluctantly, she left us alone while she went in search of water.

  ‘You should know something, Mr Clarke,’ said Desirée. ‘There is absolutely nothing about you that I like or respect.’

  ‘Not my problem, Ms Haynes. I don’t need you to like me, I just need you to understand that I’ve got Vicky’s back, and I trust that she’s got mine.’

  ‘Of course she has. She won’t let you down, but no matter how much you’ve got her back, that won’t do no good against a mature Dragon unless you know what you’re doing, and you don’t.’

  Vicky reappeared with the kettle. She didn’t need her Sorcerer’s talents to sense the atmosphere. She turned to me. ‘What have you said?’

  Why me? Oh, well… ‘I was just saying how grateful I am to Ms Haynes for giving up her time.’

  ‘Yeah, right, Conrad. Never mind, I’ll find out later.’

  She put the kettle on while Desirée poured two large glasses of wine and tried to stay as far away from me as possible.

  I get it that Desirée isn’t happy that I’d put a stop to their gallivanting around the fleshpots of Chelsea, and I could see that the King’s Watch wasn’t Desirée’s choice for her friend’s career, but that couldn’t be the whole story behind her anger towards me. It had evidently got worse since yesterday, because in Hannah’s office, she had been embarrassed rather than hostile.

  I watched her hand over the glass of wine, when she could have just left it on the table, and I realised that she was just being very solicitous about her friend. What could Vicky have said that made things worse? Aah – Desirée had left the room when Hannah gave her parting shot about aerial combat. Vicky must have said something that tipped Desirée’s concern into serious worry.

  I gestured toward the laptop. ‘Ms Haynes, could you Google Prince Harry and Apache Helicopter?’

  Desirée clearly didn’t want to, but couldn’t find a good reason to say no, and tapped at the keys. I pointed at one of the images. ‘Look. Green uniform. These things are flown by the Army, not the RAF. I will not be flying any form of chopper anywhere near any Dragons, mature or otherwise.’

  The kettle boiled, and I made my tea. Vicky busied herself tidying up the papers while Desirée read through the search results to see if I were lying. She grunted and put the lid down. It wouldn’t change her overall opinion of me, but it might buy me a few days’ grace.

  ‘Right. Dragons,’ said Desirée. ‘Like the Dwarves, they’re supposed to be “As old as the gods,” which is another way of saying that no one knows where they come from, and obviously there have been limited opportunities to study them.’

  I picked up on something. ‘Excuse me, but you said limited – have there been any Dragons around since Roman times? Anywhere in Europe?’

  ‘Two. The Dragon of Bohemia in 1627 and the Wyrm of Moscow in 1943. We’ve got nothing on either of them, and I’m not sure the Mages who dealt with them found out much either. Most of what we have is in this fifteenth century compendium of reports.’ She lifted the book she’d brought to the Constable’s office. ‘What it boils down to is this: the sooner you find that egg, the better. If it hatches, in less than a year there could be an apocalypse somewhere in Britain. Almost everything in here is rumour and speculation. I wouldn’t rely on it as a guidebook – you’re better off not knowing because if might be very dangerous if you make an assumption on false information.’

  Vicky looked a little crestfallen on her friend’s behalf. She clearly hoped that the Queen’s Esoteric Library would be able to furnish something more substantial. I took a slightly different view.

  ‘That’s good, Ms Haynes.’ I turned to Vicky. ‘Knowing the reliability of intelligence is as important as the intel itself. Your friend is doing the right thing.’ To Desirée, I said, ‘Is there anything you’re certain of?’

  Desirée nodded to acknowledge my appreciation of her strategy. ‘I’ve picked up a couple of things that are corroborated across all the sources. First, that all dragons are female. Second, that to hatch an egg needs two things: milt from a Dæmon and a special nest.’

  I tried not to look at either woman when I asked what a Dæmon was. After an exchange of glances, it was Desirée who said, ‘You tell him. You’re better attuned to Mr Clarke’s level of … knowledge.’

  ‘You mean my level of ignorance,’ I said.

  Desirée looked at the book and muttered something.

  Vicky cleared her throat and said, ‘You know what a Spirit is, yeah?’

  ‘A Mage who has left their body behind and only exists as Lux.’

  ‘A Creature of Light. That’s right. Well, a Dæmon is exactly the same, but they’ve never been human, or not since the dawn of time, as they say. It gets a bit political as to whether some Dæmons are also Angels or demi-gods or whatever. If you stick to the idea that Dæmons are the warlords of the spirit world, you won’t go far wrong.’

  ‘I see.’ I could also see that Desirée thought the explanation was reductive, oversimplified and suspect on several levels. That’s academics for you. ‘Can any Dæmon fertilise a Dragon’s egg?’

  Desirée couldn’t contain herself and took over. ‘The expression is to quicken an egg, and no. The sources are quite clear that only the Brythonic gods and two specific Dæmons can quicken the eggs of an Albion Dragon.’ She paused. ‘This is where it gets difficult. We can’t ask the gods what they’ve been up to, and if someone did, I doubt we’d get a straight answer. What I am sure of is that no library I know of has a record of which Dæmons have the power to quicken them, still less do they have a clue about how to summon them. Remember, I’ve only had a day. I’ll keep on it.’

  ‘Thank you. And what about the nests?’

  ‘We know that there were twelve of them. We also know that Britain had a complete network of Ley lines before the Romans, and that all twelve nests were hooked into the grid. Without that energy, even a quickened egg won’t develop. After that, the Hatchlings are kept underground until they mature. The Romans destroyed or decommissioned all the nests, and that was one of the reasons they pushed nor
th of Hadrian’s Wall for a time – to finish the job.’

  ‘Mmm. That’s given us a lot of food for thought. Can we go back to the timescales? If I’m right, and Mr Mole was created to help them, they can’t have recovered the egg before August, at the earliest. It’s now the end of January…’

  Vicky spoke first. ‘I’m not sure about where Moley fits in, but I reckon that egg was still sitting in the chamber six months ago. I’ve done some comparative readings.’

  Desirée looked back through some of the notes. ‘If they had immediate access to a nest, and their Dæmon lined up ready, then we’ve got until April to find it, May if we’re lucky.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That helps a lot.’

  Desirée started packing away. Vicky started clearing up.

  ‘Penny for them?’ said Vicky.

  ‘What? Sorry. Do you need a hand?’

  ‘Nah. All done.’

  Desirée was standing by the door, bags in hand. She looked like she was sucking a lemon when she said, ‘Good luck with your induction, Mr Clarke.’

  ‘Thank you. And thanks again for all this.’

  Desirée nodded the barest of nods, and left Vicky to escort me back to the Receiving Room. I waited until we were climbing the Junction before touching her arm and asking my first question. ‘Who are the Brythonic gods?’

  Vicky gave a generalised wave of her hand. ‘Welsh, basically. With a bit of Cornish and Breton thrown in. Not to be confused with the Tuatha Dé Danann of Ireland.’

  I don’t spend all my evenings in the Inkwell, you know. I can’t read real books about magick because they’re all in the library my 11xgreat grandfather once ruled, so I’ve been trying to read around the mythology, where the gods have interacted with the mundane world.

  ‘Some people say they’re one and the same,’ I suggested. ‘Have you any inside info?’

  Vicky gave me a dirty look, and paused to stare over the banisters. Salomon’s House was quieter in the evenings, but not deserted. ‘How should I know? Some people have asked them. None of them got a straight answer, and some of them really did get struck by lightning.’ She turned back to me, a look of real conflict on her face. ‘Thank you for trying so hard with Desi. I don’t like being caught in the middle.’

  We had to keep touching to continue the conversation, which was not how I normally talk to people. ‘Is there anything I should or shouldn’t say in her presence?’

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t mention the Allfather. Desi’s mam is a committed Christian, and so is she.’

  I’d been wondering about that ever since I’d first met Tennille and seen her faith in action. How does faith in Jesus co-exist with a knowledge that the Allfather walks around the world? Now is not the time.

  ‘Do you fancy a drink?’ I asked.

  ‘Not tonight. I think we’ve both got a lot to sleep on.’ She stood on tiptoe to give me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Good luck tomorrow. You’ll pass, Conrad. I know you will. See you at the parade.’

  We let go of each other and left Salomon’s House in natural silence, waving goodbye outside. If Desirée is right, and a mature Dragon could cause destruction not seen in Britain since the Blitz, then a few things were obvious to me that probably hadn’t crossed the young Chymists’ minds.

  The biggest issue is Why? I can see why Keira and Deborah did what they did, expending enormous resources, committing murder and offering Abigail as a sacrifice. They did it to get the Bowl of Cassandra. What they did was evil to you and me. Evil but understandable, given that the potential rewards were huge. But who benefits from an apocalypse?

  7 — The Sword in the Well

  Tennille was dressed for a graduation when I arrived on Friday morning, talking to the Constable through the open doors. She announced my presence and stepped aside.

  I marched into Hannah’s office and gave my smartest salute. She made an effort to respond in kind, then said, ‘Squadron Leader Clarke. Do you wish a commission in the King’s Watch?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And have you brought suitable arms with which to discharge your commission?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Good, then let’s sit down. These shoes are killing me.’

  The RAF dress uniform does nothing for women. The RMP dress uniform does even less, especially when it was bought some time ago and hasn’t been altered… I kept my eyes firmly on Hannah’s cap badge as she lowered herself into the easy chair. When she was settled, she took the cap off. Today’s headscarf matched the bright red of the RMP headgear – they don’t call them redcaps for nothing, you know.

  ‘I know it’s early, but open that cupboard, will you?’ she said, pointing to the elaborately carved Jacobean piece I’d admired on previous visits. ‘Get the black bottle and two glasses.’

  I gestured at the sideboard. ‘My dad would give you a good price for this. There’s still demand for pre-Colonial furniture in America.’ Inside, I found two antique glasses and a dark bottle with a stubby cork. I put the glasses on the table and glanced at the label on the bottle. It was in Gaelic.

  ‘A gift from the Master of Napier College,’ she said. ‘Dawn’s Blessing, they call it, and don’t ask me how they make it, or even who makes it. They don’t tell. Just a little finger.’

  I poured two splashes and returned the bottle to the cupboard.

  ‘Your father would sell his soul for a case of this,’ she grinned, raising her glass. ‘Comrades in arms.’

  ‘Comrades in arms,’ I echoed. I sipped, and I was sipping a measure of Heaven. The smell of spring heather floated through my nose, while autumn mist and the peat fires of winter flooded my tongue. ‘Ma’am, for a whole case of this, my father would sell his soul and offer the rest of the family’s, too.’

  ‘I wonder what I’ll do when the first teetotal officer joins us.’ She looked into her glass. ‘I didn’t have to nominate you, Conrad. Why do you think I did? And no jokes please.’

  ‘Because of my experience, I presume. I didn’t know you had a choice.’

  ‘I did, and it wasn’t just your track record. It was because you don’t think you know it all. Because you’re not afraid to ask for help. Or scheme for it. And despite everything, I think I can trust you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You could have petitioned over my head if I’d refused, but I’m glad you’re here.’ She fished in her pocket, and produced a bright disk of gold. ‘I put your name to the Vicar of London Stone, and by some backstairs process, your name goes to Buckingham Palace, and back comes a golden guinea, touched by the sovereign. It’s your bounty, and part of it will become your Badge of Office, stamped onto your sword. Every magickal human and most of the Creatures of Light will know what it is and the authority it represents. Use it wisely.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘Where’s your sword?’

  ‘Here,’ I said, and took the case containing the Hammer out of my adjutant’s bag.

  Hannah blinked. ‘What on earth?’

  I opened the case, flipped it round, and presented it for her inspection.

  ‘Oy vey, Conrad, you cannot be serious. A gun!’

  ‘It seemed the best fit for my talents, or lack of them.’

  She stared at the weapon. ‘A terrible beauty. Was that what Oppenheimer called the Bomb?’

  ‘No, ma’am, that was what Yeats called the Easter rising, I believe. Oppenheimer said something like, “I am become the destroyer of worlds.”’

  ‘You know, I’ve never fired a gun. Ever.’ She closed the lid. ‘Time for the last warning. If you fail the induction, your weapon is forfeit.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Is that all? I wrote a letter for my parents last night in case I didn’t come home.’

  She looked at me as if she didn’t quite believe me. ‘Let’s go.’ We stood up, and Hannah led me to a door at the far side of her office. I had thought it led to a private bathroom, and it did, but it also revealed a tight spiral staircase. She flicke
d on the lights. ‘It’s a long way down.’

  There were no windows to punctuate the descent, and only one other door, just below Hannah’s floor. ‘Back entrance to the Watch Room,’ she said in passing. ‘Only Watch Captains and the Clerk can use it. If you need to see me, it’s best to make an appointment. Unless I call you for a private chat, of course. And there’s one other reason I’ll tell you about later.’

  After that, we went down a long way, until damp oozed out of the stones because we were at river level, below the foundations of the all the Tower of London buildings.

  ‘One more turn,’ said Hannah, and then we got to the oldest door I’ve ever seen. I know what fungus does to damp timber, and there must be magick all through this door because it was both dry and unblemished. ‘Don’t bother coming back here without me. Only the Constable or the True King can open this door.’

  There was no handle, lock or bolt to keep it closed, and all it took from Hannah was a steady pressure. As the door swung back, a rush of cold air and cold magick escaped up the staircase. I shivered, and I’ll swear my cap rose half an inch as what’s left of my hair prickled.

  Hannah leaned inside and touched something that flooded the room with light. She went through, and I followed, pausing on the threshold. The room was circular, about half the diameter of the tower above. In the centre was a well, standing about four feet above the floor. There was no winch to lower a bucket. Opposite the door was a workbench with a small crucible and burner on top. The only sign of modernity in the whole room was the propane cylinder on the floor next to it.

  The Constable had made her way to the bench and was busy lighting the burner. That gave me a chance to look at the rest of the fixtures. We had come in at the east, and the bench was to the west. In the south was a Dickensian writing desk – high, with a sloped top, designed to be used standing up. To the north was a monumental picture, so big that it must have been carried down rolled up and the gilded frame built around it down here.