The Flight of Dragons

by Vivian French

  Marcus sighed but did as he was told.

  Globula and Conducta were not enjoying their visit to their great-grandfather. After kissing his cold slimy face, they had each been kissed in return; both twins had furtively wiped the chilly slobber from their cheeks as they stepped back.

  “Sit down now, my little darlings, and we will talk,” their granpappy told them. He lifted a formless fleshy arm, and their legs gave way under them. As there were no chairs, they were obliged to sink down among the heaps of sodden rubbish, moldering rags, bits of rotting paper, and some indefinable sticky substance that seemed to be spreading out from Old Malignancy himself. From time to time, there were furtive slitherings that were far too close for the twins’ comfort; they were more than happy to put a handful of slugs (carefully chosen for excessive size and sliminess) in the pockets of a teacher or an unsuspecting child, but to see silvery trails circling their feet was an entirely different proposition. There was also a remarkable number of worms. Both Conducta and Globula had forced many of their little friends at school to eat worms, but those were of the common pink variety. These were longer and squirmier and a curious greenish white. They gleamed in the faint light from the doorway, and the twins found themselves pulling their dresses closer around their bony thighs.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” Granpappy Canker was laughing, but his laughter had no warmth in it. “My little cankerettes don’t like the company I keep, I see. Well, I never. And there I was thinking you’d done away with those nasty finicky Mousewater ways! Too good for me, are you, my persnickety darlings? Had to wipe away your dear old granpappy’s kisses?”

  Conducta shifted guiltily but didn’t answer. Globula felt it was the right time to pull out her mother’s brooch. “Here, Granpappy,” she said. “We brought you this.”

  “Ahhhhh . . .” Old Malignancy sighed, and it was a sigh of pleasure. “Perhaps I was wrong. Your mother’s brooch, I see. Now, that pleases me, my dears. That pleases me very much. She will be crying and wailing and missing that little gift, and those cries and wails will be music to my ears.” He stretched out his flabby white hand, and, as Globula gave him the brooch, Conducta rubbed her eyes. Was it her imagination, or had her great-grandfather grown larger? Before she could make up her mind, he crushed the little trinket between his fingers and a cloud of bright dust floated into the air before vanishing into the darkness. When he opened his hand again, the brooch was gone. There was, however, a bright red welt on Old Malignancy’s palm. He had also, Conducta noticed, shrunk back to his former size.

  “Well, I never . . . what a lot of goodness there was in that brooch. And love.” Old Malignancy’s voice was as sharp as lemon juice in a cut. “We must remember to beware of Mousewaters. A hint of Trueheart in their ancestry, it would seem . . . dear me. How very unpleasant.” He gave the twins such a cold look that they shrank back. “Let us hope, my precious cankerettes, that such an affliction has passed you by.”

  “We’re just like our dad,” Conducta told him. She was annoyed to hear that her voice had a tremor in it and tried again. “Mum’s always telling us.”

  Globula’s attention had been caught by something else. “What’s a Trueheart?”

  Old Malignancy shuddered. It was difficult to see where he began and ended, but the shuddering filled the room until even the walls shook and the twins’ teeth rattled in their heads. Conducta clutched her sister’s hand, and Globula shut her eyes. “We will not speak the word again,” Old Malignancy said as the shuddering subsided to a faint tremble. “They stand in the way of Evil, my little dears. . . . They stand in the way of Evil, and each one must be shredded into many thousands of pieces before the glorious way of Evil lies clear before us. But you are here for a reason, and you meant well by bringing me a gift. What do you want of me?”

  The twins looked at each other. This was more like it. This was why they had come. “Granpappy,” Conducta began, “we need money.” She pulled the parchment out of her pocket. “Ma wants us to get jobs, but we’re Cankers.” She gave a sly smile. “We don’t work, not like stupid people. But we need a way of getting money.”

  Globula nodded. “We’ve got a plan. We’re going to tell Ma we’re working at the palace, but —”

  “Let me see.” Old Malignancy took the parchment from Conducta and studied it before handing it back. Something like a smile crept over his bloated face, and he gave a mirthless chuckle. “How very interesting. A position at the palace.”

  “Of course, we’re not really going to work there,” Conducta explained. “We’re much too clever for that —”

  “Oh, no, my little canker. Not so very clever.” There was something in his voice that made the twins shiver. “If you were clever, you would not have come to find me. By coming here, you have made yourselves mine, and now you must do as I tell you.”

  Conducta and Globula opened their mouths to say they had no intention of doing anything they didn’t want to, but the words froze on their lips. “Errrr . . .” they said. “Errrr . . .”

  Their great-grandfather chuckled coldly. “You see? Now, listen. You will go to the palace, and you will ask for work. And you will lurk and linger and spy, and you will tell me why there are no servants at Niven’s Knowe. It seems to me that there must be unhappiness there, and dissent, and that interests me. . . . It interests me very much. Perhaps you might care to spread a little more. Anger and resentment can be as catching as the measles if the flames are stirred. So much fun, my little cankerettes. SO much fun!”

  This was far more to the twins’ liking. They nodded enthusiastically, and Old Malignancy smiled his chilly smile.

  “So now we understand each other. I will consider this further . . . consider it carefully. But now I am tired. Run along, my dears, and come back and see me soon. Very soon, and then we will talk more.”

  The twins, released from whatever strange force had been holding them, got to their feet. They began to make their way toward the door — but greed made Conducta brave. “And you’ll give us lots of money if we do as you say, Granpappy?”

  Their great-grandfather gave her a look that was half despising, half admiring. “You have your father’s spirit, my dear. There may well be rewards for you . . . if you do as you are told.”

  “Oh, we will!” Conducta promised with her fingers crossed behind her back, and she gave a cheerful wave as she and Globula walked out into the daylight.

  Behind her, Old Malignancy gave another chuckle as he sank into his bed. He lifted a hand, and Carrion came sidling in, his wicked little eyes gleaming. “Met their dear ol’ granpappy, then. Sly young ladies, them two. Take after you, I’d say.”

  “Follow them to Niven’s Knowe,” Old Malignancy ordered. “Watch them, and watch the palace, too. No . . . wait.” He paused, and the crow, who knew him well, gave an encouraging squawk. “Tell me, Carrion: ‘two housemaids and a cook.’ Am I right?”

  “That’s what the paper said,” the crow agreed.

  “Then there is, as one might say, an unusual opportunity.” Old Malignancy sounded thoughtful. “An opportunity that may never come again.” His eyes, sunk deep in rolls of pale flesh, glittered. “Oh, that I could make my way into the palace. To be inside . . . oh, how I would corrupt and poison and bind them to me. . . .”

  Carrion gave a harsh laugh. “Ain’t you forgetting? You’re banned! Laws of the Five Kingdoms.”

  “I never forget.” The glittering eyes turned on the crow. “Never. But kings and queens make the laws, and kings and queens can change their minds.”

  “True.” Carrion tweaked a tail feather into place. “Amazin’ how a mind can change. ’Specially when a bit of discomfort’s involved. Couple of broken toes. Bump on the head. A few missing teeth. Never fails to surprise me how the human mind can turn right around when the owner’s likely to lose a tooth or two.”

  Old Malignancy tapped the crow on his beak with a surprisingly long, thin finger. “But there are other ways, Carrion. Far more subtle ways. To creep into their
bodies . . . to seep into their minds . . . that is true corruption.”

  “If you say so.” Carrion nodded. “Go on, then. What was you thinking of?”

  There was a deep hollow laugh. “Sending my sister to the palace of Niven’s Knowe.”

  The crow looked up in surprise. “Sister? What sister? I ain’t never heard you mention no sister.”

  “There are sisters, and there are sisters. Her name is . . . what shall we say?” There was a thoughtful pause. “ ‘Mercy Grinder.’ Yes. That will do very well.”

  Carrion put his head on one side. “And what’s this Mercy Grinder going to do exactly?”

  Old Malignancy leaned forward. “She will cook . . . and, oh, what a cook she will make!” His shapeless body quivered and shook with silent laughter. “What a cook! Early tomorrow morning, she will cross the border, Carrion. Mercy Grinder is not banned from the Five Kingdoms, you see. Mercy Grinder is a cook, on her way to the palace of Niven’s Knowe.”

  The crow shifted from foot to foot. “What about them guards? Not a lot of use, I know, but they’ll still ask questions. Can’t cross the border without an invite, you know.”

  One pale eye winked. “Correct me if I am wrong, dear Carrion, but did the advertisement not conclude with the words ‘Come to the palace early tomorrow morning’? Written in the princess’s very own handwriting, no less? And then there was a seal. A very fine seal. The sort of seal that makes foolish guards believe that Royalty Has Spoken. I can tell you, Carrion, that the guards will believe in Mercy Grinder. What is more, she will inform them that she will speak well of them if she is treated with courtesy, so naturally they will escort her across the border . . . and thus the power of the web will be rendered impotent!”

  Carrion gave an admiring squawk. “You’re a one, you are! I get it!”

  The eye winked a second time. “Carrion, you are my second self. Fly now, and take that parchment from my little cankerettes.”

  “Good as done,” Carrion cawed. “Good as done!”

  As the twins’ great-grandfather sank back into the darkness, the crow spread his tattered wings, flew up into the air, and circled away from the house. From a vantage point in a tall beech tree, he could see the twins hurrying along the path. It had begun to rain, but as yet they were protected by the cover of the trees. Their voices reached him easily; he clicked his beak as he listened.

  “Phew!” Conducta said. “What a horror! He looked like a hideous old balloon.”

  Globula gave a nervous giggle. “It was a bit scary. I didn’t expect him to be quite so . . . so weird.”

  Conducta spat neatly into a bush, and an outraged rabbit leaped out and dashed away into the distance, the top of his head stinging as if it had been burned. “I don’t care. Just as long as we get some money. Lots and lots and lots of money.”

  “So are we going to go to the palace and ask for jobs?” Globula wanted to know. “It sounds awfully like hard work.”

  Conducta thought about it. “I s’pose we could. I like the idea of being a spy.”

  “And making people angry is fun,” Globula pointed out.

  Her sister pulled out the parchment and inspected it. “It says to come to the palace early tomorrow morning. Oof!” She looked up into the sky. “Bother. It’s raining. We’re going to get soaked going home.”

  Globula made a face. “Does ‘first thing’ mean we have to get up early?”

  “Of course it does. Don’t be stupid.” Conducta gave her sister a sharp slap. Globula slapped her back, and Fedora’s advertisement fell to the ground. As Conducta turned to pick it up, she was distracted by a rumbling sound. A heavily laden hay wagon was trundling along the rutted track, heading in the direction of the border. A brightly painted sign on the wagon’s side proclaimed that it belonged to Jason Honeyseed, Golden Green Farm, Niven’s Knowe.

  “Come on,” Globula urged, the fight forgotten. “We can get a lift home!” As the wagon passed them, they swung themselves onto the back and, after a certain amount of wriggling, made themselves comfortable under the tarpaulin.

  Conducta grinned at her twin. “This is much better than walking. We’ll be home well before dark.”

  “Ma’ll be pleased when we tell her we’re going to the palace,” Globula said drowsily.

  Conducta raised her eyebrows. “Since when have you cared what Ma thought?”

  Her twin yawned. “I was thinking she’d cook us an extra-special tea. And if she’s pleased, we can ask for everything we want. I’m hungry.”

  “Oh. Yes, me too,” Conducta agreed, and then she also began to drift away into a land of rose-scented chocolate creams.

  Carrion watched the wagon as it trundled steadily away, a calculating expression in his sharp black eyes. “Chips off the old block, all right,” he mused. “Nasty little bits of work. Just what we like!” And he picked up the parchment and flew back to report his success.

  Fedora’s lunch had been completely inedible. Tertius had done his best, partly because he loved her and partly because he knew only too well that he would have to pay for any lack of enthusiasm once he and his bride were alone together. King Horace made no pretense at all. “Good thing I had that steak-and-kidney pie,” he announced as he pushed away his plate of raw onion, congealed half-cooked eggs, and burned pastry. “Tell you what, Feddy, m’dear: you could do a lot worse than pop around to dear old Mrs. Basket and ask her for a few tips.” This suggestion was met with such a remarkable drop in temperature that even the king noticed. “Hmm. Well. Must go and see to a spot of royal business.” And he stomped off to his private study, where he settled himself in his favorite chair, put his feet on the mantelpiece, and went to sleep.

  Tertius, left alone in an atmosphere that even a polar bear would have found depressingly chilly, tried to hide his pastry under his knife. Fedora watched him, ready to pounce, but held back from actual comment as she was unable to finish her own meal. When he began trying to balance the onion on top of his knife, she gave a loud martyred sigh. “Do you know how long I spent making you this delicious lunch, Terty?”

  Given that it was nearly four o’clock and Fedora had begun her activities in the kitchen at midday, Tertius had a fair idea, but he thought it best not to say so. “Dearest one,” he said, “it’s very very kind of you to have taken so much trouble, and please don’t think I don’t appreciate it . . . but I don’t think I’m terribly hungry just now.”

  Fedora hesitated and then gave in. “That’s all right, Terty darling. I’m not very hungry, either.” A brilliant idea flashed into her mind. “Tell you what — why don’t we go and visit Mother? We’d be just in time for high tea.” Realizing that this contradicted her earlier remark, she hastily added, “The fresh air will give us an appetite.”

  Tertius leaped up from the table with enthusiasm. “You’re such a clever little poppet! Yes — that’s a wonderful idea. I’ll just tell Father, and then we can go.” With a light step and a rumbling stomach, he hurried down the corridor to his father’s study. “Father! Feddy and I are going to Dreghorn! We’ll be back later.”

  “Hmph? Dragon? What? Did you say dragon?” King Horace, woken much too suddenly, sat up with his crown askew and his hair on end. “Dearie me. Was having a dreadful dream. All about dragons. Terrible. Simply terrible. Dragons running wild all over the place. All that young Prince Marcus’s fault. Dreamed one popped out of Mrs. Basket’s chicken pie. Shockin’. And another one —” Tertius made a sympathetic sort of noise by way of interruption, and his father came back to the present moment. “Did you say you were going out?”

  His son nodded. “We’re going to Dreghorn. You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

  King Horace looked plaintive. “But what’ll I have for my tea?”

  “Bobby’ll make you toast,” Tertius told him. “And you can always go see Mrs. Basket. Take your umbrella, though; it’s raining again.”

  “Mrs. Basket? Good idea.” The king relaxed. “Did I tell you I found Trout and the other serva
nts there? Well, not that girl — what’s her name? Saturday? She’s still here. But all the others were there.” A happy smile floated across his face. “Rather fun, don’t you know. Might wander over and have a game of checkers with Trout later on.”

  “Good idea,” Tertius said. “See you later, Father!” And he hurried off, to find his beloved tapping her foot as she waited in the royal traveling carriage. “Here I am, dearest Feddy!”

  “You were ages,” Fedora said crossly as the coach began to roll down the drive. “I’ve told the coachman to go as fast as he can.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Tertius argued. “I just waited a moment while Father told me about a horrible dream he’d had, that’s all.”

  Fedora sniffed. “I expect he had indigestion after Mrs. Basket’s pie.”

  “Actually,” Tertius said, “it was a beastly nightmare about dragons.”

  “Dragons?” Fedora sniffed again. “Definitely indigestion.”

  As the door closed, King Horace went back to sleep.

  He was woken at five, by Bobby. “Toast, Your Maj?”

  “Yes, please.” The king stretched. “Still on your own, are you?”

  Bobby grinned. “Just me and Saturday Mousewater. Been playing hide-and-seek all over the palace.” A worried look crossed his face. “That’s OK, isn’t it, King H.?”

  “Of course, of course.” King Horace nodded. “Word of warning, though. Not a good idea when my daughter-in-law’s about. Pretty little thing, but fussy. Got this book of rules, don’t you know. All Don’ts and not many Dos, far as I can see. Still, sure it’ll all turn out for the best.”

  There was a broad grin on Bobby’s face as he began to leave the room, but as he reached the doorway, he hesitated. “Erm . . . sorry to bother you, King H., but . . . can I ask you something?”