Paint Your Dragon

by Tom Holt

  ‘And,’ Prodsnap went on, ‘there’s a fair old chance that at any minute that huge great statue could, um, wake up. Yes?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Prodsnap studied the dragon for a while. ‘I don’t think he likes you very much,’ he said, backing slowly away. ‘In fact, I get the feeling there’s definitely a bit of the old needle there.’

  ‘Yeah. There’s even more now.’

  Prodsnap was now standing just behind George’s back. ‘Looks to me,’ he said, ‘like this is one of those private quarrels where outsiders butting in only makes things worse. Usually,’ he added with a swallow, ‘for the outsiders. In fact, I have the feeling we’d all get on a lot better if we just put all this stuff down in a neat pile and went home.’

  Fingers like roadside cafe sausages closed around his arm. ‘Not chickening out, are you?’ George breathed quietly. ‘What’ve you got to be afraid of, you cretin? You’re immortal. Thumpable,’ he added, ‘but definitely immortal.’

  ‘Yes,’ Prodsnap said, ‘well. I’ve always found that the best way to be immortal is not getting yourself killed, like the best way to avoid divorce is not getting married. I think I’d like to go now, please.’

  George snarled. ‘Stop whimpering, the lot of you,’ he said, his voice more gravelly than a long, posh driveway. ‘Anybody gives me any more lip, what’s left of him’s going to get reported to his CO for dereliction of duty. Understood?’

  ‘We’d better do what he says,’ Chardonay said wretchedly. ‘After all, it’s our duty. And our best chance of getting home.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Snorkfrod. ‘You listen to Mr C, he’s never wrong about these things.’ Her knee, Chardonay realised with horror, was rubbing up and down the back of his leg. Scales like sandpaper.

  ‘All right,’ Prodsnap grumbled, ‘you win. Just don’t blame me, that’s all.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Saint George and four demons looked round, then down.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the small demon Holdall, ‘but don’t you think a very loud bang and lots of bits of rock flying through the air’s going to be a bit conspicuous? I thought we were meant to be keeping a low profile.’

  Three streets away, a police car dopplered and faded. Someone began to sing Heard It On The Grapevine, but soon ran out of words. The stray sounds vanished into the night, like a wage cheque into a gambler’s overdraft.

  ‘Shut up, you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Holdall went on, ‘but surely there’s a better way than just blowing the thing up. Safer, too.’

  ‘Safer?’

  Holdall nodded. He was almost completely covered in long, very fine green hair, and as he nodded he looked like nothing so much as an oscillating maidenhair fern. ‘Why not just dissolve it?’

  George’s brow furrowed. ‘Dissolve it? How?’

  Holdall coughed. ‘Ladies present,’ he muttered.

  ‘What’s this little creep talking about?’

  ‘Well,’ said Holdall self-consciously, ‘let me see, how can I put this? Why is it, do you think, that in Hell all the staff lavatories are made of solid unflawed diamond? And even then, they’ve got to be replaced twice a year.’

  George’s head was beginning to hurt. ‘Shut him up, somebody,’ he said. ‘Right, you with the back-to-front head, pack the stuff round the base, while I—’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Prodsnap.

  ‘Much quieter,’ Chardonay agreed. “Plus, less damage to property, risk to innocent bystanders from flying masonry. Let’s face it,’ the demon added, ‘letting off bombs in the centre of a big city is pretty damn irresponsible.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘Just a second,’ grunted Slitgrind. ‘What if that bloody great thing wakes up while we’re peeing all over him? He’s not going to be pleased.’

  Prodsnap scowled. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘On the other hand, he might be even less pleased if he catches us festooning him with ruddy Semtex. I’m with whatsisname, Holdall on this one. Vote, people?’

  ‘Vote!’ George rolled his eyes. ‘This is an assassination, not a debating society.’

  ‘Show of claws,’ Chardonay said quickly. ‘All in favour

  ... That’s unanimous. Now then.’ He grinned nervously. ‘What we need is something to drink.’

  ‘I have a problem.’

  Two problems.

  ‘All right,’ Chubby said, ‘two problems. So I need two answers. Any joy?’

  You, my soulmate, are in trouble.

  ‘Listen,’ Chubby sighed, ‘I’m in trouble so often I have a flat there. What can I do about it?’

  The screen went blank, then filled with question marks. That, Chubby recognised, meant it was thinking.

  Simple. You need help.

  ‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful,’ Chubby said, ‘but I could have got that far asking the speaking clock. Details, please.’

  There is a dragon. Give him a job.

  Chubby frowned. ‘And which bit of my soul are you going to charge me for that particular gem?’ he said. ‘I think you’ve just earned yourself the bit I use for doing my tax returns. Enjoy.’

  Patience. In Birmingham, which is a city in the English Midlands, there is a dragon. He’s there to find and kill a saint. Dragons are ...

  The screen filled with question marks, then asterisks. Chubby leaned back in his chair, his chin cupped between his hands. ‘Are what?’

  Different.

  ‘Different? How different?’

  Square brackets this time, followed by exclamation marks, ampersands and Greek Es. All this was new to Chubby. He was interested.

  ‘How do you do that?’ he asked. ‘Press E plus EXTRA?’

  Different, because they don’t - I find this an extremely difficult concept, I must admit. I had forgotten all about dragons. It’s been a long time.

  ‘A long time since what?’

  Never you mind. I think I can explain. Angels and devils are spirits, emanations from the mind of God. Human beings and all the other animate species who inhabit Earth are spirits too, but made flesh. In their duality, God makes the great experiment, plays the everlasting game.

  ‘With you so far. So what are dragons?’

  Very large reptiles.

  Chubby sighed. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘I had a Ladybird book all about them. But what else?’

  Nothing else. That’s why they’re different. And, of course, incredibly valuable.

  All his life, Chubby had found a music sweeter than a thousand violins in the word valuable. He leaned forward.

  ‘Amplify,’ he said.

  Very well. Think of the neutrality of Switzerland—

  ‘Nice place, Switzerland. I love the way they run things there.’

  The neutrality of Switzerland, the mentality of Ireland and the military might of Russia, America and China put together. Look at it another way; because dragons don’t exist any more, no allowance is made for them in the Great Equation. They are neither flesh nor spirit, us or them, good or evil. They just are. The same goes, incidentally, for the Milkweed butterfly of southern America, except that Milkweed butterflies don’t wipe out major cities when they sneeze.

  ‘Just a moment. I thought dragons were evil.’

  Not intrinsically. Call them floating voters, if you like. Besides, what is evil?

  ‘Well, you are, for a start.’

  True. But I’m exceptional. And, don’t forget, I’m also stuck in this nasty cramped little plastic box.

  Chubby closed his eyes and thought for a moment. ‘We’re getting side-tracked,’ he said. ‘How can a dragon be useful to me?’

  First, they can fly faster than light. Second, they can kill saints and vaporise demons. Third, they can be hired for money.

  ‘I see. Lots of money?’

  Traditionally, they sleep in caves on heaps of gold and precious stones.

  ‘This is some kind of health fad, right? Like those car seat covers made out of knobbly wooden beads?’

  Gre
ed. A physical lust for wealth. That’s the traditional view, anyway. Times have changed. Maybe dragons have changed too.

  Suddenly, Chubby felt tired; more tired, even, than interested or frightened. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘How do I get in touch with this dragon? Can I talk to him? Will he accept Pay-As-You-Burn, or will he want a princess on account?’

  If you want me to answer that, it will count as a separate enquiry

  ‘Goodnight, machine.’

  Any time.

  The green light faded. Chubby stood up, found that his legs had somehow lost their rigidity and sat down again. Talking to that thing always made him feel like he’d been trapped in a spin-drier.

  Not so long ago, he’d passed a computer shop. Special deal, its window had shouted to him, part exchange, any model accepted. He’d been tempted. But would It let him? And even if It did, did he really want to? After all, the damage was probably done by now. Highly unlikely that you could regrow a damaged soul, like a slow-worm’s tail.

  Before he left the office he stopped in front of a mirror and looked in.

  ‘Hey,’ he asked. ‘Are you evil?’

  The picture in the mirror said nothing.

  ‘Lousy copycat,’ Chubby grumbled, and switched off the light.

  Halfway through his lamb pasanda, the dragon dropped his fork and choked.

  ‘Rice gone down the wrong way?’ Bianca asked with her mouth full. ‘Try a drink of water.’

  The dragon spluttered, convulsed and fell off his chair. Bianca, who usually had the lamb pasanda but this time had opted for a chicken korma, summoned a waiter.

  ‘I think my friend needs a doctor,’ she said. ‘Or maybe a vet. Call both. And,’ she added, ‘then get me another peshwari nan.’

  With a tremendous effort, the dragon hauled himself back onto his chair. Drawing in breath was as difficult as pulling in a trawl-net full of lead ingots, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘What’s happening to me?’ he gasped. ‘I feel like I’m being burned alive.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bianca, relaxing a little. ‘We call that lime pickle. It’s quite usual.’

  This time, the dragon’s spasm sent him rolling on the floor, taking the table and the coat rack with him. Smoke was pouring out of holes in his shoes and there was a quite repulsive smell. Bianca was on her feet, very much aware that there was absolutely nothing she could usefully do.

  ‘The statue,’ the dragon hissed, spending each atom of breath as if he was a dentist buying magazines for the waiting room. ‘Run. It has to be George.’

  Slamming her credit card on the next-door table - damn, she thought, forgot the tip; but the rice was stone cold, so what the hell? - Bianca ran out into the street and headed for Victoria Square. If anybody was fooling with her statue, there’d be hell to pay.

  It’s difficult, isn’t it, to do it to order. Think of the trouble you have filling a small bottle behind a screen at the doctor’s. Then imagine a life-size statue of a dragon.

  ‘I find it helps to think of running water,’ said Chardonay, his nose wrinkled against the offensive smell. ‘Gushing taps. Chortling brooks. Waterfalls.’

  ‘Shut up, Char, you’re not helping.’

  ‘Milky tea works best in my experience,’ said Holdall.

  ‘Goes straight through me, especially first thing in the morning.’ For what it’s worth, Holdall had contributed more than the others put together, thereby confirming the view that Prodsnap had formed of him a few moments after they’d first met. There was now a hole in the dragon’s back left paw you could have hidden a cottage loaf in.

  ‘This,’ George grunted, ‘is stupid. I’m going to get the explosives.’

  Chardonay looked down at the small crater in the marble directly underneath where he was standing. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘Otherwise, we’re going to be here all night. And it doesn’t seem like there’s much risk now of the horrid thing waking up.’

  Prodsnap nodded. ‘And what about the noise?’ he said. ‘Not that I’m arguing with you,’ he added quickly, for it wasn’t exactly a warm night and he was sure he’d pulled a muscle. ‘But if there is anything we can do to keep the volume down, it’d be worth the effort. Something tells me that passing it off as a car backfiring won’t really do.’

  ‘Cover it with the blast shield and hope,’ George replied. ‘In any case, so long as we don’t hang about too long afterwards, a bit of a bang’ll be neither here nor there. Trust me, I’m a saint.’

  It didn’t take the seven of them long to get the explosive in position, and George made light work of wiring up the detonators. Father Kelly, who hadn’t really been able to contribute to the previous attempt, helped by passing George screwdrivers and, to the great irritation of all present, praying.

  ‘Okay, lads,’ said George, lifting the plunger. ‘Firework time. Stand clear or prepare to fly.’

  ‘What the hell do you goons think you’re doing with my statue?’

  George looked over his shoulder to see a tall, angry-looking female with her hands on her hips and an expression on her face you could have built a thriving yoghurt business around. He scowled.

  ‘Piss off, lady,’ he snapped. Then he remembered.

  ‘You!’ Bianca said. ‘Right.’

  Bear in mind that George was a saint and had been a knight. Saints and knights do not fight with women. It’s unchivalrous. More to the point, they generally lose. Still holding the detonator box by the handle, he started to back away.

  ‘Help!’ he said.

  Demons and the denizens of Hell, on the other hand, have no such scruples, particularly if they outnumber the woman five to one. The demons advanced.

  ‘Madam,’ said Chardonay, mister play-it-by-the-book, ‘I have to inform you that we are duly authorised law officers in the execution of our duty. If you obstruct us, you will be committing an offence punishable by - oh shit!’

  He had trodden on Slitgrind’s tail; a lanky, unpleasant object, having a lot in common with a banana skin. He wobbled and tried to grab hold of the fiend next to him, but he was standing beside Holdall, four foot one in his stocking talons. His heels slid out from under him, and he fell -

  - Heavily, against George, who was off-balance anyway trying to hide behind Snorkfrod. A moment later, there was a confused heap of demons, and a click. George would have landed awkwardly, but the plunger of the detonator box broke his fall.

  There was a very loud noise.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Where am I?’

  Chubby smiled. ‘You’re safe,’ he said. ‘I rescued you from certain death. Look upon me as your personal knight in shining armour.’ He checked himself. ‘Let me rephrase that,’ he said. ‘Your guardian angel.’

  ‘You mean you’re out to get me?’

  Chubby sighed. There are times when you want to have the niceties of combat theology explained to you, and there are other times when you just want to go to bed. ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘I want to offer you a job.’

  ‘We killed him,’ Chardonay said.

  ‘Apparently,’ George replied. ‘Calls for a celebration, I reckon. Hey, Padre, we got any bubbly?’

  ‘But that was murder,’ Chardonay replied uncomfortably: ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘Pesticide. Where the hell’s that bloody vicar got to with the drinkies?’

  ‘You’re a saint and you killed him. Without provocation.

  He wasn’t setting fire to anything or eating maidens, he was just sitting there.’

  ‘Yeah,’ George snarled, his feet up on the coffee table; size twelve Doc Martens resting on disused Catholic Heralds. ‘Eating me in effigy. Charming. Anyway, bugger that. We’re on the same side, remember.’

  Chardonay shook his head. ‘I still don’t really buy that,’ he said. ‘That’s like saying good and evil are basically the same thing.’

  George, who had never been near a university common room bar in his life but could nevertheless sense the onset of one of those ghast
ly serious-conversations-about-the-meaning-of-Everything, got up and opened the drinks cabinet with his foot. ‘Bollocks,’ he said, knocking the top off a Guinness bottle against the mantelpiece. ‘That’s like saying Accounts is the same as the Packing Department. They’re different, yes, but part of the same firm.’

  ‘Oh. I thought we were, you know, at war, sort of thing. Evil versus Good. In competition for the soul of man.’

  ‘Listen, pillock. If Evil won, it’d become Good, like the opposition becomes the government.’ He glugged at the bottle until it was empty and dropped it in the fireplace. ‘Thought you were meant to be a management trainee, son. Don’t they teach you boys anything?’

  Father Kelly peered nervously round the door and whispered that he’d got a bottle of champagne, if that’s what they wanted. He looked nervous and semi-martyred; Terry Waite in his own home. Which suited him fine, because although he’d always reckoned he’d have made a cracking hostage he spoke no foreign languages and air travel gave him migraines. ‘And,’ he added, ‘there’s a devil in the washing machine.’

  ‘That’ll be that Holdall,’ George grunted. ‘I told him to search the place, see where you’re hiding the good stuff.’

  ‘Um.’ Father Kelly wasn’t sure what good meant any more, but from the context he guessed alcohol. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I haven’t got any more. I can send out Mrs McNamara if you—’

  George made a scornful noise. ‘You don’t fool me that easily,’ he said. ‘In my day, first thing your priest did when he saw a gang of saints on the horizon, he put all the grog in a bucket and lowered it down the well. Always used to confess, though, specially when we told him we’d chuck him down after it. That,’ he added stonily, ‘is a hint.’

  ‘Actually, I haven’t got a well.’

  ‘I can improvise.’

  Father Kelly gulped and bolted. George listened after his retreating footsteps and winked.

  ‘He’ll be back in ten minutes with a couple of crates, you mark my words.’ he said. ‘Where was I?’