Paint Your Dragon

by Tom Holt

  Hold that thought. Since he was now wearing a whole new body, the dragon wouldn’t know who he was. All he had to do, given the element of disguise, was walk up to the dragon in a bar and offer to buy him a drink.

  The ugly snout of practicality intruded into his plans. As far as he could tell, this was a liberal century, uninhibited, where anything went (so long as you weren’t fussy about it coming back again afterwards), but even so, you’d probably be pushing your luck sidling up to strangers in bars asking if they were a dragon and wanted a drink. On the right lines, he decided, but could do with a little bit more fine tuning.

  Still, at least he had a plan now, which was something. Next step, food. It had been a long time since breakfast and the body that had eaten the breakfast was now cinders and ashes. He pulled out his victim’s wallet and opened it up; a nice thick wad of notes reassured him. Grinning, he crossed New Street, heading for the big McDonald’s.

  ‘Wotcher, Mike.’ A hand clumped down between his shoulder-blades, momentarily depriving him of breath. Before his instincts - well, they weren’t his instincts of course - had time to send the kill message down to his arms, he cancelled the instruction. Whoever this body was, it had friends. And dragon hunters need friends, the way fishermen need maggots.

  ‘Hello yourself,’ he replied, and turned to face whoever it was. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Not so bad.’ His friend, a tall, gangling bloke with round bottle-end glasses, was giving him a funny look. ‘Heard you were, um, dead,’ he said. ‘Like, blown up or something.’

  ‘Not as such,’ George replied. ‘What you probably heard was that I was slowly dying of hunger and thirst, which is true. Of course, you can help me do something about that.’

  The stranger laughed. What had he called him? Mike? Good old Mike, always cracking jokes.

  ‘Good idea,’ the stranger went on. ‘We could have a couple of pints, then maybe go for a Balti. Suit you?’

  ‘Sure.’ Mike’s friend started to walk, presumably knew where he was going. George fell into step beside him.

  ‘Haven’t seen you about for a while now,’ said Mike’s friend.

  ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘So what’s it like, working with the great Bianca Wilson?’

  George put two and two together, and got a mental picture of a fast-swinging lump hammer narrowly shaving his ear. ‘Eventful,’ he said. ‘Quite an education, in fact.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  In front of them, a pub doorway. Oh good, we seem to be going in here. I could just do with a—

  He stopped dead. Ah shit!

  Sitting at the bar, staring at him, were Bianca and—‘Christ, Bianca, there’s my body. Hey, grab him, someone. That’s the bastard who stole my body!’

  It’s mortifying enough to be loudly accused of theft in a public place. To be accused by yourself ... George, as always in such circumstances, gave serious thought to running away, but his erstwhile friend was standing between him and the door, giving him ever such a funny look.

  ‘You bastard!’ Bianca was yelling at him too. ‘Don’t just stand there, Peter, grab the swine!’

  Who the hell was Peter? Oh, him. The treacherous bugger who’d brought him here. Stronger than he looks, our Peter. George’s arm was now twisted up behind his back and there was very little he could do about it. Behind the bar, an unsympathetic-looking girl was muttering something about ringing the police.

  ‘Let go of me,’ he grunted. ‘I’m a saint.’

  Peter tightened his grip. ‘You’re a what?’

  ‘A saint. You deaf or something?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Bianca, grimly, ‘he is. If he tries to make a run for it, break his sodding arm.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Peter was saying. ‘If he really is a saint—’

  ‘That does it,’ said the barmaid. She picked up the phone and started pressing buttons.

  George struggled, painfully. ‘You realise this is blasphemy,’ he gasped - breath is at a premium when you’re being half-nelsoned over a bar. ‘You’ll fry in Hell for this!’

  ‘You bastard!’ His body - Saint George’s body - had a hand round his, Mike‘s, windpipe. ‘Give me back my body now, or I’ll bloody well throttle you. It.’ The significance of his own words struck him and he relaxed his hold slightly. ‘Here, Bee, is there any way of getting him out of it?’

  ‘We could try death,’ Bianca replied icily. ‘Seems to work okay.’

  The other occupants of the pub, though interested, seemed to regard saint-bashing as primarily a spectator sport. Wagers were being exchanged, theories aired. The barmaid had got through to the police and was giving what George felt was a rather one-sided account of the proceedings. It was time, he reflected, for a brilliant idea.

  Available options; not an inspiring selection. Be mutilated by Peter, strangled by - who was that guy? Mike, presumably, whoever the hell he was, surgically dissected by the snotty sculptress or arrested by the cops. None of them, George admitted, felt intuitively right.

  ‘Help,’ he croaked.

  The prayers of saints seldom go unheard. Just as Mike was saying that maybe Bianca’s suggestion had something going for it, and the distant sirens were coming closer, there was a refreshing sound of splintering glass, the thump of an unconscious body hitting the deck and a familiar voice at his side.

  Father Kelly. And about bloody time, too.

  ‘Of course he’s a friggin’ saint,’ the priest was yelling. ‘Can’t ye see his friggin’ halo, ye dumb bastards?’

  ‘Keep out of this, vicar,’ Mike said angrily. Fortunately, Father Kelly took no notice, or perhaps he was just enraged at being confused with an Anglican. More broken glass noises, Father Kelly proving he knew the uses of empty Guinness bottles. He’d apparently used one on Peter, because George could now move his arms. He straightened up, to see Bianca swinging a bar stool at him. Fortunately, he had just enough time to thrust Father Kelly into the path of the blow—loud thunk, priest drops like stone, never mind. Leaving Bianca holding a broken stool and looking bemused, he jumped nimbly over the dormant Peter, shoved open the door, kicked an advancing copper squarely in the nuts and legged it.

  God, he couldn’t help thinking, looks after his own.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘It’s not on the map,’ Slitgrind protested.

  The van stood on the hard shoulder of the M6. In the front, Prodsnap and Slitgrind were poring over the vintage road atlas they’d found in the glove compartment.

  ‘There it is, look,’ said Prodsnap, pointing.

  ‘No, you fool, that’s Hull.’

  ‘Maybe that’s just lousy spelling.’

  Slitgrind closed the atlas with a snap. ‘Stands to reason,’ he said. ‘They don’t put it on mortal maps, ’cos otherwise we’d have hundreds of bloody tourists blocking up the front drive all the time.’

  It occurred to Prodsnap that maybe his colleague was being a trifle alarmist, but he didn’t say anything. It was true, Hell wasn’t on the map. He tried hard to remember the route the coach-driver had taken, but it had all been homogeneous motorway, with no landmarks whatsoever.

  ‘We’ll have to ask someone, then,’ he said:

  Slitgrind scowled. ‘Don’t be thick,’ he replied.

  ‘Someone who knows, obviously,’ Prodsnap said. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard.’

  ‘But ...’ Slitgrind was about to protest, but the penny dropped. ‘Do we have to?’ he objected. ‘Those people always give me the shivers.’

  ‘Me too.’ Prodsnap suited the action to the word. ‘But they’ll know the way and we don’t. Looks like we don’t have much choice.’

  His colleague grimaced, acknowledging the logic. ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘s’pose they’re on our side. In a way.’

  ‘Better the colleague you know, huh?’

  Slitgrind shrugged and turned the ignition key.

  ‘Give me the deep blue sea any time,’ he muttered, and indicated right.

  ‘I
conjure you by Asmoday and Beelzebub, Sytray and Satan, eloi, elohim and Miss Frobisher, do please be careful, you nearly made me spill the Black Host ... ’

  Barbed whips of wind flicked cruelly through the slighted walls of the ruins of Castle Roche. The moon had long since hidden her face behind the clouds and the only light was the livid orange glow from the foul-smelling fire. In the shattered keep of the castle, five white-clad figures, hooded and barefoot, huddled inside the arbitrary confines of a chalked ring. Around them lay the horrible impedimenta of the Black Rite: pantangles, tetragrammata, a sword, a mutilated Bible, a goat’s skull, a frozen chicken, slowly defrosting ...

  ‘Are you lot going to be much longer?’ demanded a querulous voice from outside the ring of firelight. ‘It’s freezing.’

  The Great Goat sighed petulantly. ‘These things can’t be rushed, Miss - ah—’

  ‘Filkins,’ hissed the Lesser Goat. ‘Sonia Filkins. She’s Mrs Brownlow’s niece, from the Post Office.’

  ‘Can’t I at least have a blanket or something?’ whined Miss Filkins. ‘I’m getting all goosepimply. And it’s damp. Auntie Edie didn’t say anything about sitting in the damp.’

  The Lesser Goat simpered slightly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘But Brenda’s babysitting up at the vicarage, and now Yvonne’s started college ...’

  ‘I know,’ sighed the Great Goat. ‘Maybe next time, Miss Frobisher. I can’t really see any point in continuing under these conditions.’

  Mournful silence. The Lesser Goat started to pack away the horrible impedimenta.

  ‘If you’ve finished with the chicken,’ said Miss Filkins, ‘do you mind if I take it on with me? There’s a really nice recipe in my magazine for chicken.’

  ‘Please,’ grunted the Great Goat, carefully snuggling the skull in cotton wool. ‘Help yourself. Such a pity to let good food go to—’

  He fell silent. Although he was right next to the fire, his legs were suddenly icy cold. He didn’t look round.

  ‘Miss Frobisher,’ he croaked.

  ‘Yes, Dr Thwaites?’

  ‘Perhaps Miss, ah, Filkins needn’t put her clothes back on quite yet.’

  The Lesser Goat looked at him. ‘But I thought—’ ‘Over there.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the shattered tower. ‘Um, by Asmoday and Beelzebub, Sytray and—’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Miss Frobisher let out a little scream. The thurifer hastily stubbed out his cigarette. The sword-bearer, who was half in and half out of his vestments, made a grab for his trousers. Old Mr Blakiston, the Black Verger, dozed peacefully on.

  ‘Excuse me,’ repeated Prodsnap. He was carrying an electric torch and wearing an old Barbour jacket he’d found on a scarecrow, for the night was cold; but the firelight dazzled vividly on his hooves and horns. ‘We haven’t missed it, have we, only we got a bit held up. Roadworks on the A34 just south of Chipping Norton.’

  ‘Please can I put my clothes on now, Miss Frobisher? I’m going blue.’

  The Great Goat winced. ‘Please be quiet, Miss Filkins,’ he snapped. ‘Um, would you, ah, care to join us? Quick, Miss Frobisher, the chicken!’

  ‘You said I could have it!’

  Prodsnap shivered, despite his Barbour. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘don’t go to any trouble on our account. We had something at a Little Chef on the way. We really only wanted to ask—’

  ‘Bludy ew,’ squeaked the thurifer. ‘Issa bleedin’ deviw!’

  The Great Goat closed his eyes, mortified. First thing in the morning there’d be a vacancy for the post of Black Thurifer, and never mind the fact that Barney Philpot was the only twenty-four-hour plumber in the district. ‘Thurifer,’ he commanded, ‘be quiet. By Asmoday and ...’

  Slitgrind nudged his colleague in the small of the back. ‘For Chrissakes, Prozza,’ he hissed, ‘let’s get out of here. I’m scared. Ow! That was my shin, you clumsy—’

  ‘We were wondering,’ Prodsnap went on, raising his voice slightly, ‘if you could help us out. You see, we’re lost, and—’

  ‘Lost?’ The Great Goat peered at him through thick-lensed bifocals. ‘You mean, you fell with Lucifer, Son of the Morning, wantonly preferring the path of damnation to the—’

  ‘Missed the bus,’ said Slitgrind. ‘Got left behind. I think they did it on purpose,’ he added resentfully. ‘Someone’s going to cop it when I get home.’

  The Great Goat’s mouth was hanging open, like a broken gate. ‘Bus,’ he repeated.

  ‘Outing,’ said Prodsnap. ‘To Nashville. And now we’re having to make our own way home, and it’s not actually shown on the map, so we were wondering if—’

  ‘Hey.’ The Great Goat felt a tug on his sleeve. ‘These two,’ the sword-bearer was muttering. ‘They for real?’

  ‘Of course they are, you foolish man!’ hissed the Great Goat. ‘Look at the horns! The tails!’

  The sword-bearer shrugged. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Not what I expected, though.’

  ‘Not what you ...!’

  ‘Bit of a disappointment, really.’

  ‘How dare you! These are ...’

  He hesitated. Unshakable his faith might be, but there was something about the way that one devil was trying to hide behind the other that did tend to sap the forbidden glamour. ‘Do excuse me asking,’ he said apologetically, ‘but do you gentlemen have any form of identification? Only, you see—’

  ‘It’s that Great Horwood lot,’ muttered the sword-bearer, ‘dressed up in a lot of fancy dress. Here, is that you, Jim Partridge? ’Cos if it is, you can forget having your car back by the weekend.’

  Prodsnap blushed green. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We don’t actually have cards or anything. Usually,’ he added, with his remaining shreds of dignity, ‘we don’t feel the need.’

  ‘Prozza—’

  ‘Shuttup, Slitgrind. I’d have thought,’ Prodsnap soldiered on, ‘the horns and the hooves and all that, they do rather speak for themselves.’

  ‘Cardboard and spirit gum,’ sneered the sword-bearer. ‘Do us a favour, Jim. You’ve had your joke, now bugger off.’

  ‘Prozza,’ Slitgrind hissed; Prodsnap noticed that he was grimly averting his eyes from something. ‘There’s a bint over there with no bloody clothes on!’

  Moments like these, Prodsnap reflected, made you realise that the Chardonays of this world do have their uses. Chardonay, of course, was nice and snug in the van, tied up and gagged, likewise the demon Snorkfrod. Now she’d know how to handle a situation like this, no trouble at all.

  ‘Quiet!’ he snapped, then turned to the Great Goat, who was peering disconcertingly at him over the rims of his glasses. ‘Um.’ He racked his brains. Something convincing; a display of black magic, perhaps, an anti-miracle. Trouble was, he didn’t know any. Not much call for black magic when you’re a clerk in the wages office.

  The nasty, suspicious one was leering at him. He decided to improvise.

  ‘Maybe this’ll convince you,’ he said, and threw something on the fire. There was a whoosh of flame and a loud bang. The sword-bearer leapt out of his skin. Old Mr Blakiston woke up, mumbled something about coffee and went back to sleep again. It had worked.

  ‘What the Shopfloor was that?’ hissed Slitgrind.

  ‘Cigarette lighter,’ Prodsnap hissed back. ‘Now then, my, er, good man,’ he went on, trying to look demonic, ‘if you could just, I mean, I command you to give us directions. Now,’ he added, and snarled. He inhaled a whiff of Black Incense and sneezed.

  The Great Goat bowed humbly, felt in his inside pocket and produced an envelope and a biro. ‘Now, if you go back the way you came as far as the Bunch of Grapes ...’

  Eventually, George stopped running.

  Only when he was absolutely convinced nobody was following him, of course. One long life and one short (so far) but highly eventful one had taught him the value of running away as a solution to virtually all problems. The way he saw it, if you can run, why bother to hide anyway?

  Absolutely no
idea where he was. A road sign said Hockley Street, but even if it was telling the truth (George had, on a number of occasions, prolonged his first life by not taking local authorities’ words for it - ‘Sure, that dragon’s dead; ain’t that so, Mr Mayor?’ and ‘Yup, we fixed that bridge last October’ were notable examples) it didn’t actually get him very far. Chances were, Hockley Street was every bit as lost as he was.

  But it did contain a pub and all that running had given George a thirst you could rub down paintwork with. With a sigh of satisfaction that would have convinced you he’d just created the world ahead of schedule and under budget, he leaned on the door of the public bar and flowed in ...

  Marvellous thing, the human brain. In its vast, multi-megabyte subconscious memory, it stores everything - everything — seen, heard, glimpsed, semi-noticed, unconsciously observed. If the librarians of the brain could get stuff up from the stacks just a little bit quicker, we’d all be supermen, and the planet would probably have been a radioactive shell back in 1906.

  The Dun Cow, Hockley Street. Been there before. Recently...

  As he walked in, Bianca was just explaining to the police officer (not the one who was still curled up in a ball, moaning softly; a different one) that the man who she’d tried to maim with a stool was guilty of art theft, causing explosions, attempted murder and innumerable counts of genocide. She’d never seen the priest before in her life, she could think of no reason why he should want to clobber two of her friends with beer bottles, and she was really sorry about his teeth, honest to God just an accident, probably the tooth fairy was on the phone right now to leading merchant bankers trying to raise some venture capital to finance such a major shipment ...

  Been there. Wrecked that. Got the summons.

  George turned, smoothly and swiftly, but not swiftly enough. A hand settled on his shoulder like a speeded-up glacier. Someone enquired of him where he thought he was going, then sidestepped his vicious elbow jab, kicked his knees from under him and clocked him one with a Lowenbrau ashtray.