Paint Your Dragon Tom Holt

by Paint Your Dragon (lit)

  In the black transit, parked a little way up the street, Chubby Stevenson rubbed his hands together and chuckled before connecting up the chronostator diodes. With a bit of luck, there was enough of the good stuff here to fill the Toronto order and the San Francisco contract ahead of schedule, which, in turn, meant he’d have more resources to throw at that nasty technical problem he still hadn’t managed to crack. A green light twinkled at him from the control panel and he threw the big switch.

  And aboard the second coach ...

  ‘It’s no good,’ yelped the Demon Slitgrind, springing from his seat as if a plateful of hot noodle soup had just been spilled in his lap. ‘I’ve gotta get to—’

  ‘Sit down!’

  Shopfloor-fire and buggery, Chardonay couldn’t help muttering to himself, but she’s a handsome ghoul when she’s angry. The way her hair stands on end and hisses is really quite bewitching. No, stop thinking like that!

  ‘But Snork—’

  ‘You heard me,’ growled the she-devil, her voice danger­ously quiet. ‘Take it out before Mister Chardonay says it’s okay and I’ll snip it off. Understood?’

  A flash of light on her shapely claws reinforced the impression that this was no idle threat. Wide-eyed, Slitgrind apologised, sat down and squirmed convulsively.

  Fade out on the coach. Pan to the tea-room...

  ‘They can’t want more tea,’ Ron groaned. ‘They’ve had eight gallons of the stuff already.’

  Without dignifying the remark with a reply, his wife knelt down and started pulling things out of the cupboards onto the floor. ‘In here somewhere,’ she grunted, ‘there’s a tin of that horrible Lapsang stuff your sister gave us Christmas before last, the miserable cow. If only—’

  ‘You can’t give them that.’

  ‘It’s that or nothing. Ah, thought so, here it is.’ She stood up, blowing dust off a small Formum’s tin. ‘Don’t just stand there, you cretin, warm the teapot.’

  The tea thereby produced vanished down the old ladies’ throats like an eggcupful of water thrown onto a burning warehouse, and the proprietors’ embarrassed announce­ment that, until envoys sent to the village shop returned,

  there was no more tea was greeted with an explosion of good-natured banter. Odd, thought Ron’s wife, as she slammed in another twelve pounds of scone mix, that’s the happiest coach-party I’ve ever seen in all my born days; almost as if they’re determined to enjoy everything or die in the attempt. There was a sort of manic edge to their cheerfulness which was, on reflection, one of the most disturbing things she’d ever encountered in half a century, not excluding Ron’s cousin Sheila.

  Never mind. Their money’s as good as anyone’s. She wiped her hands on her apron and despatched the now exhausted Jason to the farm for three hundred eggs.

  No wonder the old ladies were winding it up a gear or two. The messages coming through on the miniature two-way radio from the transit van were starting to be somewhat intense. The gist of them was that, although the clinking of teacups and baying of merry laughter was plainly audible at the other end of the street, not so much as a nanosecond of recycled Time had yet dripped down the tube into the bottle. Likewise, the usual side-effects — mushrooming housing estates, factories out of hats, instant slip-roads —were conspicuous by their absence. It wasn’t working. And the only explanation for that, surely, was that the old bags weren’t really enjoying themselves.

  ‘Ethel!’ Chubby rasped down the intercom to the squad leader. ‘I need fun! Give me fun! Now!’

  ‘We’re doing our best, Mr 5,’ came the reply, nearly drowned out by the background noise. ‘Really we are. I haven’t had such a good time since our Gerald’s funeral.’

  ‘But nothing’s coming through, you stupid old crone.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ethel hesitated, then giggled. ‘What a shame. Never mind. Why don’t you come down here, then? Winnie and Gertie have just dragged the man out from behind the counter, I think they’re going to—’

  Disgusted, Chubby cut the link. What the hell was going on out there? Must be some sort of interference field, he reasoned, as he ran diagnostic checks on the instrument panel. But what in God’s name could damp a pleasure field so strong that his own jaw muscles were nearly exhausted with the effort of not grinning? He kicked off his shoes, shoved a sock in his mouth and tried to pinpoint the source of the interference using the Peabody scanner.

  Beep. Found it! A huge sidewash of negative vibes, enough to fuel the complete dramatic works of Ibsen and Strindberg, was coming from a few yards down the street; to be precise, that big black bus, parked alongside the chara. Chubby frowned and keyed co-ordinates into the Peabody. Whatever it was, he’d never seen its like before. Now, if he could only tie in the spectroscopics ...

  The control panel exploded in a cloud of sparks and plastic shrapnel.

  At precisely that moment the Demon Chardonay, twisted almost treble in his discomfort, squeaked to the driver to get them out of there. ‘Anywhere there’s bushes,’ he added, ‘and for Shopfloor’s sake step on it!’

  Also precisely at that moment, the coach party in the Copper Kettle froze, as if they’d been switched off at the mains. Silence. Ron, who had been hiding under the tables fending off marauding hands with a stale French loaf, peered out. It was an extraordinary sight.

  Like a delegation from the retired robots’ home, the old ladies stood up, gathered bags and hats and marched stiffly out of the door. Their coach swallowed them and a few moments later they were gone, all in total, Armistice-day silence. Ron blinked, pulled himself together, wrapped the shreds of a tea towel round his waist and busied himself scooping up the piles of money left beside the few intact plates.

  ‘They’ve gone, then?’

  He nodded, too stunned even to notice how humiliatingly stupid his wife looked, peering out through the serving hatch with a colander rammed helmet-fashion onto her head. ‘Thank Gawd,’ he added.

  ‘If they come back, tell ‘em they’re banned.’

  ‘Too bloody right I will. They even caught our Jason, in the end.’

  ‘I know. He’s barricaded himself in the chest freezer. They drew things on him in lipstick.’

  Ron shrugged. ‘Do the little bleeder good,’ he replied, absently. ‘I dunno. Coach parties!’

  Outside on the village green a small corrugated iron tool shed, which had thrust its roof up through the ancient turf twenty minutes previously, wilted and died.

  That, Chardonay admitted to himself, was better. Much, much better. As far as he was concerned, anyway. The tree would never be the same again, but that couldn’t be helped.

  ‘All right,’ he called out. ‘Everybody back on the coach.’

  No reply. So thick were the clouds of foul-smelling steam that he could only see a yard or so in front of his face. Carefully, so as to avoid the many fallen trees and branches that now littered the floor of the small copse, he retraced his steps towards the coach.

  Towards where the coach had been.

  A moment later, he was joined by Snorkfrod, Slitgrind, Prodsnap and a small, furry demon from Accounts by the name of Holdall. They all had that look of slightly manic happiness that comes from a terrible ordeal suddenly ended, and were adjusting various bizarre and complex clothing systems.

  ‘It’s gone,’ said Chardonay.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The coach,’ repeated the demon. ‘It’s gone without us.’

  Slitgrind scowled, knitting his three eyebrows into an unbroken hedge. ‘Can’t have,’ he growled. ‘That’s—’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Prodsnap quietly. ‘Bastards have bun­ked off and left us here. Probably their idea of a joke.’

  The five devils looked at each other, lost for words. And, come to that, just plain lost.

  ‘The important thing,’ said Chardonay, managing to sound five times more confident than he felt, and even then twittering like a small bird, ‘is not to panic. All we have to do is find a call-box and Management’ll send a minibus al
ong to pick us up.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Well...’

  Slitgrind shook his head grimly. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘they’ll just bloody well leave us here. You got yourselves into this mess, they’ll say. Don’t want to cause an incident, they’ll say. If I know Management—’

  A sharp blow to his solar plexus (which also doubled as his second forehead) interrupted his sentence — Snorkfrod showing solidarity again — but all five of them knew he was right. Management didn’t like its people wandering about outside the Nine Circles, and although it did grudgingly allow day trips and outings as a special concession, there was always the unspoken understanding that once a fiend was outside the Hope Bins of Gateway Three, he was on his own. Hell may have its embassies and consulates in every cranny of the world, but they have better things to do with their time than repatriating strayed tourists.

  ‘Well,’ Chardonay sighed, ‘looks like we’re going to have to walk, then. Anybody happen to know the way?’

  Silence.

  ‘Good intentions,’ said the small furry demon, Holdall.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Good intentions,’ he repeated. ‘The road to HQ is paved with them, apparently. All we need to do is find a lot of good intentions laid end to end, and we re in...

  ‘Slitgrind,’ said Chardonay, quietly.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Put him down. We’re not at home now, you know.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Snorkfrod, sidling a step or so closer to the party’s nominal leader. ‘I’m sure Mr Chardonay’ll think of something. Won’t you, Mr C?’

  Chardonay closed his eyes. He did have the marginal advantage of having been in these parts before, long ago when he’d been a student, before he joined the Company. If that was north, then over there somewhere was Birming­ham. Due south was Banbury. How you got to HQ from either of those places he hadn’t a clue, but it would be a start. Maybe they could buy a map, or ask someone.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s try hitching.’

  Three hours later, they were still there. It had seemed like a good idea — the four of them hiding in the bushes while Snorkfrod sat beside the road with her legs crossed — but in practice it had proved counterproductive. Even the HGV drivers had taken one look at Snorkfrod’s enticing flash of thigh and raced off in the opposite direction.

  ‘This,’ said Prodsnap at last, ‘isn’t getting us anywhere, is it?’

  Snorkfrod glowered at him, but Chardonay nodded meekly. ‘It was only an idea,’ he said. ‘Looks like we’re going to have to walk after all.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Prodsnap replied. ‘Got an idea.’

  ‘Right,’ said the dragon, and turned to the barman. ‘That’s a bottle of calvados for me and a Perrier for the lady. She’s paying,’ he added. ‘I haven’t got any money.’

  They sat at a table in a quiet corner, the opposite end of the bar from the pool table. ‘Is that a game?’ the dragon asked.

  Bianca nodded. ‘Pool,’ she said. ‘Don’t change the sub—’

  ‘Prodding things with a long thin stick,’ the dragon observed, finishing the bottle and wiping his lips. ‘Had something similar in my day, only the sticks were longer and the players were on horseback. And it wasn’t little coloured balls they poked at, either.’

  ‘No?’

  The dragon shook his head. ‘After they ran out of dragons,’ he said, ‘they took to prodding each other, would you believe. To see who could fall off his horse the quickest. I think you’re probably descended from them, so you can wipe that superior grin off your face.

  Bianca frowned. ‘Whatever my ancestors may have done,’ she said, ‘I’m not responsible. That’s a good rule you’d do well to remember.’

  The dragon shrugged. ‘Who gives a toss who’s responsi­ble?’ he replied. ‘I prefer being irresponsible. Especially now you’ve made me such a nice cozzy to be irresponsible in.’ He swilled the bottle round, by way of a hint. ‘I haven’t been in your century long, but I think I like it. It’s so...’

  ‘Advanced? Civilised?’

  ‘Combustible,’ the dragon replied. ‘Not to mention fragile.’

  Bianca shook her head. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t last five minutes. And if you get shot down in flames, my masterpiece goes with you. Any cannon-shell holes in my beautiful statue, I’ll have your lungs for dustbin liners.’

  The dragon smiled. ‘Your technology is crap,’ he said, slowly and with evident pleasure. ‘Too slow. Too cocksure of itself. There’s only one half-decent combat aircraft in the whole damn century, and you made it for me. Thanks,’ he added. ‘And yes, I don’t mind if I do. Same again, please.’ When Bianca returned with another bottle, the dragon leaned forward, elbows on the table, and blew smoke-rings through his nose. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I’d better explain. I owe you that, I suppose, in return for the masonry work.’

  The last surviving dragon peered down from the cave in which he had taken refuge, and watched the stevedores loading the carcasses of his race onto the big, twelve-wheel wagons. Strangely enough, he wasn’t angry. He didn’t seem to feel anything very much, except for a strange sensation of being at the beginning rather than the end.

  Later, when the last wagon had creaked away down the main cart-road to Caerleon, he fluttered down to the riverbank and scratched about. In a small gully he found a pile of empty cans. They smelt awful and each had written on the side:

  WORMEX ™

  Kills All Known Feral Dragons — Dead!

  Warning: harmful if swallowed.

  Right, he muttered to himself, don’t drink the water. Clever little buggers, the white men. Superior intelligence, probably. The dragon could remember when they were nothing but a bunch of red-arsed monkeys skittering around in trees. Strewth, he said to himself, if those original monkeys were around now to see how far their great-grandchildren had come, wouldn’t they be proud? No, replied the dragon’s common sense. They’d be (first) shit scared and (second) turned into boot-linings.

  But the wee bastards had done him one favour; they’d taught him right from wrong. As far as he could make out, because of something called Symbolism, dragons stood for Evil and humans stood for Good. Therefore, what humans did was Good and what dragons did was Bad. Hence, the emergence of Mankind as Top Species, presumably.

  What dragons did was mess around feeding and minding their own business. This was Bad.

  What humans did was eradicate whole species whose existence was inconvenient to them. This was Good.

  Right, said the dragon to himself. Let nobody say I’m a slow learner.

  After burning the city of Caerleon to the ground and incinerating its defenders, the dragon was pleased to discover that doing good can be fun. Virtue, he’d heard humans say, is its own reward. Yes. He could relate to that. And there were an awful lot of cities left; so much thatch, so little time. By the time he’d torched Caerleil, Caermer­din, Caerusc and Carbolic, he reckoned he’d probably earned a medal, maybe a bishopric — not that he knew exactly what a bishopric was. If asked to venture a guess, based on recent experience, he’d have said it was probably like a hayrick but easier to ignite.

  Imagine his distress, therefore, when he learned, during the final carbonisation of the beautiful Midland city of Rhydychen, that he wasn’t doing good at all, but rather the opposite. At Rhydychen, they sent out the archbishop and an even score of priests in purple dressing gowns, all of whom tried to dispose of him by swearing a lot and ringing little bells. In the few seconds before they faded away and were replaced by a residue of light grey ash, he distinctly heard them refer to him as the Evil One, the Spawn of Satan and all sorts of other unsavoury names. It almost (but not quite) took his breath away.

  The dragon paused. He was aware that Bianca was staring at him, her mouth open.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘am I going a bit fast for you? Stop me if I am.’

  ‘All those... people,’ Bianca said qui
etly. ‘You killed them.’

  ‘To a certain extent, yes. If only someone had had the common sense to explain the rules to me earlier, none of that would have happened. I must say, for a dominant species your lot can be thick as bricks sometimes.’

  Bianca shook her head as if trying to wake up. ‘Hundreds of thousands of human beings,’ she said. ‘And you—’

  ‘Ants.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’ve seen you do it,’ the dragon replied. ‘Not you personally, of course, but humans in general. What you do is, you boil a kettle, you stand over the nest the ants have thoughtlessly built under your kitchen floor, and you—’

  ‘That’s—’

  The dragon nodded. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘You forget, I’m from a different species. And I didn’t make the rules. More to the point, I didn’t even know what the rules were until I found out, quite by chance. And once I’d found out, of course, I stopped.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Well, of course. Back then, you see, all I ever wanted to do was the right thing.’

  In response to his polite request for a copy of the rule book, the dragon got three cartsful of angry letters from the Pope (which he dismissed as a load of bulls) and a challenge to single combat. Good versus Evil. The big event.

  The dragon thought about it and then scorched his reply in fifteen-foot letters on Salisbury Plain: It’s a deal.

  Humanity nominated its champion: Dragon George Cody, Albion’s premier pest control operative, recently dubbed Saint by His Holiness in Rome. Naturally, the dragon knew Cody. In fact, it was Cody’s absence from Caerleon, Caerusc, Tintagel and Caerdol that had spoiled four otherwise perfect barbecues.

  During the week between the issue of the challenge and the date fixed for the fight, the dragon camped out in a pleasant little valley in the Brecon Beacons. There was a nice roomy cave, a cool, fresh brook and a little grove of trees to lie up in during the warm afternoons. George, no doubt, was frantically training somewhere, but the dragon couldn’t be bothered with all that stuff. After all, this was the showdown between the two diametrically opposing principles of the Universe. Doing anything to influence the outcome struck the dragon as faintly blasphemous.