The Last Dragonslayer

by Jasper Fforde

  He waved a hand in the air and stared into the middle distance to make his point.

  ‘DragonWorld(TM),’ he gasped, hardly daring to say the word owing to the size and breathtaking audacity of the project. ‘You and me, partners, fifty-fifty. What do you say?’

  He smirked at me expectantly, moolah signs in his eyes, waiting for my reply.

  ‘I’ll mention it to him,’ I said coldly, ‘but he’ll probably say no.’

  ‘Mention it to who?’ he asked, genuinely confused.

  ‘Why, Maltcassion, of course!’

  He slapped me on the back and laughed so loudly I thought he would surely choke.

  ‘I like a girl with a sense of humour! Well, that’s agreed, then. You won’t regret it!’

  He shook my hand heartily and bade me goodbye, climbed into a waiting limousine and was gone, convinced that his project was a certainty.

  Another man tried to collar me about licensing a range of collectible ornamental plates entitled The World of the Dragonslayer and there was even another offer from Fizzi-Pop, this time for forty thousand moolah. I told them I wasn’t interested and then, with the press clamouring for a further statement, I nipped back inside. I found Gordon van Gordon vacuuming up the grey ash that had once been Brian Spalding.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said when I remonstrated with him. ‘I’m going to put him in this empty syrup tin. You can take him up to the Dragonlands next time you go.’

  It was fair enough. I looked for a back door to the building and opened it on to an alleyway that was thankfully empty. I made my way quickly to the Dog and Ferret, where I had left my Volkswagen, and drove from there back to Zambini Towers.

  The Truth about Mr Zambini

  * * *

  ‘Hello,’ I said to Tiger as I walked into the Kazam offices, ‘how are things?’

  ‘Lady Mawgon’s on the warpath,’ he said, handing me a stack of messages that didn’t relate to Kazam at all, but to me.

  ‘The Mollusc on Sunday want to do a feature on me,’ I said, flicking through the messages, ‘and this one’s an offer of marriage.’

  ‘There are another five of those. Did you see Lady Mawgon on your way in?’

  I looked up.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s been looking at me in a funny way. I think she’s scheming.’

  ‘She’s always scheming,’ I replied, dropping the messages in the wastepaper bin. ‘I’m not sure she can get through the day without upsetting someone or other.’

  I walked across to the Quarkbeast’s snack cupboard and tossed him a tin of sardines which he crunched up gratefully. I spent the next hour explaining what had happened that morning. About Brian Spalding, the accelerated Dragonslaying course, the Dragonlands, Maltcassion and talking to the press on the way out.

  ‘I was going to bring Exhorbitus to show you,’ I concluded, ‘but I didn’t want to arouse any suspicion.’

  ‘I think it’s a bit late for that. Have you seen the TV recently?’

  He switched on the set. UKBC were now covering the drama unfolding on our doorsteps with almost constant coverage. The screen showed Sophie Trotter again, this time up by the marker stones.

  ‘. . . there are an estimated eight hundred thousand people gathered around the Dragonlands,’ she said, looking behind her at the chaotic scrum that seemed to be developing. ‘There have been reports of jostling that sent one man through the boundary where he was vaporised in a bright blue flash. The police are worried that there might be a bigger disaster, so are attempting to move the crowds back from the marker stones.’

  There was a bright flash behind her.

  ‘Whoops, there goes another one. I must just see if we can ask a grieving relative how they feel . . .’

  I switched off the television and looked at my watch.

  ‘It’s time for you to go home.’

  ‘I am home.’

  ‘Me too,’ I replied. ‘I mean it’s time to stop work.’

  ‘I knew what you meant, it’s just that even with everyone in the building except you hating me—’

  ‘Quark.’

  ‘Sorry, everyone except you and the Quarkbeast hating me, I just wanted you to know that I’ve never been happier. But can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What did happen to Mr Zambini?’

  I looked across at him. If I couldn’t trust him now, I couldn’t trust him ever.

  ‘Okay, here it is, but you must promise not to tell any of the others. You should know that the Great Zambini was once one of the best. I use his redundant accolade out of respect. When he was young and powerful he held the magicians’ world teleport record of eighty-five miles, although unofficially he had managed well over a hundred. He could conjure up showers of fish, and manipulate matter to a level that would make Moobin’s lead-into-gold escapade seem like kitchen chemistry. He paid for the Towers personally, and gathered together the sorcerers within to try to keep the spirit of the Mystical Arts alive, even when he knew that wizidrical powers were fading. He gave everything he had to Kazam. He would work every hour of the day and night, and I with him. He was like a father to me. Kind, generous, hard working, and utterly committed not just to his calling, but to protecting and supporting those within it.’

  ‘It sounds like he was an honourable man.’

  ‘He was. But still money was short, and he was forced to do the one thing that sorcerers should never do. An act of such gross betrayal of his art that if it was made common knowledge his reputation would be destroyed for ever and he would die a broken man, humiliated and shunned by his peers.’

  ‘You mean—?’

  ‘Right. He did children’s parties.’

  Tiger put his hand over his mouth.

  ‘He lowered himself, for them? For Lady Mawgon and Moobin and those batty sisters whose name I can’t remember?’

  ‘All of them. He used to do the events out of town, of course, and in disguise. Simple stuff: rabbits out of hats, card tricks, minor levitation. But one afternoon he must have had a surge. He vanished in a puff of green smoke during his finale. Hasn’t come back.’

  ‘So when you said he’d disappeared, you really meant it.’

  ‘Totally. He’ll spontaneously reappear eventually, but I have no idea where, or when. I can’t get the others to help because I’d have to reveal what he’d been up to, and I can’t see the old man humiliated. On the plus side, the kids thought he was great, and a standing ovation from five-year-olds is not to be sniffed at.’

  ‘But that’s not the whole story, is it?’ said Tiger, holding up a battered copy of Simpkin’s Foundling Law.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Until he comes back or is declared dead or lost, he can’t sign us out of our indentured servitude. Technically speaking, we’re here until we die.’

  Tiger closed the book.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘He’ll come back,’ I assured him, ‘or failing that, I’ll confess everything and we’ll have him declared lost. In any event, I’ve still got four years to run, and you’ve got nine. Lots can happen.’

  I smiled at him and he smiled back. It was my way of telling him not to worry, and his way of agreeing that he shouldn’t.

  ‘I’m going to go and see Moobin,’ I told him. ‘I need to know how the wizards are feeling. Keep well away from Lady Mawgon and I’ll see you later.’

  Big Magic

  * * *

  I found Wizard Moobin in his room. He had repaired the door, but was still busy tidying up his room after the explosion. There was almost nothing unbroken. The power of magic can be devastating when uncontrolled. He was there with Half Price, Full Price’s very similar little brother. They were so similar, in fact, that I often wondered about the fact that you never saw them together. There was someone else in the room, too, someone I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Ah,’ said Moobin when he saw me, ‘it’s you. This is Mr Stamford, a lapsed sorcerer from Mercia. He’ll be staying with
me for a few days. Mr Stamford, this is Jennifer Strange.’

  Stamford was a sallow man with greasy hair. He peered at me cautiously and shook my hand.

  ‘You’re here because of the Dragondeath?’ I asked.

  ‘I think so,’ he replied after a moment’s thought. ‘You know that feeling when you go into a room and then can’t remember what it is you’re there for?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s exactly like that. I don’t know why I’m here, I just feel that I should be.’

  And he fell silent.

  ‘He’s the third to arrive since this morning,’ said Wizard Moobin. He paused for a moment. ‘Tiger Prawns was out of order doing what he did, you know.’

  ‘I know. He was doing it to stop me resigning.’

  ‘It was noble, I grant you that. We respect honour. Sadly, Lady Mawgon doesn’t. She wanted to have you both replaced and asked Mother Zenobia to send a shortlist of new foundlings so we could start interviewing.’

  ‘That’s not how it works.’

  ‘It’s how Lady Mawgon works.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Mother Zenobia told her they’d run out.’

  I smiled. Mother Zenobia had hundreds of foundlings, but she was supporting Tiger and myself by telling Lady Mawgon there weren’t any. It must have made Mawgon even more angry.

  ‘So what’s she doing now?’

  ‘Lady Mawgon? Marching around the corridors gnashing her teeth, I expect. If ever there was a time to go and hide, this might be it.’

  It seemed a good time to tell Moobin what had happened. He was, after all, the sorcerer I got on best with, and Mr Zambini’s successor, if there was one.

  ‘I’m the last Dragonslayer.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Moobin, ‘I saw it on the news. You’re no longer a bystander, Jennifer, you’re a player.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but how?’

  Moobin took out his Shandarmeter and turned it on. I looked over his shoulder as the small needle bobbed against the scale.

  ‘The background wizidrical radiation has risen almost tenfold since yesterday,’ he mused. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ I asked Brother Stamford. ‘Like moths to a light?’

  Stamford answered by firing a shimmering globe from his fingertip that buzzed round the room before vanishing.

  ‘I couldn’t do that yesterday,’ he announced. ‘You may joke about Big Magic, but it’s real and it’s true and it’s going to happen very soon.’

  ‘But what is it?’ I asked.

  They both looked at one another. Wizard Moobin was the one who answered.

  ‘There was a time before magic, and there will be a time when magic has gone. In between those times the power of magic will ebb and flow like the tide. But like it or not there will come a day when the tide will recede and never return – the power of magic will vanish for ever.’

  ‘But that’s unthinkable!’

  ‘It’s not all bad. There is always an opportunity to rekindle that spark and bring the tide of power back into flood – and with the flood bring on renewal. Renewal of the power of magic.’

  ‘And that opportunity is Big Magic?’ I asked.

  ‘A chance to recharge the batteries, so to speak. But at times of low power, sorcerers are less likely to see the signs of a Big Magic. We never know when it will be, or what form it will take. The last time Big Magic took place was two hundred and thirty years ago, with the appearance of the star Aleutius in the evening sky. If Brother Thassos of Crete had not seen it for the sign it was, magic might have vanished for good.’

  ‘But where does magic come from?’ I asked. ‘And where does it go?’

  ‘Explaining magic is like explaining lightning or rainbows a thousand years ago; inexplicable and wonderful but seemingly impossible. Today they are little more than equations in a science textbook. Magic is the fifth fundamental force, and even more mysterious than gravity, which is really saying something. Magic is a power lurking in all of us, an emotional energy that can be used to move objects and manipulate matter. But it doesn’t follow any physical laws that we can, as yet, understand; it exists only in our hearts and minds.’

  ‘And the Dragonlands? What do they have to do with it?’

  ‘I wish we knew. But one thing is crucial. With the way that the power of magic has been deteriorating over the past fifty years, this happening – whatever it is – might be the last chance to regather the power before it goes completely.’

  ‘What are the chances it will happen?’

  ‘A renewal is a risky undertaking. Chances are twenty per cent, at best.’

  And on that note, Moobin returned to his tidying, and I wandered up to my room. My window faced west and I watched the deep orange sun sink slowly behind the marzipan refinery at Sugwas, the heat from the refinery’s gas flares making the air wobble and distorting the image. I sat down on the bed.

  ‘Do you want some pizza, Tiger?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ came a small voice from inside the cupboard. It seemed Tiger still wasn’t happy sleeping on his own. ‘Hey,’ he added, ‘is this a Matt Grifflon poster you’ve hidden in here?’

  ‘I’m looking after it for a friend,’ I said hurriedly.

  ‘Right.’

  His Majesty King Snodd IV

  * * *

  I left Zambini Towers at midnight and spent the rest of the night at the Dragonslayer’s apartment. The crowds of press hadn’t gone by the morning, and pretty soon I had to leave the phone off the hook after two radio stations, the lifestyles section of The Daily Mollusc, the features editor of The Clam and a representative from Fizzi-Pop all called me within the space of forty-seven seconds. All was not bad news, however. Gordon had excelled himself at breakfast, and I was soon tucking into a massive stack of pancakes. I was just reading in the paper about a border skirmish between the Kingdom of Hereford and the Duke of Brecon when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘If it’s that idiot from Yummy-Flakes tell him I’m dead,’ I said, not looking up from the newspaper. It wasn’t the Yummy-Flakes man. It wasn’t even the theme park guy. It was a royal footman in full livery who ignored Gordon and approached me at the breakfast table. He had a pomaded wig, scarlet tunic and breeches. His shirt had deep frilly cuffs and his starched collar was so stiff he could barely move his head.

  ‘Miss Strange?’ he asked in a thin voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dragonslayer?’

  ‘Yes, yes?’

  ‘I am commanded by His Majesty King Snodd to convey you to the castle.’

  ‘The castle? Me? You’re joking!’

  The footman looked at me coldly.

  ‘The King doesn’t make jokes, Miss Strange. On the rare occasion that he does he circulates a memo beforehand to avoid any misunderstandings. He has sent his own car.’

  The footman and chauffeur didn’t say a word as we drove out of Hereford towards Snodd Hill, traditionally the place of residence of the Monarch of Hereford since the Dragonpact, as it nestled comfortably – and strategically – against the eastern edge of the Dragonland and was thus completely free from attack in at least one direction. The high ramparts and curtain walls grew larger as we rattled over drawbridges on our way to the inner bailey. I didn’t have time to ponder much as the car pulled up outside the keep and the door was opened by another footman in impeccable dress. He beckoned me to follow and I almost had to run to keep up as we negotiated the winding stairs of the old castle. After a brief sprint he stopped outside two large wooden doors, knocked and then flung them open with a flourish.

  The doors led into a large medieval hall. The high ceilings were decorated with heraldic shields and from the massive oak beams hung tapestries depicting the Kingdom’s dubiously won military triumphs over the centuries. At the far end of the room was a large fireplace, in front of which were two sofas which seated six men. They were all watching a young man who was outlining something on a
blackboard. None of them seemed to take the least notice of me so I walked closer, listening intently to what was going on.

  ‘. . . the trouble is,’ said the man at the blackboard, who I recognised instantly as His Gracious Majesty King Snodd IV, ‘that I have no idea what that rascal Brecon is up to. My sources tell me . . .’

  His voice trailed off as he noticed me. I suddenly felt very small and naked as all the High Lords of the Kingdom swivelled their heads to stare at me. I knew most of them by sight, of course – they quite liked to get on TV. There was one in particular who was on our screens more than the rest – Sir Matt Grifflon, who was Hereford’s most eligible bachelor and about as handsome as any man could be. He smiled at me and I felt my heart flutter. Despite this, there was an uneasy silence. The other men on the sofas were all clearly military men, although the only one I recognised for sure was the Earl of Shobdon; Kazam had once charmed all the moles off his estate.

  ‘Your servant, Sire,’ I stammered, curtsying clumsily. ‘My name is Jennifer Strange; I am the Dragonslayer.’

  ‘The Dragonslayer?’ echoed the King. ‘The Dragonslayer is a girl?’

  He said the last word with a tone of derision. I watched silently as he started chortling with small grunty coughs. I have to say I had taken a dislike to my King already. The others started to laugh too and I felt a hot flush of anger rising under my skin. The King raised a hand and the laughter stopped.

  ‘Aaaah!’ said the King in alarm, before quickly recovering and clapping his hands in delight. ‘My goodness! A real live Quarkbeast!’ He snapped his fingers and a footman appeared.

  ‘Some meat for the Quarkbeast,’ he said without turning. ‘A most unusual pet, Miss Strange. Where did you find him?’

  ‘Well, it was more of a case of him—’

  ‘How fascinating!’ replied the King, cutting me dead. ‘You are loyal to the Crown?’

  ‘Yes, Sire.’

  ‘That’s a relief. Tell me, Miss Dragonslayer, do you have an apprentice yet?’