The Last Dragonslayer Part 3

'Oh yes?' I returned pleasantly, having heard a lot of predictions that never came to anything, but also having heard some chilling ones that did.

'You know Maltca.s.sion, the Dragon?' he asked.

'Not personally.'

'Of him, then.'

I knew of him, of course. Everybody did. The last of his kind, he lived up in the Dragonlands not far from here, although you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who could say they had caught a glimpse of the reclusive beast. I took the tea that Tiger handed me and placed it on my desk.

'What about him?'

Kevin took a deep breath.

'I saw him die. Die by the sword of a Dragonslayer.'

'When?'

He narrowed his eyes.

'Certainly within the next week.'

I stopped opening the mail mostly junk anyway, or bills and looked over to where Kevin Zipp was staring at me intently. The importance of the information wasn't lost on him, and it wasn't lost on me either. By ancient decree the Dragon's land belonged to whoever claimed it as soon as the Dragon died, so there was always an unseemly rush for real estate which eclipsed a Dragon's death. Within a day every square inch of land would be claimed. In the following months there would be legal wranglings, then the construction would begin. New roads, housing and power, retail parks and industrial units. All would cover the unspoilt lands in a smear of tarmac and concrete. A four-hundred-year-old wilderness gone for ever.

'I heard that when Dragon Dunwoody died twenty-seven years ago,' said Tiger, who was fairly up on Dragons, as you would be, growing up so close to the Dragonlands, 'the crowd surge resulted in sixty-eight people dead in the stampede.'

Kevin and I exchanged glances. The death of the last Dragon would be a matter of some consequence.

'How strong was this?' I asked.

'On a scale of one to ten,' replied Zipp, 'it was a twelve. Most powerful premonition I've ever felt. It was as though the Mighty Shandar himself had called me up person-to-person and and reversed the charges. I can detect it on low-alpha as well as the wider brain wavelengths. I doubt I'm the only person picking this up.' reversed the charges. I can detect it on low-alpha as well as the wider brain wavelengths. I doubt I'm the only person picking this up.'

I doubted it too. I phoned Randolph, 14th Earl of Pembridge, the only other pre-cog on our books. Randolph, or EP-14 as he was sometimes known, was not only minor Hereford aristocracy, but an industrial prophet who worked for Consolidated Useful Stuff (Steel) PLC, predicting failure rates on industrial welding.

'Randolph, it's Jennifer.'

'Jenny, D'girl! I thought you'd call.'

'I've got the Remarkable Kevin Zipp with me and I wondered if-'

He didn't need any prompting. He had picked up the same thing but had also furnished a time and date. Next Sunday at noon. I thanked him and replaced the phone.

'Anything else?'

'Yes,' replied Kevin. 'Two words.'

'And they are?'

'Big Magic.'

'What does that mean?'

He told me he didn't know, and I understood. He only saw the visions; it was up to others to interpret them. In the absence of any good interpretation, they could generally be explained by events or, failing that, hindsight.

'Before I go,' he said, pulling a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket, 'these are for you.'

He handed the grubby piece of paper not to me, but to Tiger.

He scanned the note. It didn't seem to mean anything at all.

Smith 7, 11, and 13 Ulan Bator He read the note, then lowered the piece of paper.

'I don't understand.'

'Me neither.' Zipp shrugged. 'Isn't seeing the future a hoot?'

Tiger looked at me and I nodded to him that he should take it seriously.

'Thank you, sir,' said Tiger with a bow.

'Well, there you have it,' said Kevin, and he left in a hurry as he had felt a good tip on Baron, a six-year-old mare running in the Hereford Gold Stakes Handicap.

The phone rang and I picked it up, listened for a few moments and scribbled a note on a standard form.

'This is a form B2-5C,' I told Tiger, 'for a minor spell of less than a thousand Shandars. I need you to take it up to the Mysterious X in Room 245 and tell them that I sent you and we need this job done as soon as possible.'

He took the form and stared at me nervously.

'Who, exactly, is the Mysterious X?'

'They're more of a what what than a than a who who. It won't be in a form you'll recognise, and there is something other other about X that defies easy explanation. It's more of a sense than a person. A shroud, if you like, that confuses their true form. It also smells of unwashed socks and peanut b.u.t.ter. You'll be fine.' about X that defies easy explanation. It's more of a sense than a person. A shroud, if you like, that confuses their true form. It also smells of unwashed socks and peanut b.u.t.ter. You'll be fine.'

Tiger looked at the note, then at the Quarkbeast, then at where the moose had been but suddenly wasn't, then back at me.

'This is a test, isn't it?'

He was smart, this one. I nodded.

'You can be back with the Sisterhood by teatime, and no one will have thought any the worse of you. I'll let you in on a secret. You weren't sent to me as a punishment, nor by chance. Mother Zen.o.bia is an ex-sorceress herself, and only sends those she deems truly exceptional. Aside from the fifth foundling the one we don't talk about she's never been wrong.'

'So was all that stuff about the Limping Man, the thirteenth floor, the second sub-bas.e.m.e.nt and being flown in a cardboard box also part of the test?'

'No, that was for real. And that's just the weird stuff I can remember right now. We haven't even got started on emergency procedures yet.'

'Right,' he said and, after taking a deep breath, he left the room. He was back again a few moments later.

'This job,' he said, waving the form B2-5C nervously, 'is it something to do with Dark Forces?'

'There's no such thing as the "Forces of Darkness", despite what you read in the storybooks. There are no "Dark Arts" or "wizards pulled to the dark side". There is only the Good or Bad that lurks in the heart of Man. And in answer to your question, X's job is a cat stuck up a tree. He'll grumble, but he'll do it.'

About the Mystical Arts

'It was kind of... well, vague vague. Sort of shapeless but with pointy bits.'

'That's the Mysterious X all over,' I said. 'Did it show you its stamp collection?'

'It tried to,' said Tiger, 'but I was too quick for it. What exactly is is the Mysterious X anyway?' the Mysterious X anyway?'

I shrugged. There was a very good reason X carried the accolade 'Mysterious'.

We were talking over a pre-bedtime cup of hot chocolate in the kitchens. Wizard Moobin, Lady Mawgon and Full Price had finished the rewiring job early and got the bus back into town. They were quite elated at the way the gig had gone, and even Lady Mawgon had permitted herself a small smile by way of celebration. Wizidrical power had been strong today almost everyone had noticed. I'd fielded a few calls although nothing too serious, and one from a journalist at the Hereford Daily Eyestrain Hereford Daily Eyestrain with a pertinent question over Dragondeath. The premonition was getting about. I told her I knew nothing, and had hung up. with a pertinent question over Dragondeath. The premonition was getting about. I told her I knew nothing, and had hung up.

The rest of the afternoon had been spent explaining to Tiger how Kazam is run, and introducing him to the least insane residents. He had been particularly taken with Brother Gillingrex of Woodseaves, who had made speaking to birds something of a speciality. He could speak Quack so well that he knew all the eighty-two different words ducks use to describe water. He could also speak Coot, Goose, Wader and Chirrup which is a sort of generic Pigeon/Sparrow language. He was working on Osprey, had a few useful sentences in Buzzard and the Owl word for 'mouse', which is tricky to p.r.o.nounce if you don't have a beak. He was mostly employed by birdwatchers, especially useful when it was time for putting identification rings on their legs. Birds worry endlessly about their appearance all that preening is not only about flying, as they might have you believe and a softly spoken 'that looks really really fetching and totally matches your plumage' works wonders. fetching and totally matches your plumage' works wonders.

'Does anyone else at Kazam have an accolade?' asked Tiger, who seemed to be developing an interest in Mystical Arts Management.

'Two Ladies Ladies, one Mysterious Mysterious, three Wizards Wizards, one Remarkable Remarkable, two Venerables Venerables and a and a Pointless Pointless,' I murmured, counting them off on my fingers, 'but once upon a time, they all all had an accolade and higher than the ones I've just mentioned.' had an accolade and higher than the ones I've just mentioned.'

'Who's the "Pointless"?'

'It would be impolite of me to reveal, but you'll probably figure it out for yourself.'

'So those accoladed "Wizard" are the most powerful, yes?'

'Not quite,' I replied. 'An accolade isn't simply based on performance, but on reliability. Wizard Moobin isn't the most powerful in the building, but he's the most consistent. And to complicate matters further, a status is different to an accolade. Two wizards might both be status Spellmanager Spellmanager but if one has turned a goat into a moped and the other hasn't, then they get to call themselves "Wizard".' but if one has turned a goat into a moped and the other hasn't, then they get to call themselves "Wizard".'

'A goat into a moped?'

'You couldn't do that. It's just an example.'

'Oh. So who decides who gets an accolade?'

'It's self-conferring,' I replied. 'The idea of any kind of organised higher authority a "Grand Council of Wizards" or something is wholly ridiculous once you get to know how scatty they can be. Getting three of them to spell together is possible just just but asking them to agree on a new colour for the dining room almost impossible. Argumentative, infantile, pa.s.sionate and temperamental, they need people like us to manage them and always have done. Two paces behind every great wizard there has always been their agent. They always took a back seat, but were always there, doing the deals, sorting out transport, hotel bookings, mopping up the mistakes and the broken hearts, that sort of thing.' but asking them to agree on a new colour for the dining room almost impossible. Argumentative, infantile, pa.s.sionate and temperamental, they need people like us to manage them and always have done. Two paces behind every great wizard there has always been their agent. They always took a back seat, but were always there, doing the deals, sorting out transport, hotel bookings, mopping up the mistakes and the broken hearts, that sort of thing.'

'Even the Mighty Shandar?'

'There is no record record that he had one, but we're usually the first to be written out of history. Yes, I'm almost certain of it. Imagine being the Mighty Shandar's agent. No percentage, but the fringe benefits would be colossal.' that he had one, but we're usually the first to be written out of history. Yes, I'm almost certain of it. Imagine being the Mighty Shandar's agent. No percentage, but the fringe benefits would be colossal.'

'Would you get dental?'

'Tusks if you wanted them. But back to accolades: the one thing sorcerers are good at is honour. You'd not award yourself an accolade that you didn't deserve, nor shy from demoting yourself if your powers faded. They're good and honest people just a bit weird, and hopeless at managing themselves.'

'So what about the one who accoladed themselves "Pointless"?'

'They have self-confidence issues.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'Me too.'

Tiger thought about this for a moment.

'So what could a sorcerer do on the Spellmanager level?'

I took a sip of hot chocolate.

'Levitation of light objects, stopping clocks, unblocking drains and simple was.h.i.+ng and drying can all be handled pretty well at the Spellmanager level. There's no one below this status at Kazam except you, me, Unstable Mabel, the Quarkbeast and Hector.'

'Hector?'

'Transient Moose.'

I nodded in the direction of the moose, who was leaning against one of the fridge-freezers with a look of supreme boredom etched upon his features.

'Above this is a sorcerer. They can conjure up light winds and start hedgehog migrations. Sparks may fly from their fingertips and they might manage to levitate a car. The next rank is that of Master Sorcerer Master Sorcerer. At this level you might be expected to be able to create objects from nothing. A light drizzle could be conjured up, but not on a clear day. Sometimes a Master Sorcerer might be able to teleport, but not far and with little accuracy. Above this is the Grand Master Sorcerer Grand Master Sorcerer. These gifted people can speak in eighteen different languages and can levitate several trucks at a time; they can change an object's colour permanently and start isolated thunderstorms. They might be able to squeeze out a lightning bolt but not very accurately. Constructing box-girder bridges is a simple procedure requiring little effort. The final category is Super Grand Master Sorcerer Super Grand Master Sorcerer. This is the "unlimited" category. A Super Grand Master Sorcerer can do almost anything. He or she can whistle up storms, command the elements and stop the tide. They can turn people to salt and levitate whole buildings. They can create spells and incantations that are so strong that they stay on long after they have died. They are also, supremely, incredibly, thankfully, rare rare. I've never met one. The greatest of all the Super Grand Master Sorcerers was the Mighty Shandar. It was said that he had so much magic in him his footprints would spontaneously catch fire as he walked.'

'And the Mighty Shandar is where we get the base measurement of wizidrical power the Shandar?'

'That's about the tune of it.'

'But there are others, surely? Out there, doing normal jobs, who have this power?'

'Several hundred, I imagine,' I replied, 'but without a licence to practise they'd have to be either very stupid or very desperate to start chucking spells around. The relations.h.i.+p between sorcerers and citizenry has always been strained, and only the food industry has more regulations. To perform magic of any kind you have to have a Certificate of Conformity a licence to say that you are of sound mind and not possessed of a soul that could be turned to using Arts for evil. Once that particular hurdle has been crossed you have to be accredited to a licensed "House of Enchantment". There are only two at present Kazam and Industrial Magic over in Stroud. After that, each spell has to be logged on a form B2-5C for anything below a thousand Shandars, a B1-7G form for spells not exceeding ten thousand Shandars, and a form P4-7D for those in excess of ten thousand Shandars.'

'That would be a seriously big spell,' said Tiger.

'Bigger than you and I will ever see. The last P4-7D job was signed off in 1947, when they built the Thames Tidal Barrage. There was a lot more power about in those days, but even so it took a consortium of twenty-six sorcerers, and the wizidrical power peaked at 1.6 MegaShandars. It was said metal grew too hot to touch within a twenty-mile radius, and children's sandpits turned to gla.s.s. They evacuated the local area for a job that size, naturally.'

Tiger blinked at me in wonder. Magic wasn't generally talked about. Despite the obvious advantages, it was still regarded with suspicion by most people. Re-inventing sorcery as a useful commodity akin to electricity or even the fourth emergency service was something Mr Zambini had been most keen on.

'What if someone did?' he asked. 'Commit an act of illegal sorcery, I mean?'

I took a deep breath and stared at him.

'It's about the only thing the twenty-eight nations of the Ununited Kingdoms agree upon. Any unlicensed act of sorcery committed outside the boundaries of a House of Enchantment is punishable by... public burning.'

Tiger looked shocked.

'I know,' I said, 'an unwelcome legacy from the fourteenth century. Highly Highly unpleasant. And that's why you, me, we, unpleasant. And that's why you, me, we, everyone everyone, has to be extra diligent when filling out the forms. Miss something or forget to file it and you're responsible for a good friend's hideous punishment. We lost George Nash four years ago. A lovely man and a skilled pract.i.tioner. What he couldn't tell you about smoke manipulation wasn't worth knowing. He was doing a routine earthworm charming and his B1-7G form wasn't filled in. Someone's eye wasn't on the ball.'

Tiger tilted his head on one side.

'That's why you don't talk about her, isn't it?'

Tiger was smart. Mother Zen.o.bia had sent us the best.