The Last Dragonslayer

  Tiger Prawns

  * * *

  ‘Hello,’ I said, holding out a hand, ‘I’m Jennifer Strange.’

  ‘Hello,’ he replied cautiously, shaking my hand as he climbed from the box, ‘I’m Tiger Prawns. Mother Zenobia told me to give this to the Great Zambini.’

  He held up an envelope.

  ‘I’m the acting manager,’ I told him, ‘you’d better give it to me.’

  But Tiger wasn’t so easily swung.

  ‘Mother Zenobia told me to hand it only to the Great Zambini.’

  ‘He disappeared,’ I replied, ‘and I don’t know when he’s coming back.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’

  ‘You’ll give the envelope to me.’

  ‘No, I’m—’

  We tussled over the envelope for a while until I plucked it from his fingers, tore it open and looked at the contents. It was his declaration of servitude, which was essentially little more than a receipt. I didn’t read it, didn’t need to. Tiger Prawns belonged to Kazam until he was twenty years old, same as me.

  ‘Welcome to the gang,’ I said, stuffing the envelope into my bag. ‘How is Mother Zenobia these days?’

  ‘Still bonkers,’ replied Tiger.

  I had also been a foundling and brought up by the Sisterhood or, to give them their official title, ‘The Blessed Ladies of the Lobster’. They had a convent at Clifford Castle, not far from the Dragonlands. I had no complaints against the Sisterhood; they fed and clothed me and gave me an education. The principal was a craggy old ex-enchantress named Mother Zenobia who was as wrinkled as a walnut, and as resilient.

  I didn’t ask Tiger what might have become of his parents. Foundlings stuck together like glue from a sense of shared loss, but we had an unspoken code – when you trust, you tell.

  Tiger was staring thoughtfully at Prince Nasil, the carpet and the Yummy-Flakes box. Mystical Arts was a strange industry to work in and was much like a string of bizarre occurrences occasionally interspersed with moments of great triumph and numbing terror. There was boredom, too. Watching wizards build up to a spell is like watching paint dry. It can take some getting used to.

  ‘Listen,’ said the Prince, ‘if you don’t need me, I’ve got a kidney to deliver to Aberystwyth.’

  ‘Yours?’ asked Tiger.

  I thanked Nasil for bringing Tiger over, and he gave us a cheery wave, lifted into the hover and then sped off to the west. I had yet to break the news to both our carpeteers that the live organ delivery contract would be shortly coming to an end.

  ‘I was also brought up by the Sisterhood,’ I said, eager to help Tiger settle in. My first few weeks at Kazam had been smoothed over by the fifth foundling – the one we didn’t talk about – and I hoped to show the same kindness she had shown me, although to be honest, being brought up by the Sisterhood made you pretty tough. They weren’t cruel, but they were strict. I didn’t know that you could talk without first being talked to until I was eight.

  ‘Mother Zenobia speaks very highly of you,’ said Tiger.

  ‘And I of her.’

  ‘Miss Strange?’

  ‘Call me Jenny.’

  ‘Miss Jenny, why did I have to stay hidden in a cardboard box for the trip?’

  ‘Carpets aren’t permitted to take passengers. Nasil and Owen transport organs for transplant these days – and deliver takeaways.’

  ‘I hope they don’t get them mixed up.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Not usually. How did you get allocated to Kazam?’

  ‘I took a test with five other boys,’ replied Tiger.

  ‘How did you do?’

  ‘I failed.’

  This wasn’t unusual. A half-century ago Mystical Arts Management was considered a sound career choice and citizens fought for a place. These days, it was servitude only, as with agricultural labour, hotels and fast-food joints. Of the twenty or so Houses of Enchantment that had existed fifty years ago, only Kazam in the Kingdom of Hereford and Industrial Magic over in Stroud were still going. It was an industry in terminal decline. The power of magic had been ebbing for centuries and, with it, the relevance of sorcerers. Once a wizard would have the ear of a king; today we rewire houses and unblock drains.

  ‘The sorcery business grows on you.’

  ‘Like mould?’

  ‘You can give me lip,’ I told him, ‘but not the others. They were once mighty. You have to respect that if you’re going to work here, and you are, for the next nine years. Don’t start off on the wrong foot. They can be annoying, but they can be quite sweet, too.’

  ‘Is that the speech?’

  I stared at him for a moment. His lips were pursed and he was staring up at me indignantly. I’d been angry my first day, too. But probably not this cheeky.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s the speech.’

  He took a deep breath, and looked around. I think he wanted me to yell at him so he could yell back. The phone rang again.

  ‘It’s Kevin.’

  ‘Hello, Kevin,’ I replied cautiously, ‘what’s up?’

  ‘Can you get back to the Towers?’

  I glanced up at the three sorcerers, who were concentrating hard on doing nothing.

  ‘Not really. Why?’

  ‘I’ve had a premonition.’

  I was about to say it was about time too, as a soothsayer who can’t see the future is about as useless as a Buzonji with only four legs, but I didn’t.

  ‘What kind of premonition?’

  ‘A biggie. Full colour, stereo and 3D. I’ve not had one of those for years. I need to tell you about it.’

  And the phone went dead.

  ‘So, listen—’

  I stopped because Tiger had tears running down his cheeks. He didn’t look the weepy sort, but looks can be deceptive. I had cried when I arrived at Kazam, but never in front of anyone, not even the fifth foundling, the one we don’t talk about.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘don’t worry. Everything will be fine. The enchanters are a quirky bunch but you’ll get to love them like family – as I do.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said, holding up a trembling finger. ‘I’ve just seen something so terrifyingly hideous that I am inclined to start crying, quite against my will.’

  I followed his trembling finger.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘that’s the Quarkbeast. He may look like an open knife drawer on legs and just one step away from tearing you to shreds, but he’s actually a sweetie and rarely, if ever, eats cats. Isn’t that so, Quarkbeast?’

  ‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast.

  ‘He’ll not harm a hair on your head,’ I said, and the Quarkbeast, to show friendly intent, elected to perform his second-best trick: he picked up a concrete garden gnome in his teeth and ground it with his powerful jaws until it was powder. He then blew it into the air as a dust-ring which he then jumped through. Tiger gave a half-smile and the Quarkbeast wagged his weighted tail, which was sadly a little too close to the Volkswagen, and added one more dent to the already badly dented front wing.

  Tiger wiped his eyes with my handkerchief and patted the Quarkbeast, who kept his mouth closed in order not to frighten him further.

  ‘I hate it here already,’ said Tiger, ‘so I already like it twice as much as the Sisterhood. Did Sister Assumpta beat you when you were there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither. But I was always frightened that she would.’

  And he gave a nervous laugh. There was a pause, and he thought for a moment. I could see there were hundreds of questions going around in his head, and he really didn’t know where to start.

  ‘What happened to the Great Zambini?’

  ‘It’s plain “Mr Zambini” these days,’ I told him, ‘he hasn’t carried the accolade “Great” for over ten years.’

  ‘You don’t have it for life?’

  ‘It’s based on power. See the one dressed in black over there?’

  ‘The grumpy-looking one?’

  ‘The dignified-looking
one. Sixty years ago she was Master Sorceress the Lady Mawgon, She-Who-the-Winds-Obey. Now she’s just plain Lady Mawgon. If the background wizidrical power falls any farther, she’ll be plain Daphne Mawgon and no different to you or me. Watch and learn.’

  We stood there for a moment.

  ‘The fat one looks as though he’s playing a harp,’ said Tiger, with a lot less respect than he should have shown.

  ‘He’s the once-venerable Dennis Price,’ I told him testily, ‘and you should learn to hold your tongue. Price’s nickname is “Full”. He has a brother called David, but we all call him “Half”.’

  ‘Whatever his name, he still looks like he’s playing an invisible harp.’

  ‘We call it harping because the hand movements that precede the firing of a spell look like someone trying to play an invisible harp.’

  ‘I’d never have guessed. Don’t they use wands or something?’

  ‘Wands, broomsticks and pointy hats are for the storybooks. Can you feel that?’

  The faint buzz of a spell was in the air. A mild tingling sensation, not unlike static electricity. As we watched, Price let fly. There was a crackle like scrunched Cellophane, and with a tremor, the entire internal wiring of Mr Digby’s house, complete with all light switches, sockets, fuse boxes and light fittings, swung out of the house as a single entity – a three-dimensional framework of worn wiring, cracked Bakelite and blackened cables. It hung there in midair over the lawn, rocking gently. After a moment, Full Price nodded to Lady Mawgon and then relaxed. The network of wires – which closely resembled the shape of the house – simply hovered a couple of feet above the ground. Price had managed to do something in an hour that trained electricians would have taken a week to do – and he hadn’t even touched the wallpaper or plasterwork.

  ‘Well held, Daphne,’ said Price.

  ‘I’m not holding it,’ said Lady Mawgon, ‘I wasn’t ready. Moobin?’

  ‘Not I,’ he replied, and they looked around to see who else might be involved. And that’s when they saw Tiger.

  ‘Who’s this little twerp?’ asked Lady Mawgon as she strode up.

  ‘The seventh foundling,’ I explained, ‘Tiger Prawns. Tiger, this is Full Price, Wizard Moobin and Lady Mawgon.’

  Price and Moobin gave him a cheery ‘hello’ but Lady Mawgon was less welcoming.

  ‘I shall call you F7 until you prove yourself worthy,’ she remarked imperiously. ‘Show me your tongue, boy.’

  Tiger, who to my relief was quite able to be polite if required, bowed politely and stuck out his tongue. Lady Mawgon touched the tip of his tongue with her little finger, and frowned.

  ‘It’s not him. Mr Price, I think you’ve just surged.’

  ‘You do?’

  And they then fell into one of those very long and complex conversations that enchanters have when they want to discuss the arts. And since it was in Aramaic, Latin, Greek and English, I could understand only one word in four – to be honest, they probably did too.

  ‘Tongue in, Tiger.’

  When they had decided that it might indeed have been a surge of wizidrical power, such as happens from time to time, they drank some tea out of a thermos, nibbled a doughnut and talked some more, then began the delicate work of replicating the worn-out wiring with an identical model hanging in the air next to it, only from new wires, switches and fuse boxes. They would then reinsert the new wiring into the old house, separate out the copper from the waste for recycling – and then do it all again for the plumbing, both domestic water and central heating.

  ‘I have to go back to Zambini Towers,’ I said. ‘Will you be okay here on your own?’

  They said they would, and after nodding to the Quarkbeast, who jumped in the back of my Volkswagen, we left them to get on with it.

  Zambini Towers

  * * *

  ‘So what are my duties?’ asked Tiger as soon as we were on our way.

  ‘Did you do any laundry at the Sisterhood?’

  He groaned audibly.

  ‘There’s that, and answering phones and general running around, but not any cooking. We have Unstable Mabel to do that for us. Stay out of her kitchen, by the way, she has a nasty temper and is a demon shot with a soup ladle.’

  ‘Can’t the sorcerers do their own laundry?’

  ‘They could, but they won’t. Their power has to be conserved to be useful.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to be called F7 by the grumpy one.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it. She called me F6 until only a month ago.’

  ‘I’m not you. And besides, you still haven’t told me what happened to Mr Zambini.’

  ‘Ooh,’ I said, turning up the radio to listen to the Yogi Baird Radio Show. I liked the show but didn’t really need to listen to it. I just didn’t want to talk about Mr Zambini’s disappearance. At least, not yet.

  Twenty minutes later we pulled up outside Zambini Towers, a large property that had once been the luxurious Majestic hotel. It was the second-highest building in Hereford after King Snodd’s Parliament, but was not so well maintained. The guttering hung loose, the windows were grimy and cracked, and small tufts of grass were poking out from the gaps between the bricks.

  ‘What a dump,’ breathed Tiger as we trotted into the entrance lobby.

  ‘We can’t really afford to bring it back to a decent state. Mr Zambini bought it when he was still Great and could conjure up an oak tree from an acorn in under a fortnight.’

  ‘That one there?’ asked Tiger, pointing at a sprawling oak that had grown in the centre of the lobby, its gnarled roots and boughs elegantly wrapped around the old reception desk and partially obscuring the entrance to the abandoned Palm Court.

  ‘No, that was Half Price’s third-year dissertation.’

  ‘Will he get rid of it?’

  ‘Fourth-year dissertation.’

  ‘Can’t you just wizard the building back into shape or something?’

  ‘It’s too big, and they’re saving themselves.’

  ‘For what?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘To earn a crust. And what’s more, I think they prefer it this way.’

  We walked through the lobby, which was decorated with trophies, paintings and certificates of achievements long past.

  ‘The shabbiness adds a sense of faded grandeur to the proceedings. And besides, when you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, it’s better to look a bit down at heel. Good morning, ladies.’

  Two elderly women were on their way to the breakfast rooms. They were dressed in matching shell suits and cackled quietly to themselves.

  ‘This is the new foundling, Tiger Prawns,’ I said. ‘Tiger, these are the Sisters Karamazov – Deirdre and Deirdre.’

  ‘Why do they have the same name?’

  ‘They had an unimaginative father.’

  They looked very carefully at Tiger, and even prodded him several times with long bony fingers.

  ‘Ha-ho,’ said the least ugly of the two, ‘will you scream when I stick you with a pin, you little piglet you?’

  I caught Tiger’s eye and shook my head, to convey they didn’t mean anything.

  ‘Prawns?’ said Deirdre. ‘Is that a Mother Zenobia name?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Tiger politely. ‘The Blessed Ladies of the Lobster often use crustacean names for the foundlings.’

  The sisters looked at me.

  ‘You’ll educate him well, Jennifer?’

  ‘To the best of my ability.’

  ‘We don’t want another . . . incident.’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  And they hobbled off, grumbling to one another about the problem with spaghetti.

  ‘They used to earn good money on weather prediction,’ I told Tiger as soon as they were out of earshot, ‘a skill now relegated to little more than a hobby after the introduction of computerised weather mapping. Don’t stand next to them out of doors. A lifetime’s work in weather manipulation has made them very attractive to lightning. In f
act, Deirdre has been struck by lightning so many times it has addled her brain and I fear she might be irredeemably insane.’

  ‘Winsumpoop bibble bibble,’ said Deirdre as they vanished into the dining room.

  ‘This place is mad,’ remarked Tiger, ‘even when compared to the Sisterhood. I’m stuck for nine years with a bunch of lunatics.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  I was confident that he would. For all the shortage of funds, bad plumbing, peeling wallpaper, erratic incantations and dodgy spells, Kazam was fun. The sorcerers spent much of their time talking fondly about the good old days, and telling tales of past triumphs and disasters with equal enthusiasm. Of the days when magic was powerful, unregulated by government, and even the largest spell could be woven without filling out the spell release form B1-7G. When they weren’t reminiscing they spent their time in silent contemplation or practising weird experimental stuff that I was happier not knowing about.

  ‘I’ll show you to your room.’

  We walked down the corridor to where the elevators had once been. They had not worked for as long as anyone could remember, and the ornate bronze doors were wedged open, revealing a long drop to the sub-basements below.

  ‘Shouldn’t we take the stairs?’ asked Tiger.

  ‘You can if you want. It’s quicker to just shout out loud the floor you want, and hop into the lift shaft.’

  Tiger looked doubtful so I said ‘TEN’ and stepped into the void. I fell upwards to the tenth floor and stepped out as soon as the fall was over. I waited for a moment, then peered down the shaft. Far below I could see a small face staring up at me.

  ‘Remember to shout “TEN”,’ I called down, ‘it’s a lot quicker than the stairs.’

  There was a terrified yell as he fell towards me, and this turned into a laugh as he stopped outside the elevator entrance. He struggled for a moment to get out, missed his moment and fell back to the ground floor again with a yell. He didn’t get out there either, and fell back up to the tenth floor, where I grabbed his hand and pulled him in before he spent the afternoon falling backwards and forwards – as I had done when I first got here.