The Quarkbeast sniffed Villiers’ trouser leg excitedly, and wagged his tail.
‘You have a new wooden leg, Sergeant,’ I observed, ‘made of walnut.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Walnut is catnip to a Quarkbeast. If you still have your old one, I’d wear it next time you come round.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ he said, peering nervously at the Quarkbeast, who was in turn staring intently at his leg, his razor-sharp fangs dripping with saliva. He’d have eaten the leg in under a second if I’d allowed him, but Quarkbeasts, for all their fearsome looks, were dutiful to a fault. They were one tenth Labrador, and the rest was a mix of velociraptor and kitchen blender. It was the tenth that mattered.
‘So, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘how can I help?’
‘Is Mr Zambini back yet?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I see. You have a few soothsayers and pre-cogs on yours books, I understand?’
‘You know I have,’ I answered, ‘and they both hold Class IV Premonition Certificates.’
‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast, sensing the defensive tone in my voice.
‘Have any of your pre-cogs mentioned the death of Maltcassion?’ asked Norton.
‘It doesn’t take any special skills, Detective. Take a look up at the Dragonlands. Besides, doesn’t the King have a seer of his own?’
Villiers nodded in agreement. ‘He certainly does. The Inconsistent Sage O’Neons has predicted the death of the Dragon, but also mentioned that the Dragon was to be killed by a Dragonslayer. Does this sound correct?’
‘No one can enter the Dragonlands but a Dragonslayer, Villiers. I think perhaps Sage O’Neons is less astounding than you think.’
‘Insulting the King’s advisers is an offence, Miss Strange.’
I’d had enough of all the beating-around-the-bush stuff.
‘What do you want, Norton? This isn’t a social call.’
Villiers and Norton exchanged glances. The door to the Sisters Karamazov’s apartment opened and they both popped their heads out.
‘I’m fine, sisters, thank you.’
They nodded and withdrew. It was Villiers who spoke next.
‘Sage O’Neons said a young woman named Strange would be involved in the Dragondeath.’
‘There must be hundreds in the phone book.’
‘Perhaps, but only one has a Quarkbeast.’
The Quarkbeast looked up quizzically.
‘Quark,’ he said.
They both stared at me as though I was somehow meant to account for myself appearing in one of the royal seer’s visions.
‘Pre-cogs,’ I began, measuring my words carefully, ‘even royal ones, don’t always get it right. Any seer worth his salt will tell you a premonition is seven-tenths interpretation. And remember, Strange isn’t just a name, it’s an adjective.’
Villiers and Norton shuffled uneasily. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to them either, interviewing someone on the basis of a vision, but when the King speaks, they have to do his bidding.
‘We’re just following a number of leads, Miss Strange. I hope you would consider your allegiance to His Majesty King Snodd IV (may he live for ever) above all else?’
‘Of course.’
Villiers nodded.
‘Then I would expect a call if you knew anything?’
‘Goes without saying.’
They knew I didn’t mean it, and I knew they knew. They bade me good afternoon and left, purposefully leaving the front door open.
I went up to my room and switched on the television. It was as I had feared: the news about the potential Dragondeath was going national. The Ununited Kingdoms Broadcasting Corporation was running a live feed from the Dragonlands—they had even sent their star anchorwoman.
‘This is Sophie Trotter of the UKBC,’ announced the reporter, ‘speaking live from the Maltcassion Dragonlands, here in the Black Mountains. A wave of premonitions about the death of the last Dragon has given rise to a gathering in the Marcher Kingdom of Hereford. No one can say for sure when this event will happen, but as soon as the repulsive old lizard kicks the bucket you can be sure that there will be a wild race to claim as much land as possible. When he dies, the good people of the Ununited Kingdoms can finally sleep easily in their beds, secure in the knowledge that the last of these loathsome worms has been eradicated from the world. The question that is on everyone’s lips is: when? An answer that we, as yet, do not know. But when the Dragon finally croaks you can be sure that UKBC will be in with the first wave of new claimants. Next up, an exclusive interview with leading Herefordian knight Sir Matt Crifflon, who explains why the dragon needs to die, and plays his latest hit song: “A Horse, a Sword, and Me”.’
‘Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’ said a voice from the door. It was Wizard Moobin, none the worse for the explosion that morning.
‘Sir Matt Grifflon’s new song?’ I asked. ‘No, I thought it was quite good—if you like that kind of thing.’
‘The Dragonlands. If I had my way I’d make them a national park, a safe haven for wild Quarkbeasts. Isn’t that right, lad?’
‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast happily. I gave him two unopened tins of dog food. He crunched them up happily, can and all.
‘We agree on that,’ I replied, ‘but if you’re going to play jokes on the new boy, can you please not ask Patrick of Ludlow to help out? He’s very impressionable.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Watch this.’
And so saying, he put out his hand and narrowed his eyes. There was a crackle in the air and a vase displaced itself from my dresser and flew across the room to his outstretched hand. The Quarkbeast Quarked excitedly; there was now a bunch of flowers in the vase as well.
‘These are for you,’ said the Wizard gallantly, presenting the roses with a flourish.
I took the flowers carefully, for they were not real in any sense of the word, just images conjured up by the wizard. They twinkled with small sparks of electricity in the dimness of the room, and changed colour slowly, like the setting sun. They were beautiful, but wholly out of Moobin’s league.
‘They’re fantastic!’ I muttered, adding: ‘Don’t think me rude, but... ?’
‘I’m as surprised as you are,’ he confessed, pulling a small device from his pocket. It was a portable Shandarmeter—a device for measuring wizidrical power. He turned the gadget on and handed it to me. I pointed the meter at him as he levitated the vase.
‘What did I get?’
‘3000 Shandars.’
‘Last week I could barely manage 1500,’ said Moobin excitedly. ‘Even if we discount the lead/gold switcheroo as a surge, I’m still twice as powerful as I was two days ago.’
‘You think it’s connected with the Dragondeath?’
‘A definite link between Dragons and magic was never proved, but the nearer I am to the Dragonlands, the stronger my powers. The same jobs I might try in London take a lot more effort.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ I replied drily. ‘I can’t send Mrs Croft to do anything worthwhile farther than Oxford, and Roger Kierkegaard failed utterly when he was on that geological survey in the Sinai.’
The wizard sighed.
‘I rarely like to work much farther than Yorkshire, yet my father was powerful as far away as the Great Troll Wall.’
‘There were more Dragons then,’ I answered. ‘More dragons, more magic, fewer dragons, less magic. The thing is,’ I added, ‘when Maltcassion dies, does magic go with him? All this might be the last knockings—the brief surge an engine will give before it runs out of petrol.’
Moobin went quiet.
‘There could be something in what you say. Sister Karamazov mentioned a Big Magic, but I have my doubts.’
‘Big Magic?’
Moobin shrugged.
‘It’s an old wizard’s legend—of a massive burst of wizidrical power that changes everything.’