‘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 ofThe 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?’
‘Yes, sir, I do.’
The King moved closer to me and I found myself backing away. I had to stop when I came up against a pillar, and he took the opportunity to regard me minutely through a monocle that he had screwed into his eye.
‘Hmm,’ he said at last. ‘You will fire your apprentice and hire the man I send to you. That is all. You are dismissed.’
I started to leave but then stopped as I realised my sixty-second accelerated Dragonslayer course had furnished me with one or two snippets about despots and how to deal with them. Instead of hurrying off, tail between legs and heartily intimidated, I stood my ground.
‘Are you deaf, girl?’ he repeated. ‘I said dismiss! Away with you! Shoo!’