‘Our next caller is Mrs Shue from the Corporate Kingdom of Financia. Hello, caller, go ahead.’
‘Hello, yes. My husband is up at the Dragonlands, waiting for this creature to die, and we wanted to claim a small hill overlooking a stream. I wonder if you can tell us the best place to go once the force-field is down?’
‘My advice to you,’ I began slowly, ‘is the same as for every person who might be waiting up at the Dragonlands.’
‘Yes?’ said Yogi Baird expectantly.
‘Go home. No matter what prophecy you’ve heard, the Dragon has done nothing wrong. He is fit and well and will doubtless last for years.’ I suddenly felt very angry. ‘What is the matter with you people? A noble beast may die, and all you are thinking about is lining your own pockets. You’re like a bunch of vultures hopping around a wounded zebra, waiting for the moment to poke your heads into the ribcage and greedily pluck out a piece of —’
I was almost shouting in my anger but stopped when one of the TV lights popped.
‘That’s it!’ said the engineer, looking up from his mixing panel. ‘They’ve pulled the plug. We’re off air.’
Yogi pulled his earpiece out and glared at me.
‘I have
‘But—’
He hadn’t finished.
‘I’ve been on TV for twenty years so I think my opinions count for something. Let me give you some advice: act a bit more responsibly in front of thirty million people. The bosses at Yummy-Flakes are not going to be pleased. If I knew you were a troublemaker I would have interviewed Sir Matt Grifflon instead. At least he has a song he’s promoting—!’
‘Yogi, darling!’ yelled his producer, holding a telephone. ‘I’ve got the Zebra Society on the phone; they think we’re negatively portraying zebras as passive victims. Will you have a word? They’re a bit upset.’
Baird glared at me.
‘And I’ve got the Vulture Foundation on line two. They think your programme is spreading unfair stereotypes about a noble bird.’
‘See what you’ve done? A few badly placed words in this business and it’s curtains. Ratings are everything —how could you be so selfish?’
He turned, glared at me and took the phone from his producer.
‘No, sir,’ I heard him say. ‘I simply
Foundling Trouble
I walked back to Zambini Towers. There seemed to be a buzz in the city. The influx of people eager to stake a claim had been huge, and all the shopkeepers had been doing a roaring trade, keeping those in constant vigil up by the Dragonlands well supplied with food, bedding and drink. Stocks of string had long ago run out, and a consignment of ten thousand claim forms had sold out in thirteen minutes.
Lady Mawgon was sitting in the lobby and looked as though she had been waiting to see me.
‘Miss Strange,’ she said, rising to meet me, ‘don’t think that becoming a Dragonslayer has in any way altered the low opinion that I hold of you and Master Prawns. Despite that frightful hag Zenobia refusing to supply us with any alternative foundlings, I have negotiated with the King of Pembroke to send us replacements. They arrive on Monday, so I will expect you to be packed and back at the Blessed Ladies of the Lobster by Monday lunchtime.’
She glared at me with a triumphant grin.
‘With the greatest of respect, my Lady,’ I replied, ‘I believe only Mr Zambini can sign our release papers.’
‘On the contrary,’ sneered Lady Mawgon, who had obviously been doing her homework, ‘the Minister for Foundling Affairs is King Snodd’s useless brother, and he owes me a favour. He will sign your papers.’
She smiled.
‘There. Until Monday, then. And don’t try to steal any cutlery—I’ll be searching you both as you leave.’
I stared at her hotly. There didn’t seem to be much I could say. Luckily, I didn’t need to.
‘Jennifer?’
It was Tiger with a message.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s been a news flash. The Duke of Brecon has raised an army to advance upon the Dragonlands as soon as the Dragon is dead. They aim to claim most of the land for themselves. Every able-bodied man or woman in the Kingdom of Brecon is to be mobilised.’
A cold hand fell on my heart. I hadn’t thought that it would come to this so quickly. The Kingdom of Hereford and the Duchy of Brecon had been itching for a scrap for years, and the size of their armies made it potentially the biggest land battle fought in the Kingdoms since the Third Troll War. Worse, I knew for a fact that King Snodd was dying to try out his super-dreadnought landships, vast tracked vehicles of riveted steel seven storeys high that crushed and destroyed all in their path.
‘We haven’t had a good war for years,’ said Lady Mawgon, ‘and never one on live TV. Colourful costumes, the clank of machinery, rousing songs. It will be most enjoyable.’
‘If your idea of enjoyment is watching people killed in an unspeakably unpleasant way,’ replied Tiger sarcastically, ‘then I guess so.’
‘Your impertinence knows no bounds,’ remarked Lady Mawgon scornfully, ‘but since you will not be here for long, I shall ignore it. There won’t be any death—it’ll be a walkover. Brecon won’t be able to muster anything more than five thousand troops. Hereford has a lot of seriously good military hardware, at least eighty thousand men— and that doesn’t include the Berserkers.’
‘King Snodd would use Berserkers?’ I asked.
‘He would,’ replied Lady Mawgon. ‘Nothing like the sight of a Berserker in a crazed frenzy to get the enemy to beg for peace.’
I was shocked. Berserkers were highly unstable individuals possessed of such grossly volatile temperaments that it allowed them to fight with extraordinary powers—in every civilised nation they were defined under the Geneva Convention as ‘illegal weapons of war that could cause unnecessary suffering and injury’.
‘Would you excuse me, Lady Mawgon? I have to make a telephone call.’
She inclined her head to dismiss us, and we hurried off towards the offices.
‘Here,’ I said, handing Tiger a signed photo of Yogi Baird, ‘I was going to tear this up into small pieces but thought you might like to instead.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ said Tiger, ‘thank you. Did Lady Mawgon tell you about us being replaced?’
‘That’s not until Monday,’ I said. ‘Lots can happen.’
‘I don’t want to go back to the Sisterhood.’
‘It won’t come to that, I promise.’
I wished I could believe it. The rights that foundlings possessed could be written on an ant in quite large letters. I was in no doubt that Mawgon could do precisely as she said, and there was nothing we could do to stop her.
‘Think that’s small enough?’ asked Tiger, showing me the torn-up picture of Yogi Baird.
‘That bit there,’ I said, pointing out a piece that still might be smaller. I dialled the number Lord Tenbury had given me and was soon through to the switchboard at Snodd Hill Castle.
‘I’d like to speak to the King, please.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said a snotty telephonist with a plummy voice, ‘the King doesn’t take person-to-person calls.’
‘Tell him it’s Jennifer Strange.’
