the Dragonpact of 1607 to the best of my abilities. I have no plans to do otherwise. Excuse me.’
I climbed aboard the armoured Rolls-Royce. Gordon van Gordon was in the driver’s seat and we pulled away from the mob and headed back to town.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Sure. I was hoping to be able to study Maltcassion at my leisure; that hope is rapidly fading.’
Gordon nodded in the direction of the truck.
‘What was all that about?’
‘Villiers thought it was a Dragonattack; talon marks on an eighteen-wheeler. Even if it was Maltcassion— which I doubt—it isn’t enough to have him destroyed. If he does it several times, then I might have to do something. The good thing is that no one was killed. So long as no lives are lost, I can drag this out for a month at least.’
‘So who if not Maltcassion?’
‘Who knows? Both Hereford and Brecon could have done it. The Dragonlands are of great strategic importance to them both. I’ve got no way of knowing who is telling the truth. Brecon says he doesn’t want the land at all and is fearful of being invaded, whereas King Snodd is convinced that he wants to take over the whole area. I don’t know who to believe, so I’ve cancelled them both out like opposite ends of an equation. I’ll have to judge all this on merit as we go along.’
I lapsed into silence as we drove back to the Dragonstation. There were a lot of reporters there too, but I avoided them all as Gordon drove me straight into the garage. The news of my refusal to kill the Dragon without corroboration spread quickly and I had to leave the phone off the hook after some unpleasant calls. A jeering mob started to yell outside the Dragonstation that I was a coward or something, which went on for an hour until some animal-rights campaigners turned up on my behalf. There was a short battle and the police waded in with water cannon and tear gas. I don’t think anyone was hurt but a brick came through the front window.
‘Tea?’ said Gordon with a masterful piece of good timing. ‘I’ve made a cake, too.’
‘Thank you.’
Mr Hawker
I was reading
‘Yes?’
‘Miss Strange, Dragonslayer?’
‘Yes, yes?’
‘My name is Mr Hawker. I represent the Hawker & Sidderley debt collection agency.’
The alarm bells started ringing. I had expected King Snodd to make life difficult, but this was not what I had anticipated. Hawker handed me a sheath of papers, all headed with the Kingdom’s judicial seal and looking terribly formal. I was in no doubt that it was all official, very legal, and wholly dishonest.
‘What does it mean?’ I asked Hawker, who seemed to be enjoying himself.
‘This property has been given rent free by the Kingdom for almost three hundred years,’ he explained. ‘We have discovered that this was a clerical error.’
‘And you found out just this morning, I suppose?’
‘Indeed. Back rent, back electricity bills, gas bills, rates, you name it. Three hundred years’ worth.’
‘I’ve only been here two days.’
Hawker—and the King’s advisers, presumably—had already thought of that.
‘As Dragonslayer you are legally responsible for yourself and the previous members of your calling. The Kingdom has been generous for many years, but feels now that circumstances have changed.’
He looked at me with a smile.
‘You owe us 97,482 moolah, and forty-three pence.’
I patted my pockets, drew out some change and handed it to the debt collector, who wasn’t laughing.
‘Now how much do I owe you?’
‘I think you fail to appreciate the seriousness of the situation, Miss Strange. I have a warrant for your arrest if you do not pay the monies owed. Failure to pay will result in you being jailed for debt.’
He obviously meant it. I could only assume that the King thought a brief stay in jail would make me more compliant. But I wasn’t about to be arrested just like that. I asked Mr Hawker to wait and called Gordon to fetch the accounts. Brian Spalding had said we had funds available in the bank.
‘How long do I have to pay?’
The debt collector smiled and one of his heavies started cracking his knuckles.
‘We’re not totally devoid of a sense of fair play,’ replied Hawker with a gloat. ‘Ten minutes.’
‘Well?’ I said to Gordon, who had returned with the bank statements.
‘Not too good, ma’am,’ he said. ‘It seems we have a fraction under two hundred moolah.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Hawker. ‘Officers, arrest her.’
The policemen stepped forward but I raised a hand.
‘Wait!’
They stopped.
‘I thought you said I had ten minutes?’
Hawker gave a rare smile and checked his watch.
‘Think you can raise a hundred thousand in, let’s see... eight minutes?’
I thought quickly.
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘actually, I rather think I can.’
Maltcassion again
An hour later I was heading off to the Dragonlands again, the Rolls-Royce bedecked with Fizzi-Pop stickers. Painted on the door was a big sign saying:
Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do for the greater good. After Mr Hawker’s warning I had dashed out and collared the Fizzi-Pop representative who had been camping outside the Dragonstation. He and his opposite number at Yummy-Flakes breakfast cereals had quickly called their bosses and bid over the phone for my endorsement of their product. Yummy-Flakes had pulled out at M95,000 but Fizzi-Pop had gone all the way to my asking price of M100,000. It was a simple deal: I was to wear one of their hats and jackets whenever in public, and the Slayermobile had to be similarly adorned. I had to appear in five commercials and do nothing to impinge on the good name of the product. The alternative was debtor’s prison so I didn’t have much choice. Hawker, as you might expect, was furious. He had called his lawyers and tried to find a way round the problem, but this was something they had not expected. It wasn’t the end of it, I could see that, but at least it was the first round to me. And actually, I quite liked Fizzi-Pop.
I saw as I approached that even more people had gathered at the Dragonlands. Just behind the marker stones there was now a 500-yard-deep swathe of tents, mobile eateries, toilets, marquees, first-aid posts and parked cars. The word was spreading, and citizens were arriving from the farthest kingdoms of the land. It was rumoured that claimants were arriving from the Continent and masquerading as unUK citizens in order to be able to stake a claim. A coachload of Danes had been detained at Oxford, a boot-load of rollmop herrings having given
