‘Honey, I'm home!’
The shrill voice echoed down through the cave and into the chamber.
Tark's eyes widened. Another dragon? It had never even occurred to him that the dragon might have a mate. He had to get out of the cave without this second dragon seeing him. Without the sword o’ light, Tark didn't stand a chance against a dragon.
His eyes scanned the chamber. There didn't seem to be any other way out. Given he had entered through a fake wall, it was conceivable that there were others, but he didn't have time to go searching for them. The cul-de- sac was his only hope, if he could get to it in time.
Tark slipped through the fake wall and quietly inched his way along the rock wall, trying hard not to jangle the bag of gold coins. No sooner was he concealed in the cul-de-sac, than he heard heavy footsteps shuffling along the cave. He risked a quick peek around the corner. In the dim light he saw a large shape disappearing through the wall, sniffing noisily as it went. Tark hefted the bag o’ gold onto his shoulder and crept out of the cave.
7: Safecracking
With seemingly little effort, Zyra scaled the brick wall, back-flipped over the razor wire that topped it, and landed cat-like on the lawn — poised and ready for anything. Within seconds she sprinted to the first of the topiary gargoyles that dotted the expansive grounds. It was huge, at least three times her size, and quite grotesque. She checked it carefully for tech. These Hill people loved their tech (everything from robotic sentries to lethal vegetation), and she didn't want to be caught unawares. But the plant was clean. No embedded technology that she could see. The Fat Man simply had a weird taste in landscape design.
Zyra slowly made her way to the mansion, gargoyle by gargoyle, making sure to avoid the ground-level trip- lasers that criss-crossed the lawn. One false step and she could lose a foot.
Reaching the mansion, she found three human guards armed with machine guns (crude, noisy weapons that lacked style, thought Zyra) patrolling the exterior. Zyra smiled and reached for her pouch.
Three shuriken throwing stars whizzed through the air with barely a whisper. Three guards fell to the ground, their guns dropping to the manicured lawn beside them.
Zyra desperately wanted to retrieve her stars before proceeding, but she couldn't risk the extra time it would take out in the open. With two pieces of wire she swiftly picked the lock on the servants’ entrance and slipped inside the mansion. A heavy saucepan made short work of the cook and butler, and her beloved knives took care of the two interior guards.
She tiptoed up the stairs and crept into the museum room. Zyra gazed around the opulent, wood-panelled room — at the portraits on the walls, at the red velvet drapes through which she caught a glimpse of metal, at the artefacts behind glass cases, each with its own specially designed security system. The challenge of stealing each and every piece in the room held a great deal of appeal for Zyra. Lots of very valuable stuff — custom-made weapons, one-of-a-kind gems, bespoke jewellery — but much too difficult to fence. And the challenge in itself was not enough of a drawcard.
Where would he keep the key? wondered Zyra, as her gaze roamed the room. And then she saw it. The portrait. Not just any portrait, but a portrait of the Fat Man himself. Everything she knew about the Fat Man, which was not much in the larger scheme of things, suggested to Zyra that he would be vain enough to choose his own likeness to conceal the key.
Zyra cautiously approached the painting and ran her gloved fingers along the gilt-edged frame. As she touched the concealed switch, the painting slid aside. She removed her gloves and put her hands on the revealed safe — the fingers of one hand gently holding the tumbler, the fingertips of the other resting a couple of centimetres above. She took a deep breath, concentrating on the
‘Damn, I is good.’ Zyra smiled as she swung the safe door open. She reached in and grabbed the key.
A heavy hand came down onto her shoulder and spun her around.
She was face to face with a large, extraordinarily fat man in a black suit, with a red cravat concealing the fleshy folds of his neck. The Fat Man from the portrait.
‘Well, well, well,’ wheezed the man with difficulty, sounding decidedly unhealthy. ‘Lucky me for listening to a snitch's tip-off.’
Zyra winced at the garlic breath, and went for her knives.
Despite his bulk, this guy was lightning quick. One doughy hand suddenly had her knife arm pinned to the wall and another tightly clasped around her throat. Zyra's free hand desperately clung to the card-like key.
‘You're so fragile,’ said the Fat Man, his triple chin waggling as he spoke, his dark eyes flashing with barely concealed excitement. ‘It would take so little effort to clench my hand into a fist and crush your pretty little throat.’
He tightened his grip, making Zyra gasp for air. A grey haze washed over her vision. Unconsciousness was seconds away.
In desperation Zyra flailed out with her legs, kicking the Fat Man in the groin. He immediately let go and doubled over in pain. Zyra gave him another kick for good measure and then, with the key in hand, she ran down the stairs and out of the house, gasping for breath as she went. As she skipped over the trip-lasers in the grounds, the Fat Man stuck his head out of the top-storey window. Unintelligible words boomed across the grounds and the topiary gargoyles rustled into life.
‘Magik!’ said Zyra, still gasping. ‘I didn't know this fat guy hads magik.’
She increased her pace, dodging around the lumbering shrubbery, and wishing she had knifed the Fat Man before running off. After a few moments of confusion in which they came to terms with their sudden animation, the gargoyles gave chase. Four of them came afoul of the trip-lasers, reduced to mulch in seconds flat. But the remaining two continued the pursuit.
Zyra reached the wall and was at the top in seconds. But the leaves and branches of a pursuing gargoyle were suddenly wrapping themselves around her ankles. Zyra hacked at them with one of her knives, and then flung herself over the wire, leaving the gargoyles to get tangled. But she landed awkwardly and stumbled.
‘Not quites so nimble this time, are we … my pretty-pretty thieving wench?’ said a familiar voice.
Zyra looked up into the beady, bloodshot eyes of the Cracker and the point of a loaded crossbow.
‘You takes from me after I've fairly and squarely appropriated. And now I takes from you after you've appropriated.’ The Cracker chuckled. ‘And I gains the trust of the Fat Man for ratting on a fellow thiever.’ He took a menacing step towards her, cracking the knuckles of his free hand, one by one. ‘Almost even! Just needs to break a few fingers first. And maybe spills a bit of acid.’
Thunk!
Tark hit the Cracker over the head with the dragon's hefty bag o’ gold.
‘Told ya ’e wuz dangerous,’ declared Tark. ‘Lucky I polished off me dragon nice an’ quick.’
8: The Fat Man
The Fat Man watched from his window as Zyra escaped.
‘Run, run, run,’ he breathed. ‘Run as fast as you can and as far as you like. In the end, it will achieve little more than sport for me.’ He smiled to himself. ‘And I do so like a good chase … so long as I win in the end. And I always do!’
The Fat Man turned from the window. He slowly walked over to the safe and closed it, replacing his portrait over it. He then crossed the room to the drapes. At the snap of his fingers they drew back to reveal a large metal door. He reached a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out another key. He turned it over and over with his podgy fingers as if preparing to perform a card trick, then held it up, its faint glow reflected in his oh-so-dark eyes.
‘Time to put matters into play,’ he said. ‘Hail to the Designers.’
