The Twelve Dragons of Albion

by Mark Hayden

  ‘Let us perform the test. We have placed an Ancile on the mannequin. You should verify that with your mundane weapon before using the enhanced bullets. You may begin when the lights come up.’

  The Dwarf trundled away and I heard a door closing. Seconds later, the room was filled with light. ‘Wow,’ I said out loud. It was huge.

  The target had been placed at 25m, I guessed, but it wasn’t even in the middle. The walls had columns, rising to a vaulted ceiling with stone facings between. All over the walls, I could see pictures, too far away to make out the details. What was this space? What on earth did the Dwarves want with such a vast cathedral?

  I took a few more seconds to soak up the atmosphere, and from somewhere, I got a sense of emptiness, that this hall should be filled with tables, benches, chests and cabinets. There should be laughter. There should be song, and there should be dancing. Had it all been and gone, or had it never existed?

  ‘Mr Clarke. When you’re ready,’ came the familiar voice. Whatever ghosts had been whispering in my ear shut up and vanished.

  The target was a human sized and shaped mannequin, fixed to a stand. There was a chain round its neck with a single Doodad hanging from it, presumably the Ancile. I donned the ear defenders, checked the mundane pistol, inserted a clip and took aim.

  I fired three rounds at different points on the target. All three were diverted to ricochet around the hall, as expected. It was time to really examine Hledjolf’s handiwork.

  I’ve met quite a few soldiers – not all of them American – for whom guns have some sort of sexual attraction. I mention this because I want you to understand the difference between an appreciation of power and precision on the one hand, and drooling on the other. I do not drool over guns. We’ll leave it there.

  I fired one shot. There was a rainbow flash around the target and smoke poured off its chest where the Ancile had, literally, burnt out. I put the gun down and went to see what had happened to the bullet.

  ‘Impressive, Mr Clarke,’ came Hledjolf’s voice.

  I’d aimed for the head, and there was a hole in the target’s face. I raised my voice. ‘No point in shooting again.’

  ‘Then join us in the conference room.’

  I packed everything away and stowed it all in my backpack, well out of sight. Hannah and I are going to have an interesting conversation about carrying firearms in the near future, and I don’t want to get arrested before then.

  The Dwarf was waiting for me, and for the first time in our relationship, there was refreshment available in the form of a Nespresso machine and choice of capsules. Customer service means thinking what the customer needs before they know they want it, even when you’re made of stone and the customer is mostly made of water. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when I saw an ashtray.

  There were some packets and boxes on the table, which Hledjolf talked me through – cleaning and oiling products which had been adapted for the Dwarven gun. Talking of which, ‘This weapon needs a name,’ said Hledjolf.

  ‘Fair point,’ I agreed. ‘For one thing, I need to distinguish between the two guns. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Yes. We showed our work to another Dwarf. When doing something so new, we always seek an outside opinion we trust. Our cousin said that it should be called The Hammer. This is a play on words, because the weapon has a hammer.’

  ‘Thank you for explaining. I wouldn’t have got it otherwise.’ I’ve said before that sarcasm is lost on Hledjolf, but I couldn’t help myself. Even so, The Hammer is a good name. I’ll keep it.

  ‘We have one more thing to say,’ said the Dwarf. ‘You should recover your shell casings. Not only are they easily identifiable, they are specially made. We will discount further purchases if they are returned.’

  ‘Thank you, Hledjolf, for such a fine piece of work. It is worthy of your name.’ I lifted my cup in a toast. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ve got a couple of things to discuss.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you remember a mobile phone you traded with Mr Mole? The one he recovered from that man who tried to chain him?’

  Hledjolf reached down and pulled out a dumb phone, which he placed on the table. A gang had been sent to capture Moley for some unspeakable purpose. He had chased them off, killing and snacking on their leader. That was a while ago, before I’d introduced him to the world of electronic devices, and he’d dumped the phone on Hledjolf not understanding what it was. The Dwarf had tried, and failed, to identify the owner.

  I pointed to the phone. ‘This is worth nothing to you. Give it to me and I might find something. I’ll owe you a favour. Look on it as a speculative investment.’

  The Dwarf slid the phone to me. ‘Agreed. It is fully charged and we have removed the passcode.’

  I stowed it away. ‘One last thing. Why didn’t you tell me that Mr Mole is unstable. Why didn’t you tell him?’

  Hledjolf went still, talking to his other selves. ‘We did not know this. The biology of water based creatures is unknown to us. Thank you for informing us. We will accelerate the digging programme before he expires.’

  Charming.

  We were done, and I left the Dwarves to their labours. I’d learnt something today – not only are there definitely other Dwarves somewhere, the other Dwarves make puns. Interesting.

  Before I left his Hall, I had one final question. ‘Your bullets deliver a lot of Lux. Isn’t that like putting petrol on a fire? Doesn’t the target get a boost of Lux?’

  ‘This was asked before, in the time of Robert Boyle himself. The Work in the bullet disrupts the patterns of Lux. Mr Boyle said that being hit on the head with a leg of lamb does not constitute a meal. Humans seem to find this explanation useful. There is something else you might not know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘If you shoot a mundane human anywhere closer to its spinal cord than its elbow or its knees, the Lux will destroy their Imprint completely and instantaneously. There is no surviving a wound from these bullets. Goodbye Mr Clarke.’

  There was a lot to think about as I climbed the stairs from Hledjolf’s Hall towards Bank Station. I’d barely started when I got a message from Vicky. Before the Battle of Lunar Hall, she did something to my phone which entangled it with hers and allows me to communicate with her in all sorts of unlikely places, such as underneath the biggest gold vault in Europe. I had been thinking about Moley, but I put that aside when I read this: Conrad, we have a problem. Urgent appointment with Hannah at 2. Vic. X.

  6 — Enter the Dragon

  ‘Can you take that?’ said Tennille when I arrived at the Constable’s office. She was pointing to the tea tray, so Hannah must have calmed down a bit since Monday.

  ‘Of course. Do you know what’s going on? And whose is the fourth cup?’

  ‘My girl’s come with Vicky. All I know is that there’s a big to-do.’

  She opened the door for me, shooing me through as if I were late. Hannah, Vicky and Desirée were already seated at the larger of the tables. The first and only time I’d met Desirée was at Club Justine, an encounter that had officially never happened. Both young women looked at the floor when Hannah said, ‘I believe you’ve heard of Ms Haynes, Conrad.’

  The young Chymist and I shook hands without making eye contact. Desirée isn’t quite as dark as her mother, and she’s certainly a lot taller – strikingly tall, in fact. She’s one of the few female Mages I’ve met who doesn’t grow her hair long, preferring to wear it cropped close, curled and streaked with vermilion. There are layers of racial, gender and cultural issues going on with that haircut which I couldn’t possibly untangle.

  I was going to be mother until Vicky beat me to the teapot, so I sat down and waited.

  ‘Are you 100% sure?’ said Hannah to Desirée.

  ‘Completely. I showed Vicky the sample in our museum and she compared it to the Echo in the tunnel. It’s a perfect match.’

  ‘Why me?’ said Hannah. She stared out of the window, her hands making little fists in her
lap. ‘This was supposed to be a quiet job, you know.’

  Vicky and Desirée looked at each other in the way that only close friends can do, seeking and receiving confirmation and support with just a glance. Vicky turned to me and raised her eyebrows. I gave the smallest shake of my head: the Boss would be back in the room when she was ready.

  A deep breath from Hannah, and we were off. ‘Conrad, there could be a Dragon on the loose.’

  I’ve met Helen of Troy in the guise of Cindy Crawford c.1995. I’ve bought a gun from a Dwarf. Of course there’s a Dragon on the loose.

  ‘Please tell me this is a test,’ I said to Hannah.

  ‘I wish.’ She scratched her head by sticking a finger under the back of her headscarf (a bright green today). ‘Now I know why I put you two together. Well done, Vicky. Good work, Conrad. That’s the only good thing about today.’ Having given her head a good scratch, she leaned forward and took both chocolate digestives off the tray. ‘Over to you Ms Haynes.’

  Desirée took out a book, the sort of book you’d expect to find in an occult library: thick and dumpy, with cracked leather bindings, yellow vellum pages and a gold dragon stamped on the cover.

  She placed her hands on the book and stared at them for a second. ‘None of us knows anything about Dragons because the last one to fly over Britain was killed by the Romans, but not before it had laid its eggs in Londinium. I only recognised what had been in that chamber because Vicky had taken a picture of the mosaic, and I looked it up in the Codex Ignis – the Book of Fire. I didn’t believe it either, but it’s right. There was a dormant egg in that chamber, and now it’s gone. All I know is what I’ve read in this book since lunchtime.’

  With a deliberate gesture, she passed the book to Hannah, who promptly passed it back. ‘I don’t understand Alchemical Latin. Treat this as an official request for a summary translation. For now, tell us what you know. First of all, are we talking sixty foot long fire breathing monsters?’

  ‘At least sixty feet long, Constable Rothman. If fully grown.’

  ‘Hannah, please. What else?’

  ‘According to the book, there are two types of Dragon – Chinese and European. The Chinese ones don’t have wings. Our egg belongs to the species Draco borealis albionis. The Dragon of Albion. British, if you like, but definitely not English. Apparently the Midgard Serpent was some sort of Dragon, and the followers of Woden/Odin didn’t much care for them. The book even says that it was because the Romans had destroyed the Dragons that the British tribes were unprotected from the Angles and Saxons.’

  Hannah waved a hand. ‘Fine, but what about the eggs? Could they be viable after two thousand years?’

  I wouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss the history, but she’s the Boss.

  Desirée squirmed a little. ‘I think so. Vicky said that the egg had been preserved off a Ley line, so yes, it should be viable. I think. I haven’t got very far.’

  ‘Good, but let us know as soon as you’ve finished. Thank you, Desirée.’

  It took the Chymist a second to realise that she’d been dismissed. She scrambled her things together and left us to it. Vicky looked very put out on her friend’s behalf, and didn’t realise that Hannah shares my ambivalence about Salomon’s House. In this instance, the Constable wanted the planning to stay firmly within the King’s Watch.

  The Constable rubbed her headscarf, tracing the outline of her titanium insert. ‘I need you two on this asap. We can’t wait until next week for your induction, Conrad, which is a shame because I wanted to get everyone together. We’ll do it at eleven o’clock on Friday, so 10:45 in my office. Some of the team will be here. At least you don’t have to go to Sandhurst.’

  ‘But I do need to go to Odiham. You’ll have no end of bureaucratic hassle if 7 Squadron find themselves listed as hosting an officer they thought they’d seen the back of.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And there’s this,’ I said, pulling out the phone I’d collected from Hledjolf. I explained where I’d got it from, and why its owner might be linked to Moley and and an attempt to dig the egg out of the tunnel. ‘I believe that the Watch has a liaison officer at Scotland Yard,’ I continued. ‘Could you put me in touch with them to pursue the data trail on this phone?’

  Hannah pulled her lip. ‘Also fine, but not until after your induction. I don’t mind messing the RAF around, but the City Police is a different matter. Vicky? Can you open the door?’

  With the door open, Hannah shouted some instructions. ‘Bring Conrad’s commission papers to sign, and put a fast track on them. Invite everyone to his induction on Friday, parade at eleven thirty, order lunch for those coming. And make an appointment for him with Chief Inspector Kaplan for Friday afternoon. Tell her it might be cancelled.’

  Hannah turned to me, a smile and a frown struggling over her face. The smile won. ‘Listen, Mr Pilot, this story is not going to end with you flying a helicopter into battle with a Dragon. Is that clear?’

  I stood up. ‘Yes, ma’am!’ I also saluted, just to annoy her.

  Outside the Constable’s office, Vicky had one more thing to say before she dashed off to catch up with Desirée. ‘If I give you the evil eye on Friday, it’s because of what you’ve made me do.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘The one thing in my wardrobe that I hate above everything else is me uniform, understand? If you ever win a medal, I may have to kill you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that. You’d have to wear it to my funeral.’

  ‘Not if I’m Below Blackfriars.’ She gave me a look that, for once, I couldn’t fathom. ‘It’s where Mages are imprisoned. Keira’s the only occupant at the minute.’

  I’ll spare you most of my trip to RAF Odiham on Thursday afternoon because it was boringly pleasant. The CO of 7 Squadron was new since my time there, and it was nice to have a meeting which didn’t pick over the scabs of my chequered career. The guy assumed that I’d been brought out of retirement because of my experience with special forces missions, and that I was being seconded to the SAS in some capacity, so there were no awkward questions to dodge about what I was going to be doing.

  He handed over my ID and logbook, then asked me to let him know when I’d been to RAF Shawbury to get my pilot’s accreditation back. ‘I’ll fix you up some time in the heavy brigade whenever you like,’ was his generous offer.

  What a nice man. He almost made me wish I were re-joining properly.

  Far less pleasant was a return visit to Salomon’s House. Vicky had summoned me to the Receiving Room for 19:00, and I was beginning to think that she didn’t want me to see the inside of her flat.

  She was waiting for me in the Receiving Room, which was even creepier at night: only the magickally rendered sodium glow lit up the scampering mice and … was that an owl? Yes.

  The daytime carvings had been replaced by creatures of the night, and I didn’t fancy the mouse’s chances against that lot. Vicky looked no happier than the doomed rodent. ‘Let’s get out of here. The sooner you get your MA the better. Then you can come and go without an escort.’

  The Junction was no brighter overall, but ankle lights had been fitted to pick out the stairs. This time we went down.

  Vicky touched my arm to break the Silence. ‘The Watch has a couple of rooms here, and it seemed easier for Desi to work there so that we can come and go without attracting too much attention.’

  We descended two sides of the square, where a passage led away, much better illuminated and almost normal. Before entering, Vicky touched me again. ‘I forgot to show you these last time, I was that mithered. Touch that panel to the left of the entry.’

  A piece of glass had been mounted on the wall, like the ones you see outside the different rooms of a museum, only this one was blank until I touched it.

  WYVERN CHAMBERS

  1-2 The King’s Watch

  3-7 Office of the Provost and Proctor

  8 Proctor of the Invisible College

  9 Provost of the In
visible College

  Rooms 10-16 were occupied by various occult academics, whose names meant nothing to me. ‘Who or what are the Proctor and the Provost?’

  ‘The Proctor is in charge of student discipline. You don’t want to upset her. In fact, you don’t want to meet her full stop. The Provost deals with all the Fellows – every qualified Chymist in England has to keep the Statutes.’ She grinned. ‘Except me. Officers of the Watch are excused compliance. Good job, too. If we’re not eaten by a Dragon in the near future, I’ll introduce you. The Provost and the Watch don’t always see eye to eye about what Mages get up to. Come on, Desi’s been working flat out all day and most of last night.’

  I followed her down the passage. ‘Shouldn’t the Boss know this first?’

  ‘She does; we emailed her. You’re getting the Dragons for Dummies version with no long words. In here.’

  There was a small plate on the door, the first I’d seen that wasn’t powered by magick. It informed the visitor that This room is under the jurisdiction of the Peculier Constable. Vicky took out her bunch of Keyway Stamps and waggled one at me. ‘I’d get you a copy, but it’s level 3.’

  It’s bad news when you can’t even get into your own office, I know, and I also know that being locked out of here is at the bottom of my Bad News feed. Vicky worked the Keyway and pushed open the door.

  A pair of cast-off civil service tables had been pushed together in the centre of a windowless bunker, a prospect made even more depressing by the threadbare carpet and assortment of mismatched chairs. I felt sorry for the Queen, marooned in portrait on the far wall.

  ‘Please tell me we’re not responsible for the decoration,’ I said.

  ‘Unfortunately we are. It was on Hannah’s to-do list when she became Constable. It’s still there.’

  Further wallowing in institutional misery was postponed by Desirée’s arrival, and by an injection of colour from her outfit – a tropical green dress covered by a rich purple wrap-around cardigan which she promptly dumped on a chair. Salomon’s House is warm enough once you get past the Junction, which seems to have draughts coming up from the Old Network, or somewhere even colder.