The Parodies Collection

by Adam Roberts

  The firedrake alit on a pink marble balcony about halfway up the towering central structure. Käal followed suit. ‘Mon. Vagner will see you straight away,’ the firedrake told him. He indicated the direction with a toss of his firedrakey head.

  Käal went inside.

  ‘Ah! Brimstön. Come in,’ said Old Vagner. ‘Sit down, please. Take the weight off.’

  Käal found himself in a superbly appointed sitting room. A vaulted granite ceiling and polished marble floor defined a huge space. Exquisite wall-mosaics displayed scenes of dragon heroics, or ‘draconoics’ as they are sometimes called. An exquisite scent of sulphur wafted from an incense burner.

  Two sofas faced one another. Vagner made his way towards one, so Käal went to the other. The couch in question was ancient, and very expensive-looking. That might even have been real apeskin covering it. But it was not very big. Dragons had been smaller, of course, in the old days, before prosperity and adequate nutrition added length to the long bones and bulk to the body. But that meant that the honour of being offered an antique sofa as a seat was undermined by the titchiness of the artefact itself. Käal looked at the sofa, and then back at his host. Old Vagner had settled himself on the opposite couch and was now tilted into an upright posture, with his fat hindlimbs akimbo and his forelimbs hunched before him like two letters ‘r’.

  ‘Please,’ he said again. ‘Sit down.’

  Käal took a deep breath, and tackled the business of sitting. Lifting his tail, he tried to fit its fat diamond-shaped tip through the slot at the back. The slot was narrow, and his angle of approach was not quite right, so instead of slipping neatly through – thereby permitting the rest of his tail to follow so that Käal could seat his rump upon the upholstery – it got stuck. Käal pushed, but it wouldn’t go through. He tried to pull it back, but it wouldn’t come out either. He tugged the tail, and the couch shifted a yard across the marble with a friction squeal like a monkey in pain. Käal looked round at Old Vagner, who was watching him with placid patience.

  Käal smiled. Old Vagner smiled back.

  Making the decision, Käal turned his whole body to face his host, and curled up his tail as best he could, coiling it over the cushionry of the sofa, before seating himself upon it. This was not a very comfortable arrangement, and the added bulk of his own tailflesh lifted him comically and pushed him rather precariously forward on the seat. But at least he was sitting. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ said Old Vagner. ‘I have long been an admirer of your Saga work.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Certainly I have. You have a talent for – discovering things. It’s not common, among dragons, of course. Most of us disdain the implicit novelty in discovery. But you’re different.’

  ‘More different than you imagine,’ Käal said proudly.

  ‘I want to put that talent to good use here on Doorbraak. You see, there’s something I want you to find out.’

  Käal cleared his throat again. ‘What do you want me to find out?’

  ‘There is a tragedy at the heart of this family,’ said Old Vagner.

  Attempting, covertly, to adjust his awkwardly coiled tail beneath him, Käal stretched his rump muscles minutely, hoping with a delicately handled squeeze to pop his tail through the slot. He felt the end of his tail shift an inch deeper into the slot. In his mind a beguiling image presented itself, perfectly and fully formed: he pictured the tail-end plopping through, and the rest of the clumped-up tail following smoothly and easily after. He could almost feel the relief of settling his bum properly on the sofa cushions. He gave another discreet rumpward heave. One more would do it.

  ‘My grandniece,’ said Old Vagner, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘My beautiful, innocent, young grandniece was… horribly murdered.’

  Käal pushed. The couch lurched under Käal’s bulk, with a high-pitched whistle-scraping sound. Käal tumbled backwards. The sofa karoomed off the granite wall and, still tethered to the younger dragon by his tail, twanged straight back at Käal’s head. There was a muffled wham, and Käal’s head was punched forward by the impact of the hurtling furniture. When he lifted his face again, he was sat on his broad buttocks on the cold marble. He was wearing the sofa as a hat.

  Old Vagner was looking at him.

  ‘Murdered, you say?’ Käal said. Then, because his voice seemed to have been rather squeakily sopranoized by events, he cleared his throat and repeated with more bass-toned gravity of expression: ‘Murdered you say?’

  ‘Horribly murdered,’ said old Vagner.

  ‘Horribly, mm,’ said Käal. Very slowly – so as not to puncture the serious mood – he lifted the sofa off his head with his tail. ‘Horrible. Yes.’

  ‘Slain in the fullness of her youth.’

  With hardly a wobble, Käal lowered the item of furniture to the floor beside him. Trying, again, to be discreet, he lifted his hefty right hand-leg and placed its foot on the sofa. Pushing out with his thigh and simultaneously pulling with his tail, he tried to extract himself from the sofa slot. There was a sound of rending, and fabric and stuffing flew up. But at least the tail came free. Käal hazarded a smile; then, thinking of the grave situation he was in, he snapped the smile down into a frown. Then, worried that he looked merely grumpy, or perhaps ungrateful, he tried the smile again. That wasn’t right. Finally he settled his mouth into a neutral expression.

  ‘It,’ Old Vagner said, shortly, regarding Käal with a slightly puzzled expression in his eyes, ‘it – happened here.’

  Käal was surprised. ‘In this room?’

  ‘No, no, I mean on this island. I mean: on Doorbraak.’

  The magnitude of what Old Vagner was saying began to dawn on Käal. ‘Wait – you say she was murdered?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘As in – killed.’

  ‘Murdered as in killed, yes,’ said Old Vagner, drily.

  ‘But that’s horrible!’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. It evokes horror, yes.’

  ‘It evokes more than horror,’ said Käal, the full force of the situation finally coming home to him. ‘It is horrible! It is both horror and – er,’ he said, looked about the echoey chamber rather at a loss for words, ‘and ible, hence, hence.’ His voice trailed away. ‘Horrible,’ he concluded. The silence gaped. ‘Ibble, ibble, wibble,’ he added, a minute later, although he wasn’t exactly sure why.

  Old Vagner was looking intently at him. ‘Are you mocking me?’ he asked, softly.

  ‘Good grief! Not at all!’ said Käal, genuinely.

  ‘Only there are those who think,’ Vagner went on, ‘that I have lost my mind. They say the grief at my loss has driven me out of my mind. That, and the tormenting knowledge that the crime is unsolved, and the murderer unpunished. Do you think I have lost my mind?’

  ‘Oh, no, er, ah,’ said Käal, startled by this direct question. ‘No! And even if you have, I’m sure I don’t mind.’

  ‘Don’t mind?’ asked Old Vagner, sharply.

  ‘Don’t mind!’ said Käal, panicking a little. ‘Don’t mind your mind. That you’ve lost your mind. Or not. Would you mind if I were unmanned in my mind? Or, er, was,’ he added, losing the thread again, ‘what were you saying?’

  ‘I was saying,’ said Vagner, severely, ‘that I have not lost my mind. Though I have brooded over my poor innocent girl’s death – brooded for three hundred years – it has not driven me mad. Brooded.’

  ‘Brooded,’ repeated Käal.

  ‘Brooded,’ said Old Vagner again, his countenance falling as the memories of those three long centuries came back to him. ‘Three centuries of brooding!’

  ‘Brooded,’ noted Käal.

  ‘Broo—’ said Old Vagner. His eyes defocused, lost in thought, or memory. There was a long silence. ‘Dead!’ he said, abruptly, sitting up straight again.

  ‘What was she called?’

  ‘Hellfire,’ said the old dragon.

  ‘A very sweet and charming name,�
� said Käal, with feeling.

  ‘Oh, she was, she was very sweet and charming. She was an innocent young fledgling.’

  ‘And you are certain she was murdered?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘Then why not approach the authorities?’

  ‘The police have looked into it. But there’s not a great deal they can do. You see, I do not have her body.’

  ‘Oh! There’s no carcass?’

  ‘No. I have spoken to the Dragonlords, of course. I am friendly with them all –a dragon of my seniority, lineage and wealth could hardly be otherwise. But without a carcass there is nothing than can be done, legally.’

  ‘I suppose they think she might still be alive,’ said Käal.

  ‘Perhaps they do,’ agreed Old Vagner. ‘But I know better.’

  ‘You’re convinced it is murder?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So – let me see if I understand you: you want me to use my talents to find the body. Because, once we have that…’

  ‘Käal,’ said Old Vagner. ‘I want you to do more than that. I want you to discover that she was murdered, yes, so that the world can finally acknowledge the fact. But I also want you to discover how she was murdered – and who did it !’

  Käal let out a long whistle, and a plume of steam, from both nostrils. ‘You’re asking for a great deal.’

  ‘I know I am. But I am prepared to pay a great deal.’

  Käal’s ears twitched. ‘Really?’

  ‘I want you to compose a Saga for me. I want you to compose the Vagner Saga. In return I will gift you a magic hoard.’

  Käal couldn’t believe his ears. ‘A magic one?’

  ‘If you succeed in unmasking my grandniece’s murderer – you shall have the Siegfried treasure.’

  This was something so staggering, so enormous, that Käal could produce no smoke at all for almost a minute. ‘The Siegfried treasure?’ he rasped, when he got his throat burning again. ‘For real?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re kidding though – yes?’ Of all the treasures from the mythic age, the Siegfried treasure was one of the most famous: a magic hoard, including a huge helm of terror and the magic ‘Niebelung’ ring. The thought that it could be his amazed Käal.

  ‘I’m not kidding,’ said Helltrik. ‘That’s how much getting Hellfire back means to me.’

  ‘You would give me the Siegfried treasure?’

  ‘If you can solve the mystery, yes.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Käal, pointing with one claw. ‘So there is a catch.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a catch, exactly,’ said old Vagner. ‘It is, after all, why I have invited you to be here.’

  ‘Still,’ said Käal, stars in his eyes. ‘If I had the Siegfried treasure—’

  ‘I’m sure it would be very useful. I have heard, for instance,’ said Old Vagner, ‘that Köschfagold Saga is undergoing financial difficulties. You could support the Saga through several large court cases with such funds.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Käal. ‘I could – do that. It’s certainly a very tempting prize,’ he added. ‘But I can’t help feeling that you only offer it to me because you know the task to be impossible.’

  ‘I offer it to you because the task has defeated me for centuries now, and because I’m at the end of my tether. I offer it to you because I think you can do it, if you have the proper incentive.’

  ‘The whole Siegfried treasure?’ said Käal.

  ‘All except one trivial item, something that contributes very little to its worth. But the treasure I am offering you will, overnight, make you one of the wealthiest dragons in the whole of Scandragonia. It will be more than enough to raise capital and keep your Financial Saga running. All you need do is compose the Saga of my family. Hellfire’s murder is an integral part of that story, so by composing the Saga you will be addressing the mystery that has tormented me. Perhaps your young eyes will spot clues that have eluded me; perhaps your – by all accounts (and I mean no disrespect when I say so) – unusual mind might escape the rut of conventional thinking that has failed to produce a result.’

  ‘I’m boggled,’ said Käal. ‘Nobody has ever propositioned me like this before.’

  To Käal’s astonishment, he saw the old dragon’s eyes filling with tears. He was actually crying! ‘I miss her so desperately!’ he sobbed.

  ‘There, there,’ said Käal, vaguely, looking panicked.

  ‘My darling girl! Without her my life is so bare!’ said Old Vagner. Tears ran over the scales of his snout and dripped to the granite, where they hissed and sputtered, burning shallow holes in the marble. ‘Bare!’ he said. ‘Bare! Bare!’

  Käal stared in frank astonishment at Vagner’s display of naked emotional pain. He sounded like a sheep!

  It was actively embarrassing. Käal thought for a moment if he should tell the senior dragon that he sounded like a sheep. He decided not to. ‘All right, Mon. Vagner – please, don’t cry!’

  ‘You’ll,’ said Vagner, reining in his tears, ‘you’ll help me?’

  ‘I’ll certainly have a go,’ said Käal, shifting uncomfortably on the floor. The acid stench of Vagner’s tears was pungent in his nostrils. ‘Although I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Vagner, in a small voice. ‘In that case,’ he went on, pushing a tear back up his snout with one gnarled old talon, ‘permit me to have the servants bring in a larger couch.’

  ‘A larger… ?’

  ‘You’ll need to seat yourself more comfortably. I will need to tell you the story of my grandniece’s murder, and it is not a brief tale.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Käal, experiencing that sinking feeling you get when somebody you thought was coming to the end of what they were saying reveals that they have only just begun. ‘Excellent!’

  3

  Lizbreath Salamander flew down the broad Starkhelm mainstreet, dodging the omnibus kites and the lances of pedestrians, and alighted gently on the marble platform of her lawyer’s office. A plate on the double door read: BURNBLAST, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Underneath smaller letters spelled out the directions: ‘Down The Stairs, Cavern On Left’. Finally a handwritten parchment, pinned with a bone pin, specified hours of business: ‘Burnblast will be on his hoard to receive clients from Wodensday to Fireday.’

  Lizbreath had an appointment. She was expected. Burnblast was her Guardian, and under Dragon Law she had to consult with him and receive his permission before undertaking any move. She hated this arrangement, and chafed against it; for although technically a Salamander still, by weight, she was – in terms of chronological years – old enough to be accounted a dragon. She knew herself to be adult, and was perfectly capable of looking after herself. But for various reasons, the law did not see it like that. Even that transition, from youngling to oldling, depended upon the permission of her Guardian. And it was clear that he agreed with everyone else – that there was something not quite right about Lizbreath Salamander.

  Though small, she was a sleek, rather beautiful young dragon. Her hindlegs could have done with more meat on them, and her torso was thin. But she moved with sinuous grace, and she possessed a beautiful face – her tapering snout was a glistening taupe, which is a colour, look it up if you don’t believe me, and her teeth were white and sharp as icicles. Her snout ended in two perfectly formed large, round nostrils, like binoculars. If you see what I mean. Only, you know: nasal, not ocular. ‘Binasalars’, I suppose you could call them. Although, no, that looks stupid. Anyway, not to get, uh, bogged down. She folded away her wings and looked over her shoulder, surveying the street, sniffing suspiciously. It was thronged with ordinary dragons going about their ordinary business. She didn’t know any of them, but that didn’t stop her disliking them. She disliked them on principle.

  With a clack of her claws upon the mahogany she pushed open one flap of the double door and darted down the carved granite stairs. Oh, she was slinky: in the rather specialized sense that she was shiny, springlike and seemed to pour herself down t
he stairs. With one flowing motion Lizbreath emerged from the bottom into the secretarial antechamber. The Secretary, a short, fat male Dragonet, snorted black smoke from his nose as she approached. His name was Galgewater.

  ‘You want to see Burnblast, I suppose?’ he said.

  ‘I have no desire to see him, or you, ever again in my life,’ said Lizbreath.

  ‘You don’t do yourself any favours,’ Galgewater said, making a revoltingly fluid snuffling sound in his throat as he spoke. ‘With your attitude, you know.’

  ‘Favours is just another word for bribes,’ Lizbreath said. ‘Do myself a favour? Since I consider the whole hierarchy of patronage, favour-giving and sucking-up corrupt, why would I want to practise it upon myself?’

  This was too subtle a point for Galgewater to absorb. He shuffled uneasily, perched on a compact hoard of gold behind his desk. Lizbreath, who had been to this office many time, and had had occasion to observe it fairly closely, suspected that some of the items were polished brass. He looked severely at her, snorted some brown smoke, and could think of nothing more effective to do than repeat himself. ‘That’s what I’m talking about. When I say “you don’t do yourself any favours with your attitude”, that’s precisely the sort of non-favour-doing attitude I’m talking about.’

  ‘If Burnblast doesn’t want to see me,’ Lizbreath said, letting the green smoke of boredom seep out of both sides of her mouth, ‘then I’ll be happy to go away.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Galgewater, in a snide voice. ‘He’s ready for you. Go on through.’

  Lizbreath wrinkled her snout and darted rapidly left, under the carved granite arch and along the connecting corridor. She could hear the Secretary tutting behind her.

  You may be asking yourself; what, precisely, was the problem with Lizbreath Salamander? In a phrase it was that she refused to conform. In the social organization of most creatures this would be awkward; but in a world of dragons, where status, hierarchy and conformity were enormously, even overwhelmingly potent, shaping forces, it was like a deformity. Lizbreath just wouldn’t behave herself.