by Adam Roberts
‘I can’t be sure. But I can imagine. I fear her stomach was filled with concrete and her body plunged in the deep blue sea. Quite apart from anything else…’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t think me odd,’ said Asheila. ‘But after all this time, with the whole family turned upside down, all this grief and mystery and misery… if it turned out that she was alive all this time…’
‘Yes?’ prompted Käal.
‘Well it would be such an anticlimax.’
Käal nodded. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘It would feel like a let-down.’
‘It would be a sort of cop-out,’ agreed Käal.
‘Wouldn’t it, though? I have no idea what the solution to this mystery is, but I feel certain that it must be something better than that she’s been alive all this time and, oh I don’t know, living in Hostileia running a sheep factory. Or something.’
‘Oh that would be lame.’
‘There must be more to it that!’
‘It would be… like a slap in the face, really,’ said Käal.
‘So. Given that the solution to the mystery, whatever it is, won’t be as facile and, uh, disappointing as that,’ said Asheila. ‘Do you have any theories of your own?’
‘Ah!’ said Käal. ‘That would be telling!’
‘I see,’ said Asheila. ‘And what would it be telling?’
‘It would be telling you: no,’ said Käal. ‘No, I haven’t got any theories.’
Later that evening, Käal returned to his chambers. The fact that he had no theories embarrassed him. He took a raven out of its cage, dictated a message to his chief researcher, and sent it off. Then he fell into a deep sleep.
9
Lizbreath Salamander went back to her apartment in a state of almost complete collapse. Her throat was horribly sore, throbbing with a raw pain. A watery, faintly acid discharge leaked from her fire ducts, which she was forced to spit into a ceramic bowl by her bedside. This substance didn’t scald her black horny-sheathed tongue, or the front of her mouth of course; but it dribbled back down her throat where it reacted hissingly with the lining of her oesophagus. From time to time she would breathe in a tartly alkaline coughy-provoking steam. Quite apart from anything else, it was worrying symptom. She had no idea whether it meant that some permanent damage had been inflicted upon her ability to generate fire.
Even worse than the physical misery, though, was Lizbreath’s sense of self rebuke. She had been stupid. She had misread the situation, and idiotically put herself in great danger. She should have been better prepared, she should have done more research. Wasn’t research her forte, after all?
For the first day Lizbreath did nothing but lie on her hoard feeling sorry for herself, coughing and spitting out her foul discharge. On the second day her physical circumstances improved a little: the left fire duct, though still painful, was now capable of generating little knife-shaped bursts of fire. But Lizbreath’s depression did not lift.
She was cowed. The experience had cowed her. And this, in the idiom of dragons, is one of the worse things that can happen: to be turned, metaphorically speaking, into a placid, cud-chewing milk-teater.
Her left fire duct recovered quickly, though. By the third day her right fire duct had recovered as well, and she was able to blast a few purifying thrusts of flame. That helped clear the generalized throat infection, and made her feel a little better. But the watery mood in her mind didn’t dissipate. She turned on her computer and made some desultory searches. Some notions circulated in her thoughts. But then she turned off her equipment and returned to her hoard. It seemed as though there was an obstacle for her to overcome that was beyond her.
On the fourth day a raven arrived from the north of the country. It was another message from Brimstön, asking if she had ‘found stuff out’ about the Vagners. But she could not focus her thoughts on that topic. On the other hand, she did find herself growing bored of her depression. It seems a strange thing to say, for as everybody knows depression and boredom are really two words that mean the same thing; but perhaps, as fire fights fire, the two things can cancel one another out.
The raven’s message annoyed her. Then she brooded about it. Then her brain started working.
She sent a message to Fang, asking him to contact a mutual friend called Mon. Maker with certain requests. Fang replied with a terse raven. The bird barely stayed five seconds to deliver its message: ‘OK, but it will cost.’
And that, of course, was the problem. She could think of various ways of proceeding, but all of them needed a good deal of money. And for that she would have to go back to Burnblast, beg him for funds. Which would mean putting up with his… attentions.
Another dragon might have thought of going straight to the authorities. But Lizbreath was not another dragon. From her point of view, Burnblast was the authorities. If she went to the Pride services, to the police, even to the Dragonlords themselves, she would find herself face to face with elderly, large, sly-eyed male dragons, just like him. Why, the supreme Firehrer himself (though of course considerably larger) had scales the same colour as her Guardian.
She was used to sorting out her own problems. But the problem with sorting this problem was that it was too large a problem for her to deproblematize. And that made it problematic.
She needed money. There was no alternative. Although every fiery fibre in her being rebelled against the thought, she would have to go back to Burnblast’s office.
Cinderday came round, and Lizbreath again descended her Guardian’s stairway to emerge, reluctantly, into his cavern. He was sprawled lazily on the top of his hoard, casually reading a Saga – Hötwyrmlövin Saga – that contained sexually explicit dragon material. Seeing him openly indulging in Pernography like that was bad enough; worse was the cruel indulgence with which he greeted her. ‘How charming to see you again, my dear,’ he drawled, little bundles of smoke skittering from the corners of his wide grin. ‘Perhaps you are I are going to be friends, after all. That will make things so much easier – for us both.’
‘I need money,’ said Lizbreath, loitering by the entrance, and not meeting his gaze. She was carrying a small satchel.
‘Of course you do, my dear!’ Burnblast rose slowly into the air, with languorous wingbeats. ‘Everybody needs money. But before we get to that part of proceedings, there are several things I want to… try.’ He drifted down the flank of his hoard, his big head coming closer – four times her size, much stronger and hotter-breathed. It was an intimidating approach, and he knew it. ‘Just the two of us today,’ he said, trailing a back foot in his treasure as he descended, and setting a scree clatter of small golden objects sliding down the larger heap. ‘I don’t think we need Human any more. Do we, my dear. I think we understand one another.’
‘Yes,’ said Lizbreath.
She brought out the Fire Extinguisher. It was a red cylinder, about as long as Lizbreath’s own head, but chunky and weighty and topped with a Medusa-tangle of cords, tubes and metal levers. Burnblast, to judge by his expression, had never seen one before. But before he could ask what it was, Lizbreath angled one of its tubes straight in his face and fired.
A megaphone-shaped splurt of white foam shot out. The stuff went straight into his eyes.
Burnblast made a resonant throaty deep squeal, and tried to twist his neck. But Lizbreath was too quick. She leapt, spinning in mid-air to seize the back of his head with her hindlimbs. With her forelimbs she angled the Fire Extinguisher down and sprayed long sloppy blasts first in one nostril, then the other, and finally – as the old dragon opened his mouth to howl in pain – straight down his throat.
Burnblast rolled and twisted in blind agony. Lizbreath was ready: she brought out the titanium hook and fixed it, and therefore its pendant chain, around one of the old dragon’s spine frills. He himself did the rest, writhing and spinning, as Lizbreath jumped into the air overhead, making sure to play out enough chain to allow Burnblast to truss himself up comprehensively.
The tantrum of his agony spent itself soon enough, and he lay there on the floor, at the foot of his own hoard, chained and restrained. His fat flanks heaved against the ties, but there was nothing he could do.
From this point on, Lizbreath worked smoothly and quickly. Out of her satchel she brought out two stainless steel clamps: not unlike the ones Burnblast had used on her, though newer and a little smaller. Burnblast was opening and shutting his mouth in a cycle of gasping agony, blinded by the Fire Extinguisher foam. Lizbreath waited for the right moment, then thrust her forearm into his open maw and clamped the foam-sodden fire ducts closed.
The feel of this Extinguisher gunk on her scales was horrible – wet and slippery and slimy. Reaching into Burnblast’s mouth was the only point in the whole proceedings when she felt as if she might lose it: but bringing out her arms she held them in front of her mouth and washed them with purifying fire, which evaporated most of the moisture and turned the residue to a black tar that wasn’t half so noisome.
She took a breath. The trickiest part was over.
Burnblast was making a strangulated trumpeting sound, half choking and half outrage. Lizbreath leant forward and blew hot, pale-orange fire right in his eyes. This was a kindness, although she had her reasons for it. Burnblast blinked, and blinked, and was able, finally, to see again. ‘Lizbreath,’ he croaked. ‘Lizbreath! What have you done? This is not – wise.’
‘Shut up,’ said Liz, in a level voice.
Bleared and scummed as they were, there was no mistaking the way Burnblast opened his eyes wider in astonishment. He was not used to being talked at in such terms. ‘Lizbreath,’ he said again. ‘Stop and think! What are you doing?’
‘I’m using a Fire Extinguisher.’
‘A Fire – what?’ Burnblast’s croak was incredulous. ‘Extinguisher? What are you talking about?’
‘It’s exactly what it sounds like. It extinguishes fire.’
‘Who would want to extinguish fire?’ he said.
‘The thing has its uses,’ said Lizbreath.
‘Where did you find such a strange device?’
‘Enough of your talking now,’ said Lizbreath; and when Burnblast opened his mouth to retort she pushed the metal body of the Fire Extinguisher hard into the open cavity. It went down the foam-slick throat with gratifying ease. Burnblast’s eyes went very wide.
‘Uncomfortable, eh?’ said Lizbreath. ‘Still, you don’t need to speak to communicate, do you? You are, for instance, communicating very effectively now with your whole expression. You are saying: I shall revenge myself upon you, Salamander. You are thinking: When I get out of this I shall visit ruin and devastation upon you.’
Burnblast struggled, wriggled, pushed his wings and hindlegs against the wrapped-about chain. But there was nothing he could do.
‘But, you see,’ Lizbreath went on. ‘You won’t. You will leave me in peace. In fact, you will do more than that. You will give me back my hoard, and use your influence to have my legal status altered to full dragon.’
Burnblast glowered.
‘Let me explain why you will do these things.’ Lizbreath held up the miniature eye and ear. ‘When I was last here I had these ingenious things secreted about my body. Everything you and your henchdragon said and did is recorded in them. I’ve made copies. If anything happens to me – more, if you displease me in any way at all – then the Sagas are going to be full of your perverted sexual tastes. That would be a damaging blow to your credibility as a senior dragon, don’t you think?’
Burnblast was very still now, fixing his malevolent eyes upon her.
‘What I want, fundamentally,’ said Lizbreath, ‘is: to be left alone. So I shall take my gold, and not bother you any more. And more importantly you will not bother me any more.’
She unpacked the final items from her satchel.
‘But there’s one more thing, before I go. I told you several times that the image of the human girl on my shoulder was not painted on, but you didn’t listen. So I shall show you the difference between a tattoo and a body-painting.’ She held up the equipment she had brought with her. ‘One difference, you see, is that you can wash a painting off. Still – it’s a very rare thing among dragons, a tattoo. So you can console yourself with the exclusivity.’
She jumped and landed on Burnblast’s chest. It took her quite a long time, and some of the letters came out a little wonky, what with Burnblast’s wriggling and groaning, and the general unevenness of his scales. But eventually she had finished. Across the old dragon’s underbelly, in clearly legible writing, it now said: I A FOUL OLD DRAGON WHO ENDULGES IN ORAL SEX PERVERSION.
‘Hmm,’ said Lizbreath, standing back to survey her handiwork. ‘Now that I’ve done it, I’m not sure that is how “indulges” is spelled. Ah well. Can’t be helped.’
10
The last thing Asheila said to Käal, before he left her apartment, was: ‘You should have a word with my cousin Marrer.’
‘I should?’
‘He’s been chosen by Helltrik to succeed him as the head of the clan. Plus, he’s the nicest member of the family by far. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.’
Käal liked this sort of thing best of all: doing what other people told him to. ‘Thanks for the suggestion!’ he said brightly.
Käal left Asheila napping, and took a look around the Vagner island. The garden was maintained by a crew of Moomins. He saw them at work, but when he came over to talk to them they scattered. Shy buggers, Moomins. Although, to be fair, most non-draconic forms of life are pretty shy around dragons.
He went right round the central castle: manicured gardens on three sides, and a Chilean Flame tree orchard on the fourth. It was very pleasant and tasteful, but most of all it was evidently very expensive. Then Käal jumped up the side of the building to the main entrance balcony. He bumped into a firedrake. Käal recognized him as the creature who had met him when he first arrived. ‘Hello!’ Käal said. ‘I didn’t catch your name before…’
‘It not being a fish,’ was the reply; and the firedrake flew off.
‘I’m looking for Marrer!’ he yelled after the servant’s retreating form. There was no reply.
‘Charming,’ said Käal, to himself. ‘How on earth am I going to find Marrer now?’
‘Did I hear you call my name?’ said a well-modulated voice. A handsome dragon of early middle age came out of the main castle entrance.
‘Are you Marrer?’
‘I am. And you must be Käal. Your arrival has sent a buzz through the little world of Doorbraak.’ He flashed a smile, a long mouth of neatly polished and cleaned teeth like open-and-closed brackets. ‘It is really delightful to meet you.’
Marrer was a trim, muscular dragon, mostly amber-maroon in colour. His brow displayed a receding line of head spikes that made him look intellectual. But the main impression he created was one of likeability.
‘The feeling is entirely mutual.’
‘I apologize for our servants,’ he said, smoothly. ‘They’re not terribly good, I’m afraid. We have troubles with retention.’
‘Really?’
‘They say that Doorbraak is haunted,’ said Marrer. ‘Imagine! They don’t like it. This makes it harder than it might otherwise be…’
‘Harder?’
‘To retain good staff,’ said Marrer, with a small sigh. ‘It’s nonsense, of course. The Island isn’t haunted. But you know how firedrakes are!’
‘Never having had servants…’ Käal said, with an apologetic laugh.
‘Oh, of course. Not every creature is as – rational as might be desirable. And firedrakes are particularly susceptible to mumbo-jumbo. Anyway, enough of our troubles. Have you settled in at Doorbraak? It can be a slightly disorienting place for visitors, I know.’
‘I’m starting to get a sense of the place. I’ve, er, met your cousin – Asheila.’
‘Aha!’
‘She’s lovely,’ said Käal, loyally.
‘So you two hit it
off?’ said Marrer. ‘I’m delighted. She’s a sweetheart.’ He gave Käal a roguish look. ‘Though she’s something of a maneater, you know.’
‘Really?’ said Käal, impressed.
‘Oh yes. She likes fine food. Not real men, of course – not your actual hömös apes. There aren’t any of them left around. But there’s a butcher in Starkhelm who cuts and dresses pork to look like an actual old-world man – puts him in the tin trousers and coat and so on and everything. Asheila likes to pretend she’s the heroine of a medieval romance – dresses up in the gear, puts a woman doll in the top tower, and then eats the man.’
‘Charming!’ said Käal, with warmth. ‘I didn’t realize she had such a playful side.’
‘And talking of eating, my friend, you must come and have supper with me. No, no, I insist upon it! My great-uncle has invited you here to write the Family Saga, I believe?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Although everybody is saying that the real reason you’re here is to investigate poor Hellfire’s disappearance, all those centuries ago.’
There didn’t seem to be any point in denying it. ‘It’s true.’
‘My sister,’ Marrer said, his expression growing briefly sad. Käal nodded, trying once again, and again failing, to visualize the complex netting of the Vagner family tree. ‘I still miss her, poor little dragonette.’
‘I have something of a reputation for finding stuff out,’ said Käal. ‘I hope I’ll be able to uncover something about your sister’s, uh, evanishment.’ Was that a word?
‘I hope I can be of some use to you.’
‘Asheila suggested I talk to you, actually.’
‘Did she?’ said Marrer, his face breaking into a smile. ‘My dear cousin! What else did she say?’
‘Only – to spare your embarrassment – that you are very nice. A straight-up, honest, dependable dragon, she said.’
‘I hope so!’ said Marrer, laughing again. ‘I try my best. I certainly don’t maintain a secret dungeon beneath my apartment in which I imprison visitors, torturing them to death over months with a succession of wet and slimy creatures, on account of the diseased psychotic impulses writhing through my degraded brain!’ He beamed at Käal.