The Song of the Quarkbeast: Last Dragonslayer: Book Two

by Jasper Fforde

  * * *

  Everyone but the Useless Brother and Boo knelt as the King walked out on to the flat roof where we were standing. He was on his own, or more accurately, he had so few courtiers, hangers-on and advisers that he might as well have been alone – I counted an astonishingly low dozen, which was normal when the King was in a solitary frame of mind. Snodd’s ridiculously high staffing levels were not unusual within the royalty of the Ununited Kingdoms. He reputedly needed four valets to take a bath, and a minimum of two to go to the loo. One to hold the toilet paper and the other to . . . well, I’m sure you get the picture.

  It was Tenbury who spoke first.

  ‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘you bless us with your presence.’

  ‘I do rather, don’t I?’ he replied.

  The King was a youthful-looking forty, and was in annoyingly good health for those who thought it might be better for all concerned if he would drop dead and let his wife, the considerably less militaristic and more diplomatic Queen Mimosa, take over. One of the few acts of civil disobedience within the Kingdom in recent years had been a march in support of Queen Mimosa having greater control in government. The King was prepared to use water cannon, riot police and tear gas, until Queen Mimosa stepped in herself and told the marchers to ‘return home and be patient’, something that they did, much to the King’s astonishment and annoyance – he’d not used his riot police for a while and thought they needed some practice.

  ‘I heard my good friend Jennifer Strange was in the castle,’ said the King, ‘and I just – why is that woman not grovelling or averting her eyes in my presence?’

  Everyone looked up from where they were kneeling.

  ‘This is the Once Magnificent Boolean Smith, Your Majesty, the magic test adjudicator and recently appointed Beastmaster.’

  ‘What happened to Hugo?

  ‘He came off worse in an argument with a Tralfamosaur.’

  He stared at Boo again and took two steps forward to remonstrate with her.

  ‘Now listen here, good lady, I am the . . .’

  His voice trailed off as he fell into the inky blackness of her eyes.

  ‘Lumme,’ he said, ‘I have the queerest feeling that I’m drowning.’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Once Magnificent Boo in an ominous tone, ‘but you shall, and in mud, deserted by those you thought were friends.’

  There was a difficult pause as the King and his courtiers took this in. The fact that there was a pause rather than an instant contradiction seemed to suggest not only that the King thought this a feasible demise, but his attendants did too.

  ‘Now listen here—’

  ‘Your Majesty should forgive a respected ex-enchantress her eccentricities,’ said Tenbury in a soothing tone, and whispered something in the King’s ear.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the King, ‘all may rise, since we are friends together.’

  We got to our feet, the King cleared his throat and, ignoring Boo, began again.

  ‘I heard my good friend Jennifer was in the castle and I popped by to say “wotcha”.’

  I was immediately suspicious. The King never ‘popped’ by anywhere, rarely said ‘wotcha’ and was definitely not a friend.

  ‘Come here, child,’ said the King, and I approached cautiously. The last time we had met he had me put in jail for daring to meddle in his plans to invade the Duchy of Brecon. Thankfully, ‘averting a war with pacifist aforethought’ couldn’t be found anywhere on the statute books so I was released after two weeks of half-rations and a single sheet to sleep under in a damp cell without natural light. To anyone else it might have been unbearable, but after being brought up by the Blessed Ladies of the Lobster, it was really quite relaxing. I’d not slept so well for months.

  ‘Good afternoon, Your Majesty,’ I said, curtsying. ‘How best can I serve you?’

  When I was a Dragonslayer I could do more or less what I wanted, but now I was simply an agent at Kazam and a loyalish subject of the King I had to be more careful. With despots it was always best to flatter and say ‘yes’ as often as possible. The King smiled, revealing a set of ridiculously white teeth. He wore a monocle and was thought of as handsome for a member of the royalty, and slightly like a weasel if he’d been anyone else. He had a silly habit of always wearing a crown, and lots of scarlet and ermine.

  ‘I have decided that I should take this Mystical Arts nonsense with more seriousness than I have in the past,’ he announced, ‘and now the power of your old-fangled “magic” is arising once more, I must have a dedicated wizard at court in order to see how best the nation’s newest asset can be efficiently exploited.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘I mean, ‘how magic can best be used to serve the people’. What do you think?’

  ‘I think that the Mystical Arts are best independent,’ I replied. ‘They should serve no one in particular, and be beholden to no—’

  ‘You are but a child,’ he said patronisingly, ‘simplistic and unversed in the way of the world. What do you say, All Powerful Blix?’

  I thought of mentioning that he was simply ‘the Amazing Blix’ but then this whole thing seemed to have a certain degree of stage management about it. There had been negotiations behind my back, and right now I was not guiding events, but their passenger.

  ‘I think that is a fine idea, sire,’ said Blix obsequiously. ‘Your Gracious Majesty has a responsibility to better promote this new power for the betterment of the Ununited Kingdoms.’

  ‘I could not have put it better myself and did,’ said the King, turning back to me. ‘You are appointed to the post, Mr Blix. Miss Strange, can I rely upon Kazam to afford all help that Court Mystician All Powerful Blix requires?’

  I stared at him for a moment. A Court Mystician was a big jump for Blix and a worrying one. By ancient decree from the days when wizards were more powerful than they are now it made him eighth in line to the throne, after the royal family and Lord Tenbury. At times like this, I simply did what the Great Zambini would have done. He had expressly told me that Blix was not to be trusted in any way, shape or form. I chose my words carefully.

  ‘I’m afraid to say that we would have to rigorously examine any requests from Blix and consider each very carefully on its individual merits.’

  The King raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘No.’

  The King smiled at me.

  ‘You are so very, very predictable, Miss Strange. I could force your houses to join, and even enact legislation to have Kazam outlawed. But those are the acts of a despot, not those of a fair, just and much-loved leader. Me,’ he added, in case I was wondering who he was referring to. ‘No, I suggest that a new company be formed from Kazam and iMagic which will be called “Snodd Magic PLC” and from these fine beginnings great things will be achieved. What do you say?’

  I didn’t have to choose my words so carefully this time.

  ‘I believe I speak for all Kazam’s members when I say that I must reluctantly decline your Majesty’s generous offer. We will not support the Amazing Blix in any form whatsoever, and would strongly resist any attempt at a merger.’

  ‘Is that a no?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ The King sighed. ‘An impasse. What do we do when we reach an impasse, Useless Brother?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ continued the King, ‘we should have a contest to decide the matter. Magical contests are always enjoyed by the unwashed and the destitute – and especially by the unwashed destitute. I understand it is a traditional way to resolve matters between those versed in the Mystical Arts. Is that not so, Court Mystician?’

  ‘Most definitely,’ said Blix, turning to me. ‘From the head of one House of Enchantment to another, I challenge Kazam to a contest. Winner takes control of the other’s company.’

  I couldn’t really back out even if I’d wanted to. The Sorcerer’s Protocol was obscure, ancient, mostly illogical and cemented
into law by long implementation. To refuse a challenge was unthinkable, but then to issue a challenge was also unthinkable – it was something only ill-mannered dopes without any manners would do. Wizards like Blix, in fact.

  ‘I reluctantly accept,’ I replied, annoyed by the inflexibility of the Protocol, but not too worried. We could easily outconjure iMagic in any test they chose. ‘What shall the contest be?’

  ‘Why not Hereford’s old bridge?’ suggested Tenbury. ‘Kazam were planning on rebuilding it on Friday, and we can instead have a contest. Kazam can build from the north bank, and iMagic from the south. First one to get their keystones fitted in the centre of the middle arch wins the contest. Royal Magic Adjudicator, is that fair?’

  ‘As fair as you’ll see in this kingdom,’ said the Once Magnificent Boo, which I think meant she agreed.

  ‘I agree the terms,’ said Blix with a smile I didn’t much care for. ‘Jennifer?’

  ‘I too agree,’ I said, ‘with the proviso that if Kazam wins, the position of Court Mystician is taken up by someone of our choosing.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the King. ‘Blix, you agree to this?’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘What’s a keystone?’1 asked the King’s Useless Brother.

  ‘Well, there it is, then,’ said the King, ignoring him entirely, ‘carry on,’ and he swept from the roof with his entourage. A contest was always stressful, but we weren’t in much trouble. Even with Lady Mawgon as alabaster we still had five sorcerers to their three. Besides, dealing with Blix and the rest of the rabble over at iMagic once and for all might actually help matters.

  ‘Well,’ said Blix, ‘may the best side win.’

  ‘We plan to,’ I replied.

  ‘Can we finish the application?’ asked the Useless Brother. ‘I’m keen to use that stamp.’

  ‘A bull terrier,’ I said after a brief pause, ‘from Dorstonville.’

  Unfazed, Perkins gesticulated with his fingers and, far away, a bull terrier barked.

  ‘The test is complete to my satisfaction,’ announced Boo. She signed the form awkwardly with her gloved hands and left without a word to any of us.

  The form was duly countersigned by the Useless Brother and the heavy rubber stamp descended.

  We stayed for a few minutes in the outer office while the paperwork was processed, and twenty minutes later we were back outside, where Tiger was waiting for us in the Volkswagen.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  Perkins showed him the certificate, and Tiger congratulated him. We all talked about the contest on the journey back to Zambini Towers.

  ‘I’ve never seen a wizidrical contest before,’ said Tiger.

  ‘Few have,’ I replied, ‘and although an unwelcome distraction, they never cease to be anything but dramatic.’

  ‘The most spectacular contest was chronicled in the seventeenth century by Dude the Obscure,’ said Perkins, who was more up on this sort of stuff, ‘and was between the Mighty Shandar and the Truly Awesome Spontini. Shandar won three forests to a seven-headed dog in the first round, but lost nine castles to a geyser of lemonade in the second. It has been calculated that the deciding round used in excess of half a GigaShandar an hour, and involved some deft transformations, several vanishings, an exciting and wholly unrepeatable global teleport chase and an ice storm in summer. It was said the crackle was depleted so completely that no useful magic was done anywhere in the world for over six months.’

  ‘Who won?’ asked Tiger.

  ‘The Mighty Shandar,’ replied Perkins, ‘who else?’

  ‘Spectacular perhaps,’ I said, ‘but the most nail-biting was reputedly a low-level contest between two spell-managers of middle ranking who simply had an armchair hover-off in 1911. First one to touch the ground in their armchair lost. The tension had been considerable, apparently, and the contest was won after seventy-six hours of eye-popping concentration by Lady Chumpkin of Spode, who apparently lost three stone in weight with the effort.’

  ‘Will we win the bridge contest?’ asked Tiger.

  ‘Without a doubt,’ I said, with not quite as much certainty as I could have wished.

  * * *

  1 It’s the stone at the top of an arch that holds it all together. Oddly enough, an arch is held up by the very force that should make it collapse – gravity.

  Zambini Towers

  * * *

  We’d had lunch, congratulated Perkins and were now gathered in the Palm Court. The only member of the ‘inner sanctum’ of licensed sorcerers absent was Patrick of Ludlow, who was busy moving an oak for a wealthy client eager to alphabetise his arboretum.1

  Lady Mawgon and Monty Vanguard were still there, exactly the same as when we left. It would take ten or twenty years before a thin coating of lichen would make them look any different, although they might need a dusting by Tuesday week.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Perkins, who’d not seen a spell gone so badly wrong before. ‘Have we attempted a Magnaflux Reversal?’

  ‘Several times.’

  ‘Has anyone asked the Mysterious X?’ suggested Half Price. ‘Since he’s less of a who and more a what, he might have a different take on the problem.’

  This was entirely true. Because of Mysterious X’s nebulous state of semi-existence, we often gave him small jobs to do, such as retrieving cats stuck up trees, and it could persuade pianos into tune by glaring at them. The fact that he didn’t have a licence didn’t bother us, as there was little tangible evidence to say X even existed at all.

  ‘I could speak to it,’ volunteered Tiger. ‘I think it quite likes me – I’m the only one who can give X its weekly degauss2 without it causing trouble.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Wizard Moobin, and as Tiger hurried off, he passed the Transient Moose, who had just reappeared in the doorway, and watched us all in his usual laconic manner.

  ‘Let’s talk about the bridge contest,’ I announced. ‘Let’s suppose we can’t get Lady Mawgon back or use the Dibbles to help us – what problems do you think we might have?’

  ‘We’re still five to their three,’ said Moobin. ‘Blix is about on a par with me and a powerful levitator, but both Tchango and Dame Corby are less powerful than the Price brothers. Patrick is a solid plodder and can be trusted to get any heavy stone into position. We can keep Perkins in reserve and still beat them comfortably.’

  They then talked about crackle allocations and technical stuff like that, and although half my attention was on the meeting, my mind always tends to wander a bit during technical discussions, which are, to be frank, boring. Wizards in general don’t make good conversation. They are always reluctant to talk about how fantastic the conjured thunderstorm actually was – the size of the tempest and the bright flashes of lightning, the fearsome and towering storm-clouds and suchlike – but go into almost excruciating detail about the strands of spell that went into it. It would be like meeting Rembrandt only for him to talk about nothing but the wood of his brush handles.

  As I looked around the room in a bored manner my gaze fell upon the Transient Moose. I narrowed my eyes. For as long as anyone could remember the Moose had simply stood around doing not very much at all. As I watched he faded from view, but not to another part of the hotel as he usually did, but to where Lady Mawgon was rooted to the spot in her calcite splendour. The Moose stared at the alabaster, shook his antlers and then vanished.

  ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘See what?’ asked Moobin, who had just launched into a long and tedious discussion about Zorff’s 6th Axiom.

  ‘The Moose. He was examining Lady Mawgon as though he were . . . aware.’

  ‘The Moose was written with Mandrake Sentience Emulation Protocols,’3 said Full Price, ‘and like a Quarkbeast it shows considerable evidence of consciousness. But as to whether they are really alive or designed to make us think they are, we’ll never really know.’

  I opened my mouth to answer, but then noticed Tiger waving at me from the door of the Palm Court. I excus
ed myself and hurried over, glad of a distraction.

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘Patrick of Ludlow just phoned. He said he’s run into oversurge issues moving the oak in the arboretum and wanted a wizard to go down and help sort things out.’

  ‘If it’s an oversurge issue why not take Perkins?’ said Moobin when I asked him whether he could help. ‘He should know what it’s like to absorb crackle rather than use it.’

  Perkins agreed wholeheartedly as he was keen to begin his new career as a sorcerer, so a few minutes later myself, Perkins and Tiger were walking out the door towards my parked car. Tiger was carrying a partially inflated bin-liner as this was the way Mysterious X travelled when outside Zambini Towers. When you are nothing more than an inexplicable energy field of unknown origin, even a light breeze has a dispersing effect which can be quite unsettling.

  ‘Can you drop us off at the zoo?’ asked Tiger. ‘I kind of get the idea that Mysterious X might be able to help with the whole RUNIX deal, but wants to see the new Buzonji cub first.’

  That was how the Mysterious X communicated. Not by words, but by ideas that popped into your head. Perkins had spent many hours consulting with him on the powers of suggestion – or, if you didn’t believe in Mysterious X, Perkins had been sitting in a room, mumbling to himself.

  ‘I never thought X was big on zoos,’ I said as we climbed into my car, ‘but then again, the Buzonji cub is very cute. All gangly legs and a pink nose.’

  * * *

  1 Arboretum: it’s a sort of tree garden. Putting the trees in alphabetical order is quite pointless. A better use of his money would be supporting the Troll War widows’ fund.

  2 Put simply, it means demagnetising, a problem to which the Mysterious X is prone given his strange, semi-charged particle existence. A good degaussing for X is like delousing for a dog – they don’t like it much, but it’s good for them in the long run.