by Tom Holt
‘Did you say out of here?’ he whispered.
‘Of course.’ The guard chuckled. ‘You didn’t think we were going to leave you here with all these nutters running around loose, did you?’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Gordon really hadn’t expected that there’d be tears, but when they came he didn’t try and keep them back. ‘For a moment there, when that other guard said Colonel Wintergreen was a man of destiny, I honestly thought I’d had it. Really I did.’
‘Colonel Wintergreen,’ the new guard said gravely, ‘is potty. Crazy as a barrelful of ferrets. Come on, let’s get you two out of the corridor, just in case those bastards change their minds.’ The new guard shut the fire door behind them and locked it. There were four huge mortise locks on the inside of the door, along with various bolts and chains. After spending time with Colonel Wintergreen, he could understand why.
‘This way,’ the new guard said. ‘Not very far now.’
‘Wonderful,’ Gordon said. ‘Where are we going, by the way?’
‘I’m taking you to the high altar,’ the guard replied over his shoulder. ‘The Grand Archimandrite wants a quick word with you before the sacrifice.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘So thereyou are,’ the scientist said. The dragon looked up at her. The refractive effect of the water in his bowl made the human’s face look grotesque, monstrous; that and the sheer size of the enormous creature staring down at him. That huge wide mouth could swallow him whole. He felt like a human looking up at a dragon.
‘Can you hear me?’ the scientist went on. ‘If you can, I’d like you to flick your tail or wiggle your fins or something. Will you do that for me?’
The scientist was obviously trying to speak softly and comfortably; to the dragon, of course, it came through as a rolling, thunderous wave of sound, ponderously slow and terribly distorted. Every instinct, piscine and draconian, told him to get the hell out of there, swim away as fast as he could. But there was nowhere to swim to, and besides, the scientist might interpret it as cooperation. He forced himself to lie motionless in the water.
‘Are you sure you can’t hear me? Or are you just playing hard to get? It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you. Really. I’m on your side.’
The dragon fought back the urge to set tail and flee. As if anything as big as that could ever be on his side . . . It took an effort to make himself remember that most of the time he wasn’t just that big, he was a hell of a lot bigger. But that was different. It was different because he was one of the good guys.
‘I’m going to assume you can hear me,’ the scientist went on. ‘My guess is that you’re frightened and confused, you don’t know who I am and you have no reason to trust me. I guess it’s up to me to prove myself to you. Okay?’
In spite of the Spielbergesque special effects and the instinctive horror and revulsion, there was something terribly insidious about the scientist’s words. Monsters aren’t the only enormous things that appear in the sky and talk to you in voices like thunder. Gods do the same thing, and they’re even easier to believe in than (to take an example at random) dragons. He wanted to reach out and put his fins over his ears; but his fins were too short and he wasn’t actually sure where his ears were, or if he had any at all.
‘First things first,’ the scientist continued. ‘I don’t know when you last had anything to eat, but I’m prepared to bet you could use something right now. Am I right?’
The dragon stayed put.
‘I’ll take that as a Yes,’ the scientist said. ‘Now then, what would you like to eat? We’ve got - let’s see, there’s ants’ eggs, some sort of crusty, flaky stuff that reminds me of what you get when you stick your finger up your nose and press hard, but maybe you guys really like it. Of course, if neither of those tickles your fancy, all you’ve got to do is tell me what you’d like. And yes, I know you can’t talk to me through all that water, but I’m sure we could work something out. You could flick your tail in Morse code, or I could hold up little cardboard letters and when I’m holding up the right one you could do a somersault or something. If you’re interested, I could see about rigging up a miniaturised underwater mike.’
The dragon hadn’t eaten for a very long time and was extremely hungry, but not so hungry that he could face the thought of more ants’ eggs. They tasted, he’d discovered, exactly the way a dragon would expect them to taste. He’d rather starve. The only problem was fighting down the irresistible goldfish urge to swallow the disgusting things as they drifted past his nose; it was like not blinking when someone sticks a finger in your eye, only harder.
‘Ants’ eggs it is, then. Oh, and by the way: if you’re playing dumb in an attempt to make me think you’re just a common-or-garden goldfish, hoping that I’ll get bored and throw you out of the window or flush you down the bog, forget it. I know that the moment you escape from confinement, you’ll change back into your regular shape and whoosh, that’ll be the last we see of you. Okay? Now, are you sure you wouldn’t rather have something else besides ants’ eggs? I think they look utterly revolting, but what would I know?’
If only he could close his eyes at will . . . But goldfish eyes didn’t work like that. All he could do was try and brace himself for the nausea that would follow on a split second after he’d swallowed the first egg. He tried to tell himself that it wouldn’t be so bad this time, but without much success. He’d never been much good at lying to himself, even under the best of circumstances.
‘Bombs away,’ the scientist said. ‘My God, you are hungry, aren’t you? Well, at least that’s one problem solved, we know what to feed you on. That’s a relief. Last thing we want is for you to die on us. We’d hate that.’
The dragon couldn’t close his eyes, but he could more or less close his mind; not as well as he’d have liked, because it was something only dragons could do, and he’d been stuck in this dreadful parody of his real shape so long that he was starting to forget how to do it. But he was at least able to blur out the world around him - like half-closing one eye and focusing the other on something a long way away. Instead, he opened his mind to thoughts of open air, clouds, gentle breezes filling the soft skin of his wings, thermal currents tugging at his ears as he flew. He imagined flipping over onto his back in mid air and letting a warm, firm wind carry him, of the warmth of the sun on his belly and the fresh chill of the air in his eyes and nostrils. It was comforting, up to a point; but all the time he was worryingly aware that he was a fish imagining what it would be like to be a dragon, maybe inaccurately. Had he ever actually done any of the things he was thinking about? He wasn’t sure.
Rain. He tried to think about rain. He found that he could-n’t. Now that was disturbing.
‘Like I was saying,’ the scientist went on, ‘it’s essential that we trust each other, or we’ll never get anywhere. I won’t get what I want. You’ll have to stay in that horrid little bowl. I’ll bet you it’s really nasty being stuck in there. I mean, you’re used to wide open spaces, unlimited movement; my heart bleeds for you, it really does. All right, you’re saying, so why don’t you let me out of here? And yes, I’d love to. Really I would. Except - well, first, I need to be able to trust you. I mean, what assurance have I got that as soon as you’re out of there and back in your own shape, you won’t flatten me and this whole building with one slash of your tail? I’m not asking for hostages or an affidavit or anything. I’d happily take your word. Any word’ll do. Say anything. Say “Xylophone” or “Sideways”, I don’t care. For God’s sake, how can we talk this over like rational creatures if you just lie there opening and shutting your mouth?’
The dragon hadn’t realised he’d been doing that. He wasn’t quite sure how to stop doing it, either. He’d have blushed with embarrassment if he wasn’t bright orange already.
‘Well,’ the scientist said, ‘at least I can be up front with you, and then maybe you might just feel you’re able to return the favour. And if not well, I’m in no hurry. I’m not the one stuck in the wro
ng shape in a poxy little bowl.’
A single ants’ egg floated lazily by. The dragon hated himself for swallowing it.
‘You know, if I could be sure you’re actually listening, this’d be a whole lot easier. Otherwise - well, here I am, a grown woman with two PhDs, talking to a goldfish. If I was me, I’d have me locked up. Anyway, here goes. Oh, this is silly.’ The scientist walked rapidly away, becoming nothing more than a white blur on the edge of the dragon’s curved vision. It was a while before she came back.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Temper tantrum, not very scientific. But you see, I’ve waited my whole life for this moment. I’ve been studying weather since I was a kid in school. All these years, I knew you existed - I didn’t dare breathe a word of it, of course, or they’d have slung me out of Princeton so hard I wouldn’t have stopped bouncing till I reached Utah, but I never stopped believing. And now you’re here and I’m here, this is such an incredible moment for me, and you’re just hanging there like an empty Coke bottle - it’s so frustrating I’m ready to burst into tears. Please don’t do this to me, it’s so unfair. All I need is just one flick of the tail, anything to prove to myself that I’m not crazy . . . Is that really so much to ask? Really?’
The dragon concentrated. The scientist’s words were tugging at his compassion almost as forcefully as the ants’ eggs pulled his head round. Only by concentrating, putting all his weight behind the door of his mind and heaving, could he keep control. It was almost more than fin and scale could bear, far worse than any threats or actual pain could ever be. After all, what harm could it do, just one tail-flick . . .?
Harm beyond all measure, more damage than he could ever hope to imagine. He knew that; or at least, the dragon knew that. The goldfish believed that he’d known it once.
‘Please . . .?’
He cleared his mind of the visions of air and cloud and flight; they were starting to get cloudy and vague, as the blue skies merged with blue water, the fluffy clouds became indistinguishable from hazy clouds of pondweed fronds, the currents - Instead, he thought about his daughter, and was immediately strong again. Picturing her in his mind, he knew who he was.
‘All right, fish.’ The scientist’s voice had changed. ‘This is your last chance. You’re a small fish in a small pond, fish. Now, we can do this the hard way - God, I never thought I’d see the day when I’d say something like that. It’s all your fault, dammit, you’re turning me into the sort of person who can say ‘We can do this the hard way’ and not get a terminal fit of the giggles. That’s sad, fish. I don’t like it. So—’
The dragon relaxed. He could feel every part of his body now. It’s amazing, he reflected, how therapeutic a few vague threats can be. One moment he was a prisoner inside a body inside a bowl; the next he was in control, able to resist, able to think clearly again. As the last few ants’ eggs drifted past, he ignored them easily. As for the threats; he couldn’t wait. What he really wanted, most of all, was for this silly woman to try something - anything - in the way of violent action; because in order to do anything to him, she’d have to take him out of the water first, and the moment she did that, he’d be ready.
‘This is your last chance, fish.’
By concentrating really hard, calling on muscles and nerves that had never been designed for such a manoeuvre, mostly by sheer will-power, the dragon managed to curl back the edges of his lips in a teeny, tiny smile. His last chance, maybe; but he was ready.
Planning on going fishing, huh? You should have seen the one that got away.
‘Just the one night?’ the desk clerk asked suspiciously.
Karen nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Then where’s your luggage?’
‘What?’ Karen was too tired to be able to handle difficult concepts like luggage on the spur of the moment. ‘Oh yes, right, luggage. I haven’t got any.’
‘None at all?’
‘Everything I need is in my handbag. I’m only stopping the one night.’
Which, if the reception area was anything to go by, would probably prove to be one night too many. Admittedly, she was a trifle more fastidious than the average human (the same, of course, is true of all cats, most dogs and the leading brands of pig) but she didn’t think it was totally unreasonable to object to carpet that crunched underfoot and cobwebs strong and thick enough to stand the weight of the knuckle-sized chunks of plaster that had flaked off the walls since the place was last dusted. On the other hand, it was all she could afford.
‘One night, huh?’ The clerk scowled. ‘I know your game.’
‘You do?’
‘Too right I do. You’re going to kill yourself.’
Not for the first time during her dealings with humans, Karen had the distinct impression that she was getting the pictures from one programme and the words from another. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.
‘We get loads of your sort in here,’ the clerk went on. ‘You can spot ’em a mile off. No bloody consideration, that’s your problem.’
‘What on earth,’ Karen said, ‘makes you think I’m about to kill myself?’
‘Oh please,’ the clerk said. ‘Give me some credit. I mean, look at you. No luggage. Miserable look on your face. Slumped up against the desk like that because you’ve lost the will to live. You might as well have a sign round your neck saying farewell, cruel world, it’s that obvious. Well, not here you don’t, because I’m sick and tired—’
‘Really,’ Karen said ‘I’m not going to kill myself. Promise.’ She smiled. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
‘Huh! Told you—’
Karen took a deep breath. ‘I give you my sacred word of honour as a—’ She managed to stop herself before she said ‘dragon’; then she was going to say what she really did for a living, but even as a part-time Johnny-come-lately human, she could see that ‘on my sacred word of honour as an estate agent’ didn’t quite have the right ring to it. ‘—Pet-shop inspector that I’m not going to commit suicide. If it makes you feel any better, I won’t even trim my toenails while I’m here, just in case I accidentally nick an artery with the nail scissors and bleed to death. Satisfied?’
The man sneered. He was very good at it, just like Elvis Presley. ‘Huh,’ he said. ‘They all say that.’
‘Really? You get a lot of pet-shop inspectors passing through here, do you?’
‘They all say they aren’t going to snuff themselves,’ the man explained irritably. ‘Then, soon as your back’s turned, they’re standing on chairs tying bits of rope to the light fittings. You got any idea how much it costs to get the wiring right again after some bugger’s hung himself from the light flex?’
Karen thought for a moment. ‘You could change over to those fluorescent tubes,’ she said. ‘Nothing on those things that you could get a good anchor on.’
‘Yeah, and pull half the ceiling down on top of you an’ all,’ the clerk growled. ‘No fear.’
‘Hey, it was just a suggestion.’ Karen breathed slowly, in, out and in. ‘Look, are you going to give me a room, or do I go somewhere else? I know,’ she added, ‘tell you what: how’d it be if I gave you a deposit? And then, if I’m still alive at half past eight in the morning, you give me my money back. If I’ve gone and done myself in, you keep it. How does that sound to you?’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘How much?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know - thirty pounds?’
‘Seventy.’
‘Forty.’
‘Fifty,’ the clerk said. ‘And that’s just covering paint and disinfectant.’
‘All right, fifty it is,’ Karen sighed. ‘After all, you can’t take it with you.’
‘Hey—’
‘Joke,’ Karen snapped. ‘Gee, if that’s typical of your idea of a sense of humour in these parts, no wonder you’re all in such a hurry to depart this life.’
A few minutes later, she turned the key in the lock of her room and pushed the door. It moved unwillingly, as if being asked to do unpaid
overtime. The rest of the room wasn’t much better, and Karen found herself wondering whether the high mortality rate among the hotel’s guests wasn’t just a straightforward reaction to their environment.
She sat down on the bed (slowly and carefully; it made an alarming creaking noise if you put any weight on it at all, and Karen was painfully aware that she had fifty pounds deposit at stake here) and reviewed her progress to date in the quest she’d assigned herself. That didn’t take long.
Oh, she’d kept busy, no doubt at all about that. She’d walked miles and miles and miles on these quaintly impractical human feet. She’d told a lot of lies, frightened a lot of shopkeepers and fish-owners, seen one hell of a lot of goldfish. That was the problem; she’d been working flat out all day long, and she’d only just scratched the surface of goldfish ownership in one medium-sized city. At this rate, it could take decades, centuries to conduct a methodical search and that was assuming that her whole approach to the problem wasn’t based on an entirely false premise. The more she thought about it, the more remote the logic seemed to be. Karen believed (on rather tenuous grounds) that her father must be trapped in the form of a goldfish, so she was looking for goldfish-owners to see if one of them had him. But (logic whispered maliciously in her ear) it wasn’t goldfish-fanciers she needed to look for, it was dragon-fanciers. The nearest she could get to a firm connection was the hypothesis that whoever was holding her father in goldfish form would need to buy things like fish-food, and pondweed and air-filter cartridges and all the million-and-one other things that underprivileged fish in seas and rivers somehow struggle on without. It was, she reckoned, a bit like trying to find a needle in a haystack by searching for the cotton it was threaded with.
She yawned like a cross-channel car ferry and lay back on the bed, kicking off her shoes with atypically human slovenliness. She was learning more about the critters all the time - how short their lives were, how long it took them to do anything, how hard they contrived to make things for themselves . . . She remembered something she’d seen in the park once, on one of the rare occasions when she’d been alone with Paul, strolling away the stub end of a lunch hour; a determined-looking woman in a designer tracksuit puffing along at a brisk trot with what looked disconcertingly like small sandbags Velcroed to her ankles and wrists. Karen found this so bizarre that without stopping to think that this was the sort of thing she was supposed to know already, she asked Paul what those funny things were that the woman had on. He replied that they were small sandbags, Velcroed to her ankles and wrists; and he’d gone on to explain that their purpose was to make the act of jogging even harder work than it was already.