A Portion of Dragon and Chips

by Simon Haynes

  "By the gods, that is a wicked crime indeed!" said the youth.

  Gods? "You're not from around here, are you?"

  "Nay, I am a simple farm boy, dragged from my village in the middle of the night."

  "Why?"

  "I stand accused of performing magic."

  "Oh. Did you?"

  There was a pause. "I may or may not have uttered a spell which collapsed our family home."

  "Are you sure it wasn't termites?"

  "I am fair certain, since it was a stone-built home crafted from the finest materials by our most accomplished builder, Plais de Brick." The lad hesitated. "There were no survivors."

  "Except you."

  "Yes, the gods be thanked." The lad hesitated. "I am Thonn. By what name are you called?"

  "Tiera."

  "Why, our names start with the same letter. T'is a sign!"

  "If you're going to go with the farm boy defence, I wouldn't let on you know the letters of the alphabet." Tiera smiled to herself. What was she doing, helping the dolt? What business of hers was his fate?

  "Thank you, fair maiden. I am in your debt."

  "I'll be sure to ask for your help, next time you're not chained to a wall."

  "These bonds cannot hold me forever. I am Thonn. I have the power of magic."

  "Well, why not give your wand a twirl and get me out of here? I'll make it worth your while."

  "Give me a few moments to prepare myself."

  "Take all the time you want," said Tiera drily.

  There was a roar from outside as a particularly unpopular prisoner met his fate, and, distracted by the noise, Tiera almost missed the rattle of keys behind her. Like lightning, she moved away from the entrance to her cell, hiding behind the thick door even as it swung open. She stood in a killing stance, ready to sell her life dearly, then froze as she recognised the man in the doorway. It wasn't a guard, it was Captain Spadell, and he was carrying a rough cape over his arm.

  "I told you I'd get it open," called Thonn, from the cell next door.

  Spadell ignored him. "I thought you might be getting cold…" he began, then glanced round, eyebrows raised as he saw her crouched behind the door. "There are thirty guards between here and the entrance. Even if you made it out of your cell, how did you expect to escape?"

  "They believe me to be a courtesan, is that not so?"

  Spadell allowed that to be true. Several would have fallen before they realised what they were dealing with, but the rest would have killed her in time. "Why would you seek escape? I said I would free you."

  "Men say many things. Few are to be trusted."

  "Says the woman who beguiles them with her charms and then sticks a knife in them." Spadell held the cape up for her, and she accepted it gratefully. The cell was cold, and she wasn't exactly dressed for prison.

  There was an ooooh from the square, followed by raucous cheering.

  "Tell me, why the High Priest?" Spadell asked her. "As holy men go, he wasn't that bad. His vices were moderate, and he barely broke any laws to speak of."

  "I accept payment and do my job," said Tiera loftily. "The reasons are not always known to me."

  "I'm not a fool, and I know a professional when I see one. You spent three months preparing for this, so don't give me that spur of the moment crap."

  "You are well informed." Tiera hesitated. "There's another who wished to become High Priest, but first the position had to be vacated."

  "If it's the person I'm thinking of, he has no money. I'm afraid you were fooled."

  Tiera frowned. "My client promised ten guineas. I saw the coin myself."

  "Ten guineas!" exclaimed Spadell. "For that amount I'd have slept with the High Priest myself, and murdered him afterwards into the bargain. Or vice versa, for that matter. Ten guineas is a small fortune. Who around these parts has that kind of money to throw around?"

  "Lord Chancellor Regis," said Tiera quietly.

  Spadell snorted. "Half crowns plated with gold, no doubt. I know the man, he's completely untrustworthy."

  "Are you sure?"

  "He's the one who told me you were planning to kill the High Priest," said Spadell softly. "Of course, he waited until you were actually in the tower, at a time when he estimated you'd already done the deed."

  Ooh! Thud.

  "Regis will die for this," muttered Tiera.

  "You forget who you're talking to." Spadell hesitated. "So, about that little job you promised me."

  "Release me, and then we'll discuss matters."

  "Er … no. I don't think so." Spadell took a seat on the rough wooden bunk. "There's a certain person I want … removed. I don't care how it's done, but she has to go."

  "Oh. A wife, is it?"

  "I'm not married."

  "Boyfriend?"

  "If it were someone close to me, I would not need a professional to handle the deed."

  "Who, then?"

  Spadell hesitated, knowing the next words out of his mouth could have him kneeling on the rough blood-soaked stage that very afternoon, awaiting the keen edge of the executioner's axe. That is, if they didn't hang him first, chop up his body and feed the bits to a pride of mountain lions. But really, he had no choice but to trust this self-confident, capable woman. "In return for your freedom, I want you to kill the queen."

  Ooohh! went the crowd.

  Thud! went the latest victim's head.

  — ♦ —

  The bronze 'statue' sat on the damp sand, looking up at the two humans which had pulled him from the sea. Nasty stuff, seawater. It had seeped into his very core, although he was well built and the salty water could never actually harm him.

  After coughing up a bucket-load of ocean, Clunk shook his head, blew out his cheeks and tried speaking again. "Hello. My name is Clunk and I'm grateful for your assistance."

  The men were staring at him in terror, and clearly didn't understand a word. Clunk tried to access the local network, in order to download a dictionary, a map, and the route to the nearest space port. Unfortunately he couldn't even detect a carrier wave, let alone a signal, and with a sinking feeling, he realised the planet was populated with simple beings. In fact, judging by their armour and weapons, their technology was not much more advanced than that of moderately intelligent crows.

  Then one of them spoke, with a string of guttural syllables followed by what had to be a question mark. Clunk repeated the words back to them, and the two men took several steps backwards, muttering under their breath.

  Clunk had already applied his considerable brain power to their language, and when he stood up they rewarded him with a stream of new words to process.

  "Stay bzzzt or I'll bzzzt your bzzting bzzzt off!" said one of the men, brandishing a sword.

  "Peace," said Clunk. "No harm."

  "I'll no harm you, you bzzting hunk of bzzzt."

  Clunk raised his hand and slapped himself on the side of the head. His vision shook, but when he lowered his hand again he realised he could hear a little better. "Take me to the nearest stables," he said. Then he frowned. Stables? He hadn't meant stables, he'd meant the nearest spaceport. "I need a strong donkey to take me to the moon."

  The men looked a little less fearful now, and a lot more amused. "It would have to be a strong donkey indeed," said one of them.

  "Do you have any precious rings about your person?" asked the other.

  Clunk ignored them and tapped himself in the chest. "I am Clunk. I am Sur Roybot." No, a robot, he thought to himself, and then he realised the problem. He could think whatever words he wanted, but their language simply didn't have the vocabulary. No matter what he said, his inbuilt translator would approximate the best it could. That meant he couldn't discuss technology, space travel, or advanced machinery of any kind. If he tried to say computer, the words out of his mouth would be … "Mechanical book."

  "He's cracked," said one of the men. "We should throw him back quick."

  "No chance!" said the other. "He's worth a fortune! And he said
he was a knight." He turned to address Clunk. "Sur Roybot, from whence do you hail?"

  From an interstaller freighter on a cargo run, Clunk wanted to say, at least until the cargo hold fell open in hyperspace. However, there were two problems with this. One, he didn't have the words, and two … those were the sum total of his memories. Before that moment there was … nothing. With fumbling fingers, he opened a small chest compartment and peered inside. Sure enough, most of his data storage was missing, the empty sockets mocking him with their gaping holes.

  All Clunk knew for certain is that he'd arrived on this planet from the stars, and that meant he'd have to return to the stars to locate his missing memories. Then he heard a strangled noise of surprise, and he saw the two men staring at his chest in fascination. Quickly, Clunk closed the compartment and sealed it.

  "W-where do you come from?" asked one of the men, speaking slowly.

  Clunk raised his finger until he was pointing at the city walls, and the bell tower beyond.

  "Oh, someone tossed him off the cliff," said the first man. "Told you it was a bzzt of garbage. Come on, back in the sea with it."

  "I'll throw it in the sea if you bzzt that ring in after it," said the second man waspishly. "You're just piffed because my spit hot bzzt mechanical man is worth more than your fudding bauble."

  Clunk realised he was still losing words in the translation, and he gave himself another swift knock to the head. After that, he understood everything but their swearing, and he figured that was as good as it was going to get.

  Suddenly, the second man pointed to Clunk. "You are Sur Roybot. I am Pen-ton-ville." Then he pointed to his companion. "This fudder is called Is-ling-ton."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you both," said Clunk. "Now, if it's not too much trouble, can we leave this beach? I'm not overly keen on seawater."

  "Fudding hell," remarked Islington.

  "By Zephyr's hairy bells," said Pentonville in delight. "You can speak properly after all!"

  "My … dictionary was … faded." Clunk frowned as he struggled for the right words, and he realised he was facing a very tough situation. Not only would he have to educate these people, he'd also have to advance their civilisation to the spacefaring age before there was any chance of leaving the planet.

  Unfortunately, a strong donkey just wasn't going to cut it.

  "Come, come with us," said Pentonville, beckoning with both hands. "We must take you to the captain of the watch, for he will know what to do with you."

  Clunk nodded, and together the three of them set off across the sand to the steep flight of steps leading to the top of the cliff … and the city beyond.

  Chapter 7

  The support acts had gone off without a hitch, as had their heads, and many of the pikes around the blood-soaked stage were topped with grisly new ornaments. Tax evaders, bent shopkeepers and beggars weren't much of a draw, and so their heads were round the back of the stage. The poles at the front were reserved for the main event.

  The town square was packed. For once, people were taking a break from their hard, unforgiving lives, and they were eager to make the most of it. Aside from the thrilling spectacle on the main stage, there were also sideshows and displays dotted around the square, and entertainers wearing all manner of bright clothing danced, juggled and sang for their suppers.

  Occasionally some poor soul would be accused of picking a pocket, or short-changing a customer, and with a growing roar of excitement they'd be dragged off to the side of the stage, where, protesting and pleading their case, they'd be chained to the rest of the prisoners. Many rivals — both in business and in love — were dispensed with in this fashion. Also cheating husbands, unfaithful wives and unloved priests … all despatched so quickly and efficiently it was a surprise there was anyone left to watch their demise.

  A guard stepped onto the stage and had a quick word with the axeman, and there was a brief pause in the executions. The guard stepped to the very front of the stage and, cupping his hands to his mouth, shouted loud enough for the entire crowd to hear him. "Make way there! Make way for Lord Chylde of the glorious and renowned Mollisters, master of the golden sceptre, first uncle to the holy regent, second in line to the crown, and beloved ruler of our fair city, Chatter's Reach!"

  The crowd fell silent, and even the bookies conducted their business in whispers. A pair of huge iron gates creaked open, and a resplendent figure strolled into the square. Lord Chylde was in his late fifties, tall and thin with iron-grey hair and battle-worn features. He wore a suit of ceremonial armour, the chest region designed to expand as one ate a hearty meal, rather than deflect arrows and sword points. Chylde was flanked by four elite guards, their armour polished to a sheen.

  The procession advanced through the crowd, which parted before them, eyes downcast. There was almost total silence, and the thump of the guards' boots was loud on the cobblestones. Slowly, they made their way to a fenced-off section under a marquee, where tables had been laid with snowy white linen, expensive cutlery and flagons of fine wine. It was close enough to get a good view of the stage, and also set back far enough to avoid any splatter.

  Lord Chylde took the second-best seat at the table, near an elaborate gilded throne which had been drawn from storage and polished up only that morning. He eyed that throne with a heavy heart, as his chances of attaining it were growing slimmer with each passing year. His niece kept a firm grip on power … indeed, she kept a firm grip on pretty much everything within reach, if the rumours were to be taken seriously. An heir would eventually be produced, and with that, Lord Chylde would lose his tenuous grip on the throne.

  He'd barely sat down when there was an ear-splitting fanfare from a dozen trumpeters, and when the raucous notes finally died away, Queen Therstie Mollister made her way across the town square. Not for her the slow walk, nodding and smiling at her subjects. No, she was seated in comfort, with four strong men bearing her aloft inside a lacquered, gold-trimmed palanquin, with silk curtains to keep away the insects. Two dozen guards walked alongside the sedan chair, twelve either side, all of them wearing elaborate ceremonial uniforms and fur-trimmed helmets. They were taller and more impressive than Chylde's men, and at their head strode the queen's champion, Sur Loyne. Resplendent in combat-ready armour, with his fabled longsword at his side, he cut a dashing figure. The man was rumoured to sleep with that sword, which didn't surprise Chylde because Sur Loyne was rumoured to sleep with just about anything … including the queen.

  Bringing up the rear of the procession were several lesser knights, a couple of whom he could not place. He did recognise Sur Tainty, the scholar, and Sur Reptishis, the creepy assistant spymaster, and he thought one of the others might have been Sur Blyme, the foppish young knight who'd defected from a northern Kingdom and pledged his sword to the queen.

  Then he spotted the final member of the queen's party, and his stomach clenched. It was the feared Master of Spies, Lord Varnish. Sunlight gleamed from his bald pate, and he wore the silky smooth coat of his office like a badge. The man was renowned as a polished speaker, and was unwavering in his devotion to the queen.

  The bearers paused, lowering the palanquin to the ground, and Varnish hurried forward to offer his queen assistance. She took his hand and stepped from the sedan chair, a vision of splendour which dimmed the uniforms and fancy clothes of everyone around her. A striking blonde, she had piercing blue eyes and features which were rumoured to owe more than a little to a wandering elven princeling. Her father had been a troll of a man, and the idea that such delicate loveliness could spring from his loins was, quite frankly, unbelievable. Having elven blood would also explain Queen Therstie's penchant for wood.

  "Your Majesty," said Chylde, bowing deeply.

  "Well met, Uncle. You're looking very well."

  Chylde straightened with an effort. "And how is my nephew?"

  "Tyniwon?" A shadow crossed the queen's face. "He's not been seen for months. I suspect the Barks may have taken him."

  "To w
hat end?"

  "We'll find out soon enough."

  Chylde frowned, for the news was disturbing. He had little regard for his nephew, the bastard's difficult birth having ended his sister's life. At age six, Tyniwon already towered over most men, and the last time Chylde had laid eyes on the strapping nineteen-year-old he'd been seven foot tall if he was an inch. For this Mollister, at least, there had been no slender elf stirring the pot, for Tyniwon was the spitting image of his beetle-browed father. Rumour had it Tyniwon had fair split his mother in half during his birth, although they were careful not to discuss such matters in Chylde's hearing.

  Ironically, even though Tyniwon resembled his father, and queen Therstie did not, it was the lad's parentage which had been called into question while the queen's heritage was accepted without question. Such were the vagaries of royal lineage.

  As the Queen stepped from the carriage a minor noble hurried forward, bearing a small gilded cage. "Your Majesty, may I present you with … ulp!"

  He was still several paces away when Sur Loyne, the champion, stepped into his path and dropped the man with a straight-fingered jab to the throat. The knight caught the gilded cage even as it fell to the ground, peered at the canary inside, then shrugged and offered it to the queen.

  Meanwhile, the noble tried to resume his carefully prepared speech, which was less than successful since Loyne had sorely bruised his windpipe. Eventually he got up and retreated, still retching and gasping.

  Queen Therstie took the cage and fixed the canary with an intense look of dislike. Then she passed the cage to Varnish. "Dispose of this."

  "Are you sure, Your Majesty?" said Varnish unctuously. "The locals might be disappointed if their gift is spurned."

  "Kill the damn thing, and be quick about it." Therstie sniffed. "I shouldn't have to tell you again. A Mollister always slays her pets."

  Varnish took the cage and, reaching inside, despatched the hapless canary with a practiced tweak of his fingers. Then he set the cage on the ground and followed the queen to her throne, where he laid his elaborate coat over the seat cushion.

  "Thank you, Varnish," murmured the queen. "I never can tell who's been sitting in my chair." She sat down and reached for a glass. "Fill me up, and be quick about it."