Paint Your Dragon Tom Holt

by Paint Your Dragon (lit)

  ‘Guess so.’

  Saints, on the other hand, are Good. Agreed?

  ‘Yeah.’

  Wrong. It all depends on the individual concerned. And even then, it’s still very much a question of subjective interpretation. Take Saint George, for example.

  ‘Huh?’

  Saint George. Noted dragon-slayer. Come on, you must have heard of him. A legend in your profession, surely.

  Kurt nodded. ‘In his day,’ he replied absently. ‘Lotta blood flowed under the bridge since then.’

  Nevertheless. A killer, Kurt. Someone who destroyed other intelligent life forms for money.

  ‘A professional.’

  A saint. And not just any old saint, but the patron saint of peaceful, law-abiding, animal-loving Albion. You know why that is?

  ‘Never gave it any thought,’ Kurt replied honestly.

  Three thousand a year patronage allowance, that’s why. And because no other saint of adequate seniority was prepared to be associated with a cluster of wet, foggy islands on the very north-western edge of the known world. Nobody could believe it when he volunteered. It was like asking to be made Secretary of State for Northern Ireland.

  Kurt shrugged. ‘So?’

  So, with George as its patron, this poxy little cluster of islands built an empire, the biggest ever. Top nation for a time, this poxy little cluster; bigger than France or Italy or Germany, owned half of Africa, half of Asia. Remember Agincourt, Kurt? God for Harry, England and Saint George?

  ‘I missed that game. I was working. Saw the highlights, but—’

  Not bad for the last place God made, under the patronage of a hired killer. And God was an Englishman in those days. Results count for something, wouldn’t you say?

  ‘Do me a favour,’ Kurt protested. ‘All that time, the sucker was dead.’

  Doesn’t matter. When you’re a saint, it’s not what you do that really matters, it’s what you are. George was the dragon-slayer. He won the Big Fight. He inspired generations of Englishmen to go out and beat the crap out of all foreigners. Name me a European country England hasn’t beaten in a war. France? Twice. Germany? Twice. Italy, Spain, Russia, Nor­way, Austria...

  ‘Greece,’ Kurt interrupted. ‘Switzerland. Monaco...’ He fell silent. ‘Okay, point taken,’ he continued, ‘but so what? That don’t prove nothing.’

  Wrong. The good guys are always the winners, aren’t they? I mean, the President doesn’t get up on the rostrum at the Victory Parade and say to all the world, ‘Okay, we admit it, we were in the wrong but fuck it, we won anyway.’ Who’s Good and who’s Evil is decided by trial by combat; it’s the only way. Or can you admit the possibility of a scenario where the good guys are all stomped on and the baddies are singing here-we-go, here-we-go, when the final credits are actually rolling? You can’t, not without your brain getting squeezed out your ears.

  ‘Get to the point,’ Kurt grunted awkwardly.

  Simple. England prevailed because she was in the right, because George killed the dragon. How or why he did it doesn’t matter a cold chip. Agreed?

  ‘If I agree, will you pay me the money you owe me?’

  But all that’s changed now. England’s finished. She’s a suburb of Europe, the USA’S poor relation, got about twenty-five per cent of the international stature of the Philippines. You could saw Europe off at Calais and it’d be a month before anybody noticed. So what happened?

  ‘I have this dreary feeling you’re gonna tell me.’

  The result must have been wrong, Kurt. There’s got to have been a foul-up. The wrong guy must have killed the dragon. And that’s why there has to be a rematch.

  ‘Kurt shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If I was the kind of weirdo who went along with that kinda crap, maybe I’d buy that too. But you want me to kill this goddamn dragon, so-’

  After the fight, Kurt, after the fight. The dragon wastes George, you waste the dragon. The United States conclusively defeats the personification of Evil, and under the patronage of Saint Kurt proceeds to manifest its destiny. Everybody lives happily ever after. The screen filled with little wavy lines; cybernetic laughter. That’s why I’ve just arranged for George to be rescued. Can’t very well go fighting dragons if he’s doing three years for assault and battery.

  Kurt thought it over for a while.

  ‘Once I’ve killed the dragon,’ he asked, ‘do I get paid?’

  Of course.

  Kurt nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘That’s my definition of a happy ending.’

  You heard all that?

  Chubby nodded to his laptop and smiled. ‘You bet,’ he said. ‘I thought you handled that very, um, adequately.’

  He’ll do what he’s told. After all, what else are people for?

  ‘Indeed.’

  Talking of which...

  Chubby sighed. Whenever the blasted box of tricks went all parenthetical on him and started ending sentences with three dots, he knew he was in for something more than usually shitty. ‘Hm?’

  After he’s dealt with the dragon, kill him.

  Chapter 15

  ‘With respect.’ Lin Kortright whitened his knuckles around the telephone, swivelled his chair, bit the end off a cigar and spat it into the ashtray. ‘With respect,’ he repeated, ‘you guys are obviously experts in the recycled Time business, but you don’t know the fight game from nothing. Otherwise...’

  Traditionally, sudden explosions of devastating elemen­tal power have to be heralded by fair warning. Civil wars and the deaths of princes, therefore, are announced by comets and portents. Cyclones and tempests are preceded by gathering clouds and torrential rain. And Lin Kortright says, ‘With respect.’

  And then something extremely peculiar happened.

  Mr Kortright listened.

  Which is a bit like opening your daily paper and seeing that because of hitherto undetected design faults God has just issued a recall notice on the human race. You don’t expect it. Large chunks of the fabric of reality start to come away from the joists.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, eventually. ‘Yeah, you’re right, we could do that. Say, that’s a pretty neat idea. Only wish I’d thought of that myself.’

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than six lifeboatloads of rats lowered themselves over the side of The Universe As We Know It and started to row like buggery. For Lin Kortright to say, ‘You’re right’ in a room containing no mirror was utterly, absolutely...

  ‘Brilliant,’ he added. ‘Hey, man, I’m beginning to wonder if you need me in on this at all. Seems to me you got it all sewn up already.’

  Distant thunder rumbled. Eagles towering in their pride of place beat a hasty retreat, while mousing owls exchanged evil glances, rubbed their talons together and said, ‘Right, let’s get the bastards.’ The air crackled with static.

  ‘No, really,’ Mr Kortright went on, ‘in the circumstances I couldn’t possibly accept ten per cent. The most I’d feel justified in taking would be five, and even then...

  Normality flung a few things in a suitcase and emigrated.

  To hype a big fight, you have to follow set procedures. First, you must find a few toothless old duffers for the contenders to massacre, by way of setting the scene. Then you book the chat-show appearances so that the Boys can glower at each other over the presenter’s shoulder. Then you hire a hall and start printing tickets.

  In this case, however, the rules were there to be broken. For a start, there could be no warm-up fights for fear of irreparable damage to the Earth’s crust. No late-show appearances for the contestants; the whole point of finding George was to make sure he’d be safely out of the dragon’s way until the bell went for the first round. As for the venue, that couldn’t be rushed; it had to be the Gobi desert, or the whole fight was off. Above all, the fight couldn’t be advertised in case the two contestants found out that a fight was being organised.

  Nevertheless, it seemed unlikely they’d have any trouble getting rid of the tickets, seeing that on the same morning both No
stradamus and Mother Shipton called almost simultaneously to point out that they’d predicted the fight and booked seats four hundred years ago. That just left the venue; a bit like saying, We’ve made the sandwiches and filled the thermos, that just leaves turning the water into wine, plenty of time to do that after we’ve been to the supermarket.

  Cue Lin Kortright...

  Furtively, guiltily, five shadowy figures crept along the wire perimeter fence, wirecutters in hand.

  They were about to commit burglary. That’s theft, and a sin.

  They were about to burgle the nuclear power station at Sellafield. That’s just plain stupid.

  One of the five demons was considerably more relaxed about the proceedings than his colleagues, it must be said. When Chardonay came round and Prodsnap explained to him that there’d been a mutiny and he was now talking to Captain Prodsnap, his abiding reaction had been amazed, delighted joy. No more decisions. No more responsibility to the other members of the team. No more getting the blame for such mistakes on his part as the weather, the alignment of the moon with Mercury or the battle of Salamis.

  The other four weren’t so cheerful.

  ‘Quit snivelling,’ Prodsnap muttered sharply. ‘Nothing to be afraid of. Home from home. Only danger I can foresee is, you’ll all like it so much you won’t want to leave.’

  His followers exchanged glances. The mood of the meeting was that if he’d just taken out a correspondence course in dynamic leadership techniques, he’d be justified in asking for his money back.

  ‘Run through it again,’ Slitgrind said. ‘Go on, one more time.

  ‘I’ve explained five times already.’

  ‘I wasn’t listening.’

  Prodsnap sighed. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘listen up, people.’ He’d heard the expression somewhere — the extremely nasty part of Hell reserved for Europeans who try to play American football, probably — and guessed it might be worth a try. Right now, anything was worth trying. ‘In order to get home we really need that uranium, right?’

  ‘We’re fairly straight on that bit,’ interrupted Chardonay mildly. ‘I think it’s the actual burglary where we’re all still a bit at sea.’

  Wish you were, thought Prodsnap savagely. ‘What’s so hard to understand?’ he replied, demonstrating his con­tempt for the minor problems that confronted them with an airy gesture. ‘We cut the wire, smash down the doors, go in, help ourselves. The pink bloody panther could cope with that. Now then, Slitgrind, you’ve got the wirecutters. Snorkfrod, you’re doing the big hammer stuff. Holdall, you’re the smallest, you climb in through the window of the main office and nick the keys. Chardonay, you go into the fusion chamber and lift the actual stuff...’

  ‘Wilco, boss.’

  ‘Chardonay, what the Shopfloor are you doing?’

  ‘Saluting, boss.’

  ‘Are you taking the ..

  Chardonay sounded genuinely hurt. ‘No, boss. I want you to know that whatever happens, I’ll be in there giving it my best shot. Sir,’ he added.

  Prodsnap shuddered. ‘After that, it’s just a matter of running for it. If we get separated, we meet up back at the van. All right so far? Splendid. Slitgrind, the wire.

  Snip. Snip. The alarm went off.

  ‘Oh.’ Prodsnap’s face fell like a drunken trapeze artiste. ‘That’s a pity. Um...’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Not now, please—’

  ‘Sir,’ Chardonay insisted, ‘I’d love to volunteer to locate and disable the alarm. I’d also be thrilled to bits if you’d let me stalk and neutralise the guards who may be hurrying to the scene. If that’s all right with you.’

  Prodsnap could feel one of his headaches coming on. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said. ‘Whatever you ...'

  But Chardonay wasn’t there any more. He’d already scaled the fence — it was electrified, but as far as a demon’s concerned the difference between an electric fence and an inert one is the same as between thermal and standard underwear — and was inside the compound. Inside his own personal cloud, he caught a fleeting glimpse of silver.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that seems to have got rid of him. Snorkfrod, you wouldn’t mind just nipping after him, make sure he’s okay? Right, see you later.’

  As Snorkfrod’s fishnetted leg vanished over the top of the fence, Prodsnap counted up to five and rubbed his claws together.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got shot of both of them,’ he said perkily. ‘Come on, lads, we’ve got work to do.’

  Slitgrind frowned. ‘Where’re we going?’

  ‘Round the front gate, of course. Come on, guys, let’s move it.’

  The main gates of the compound were manned by three large men and two Rottweilers. The dogs were no trouble

  — in Hell, they’d have been relegated to tartan-collar-and-knitted-jacket status. The guards would probably take some finessing.

  ‘Excuse me.'

  The guard’s neck swivelled. ‘Halt!’ he snapped. ‘Who goes..

  ‘Excuse me,’ repeated the voice from the darkness. ‘I’m coming towards you. Don’t do anything hasty, I just want a quick word.’

  Prodsnap advanced, smiling. As he stood under the floodlights, the guard made a funny noise in the back of his throat and started to edge away.

  ‘Evening,’ Prodsnap went on. ‘You can see me all right, then?’

  ‘What the fuck..

  Prodsnap nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘No oil painting, huh? Bit on the weird side, too.’

  Just sufficient motor function control remained in the guard’s body to enable him to nod. Prodsnap extended a hand, but the guard didn’t respond.

  ‘I’ll ask you to imagine,’ Prodsnap was saying, ‘what you’re going to tell your sergeant when you report this incident. Think about it.’

  The guard was already thinking.

  ‘The way I see it,’ Prodsnap said, ‘I can picture you tapping on the office door. “Well?” says Sarge. “Sarge,” you say, “the compound’s overrun with horrible-looking dev­ils.”’ Prodsnap paused for effect. ‘Not much good for a bloke’s career, is it, getting a reputation for seeing things? Now we both know you’re not imagining this, but—’

  ‘Pass, friend.’

  That, however, was about as far as Prodsnap’s plan took him. Somehow he’d imagined that once he was inside the wire, finding the uranium would present no great problem. He didn’t know what he expected — a glow? Fingerposts saying This Way To The Nukes — but he’d expected something. What he found was a settlement, certainly no larger than Manchester.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said.

  Because the sirens were still yowling themselves silly, nobody much was about; there were a few harassed-looking

  types running around, jumping in and out of vehicles and shouting orders into walkie-talkies, others sedately walking, ticking things off on clipboards. Some men in overalls were creosoting window frames. Four men in suits were eating sandwiches out of tupperware lunch-boxes. No uranium on display anywhere.

  Oh well, only one way to find out. ‘Excuse me.’

  A tall, thin girl, big shoulder-pads, wearing what was either a skirt or a belt (impossible to say which), turned her head, double-took and said, ‘Eeek!’ Prodsnap advanced a step, wisely decided against smiling, and instead said, ‘Hi.’

  ‘Um. Hi.’

  ‘Wonder if you could help us,’ Prodsnap went on. ‘We’re looking for the, um, core. Do you happen to know where...?’

  The girl backed away, her eyes big as melons. ‘The core,’ she repeated.

  ‘That’s right.’ Prodsnap let his mind freewheel. ‘We’re the inspectors. You saw the notice, presumably?’

  ‘I don’t think I ... Inspectors?’

  Prodsnap nodded. ‘You don’t think we were born like this, do you?’ he said, in a tone of voice that suggested that any further references to appearance would constitute gawping at the misfortunes of the disabled. Good ploy; a microsecond later, you could have sworn the girl hadn’t noticed anything at all out o
f the ordinary in their appear­ance. ‘Anyway,’ Prodsnap went on, ‘there was supposed to be someone here to meet us, but I think there may have been a bit of a mix-up...’

  ‘Actually,’ the girl said, ‘I only work in Accounts, I don’t actually know here they keep the, er...’

  Prodsnap shrugged. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘thanks anyway. There isn’t a map or anything, is there?’

  The girl thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you could always try the Visitors’ Centre, I suppose. You know, where they have all the tourist stuff. It’s just over there, by the gift shop.’

  It was Holdall’s idea to steal a van. The first one that came to hand was a mobile canteen, with tea-urns, film-wrapped sandwiches, KitKats and packets of crisps. Slit-grind parked it outside the Visitors’ Centre with the engine running while Prodsnap went in. He’d found an overcoat and a cloth cap in the back of the van; it was like puffing an Elastoplast on a severed limb, but it was the best he could do.

  ‘Excuse me...’

  ‘Eeek!’

  Suddenly, Prodsnap felt very weary. His mind went blank. All he could think of was the direct approach. Only the one woman behind the desk. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you’re right. I’m a fiend from Hell. Actually, my name’s Prodsnap, and although I do live in Hell I’m really only a wages clerk, and right now I’m on holiday, off duty. Have you got a problem with any of that?’

  ‘N-no.’ The woman seemed to be frozen rigid. Had she pressed a hidden buzzer or panic button? Well, only time would tell on that one. ‘How can I h-help you?’

  ‘A map of the complex, please. Is there a guided tour, anything like that?’

  The woman looked at him. Hadn’t, she enquired, the company who organised his tour dealt with all that? She produced a roster. Which group did he say he was with, exactly?

  Oh, the Shopfloor with it. ‘Listen, love,’ Prodsnap growled. ‘The purpose of our visit isn’t exclusively tour­ism.’

  ‘No?’

  Prodsnap shook his head. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it’s theft.

  Tell me where the uranium is and everything’ll be just—’