Paint Your Dragon Tom Holt

by Paint Your Dragon (lit)

  A lovely gesture, then; but completely pointless. Heroism is one thing, physics is something else. At the moment when the two demons threw themselves into the fire, only a miracle could have prevented the final cataclysm.

  Define the term miracle.

  It’s got to be something Good — who ever heard of an Evil miracle? And it must be impossible or it doesn’t count.

  That leaves us with something nice that simply can’t happen but does. Examples? Well, if we forget about tax rebates for the time being, how about a nuclear pile suddenly cooling down at the very last moment? Or two fiends from Hell giving their lives to save millions of innocent people?

  Miracles do happen, but only very, very rarely; like the hundred-to-one outsider suddenly accelerating out of nowhere to beat the odds-on favourite. You could make an awful lot of money betting on miracles, provided you knew for certain they were going to happen. But that, too, would be impossible. Nice, but impossible.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Unpalatable theological truth number 736: behind every miracle, there’s usually an awful lot of syndicated money.

  ‘Just like that?’ Chubby enquired.

  Just like that.

  Chubby sat still and quiet for awhile, letting his mind skate round the implications. Just then, he’d have given anything for a simple pie-chart diagram showing how much of his soul was still his own. Not, he imagined, all that much.

  ‘So that’s what we needed the dragon for,’ he said. ‘God, I must be getting thick in my old age.’

  Not really. It took a genius to think it up in the first place. It would take a genius of almost equal standing to work it out from first principles. Don’t be too hard on yourself just because you’re not a genius.

  It helped, Chubby found, to walk up and down, burning off a little of the surplus energy that his pineal gland was pumping into his system. ‘A dragon,’ he said, ‘because nothing else on Earth would actually be crazy, wicked, stupid enough to torch a nuclear reactor and blow up a country.

  And even then I needed a pretext, so he wouldn’t suspect what I was really up to. Hence putting a contract out on the demons. Rather neat, I thought.

  ‘Whereupon,’ Chubby went on, ‘you laid a whopping great bet on the outcome. What odds did you get? Thou­sand to one?’

  You think I’d go to all that trouble for a handful of piddling loose change? No, the odds were very satisfactory, thank you.

  ‘Splendid. I do so like a happy ending.’ Chubby sat down behind his desk, broke a pencil and ground the bits into the carpet with his heel.

  Another thing. You’re being too hard on my old friend Fred.

  ‘Fred? Oh sorry, I forgot.’

  You said crazy, wicked, stupid. Fred’s none of those things. That’s the mistake everybody always makes around dragons. I should know, lam one. Or had you forgotten?

  ‘I did manage to remember, thank you.’

  Dragons — Impossible, of course, for glowing green words on a screen to have any expression. Any subtext has to come from the mind of the reader. In Chubby’s eyes, at least, the words on the screen grinned.

  Dragons, you see, simply don’t give a damn. Good and Evil’s just biped stuff Sure, you believe in it, the same way you used to believe in Father Christmas when you were little. We don’t, is all. We don’t mean anything by it.

  ‘I see.’

  I doubt that. And you know something else? I couldn’t give a shit.

  Chubby gave the screen a long, level stare. For some reason, he found he could, without wanting to look away. His mind searched for a word and a word came: alien.

  I thought they were little green men with radio aerials sticking out of their ears.

  Chubby shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he replied. ‘You could get fond of little green men.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Prodsnap, without looking up. ‘What kept you?’

  Chardonay sat down in the seat next to him. ‘Had to save the planet,’ he replied. ‘Any idea what sort of a mood He’s in?’

  Prodsnap shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard any shouting,’ he replied. ‘On the other hand, that’s not necessarily a good sign.’

  The five demons, wearing makeshift bodies issued to them from the huge wicker hamper colloquially known as the Dressing-Up Box, were sitting in a draughty corridor outside an office marked Personnel Manager. It isn’t men­tioned in Dante’s Inferno, mainly because Dante had always hoped one day to sell the film rights and so he wanted to keep the whole thing basically upbeat and free from utterly negative vibes. The famous inscription about abandoning hope was nailed above the lintel.

  Snorkfrod nudged Chardonay in the ribs.

  ‘We’d like you lot to be the first to know,’ Chardonay said, saying it with all the passion and enthusiasm of the little voice in posh cars that tells you to fasten your seat belt. ‘Snorkfrod and I are engaged.’

  ‘Strewth.’ Slitgrind pulled a face. ‘So you’ve been in already, have you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Slitgrind nodded towards the office door. ‘That’s your punishment, is it, Char? I always knew he was a vindictive bugger, but ... Hey, Prozza, mind what you’re doing, that was my shin.’

  Prodsnap switched on a silly grin. ‘Congratulations,’ he croaked. ‘I hope you’ll both be very...'

  The door opened. A secretary fiend, lump-headed and shark-jawed, beckoned them.

  ‘He’ll see you now,’ she said.

  ‘Sugar Fred Dragon?’ Mr Kortright suggested. Nah. Tacky.

  ‘Matter of opinion. All right then, Rocky Draciano. I like that. It’s got class.’

  Tacky.

  ‘Honey George Sanctus?’ There was a slight edge of desperation in the agent’s voice. Self-doubt wasn’t usually a problem for Lin Kortright, in the same way that Eskimos don’t lie awake at night fretting about heatstroke. This client, though, had him raffled.

  Lin. It smells. Come on, you’re supposed to be good at this sort of thing.

  ‘I am.’ He’d nearly said I was. The sweat from his armpits would have irrigated Somalia.

  Sure you are, Lin, sure you are. Now then, the venue. Any progress?

  Kortright nodded, realised that the screen couldn’t see gestures (or could it? He was getting distinctly offbeat vibes off this thing. As they say in the Business, never work with computers or children). ‘It’s in the bag, Nosher,’ he replied confidently. ‘All set.’

  ‘Set? Or set-set?’

  ‘Set-set. I got a signed agreement with the Mongolian Ministry of Tourism and War—’

  Tourism and War?

  ‘Historical reasons, Nosher. Genghis Khan. The ulti­mate in encounter holidays, remember? Anyway, we’ve got a million-acre site between Mandalgovi and Dalandzadgad, they’re gonna build us an airstrip—’

  Fine. I’ll leave all that sort of thing to you. As far as I’m concerned, all we really need is a very big flat space with a rope round it, and two corners.

  Kortright’s brow creased. ‘Corners?’

  Yes. You know; in the white corner, we have Saint George, representing Good, and in the black corner...

  ‘Ah. Right. Got you. I’ll fix that, no problem. Now then, the cola concession, I’ve got the Pepsi guys up to six million, but I’m expecting a fax any minute—’

  Yes, yes. Deal with it, Lin, there’s a good fellow. ‘Bye for now.

  The screen in Mr Kortright’s office went dark. Another screen in Chubby’s bunker (reinforced chronite, guaran­teed to withstand anything less than a direct hit from a neutron star) flicked on.

  Chubby.

  ‘Now what?’

  Just a few things. Transport...

  ‘All done.’ Chubby frowned. ‘You got any idea how much a ship that size costs per day?’

  Yes.

  ‘Then you’d better — oh.’ Chubby hesitated. ‘Any chance of a few quid on account?’ he asked. ‘Only, what with one thing and another, all this is causing me slight cash flow problems, plus I’m neglecting my busines
s. I’ve got orders to meet, you know.’

  Correct. Mine. And you will obey them without question. Lemons.

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you just said lemons’

  That’s right. For the contestants to suck between rounds. Make sure there are plenty, will you? Or do I have to do everything myself?

  ‘All right, Chubby replied, offended, ‘keep your key­board on. I’ve got a container load of lemons on their way from Australia, together with sixty gallons of aviation fuel for the dragon. Apple brandy for George. Not too much, don’t want him falling over. Okay?’

  Well done. Finally, then; how are you actually going to get them onto the ship?

  Chubby smiled. ‘I’m way ahead of you there,’ he replied. ‘How’d it be if we tried the old Ark routine? You know, a couple of days’ synthetic rain beforehand, then I go around telling everybody I’ve had this message from God—?’

  Chubby.

  ‘Yes?’

  Don’t try my patience, chum. I think I used to have some, but I haven’t seen it around since 1946, and it’s probably gone off by now. Get it sorted, there’s a good lad.

  The screen went blank. Chubby stuck his tongue out at it. Obviously it knew, but Chubby no longer cared terribly much.

  This, he said to himself, is getting out of hand.

  It was something, he knew, with the big gambling syndicate. You didn’t need to be Einstein or A.J.P. Taylor to work out that Nosher had been behind the original syndi­cate, the one that persuaded the dragon to throw the fight first time round, back in the Dark Ages. And it was as clear as a lighthouse on a moonless night that this rematch was going to be a fix as well. The question was, which one was he going to fix this time?

  And — big question, this — who did the syndicate bet with? It takes two to make a wager, and the last time he’d passed the local Coral office they hadn’t been offering odds on the fight. So who was the mug punter the syndicate were fitting up? Who had that sort of money, anyhow?

  God? No, strictly a matchsticks player. (And you thought all those forests in South America were just scenery?) Who, then? He shook his head. None of his damn business, anyhow.

  Here’s hoping, he muttered to himself, it stays that way.

  Don’t be too hard on them, Phil.

  I WON’T. JUST ENOUGH SO THEY WON’T SUS­PECT.

  Good result, huh?

  YOU WIN THIS TIME, NOSHER. NEXT TIME, MAYBE YOU WON’T BE SO LUCKY NOT, I SOME­TIMES GET THE IMPRESSION, THAT LUCK HAS ALL THAT MUCH TO DO WITH IT. I MEAN, WHY EXACTLY DIDN’T THE FUCKING THING BLOW UP?

  Can’t imagine what you mean, Phil. Anyway, I’m looking forward to getting your cheque. Or shall we make it double or quits?

  Outside, in the corridor, Chardonay and company could hear the thundering of the voice, but couldn’t make out the words. Some other poor bastards getting their fortunes told, they assumed.

  YOU’RE ON, NOSHER. HERE’S TO THE NEXT TIME, RIGHT?

  After a hard afternoon’s work in her studio — God, the Victoria Square project! Running about chasing the dragon was all very fine and splendid, but she had a commission to fulfil — Bianca had a quick sandwich and went straight to bed.

  She slept badly.

  Chasing the dragon — well, quite. There was still an influential part of her brain that wanted to treat the whole bloody mess as some sort of giant hallucination; bad dope, the DTs, cheese before bedtime, whatever. That was the comforting explanation. Untrue, of course. Whatever it was, it was still going on. In fact, she had an uneasy feeling it was approaching some sort of crisis. In which case, the sensible course of action would be to be standing outside the travel agents’ when they opened tomorrow morning, asking for details of off-peak reductions to Alpha Centauri.

  When a person starts worrying about something around half past three in the morning, she might as well let out Sleep’s room and put his clothes in the jumble sale because he sure as hell isn’t coming back. To take her mind off it all, she switched on the TV and hit the Satellite news.

  ... In Victoria Square, Birmingham might somehow be linked to the wave of spectacular art thefts in Florence, Rome and Venice. In addition to Ms Wilson’s two monumental works for the Birmingham City Corporation, no fewer than seventeen major statues have vanished from Italian collections, including eight Berninis, three Donatellos, three Cellinis, a Canova, the Giambologna Mercury, and of course the priceless Michae­langelo David. The only lead that Interpol have so far is the discovery of fingerprints apparently resembling those of Kurt Lundqvist, a notorious mercenary and soldier of fortune, discovered at the scenes of all the robberies in Italy. Lundqvist, however, is believed to have been killed some time ago in Guatemala, although the only part of him actually recovered was his left ear. Counter-insurgency experts have pointed out that, to judge by his past record, Lundqvist would have been perfectly capable of carrying out this remarkable string of burglaries single-handed, not to mention single-eared; indeed, they claim, if there’s anyone capable of shrugging off Death as a minor inconvenience, that man would be Kurt Lundqvist, believed by many leading experts to be the link between the former Milk Marketing Board and the Kennedy assassination. This is Danny Bennett, Star TV News, in Florence.

  Bugger sleep. As far as Bianca was concerned, Macbeth had beaten her to it.

  Seventeen statues. Seventeen is sixteen plus one. Sixteen people die in an explosion in a community centre in the West Midlands; sixteen statues simultaneously go missing in Italy. No, seventeen statues, sixteen plus one.

  Who was the seventeenth statue for?

  She was still paddling this bizarre notion around in her brain when the phone rang, making her jump out of her skin. It took an awful lot of determination to pick the blasted thing up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Bianca Wilson?’ American voice, like audible sand­paper.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. Who’s this?’

  ‘You probably don’t know me’ the voice replied. ‘My name’s Kurt Lundqvist.’

  Chapter 17

  'Mr Lund—’

  The small man jumped out of his skin, whirled round and slapped a hand across her mouth. ‘Don’t call me that, you crazy bitch,’ he hissed. ‘C’mon, this way.’

  He set off at a great pace, not looking round. Bianca had to break into a trot to keep up. He was shorter and squarer than she’d expected, but he moved as if he was tall, lean and wiry. Another one of these unquiet spirits in a Moss Bros body? It was as though the whole world was on its way to a fancy dress party.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, finally halting. ‘We can talk here.’

  Maybe, Bianca thought, but hearing what we say is going to be another matter entirely.

  In reply to her earlier question, ‘Where can we meet?’ Kurt had suggested New Street station. They were now in the bar of a pub in John Bright Street, empty except for the barman and the loudest background music on Earth. This was foreground music. It filled all the available space, like Polyfilla.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Kurt said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I SAID...’ Kurt edged his chair nearer and leaned forwards. ‘I said thanks for coming. Listen up, doll. This is a mess.’

  Bianca frowned slightly. He’d told her briefly about the circumstances of his return to Earth and she reckoned ‘doll’ was a bit rich coming from an animated Action Man. Given the communication difficulties, though, she let it ride.

  (Note: to save time and preserve the Niagara-like caden­ces of the dialogue, all the backchat — ‘Sorry, what did you say?’; ‘Speak up, for Chrissakes’; ‘Dammit, there’s no need to shout’ etc, — has been edited, as a result of which, this passage has already been awarded the Golden Scissors at the 1996 Editor of the Year Awards, and the BSI kitemark.)

  ‘I know,’ Bianca replied. ‘You made it sound like there was something you could do about it.’

  ‘There is,’ Kurt replied, sipping his Babycham. ‘But not on my own. That’s where you come in.

  ‘I see
.’

  ‘Doubt that.’ Kurt finished his bag of pork scratchings, squashed up the packet and dropped it into the ashtray before lighting a cigar. A large cigar, needless to say; Bianca had seen smaller things being floated down Canadian rivers. ‘Let me just fill you in on the background. Maybe you know some of the stuff I don’t, at that.’

  Between them, it transpired, they had a fairly good idea of the Story So Far, including recent developments and a progress report on the preparations for the Big Fight. ‘So you see,’ Kurt summarised, ‘it’s all a goddamn shambles.’

  ‘Quite.’ Bianca nodded vigorously. ‘Worst part of it is, I can’t seem to work out who’s who. Goodies and baddies, I mean.’

  ‘This,’ Kurt replied sternly, ‘ain’t the movies. When you’ve been in supernatural pest control as long as me, you learn not to make judgements about people. Sure, when I was young, I used to worry about that kinda thing; you know, What harm did he ever do me? and all that kinda shit. Nowadays, all I ask myself is, will the two-fifty grain hollow point do the business at three hundred and fifty yards. I guess it makes life easier, not giving a damn.’

  ‘You do, though, don’t you?’

  Kurt nodded glumly. ‘It’s a bitch,’ he replied. ‘Unprofes­sional. That’s what’s got to me about this stinking job. Trouble is, my professional ethics say I gotta do the job I’m being paid for. Nothing in the rules says I can’t share my concerns with an outsider, though; someone not in the business, like yourself.’

  Bianca shrugged. ‘I’ve got professional ethics too, you know. Mostly they’re to do with leaving chisel-marks and not gluing back bits you accidentally break off. But I’m sure there’s something in the Code of Practice about not letting dangerous statues fall into the wrong hands. I must look it up when I get back home.’

  They looked at each other suspiciously across the for­mica tabletop; unlikely confederates (if we’re confederates, Bianca muttered to herself, bags I be Robert E. Lee) in an impossibly confused situation. In context, they were prob­ably the least likely do-gooders in the whole dramatis personae; the hired killer and the arms dealer. Maybe it helped that Bianca also dealt in legs, heads and torsos.