by Kim M Watt
She pushed the covers aside, careful not to disturb the cat, who yawned and rolled onto his back, looking like he’d had a wonderful sleep. She pulled her dressing gown over her pyjamas and padded downstairs barefoot to put the kettle on. She was measuring tea into the teapot – teabags were fine for later in the day, but not for that first cup – when a warm body snaked around her ankles and she jumped, almost spilling the tea leaves.
She frowned at him. “Sneaky little monster.”
He gave her his flat green gaze and mewled softly, then rubbed his head on her legs again. She wondered why she hadn’t just kicked him out, as he obviously made his home anywhere that was happy to feed him. It wasn’t like she’d have been doing him any hardship. And especially after what Beaufort and Mortimer had said about the cats of the Watch. But then again, there was always that theory about keeping your enemies close.
She took the tuna out of the fridge.
Alice checked the street behind her for the cat, but she couldn’t see him. Or a silver Audi. She pulled her scarf up tighter to her chin and marched down the road to Jasmine’s, a Tupperware of mini quiches under one arm and a bag over her other shoulder. Thompson had followed her out when she left home but had stayed on the doorstep watching her like some forlorn puppy whose mistress had left him behind for the first time. She supposed that if he was actually following her she’d never even know it, but that bloody Primrose would keep him out of the meeting. She was good enough for that, at least.
She went up the two little steps to Jasmine’s door and knocked sharply. A moment later it swung open, releasing warm air heavy with the scents of scorched coffee and small dogs. She managed not to wrinkle her nose and smiled at Jasmine instead.
“Hello, dear. How are you?”
“Morning, Alice. Come in.” The younger woman returned her smile and swung the door wide, revealing Primrose with her teeth bared in a silent snarl. Alice waited until Jasmine turned away, then snarled back.
Inside, the living room was already full, warm with bodies and the flickering gas fire, and awash in the scents of tea and coffee and perfume and cake, overwhelming the dog smell. Alice found a spare folding chair and settled herself down, feet crossed neatly at the ankles, to wait for everyone to arrive. She’d learnt a long time ago that patience paid off better than irritation, particularly in the civilian world.
Miriam was the last to arrive, looking pale and anxious and with her woolly hat spilling curly hair everywhere. She squeezed in next to Alice and hissed, “I have news!”
Alice smiled at her. “Me, too.” Then she cleared her throat and said, “Ladies? Are we ready?” The chatter dropped away almost instantly, all eyes on her. Everyone was strung too tightly, by the feel of things, and it wasn’t surprising. “Thank you all for managing to make this rather last-minute meeting,” she said. “We’ll get right down to business, because I know the weeks before Christmas are busy for all of us, and we don’t need any more complications. Firstly—”
“Can I?” Jasmine blurted. “Alice, look – the bauble arrived!” She held out a box that looked as if it had been wrapped by an eight-year-old buzzing on energy drinks and Mars bars. Brown packing tape was strung across it haphazardly, one corner looked as if Primrose had been gnawing on it, and the address label was smudged with dirt and attached at an angle that made Alice feel faintly twitchy.
“Wonderful,” she said aloud. “Let’s take a look. Make sure we keep the packaging, though. Beaufort will want to examine it.”
Jasmine nodded and crouched down at the coffee table to unwrap the box while the ladies of the W.I. gathered around to peer over her shoulders.
“Shocking wrapping,” Miriam said, as bits of paper fell away with torn edges and uneven shapes. It looked as if someone had just grabbed any old scrap of packing paper they could find, and bound it together with so much tape that Jasmine was having to attack it with the knife they’d been using to cut the parkin.
“And what’s that smell?” Rosemary asked. “It’s like the whole thing’s been sitting in a pub basement for six months.”
“The paper feels weird, too,” Jasmine said. “Greasy.”
Alice reached out and rubbed it between her fingers. Maybe not greasy exactly, but slick. Dirty-feeling. She wiped her hands on her trousers as Jasmine opened the box inside the wrapping (it was held together with even more tape and appeared to be assembled from three or more mismatched boxes) and lifted the bauble out of a bed of dirty, crumpled newspaper, old brochures, and what looked an awful lot like used tissues.
“Well, that’s taking recycling a bit far,” Gert said, as Jasmine fished the bauble out, trying not to touch the tissues. They had a nasty, crusty look to them.
“It’s not as nice as Mortimer’s,” she said, holding the bauble up to inspect it. It wasn’t – the seams were rough, and the design carved on the outside consisted of the sort of stars a five-year-old might draw.
“It’s nothing like Mortimer’s,” Alice said, and went back to her seat to pull out the newspapers. “And look at this. Apparently it’s more than just the odd one misbehaving. They’re lethal, all of them, soon as they’re lit. There’s a huge story on them in the paper.”
“Oh,” Jasmine said in a very small voice.
“We’ll see what Beaufort says,” Alice added, turning around with the papers in her hand. “Have a look at – Jasmine!”
“You didn’t say not to light it,” Jasmine whispered, and there was a nervous murmur of agreement, as well as a general movement away from her. She was still holding the ugly bauble in one hand and a lighter in the other.
“Put it out,” Alice said. “Put it out now!”
As if hearing her, the bauble blossomed abruptly with sharp-edged petals, making Jasmine squeak and jerk her hand away. The thing dropped to the floor, and for a moment Alice hoped it was a dud, even thought she could see it trembling, and there was a nasty smell starting up that suggested it was burning the carpet. She took a careful step toward it, and the bauble shot straight up, eliciting a small scream from Jasmine, then it retreated to a corner of the living room ceiling. It hovered there while the women exchanged worried glances, then without warning it roared toward the door, banked, and barrelled straight for the sofa and the women standing in front of it, sparking with fury and belching fiery light.
13
Mortimer
“I will never catch up,” Mortimer said. “Never, ever, ever.”
“Mortimer, don’t take on,” Beaufort said. “We won’t be sending any more until we clear this up, anyway.”
“But then what? Then there’ll be a massive backlog, and everything will have to be done at the last minute, and I can’t. I just can’t!” Mortimer wrung his tail, and a little shower of scales pattered onto the floor of his workshop. “And I’m stress-shedding horribly!”
“We’ll do it,” Amelia said from the entrance to the little cavern. Gilbert was peering around her shoulder. “Gilbert and I aren’t tired at all. We’ll get started while you get some rest – you worked all night last night. We’ll do tonight, and then we’ll all just keep going in shifts until we’re caught up. This is going to be okay.”
“How can it be?” Mortimer wailed. “We can’t even send them!” The calm of the field had vanished entirely. For a little while there, hunting for scents in the crisp late afternoon with the cold dome of the sky high above them, he’d almost forgotten that there were kidnappers and bauble thieves to deal with, and possible traitors within their ranks. It had all felt rather exciting, like he was a character in a TV show, completely sure of himself and not at all worried about High Lords and black markets and exploding baubles. He’d certainly forgotten that he’d lost about two weeks’ worth of work.
“Well, we’re not going to let this sort of thing continue,” Beaufort said. “We will deal with the situation, and by the time we’re ready to start posting them out again you’ll be all caught up. Say thank you to Amelia and Gilbert.”
“But I h
aven’t even finished teaching Gilbert yet—”
“I have,” Amelia said. “Enough to be going on with, anyway. I’ll keep an eye on him, and you can check everything tomorrow.”
Mortimer looked at her with something close to despair. “But—”
“Mortimer, say thank you to Amelia and Gilbert, then straight to your cave.”
“But—”
“Mortimer.” Beaufort’s voice carried a note of warning that cut through the younger dragon’s exhaustion and made his tail twitch.
“Thank you, Amelia and Gilbert.”
“It’s okay.” Amelia pointed at the workbench. “You can start on flattening the scales, Gil.”
“That’s so lame. I want to make the actual stuff.”
“Get flattening or I’ll make you lame.”
“Right you are.” The small dragon went to grab an armload of scales from the basket in the corner.
Mortimer trailed after Beaufort as they headed down the tunnel to the mouth of the cave, then paused. “Amelia?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry I was so horrible. And thank you for fixing the sailing ship bauble.”
“S’cool.” She already had a dragon scale clamped to the bench in front of her. “Get some sleep, M.”
“Okay.” He padded after Beaufort, his eyes scratchy and his limbs suddenly leaden. “I think maybe I will.”
Mortimer didn’t even bother to find any dinner, just went straight to his own cavern, curled up in a nest of fireproof blankets on top of his barbecue and promptly fell asleep. If he had dreams he didn’t remember them, and when he woke to a dark winter morning his stomach was rumbling and he had the sort of stiffness that comes from sleeping the whole night without stirring once.
He slid off the barbecue and stretched, shaking his wings out, then sat where he was for a while, taking his time to wake up, and considering things. It was astonishing how much easier it was to think after a decent sleep. And astonishing just how hard it was to get such a sleep sometimes. He yawned and scratched his chin.
He was going to have to get used to this black-market situation. And it was a black market. It had to be, considering dragons are, at heart, scaly pirates. He understood that, even if he didn’t want to. He was going to have to pretend he knew nothing about it, so everyone could keep right on thinking that they were getting away with it. At least there was no chance of running out of scales. He poked his patchy tail and sighed. He was keeping them pretty well supplied, too. And maybe with Gilbert helping and it not just being him and Amelia he’d feel a little less under pressure. That would be rather nice.
Then he thought of Beaufort and his terrible enthusiasm, and shuddered. Yes, more help with the baubles would alleviate a certain amount of stress, but definitely not all of it. He yawned again and padded out into the pre-dawn dark, heading for the workshop.
Amelia and Gilbert were arguing loudly enough that he heard them before he even reached the cavern entrance, somewhat shattering a rather pleasant daydream of them all working together in calm companionship, possibly accompanied by tea, sunshine, and maybe even a little nice music, if he could figure out how to get a radio to pick up a signal inside the workshop.
“It’s a statement,” Gilbert insisted, as Mortimer padded down the short tunnel to the cavern itself.
“It’s a mess,” Amelia snapped.
“It’s modern.”
“It’s ugly.”
“It’s got attitude.”
“It looks like something I saw a ghast vomit up once.”
They glared at each other, and after a moment Mortimer coughed politely. They both turned their glares on him, and he waved awkwardly. “Morning.”
“Morning, Mortimer,” Gilbert said, his shoulders relaxing.
“Well? What do you think, M?” Amelia demanded.
Mortimer pottered over to peer at the bauble floating softly above Gilbert’s workbench. Technically, the young dragon had a flair for it. No rough seams, delicate, fine lines in the detailed pattern he’d embossed on it, and not a single instability causing it to roll over or bob about the place. It would be quite wonderful, if it wasn’t quite so … so … “It’s unusual,” he said, patting Gilbert’s shoulder. “Good blending of the scale shades.”
“Thanks,” the young dragon said, giving Amelia a smug look. She rolled her eyes.
“It’s just not very festive,” Mortimer continued. “Humans love the whole Christmas theme at this time of year. Maybe we can do some more, um, non-traditional designs for midsummer. Or maybe Halloween.”
“Told you,” Amelia said. “Snowflakes and birds and stuff. Not whatever that is.”
“And ships,” Gilbert pointed out. “You’re making ships. And I’ve seen the Christmas books. Ships aren’t very Christmassy.”
“Yes. Quite right. That was an experiment,” Mortimer said. “From now on, let’s stick to traditional Christmas designs, shall we?”
Gilbert gave a slightly dramatic sigh but took his bauble and went back to his bench, tail piercings clattering on the stone floor.
“Sorry,” Amelia said to Mortimer. “He’s really good at this sort of stuff, so I got him making some on his own. I didn’t think I needed to tell him to keep it Christmassy.”
“He is good at it,” Mortimer said. “Just more good will to all and less death head stares on the details, I think.” He paused. “Was there a sea serpent fighting a unicorn skeleton on that?”
Amelia snorted. “So you didn’t spot the zombie centaurs trampling the pixies? Ugh. He’ll grow out of it. I hope.”
Mortimer supposed it was possible – Gilbert wasn’t even eighty yet – but he didn’t think it was that likely. “Maybe. There’s probably a market for his work, anyway, just not a Christmas one.” He yawned. “Have you two slept?”
“We’re good for a few more hours yet.”
“Alright. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve had some breakfast.”
Winter was always slimmer pickings for dragons, the rabbits skinny and wary, the trees offering no cover for daytime hunting. Regardless of the time of year, however, a few of the clan were tasked with collecting extra food each day for those that either couldn’t or didn’t have the time to get their own. As the bauble business had become busier, Beaufort had ordered Mortimer to help himself to the clan food – ordered, because Mortimer still felt a little awkward and uncomfortable about the whole thing. The clan food was usually reserved for the High Lord, old dragons, and treasure hunters, but he supposed that he was, in a way, the treasure supplier. No one had to go off searching for anything other than rabbits and the occasional fat pigeon now. And he wasn’t a bad hunter, but he had noticed that there was something rather nice about not having to look in the eyes of the creature you were about to eat. He secretly thought that Gilbert had a point with the whole vegetarianism thing, but he wasn’t quite sure if that was more a matter for younger dragons. Would it seem silly for a dragon of his age to suddenly go vegetarian? Well, more so than any other dragons, since as far as he knew Gilbert was the only vegetarian dragon in existence. He wasn’t entirely sure about it, but he’d tried Miriam’s vegetable chili and he thought it was possible. Maybe.
Beaufort was in a corner of the Grand Cavern, talking in low tones with Lord Walter, a dragon who was possibly even older than the High Lord himself, and who, unlike Beaufort, looked it. Mortimer could hear the old dragon’s quavery voice drifting over as he took his pick of the rabbits laid out neatly by the fire in the centre of the stone floor.
“Eh?” Lord Walter was saying. “Scales? Lad, I can’t keep my scales on for trying.”
Mortimer grinned at the idea of anyone calling Beaufort “lad”, and singed the fur off a rabbit with a neatly controlled blast of flame.
“A blanket? I’m telling you, Beaufort, I don’t take with these modern notions. I’ve been through this with you before. Trading with humans and gallivanting about villages. It’s not dragonish!”
Mortimer pushed his rabbit about
a bit, trying to hear what Beaufort was saying.
“I’m the last person who’d be trading with damn humans. Nasty creatures. You watch. This will all end in fire and death and dragons’ heads on stakes again, you mark my words. You should know better.” The ancient dragon turned and stalked stiff-legged away from the High Lord. “Humans. Pah!” He spat a stream of greenish flame into the fire as he passed, making Mortimer jump back with a squeak.
Beaufort ambled over to the fire, not looking particularly perturbed, and Mortimer busied himself with his rabbit.
“Morning, lad,” the High Lord said.
“Morning, Beaufort, sir.”
“Sleep well?”
“Yes, thanks. Ah – was that about the stolen baubles?”
“Yes, I’m taking your advice and being more subtle about it. I’m questioning everyone one at a time,” Beaufort said, brandishing his singed pad. The top three names, printed in large spindly letters, were crossed off, and he’d only been able to fit three more on the page. Writing wasn’t a natural activity for dragons.
“And Lord Walter?” Mortimer asked.
Beaufort scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It’s amazing how the anti-human sentiment lingers, Mortimer. How the hatred sticks.”
“He must have seen terrible things.”
“So have a lot of us, lad. We saw some bad times. Once, dragon-scale armour was the very height of fashion for the richest knights. Light, harder than steel, beautiful. Dragons very rarely had to steal gold back in those days. You could pretty much name your price for scales. Until the knights worked out that dead dragons got them an enormous amount of scales and a lot of popularity, particularly when it came to the rougher clans that liked stealing sheep and burning farms. The next thing we knew, dragon-killing had become a sport, and no one cared if you’d actually stolen so much as a hamster. Every knight wanted to be a saint, or to win some princess’ heart by killing the dread monster. Most princesses were rather smarter than the knights gave them credit for, and thought it was a ridiculous idea, but no true knight ever let the facts get in the way of a good slaughtering. And finally the dragons who could, hid, and the ones who couldn’t, died.” Beaufort sighed. “It was a terrible way to live.”