by Kim M Watt
“Come out slowly, hands up. Out, lad, out.” His own hands were wide and ready, his stance a half-crouch, as if expecting the driver to appear in a rugby tackle. “Come on, now.”
DI Adams positioned herself ready to help restrain the driver if necessary, and they waited, the two uniformed officers forming a back guard and the techs peering over the wall like nosy neighbours. The driver’s door swung open, and the man inside looked at them anxiously. Blood trickled from a cut in his forehead, but otherwise he looked unharmed.
“Are they gone?” he asked timidly.
“Are who gone?” DI Collins asked.
“The – the things. They were following me.”
“The things?” Collins repeated, and DI Adams felt her stomach tighten.
“They stopped me. I thought someone was hurt, and they got me to stop, but when I got out, they weren’t people.”
“They weren’t?”
“No.” He shook his head firmly, and wiped blood off his face. He looked at it without much interest, then took a nervous peek at the sky. “I thought they were going to eat me, but I jumped in the back.” He nodded, more to himself than to the police, and glanced at the sky again. “So are they gone?”
“The things, you mean?” DI Collins asked. He’d straightened up, apparently confident that the man might be unbalanced, but he wasn’t dangerous.
“Yeah, the – the monsters.”
Collins glanced at DI Adams, then said, “Yeah. No monsters here.”
“I think they’d have eaten me, if it wasn’t for the charcuterie,” the driver said, and slid carefully out of the van. His legs seemed to be a bit wobbly, and he clutched the door to keep himself upright.
“I’m sorry?”
“The charcuterie. And the dessert tray.” He nodded at the back of the van. “I had a load of platters in there for a function tomorrow. And sandwiches, but they didn’t seem so interested in those. I threw the whole lot at them, and legged it while they ate the charcuterie.” He looked suddenly worried. “My boss isn’t going to be happy.”
“I imagine he’ll be more worried about the van than the charcuterie,” DI Collins said, taking the man’s elbow and leading him gently toward the marked car.
“She,” the man said, letting himself be put into the back seat. He was shaking, and one of the uniformed officers went to pull a blanket out of the boot. “Oh, no, I’m going to be in so much trouble.”
DI Adams crouched at the car door before Collins could close it. “Sir, what did the people on the road look like? The ones that got you to stop?”
He chewed his lip. “Like people at first. But then you got closer, and they were just all wrong.”
“All wrong?”
“Yeah. Like the proportions were all wrong. Their heads were too big. And they had too many teeth.”
DI Adams frowned. She had no idea what that might be, but it didn’t sound pleasant. “And the monsters?”
“Oh, big. Well, maybe not that big. But pretty big. And scaly. Wings. Breathing fire.” He thought about it for a moment. “Dragons, I guess.”
“Thank you, sir,” DI Adams said, and closed the door. She looked at Collins, trying to keep her expression neutral. He glared at her as if dragons were her fault, then pulled his phone out.
“Let’s find out what my damn aunt’s done with these bloody dragons, then.”
DI Adams looked up at the sky, waiting, while Collins walked in a circle, shouting into his phone. A moment later he hung up, shaking his head in frustration. He marched back to her.
“Signal’s no good. She couldn’t hear me.”
“Can you track it?”
“Should be able to. Can you call it in?” He headed for the car, and she fell into step with him.
“Where’re we going?”
“Well, they went past going that way, didn’t they?”
“We don’t know if that had anything to do with the dragons.”
“Any suggestions, then, on what two ladies of a certain age were doing driving a cat around the Dales at 8 p.m. on a cold December night?”
“I have no idea what the cat’s about,” DI Adams admitted.
“I don’t even like cats.”
He pulled away from the lay-by and they headed into the suddenly unfamiliar night as DI Adams called through to the tech department. As long as it had GPS on it, she’d have Miriam’s phone as a lovely little red blip in an app on her own mobile in about five minutes. Someone answered, and she gave them the phone number, then hung up and concentrated on not leaving permanent fingernail marks in the door handle as DI Collins flung them around the corners.
17
Mortimer
Mortimer, Amelia and Gilbert perched shoulder to shoulder on a ledge in a quiet corner of the Grand Cavern, peering out at the High Lord dozing on his Weber.
“He doesn’t look worried,” Gilbert said.
“He’s probably not,” Mortimer replied. “He has far too much faith in people.”
“But what do we do, Mortimer?” Amelia asked. “I mean, if Lord Margery gets in …”
“If Lord Margery gets in, then it’s back to hiding in holes and scavenging for food and fuel all year, scared of every picnicker or rambler or loud noise we hear. She won’t even let us stay here. She’s always saying it’s too close to the village. We’ll wind up some place worse than the slate quarries.”
“She can’t do that!” Gilbert said.
“She can if she’s High Lord,” Mortimer said. He wished Beaufort would do something. He didn’t know what, but surely there had to be something. Rousing speeches, perhaps, or flags or banners or that sort of thing. It worked for humans.
“Well – well, I’m not living like that,” Gilbert declared, rather loudly. He threw his wings wide and caught Mortimer across the snout, making him stagger on the ledge. The small dragon was flushing a furious puce, and Amelia and Mortimer stared at him. “I’m not! That’s not being a dragon. That’s being a mouse or a rabbit or something. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s not being a dragon.”
“And what do you know about being a dragon?” Amelia asked. “You can’t even fly!”
Mortimer winced, even though she did have a point.
Gilbert nodded at the High Lord. “He doesn’t care that I can’t fly. He said all you need to be a dragon is to hatch out of a dragon’s egg.”
“So what do you propose we do then, Gil? Mount a mutiny?” Amelia looked tired, and Mortimer wished he hadn’t let them work all night on the baubles. But he hadn’t expected the day to turn out like this.
“We have to do something! We can’t just sit here and watch Lord bloody Margery and a bunch of silly old stuck-in-the-past dragons and rock-headed glory-days-ers like Rockford ruin everything!”
“Gilbert, calm down,” Mortimer said. They were starting to attract stares from the dragons already in the cavern.
“No! Why should I? This is important.” Gilbert glared at them both. “You don’t get it. Beaufort’s old, and, well – really old. But he’s about living. That’s why he doesn’t care that I like swimming instead of flying. That’s why he likes trading with humans and sneaking around markets and drinking mulled wine. Because it’s living. And that’s what a dragon should do. That’s what everyone should do. Creeping about all frightened, and hiding, and holding to old ways just because that’s the way it’s always been done, and being scared of anything new or different – that’s not living. That’s existing, and only barely. So we can’t let this happen.”
Mortimer sighed, and wished it was that simple. He wished anything were as simple as Gilbert always seemed to think. “We can’t stop it if the vote goes the wrong way. Beaufort will abide by whatever the clan decides.”
Gilbert swatted Mortimer with a wing again, and Mortimer was inclined to think it wasn’t entirely accidental. “And we’re just sitting here. You know what Lord Margery will be doing? She’ll be out there talking to all her old clan mates, and all those ridic
ulous dragons who think she’s all about some mythical glory days when dragons ruled the skies or some rubbish like that, as if that was ever even a thing, and we’re just sitting here. I bet Rockford’s out there telling everyone they’ll be able to burn villages and raid farms and all sorts of rubbish. Anything to get them to vote Beaufort out.”
Mortimer blinked, and sat up straight, feeling suddenly foolish. What was he doing? Why hadn’t he thought of this? He was still thinking like an old dragon, as if the fight was just between Beaufort and Lord Margery. It wasn’t. It was up to all of them. Every one of them got a vote. Every one of them made a difference. “You’re right. We should be doing something.”
“I know.”
“Come on. We need to do this. We need to remind everyone how much Beaufort has done for them. Because he’s not going to.”
“What about the baubles?” Amelia asked.
“Bollocks to the baubles. I don’t care about the baubles. Ghasts take them.” Mortimer was already scrambling down the slope and toward the entrance. “Hurry!”
It was late afternoon, the clear sky peppered with low cloud that was turning a cold gold in the early sunset when Mortimer hurried into the Grand Cavern and scrambled up the rocks to join Amelia. The cavern was packed, full of dragons flushing anxious greys and excited reds and half a dozen shades in between, their steam forming a low, multi-coloured cloud that hid the roof from view. Everyone was here, from Lord Walter to the tiny, hysterically excited shapes of Rupert and Josie dashing among the adults, between legs and over tails. Mortimer didn’t think he’d ever seen so many Cloverlies gathered like this. There were dragons here who didn’t even live in the mount, but who had their own dens and burrows in the high fells, keeping themselves to themselves and scorning even the company of other Cloverly dragons. Their presence made him nervous. It didn’t seem very likely to him that such recluses would be voting to make dragons more connected to the outside world.
“Have you seen Gil?” Amelia asked, and he shook his head.
“I haven’t seen him since we all left.”
“I hope he’s alright.”
“He’ll be fine. I’m sure he’s just trying to round up some more votes.”
“Should we have let him, though, Mortimer? I mean, I love Gil, but he’s kind of – different.”
Mortimer settled himself on the ledge. “Of course he is. That’s why Beaufort loves him. And he convinced us, didn’t he?”
She sighed. “I suppose. But he does get a bit overexcited. And he should be here by now.”
Below them, Beaufort uncoiled himself and sat up, his head high and his chest proud. He surveyed the crowd with those old eyes, the gold crackled by the heat of centuries, then gave a cough that was halfway to a roar. The excited chatter died to nothing almost instantly, and all eyes turned to him.
“Dragons of the Cloverly clan,” he said, his voice calm and warm, booming across the walls. “This is indeed a historic day. Rather than your leader being dictated by might – or dropping dead – you will choose who you wish to lead you on into the coming age. I won’t be making any speeches, and I won’t be making any promises, because you have lived with me as your High Lord for long enough to know me. As I know you, from hatchling to old age. I will say only this: we have lived small for centuries, because it was the safest way to be. But the times have changed around us. Humans have changed. And with that change comes an opportunity for us to live large once again. Because we may be small, but our hearts are not.” He paused, looking carefully around the cavern, and Mortimer felt his own heart aching, small or not. He couldn’t stand it if Beaufort lost. He couldn’t. And not just because of the baubles, or any of that sort of rubbish. Because Beaufort didn’t deserve to lose. His heart was too big for any of them.
“Lord Margery,” Beaufort said.
She stepped to the edge of a rock outcropping, where everyone had to look up to see her, even Beaufort. Her wings hung heavy above her, a deep indigo blue, and her face was proud and beautiful. “Dragons of Cloverly,” she said, “I’ll make this brief, because there’s little to be said. Beaufort has led us well for many years, but with great age can come certain … idiosyncrasies.”
“Cow,” Amelia hissed, and Mortimer shushed her, although he agreed quite firmly.
“And idiosyncrasies are fine,” Lady Margery continued. “Until they get us killed. And, as we all know, that’s what humans are best at. Killing anything that’s different to them, anything they don’t understand. Gods – they even kill each other over it!” She paused to let a ripple of agreement pass through the cavern, and Mortimer swallowed against a tightness in his throat. “And if the humans don’t kill us, the Watch will exile us to desert lands, without a rabbit in sight. These are the facts.”
“They are not—” Amelia began rather loudly, her scales flashing with hectic colour, and Mortimer stomped on her paw. She squeaked and subsided with a hurt look, but she wasn’t helping anyone. There was no point making a scene. It wouldn’t change anyone’s mind. Not in the direction they wanted to, anyway. They just had to let it play out, be dignified and calm and dragonish, just as Beaufort was. The High Lord was sitting on his Weber, looking terribly relaxed, with his wings tucked comfortably against his sides while he nodded agreeably to Lord Margery’s words. They had done all they could do.
Lord Margery gave her wings a final, impressive shake (“Show-off,” Amelia muttered), and Beaufort inclined his head. “Lovely, Lord Margery, thank you. If you’ll just come down and seat yourself over there, please?” He indicated the opposite end of the chamber, rather lower down than her current lofty perch. She scowled but complied, and a titter of laughter rippled around the cavern. Rockford’s little group growled and stomped, and the laughter died quickly. The High Lord ignored it all. “Now, my friends. There is no shame in either choice. There will be no repercussions. Move to the side of the chamber where your choice of High Lord sits. Once you are all seated, Lord Margery and I will both count, so there can be no disagreement.”
“Wouldn’t put it past her to cheat,” Amelia grumbled, but this time Mortimer didn’t shush her. A rumble of wings and scraping paws was washing around the Grand Cavern, amplified by the high ceiling and hard walls, turning it into a stampede. The Cloverly dragons were making their choice.
Mortimer was counting. They hadn’t had to move, and it made a good vantage point, the little ledge on Beaufort’s side of the cavern. The big dragon sat below them looking as if he were attending a tea party rather than a vote on his fate. He’d climbed down from his Weber and was leaning against it, exchanging a few words with the dragons closest to him. They were an odd mix. Lord Walter had come to Beaufort’s side, muttering that he might not hold with humans, but this voting malarkey was even more ridiculous, and if they were going to have the upheaval of a new High Lord it should be done the traditional way and involve some bodily harm, if not actual death. Lord Pamela was there as well, growling that if Beaufort had kept his silly investigation to his silly self they wouldn’t be in this mess. And as for the dragons who had been trading with Amelia – well, Mortimer didn’t know what she’d said to them, but they were all firmly on Beaufort’s side of the Grand Cavern, and some of the younger ones were wearing rings in their tails or on their ankles, and the older ones had blankets to protect themselves from the hard floor. There seemed to be quite a lot of envious looks coming their way from the firmly blanket-less camp of Lord Margery (although none of them had protested about barbecues, he thought sourly). Even some of the recluses had joined Beaufort’s side, and were investigating his Weber with great interest. One, a rather rotund dragon with moss growing on her cheeks, was petting Wendy’s kitten blanket and ooh-ing in delight.
“Where is my brother?” Amelia demanded, peering around the hall. “He’s still not here, Mortimer.”
“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine. Yes, I gathered that the last time you said it. And the time before that.”
“Don’t be snotty. We need him here
. It’s close, isn’t it?”
“There’s still six dragons down there dithering like ducks, damn them.”
“How close, Mortimer?”
He sighed. “Thirty-nine to Lord Margery. Thirty-six to Beaufort.”
“He’s down?”
“Yes, and Rockford’s lot are down there with the six. They’ll be trying to bully them all into going across.” Although still not as big as Beaufort, Rockford towered above the other dragons on the floor, and Mortimer could see him leaning over them, using his bulk. He had an inkling that Rockford still did a bit of sheep-stealing when he could get away with it. It was hard to get that big on rabbits. They took too much work to catch.
“That’s not right,” Amelia said, chewing on a claw anxiously. “He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. We should go down there and speak for Beaufort.”
“No. We’ve already done what we can. He wouldn’t want us using those sorts of tactics.”
“There’s being honourable and there’s being ridiculous,” Amelia growled, but she stayed where she was. Mortimer didn’t exactly disagree with her, but he didn’t move. Some things were the High Lord’s choice, and his alone. And Beaufort always did know best. Well, most of the time. He looked down, realising that he was worrying his tail again, and sighed at the size of the bald patch.