Exit the Dragon (Newport Pagnall Book 1) Read online

“The bodies do need disposing of,” said Pagnell. “Reverentially, I mean. And, one supposes, they would have been disposed of at some point anyway, dragon or no dragon.”

  “What do you mean?” said Cunnan.

  Pagnell smiled gently. “Everyone dies eventually. And if they had died of natural causes, would it have been the family who would have paid?”

  “It would,” said Jynn.

  “But whole families have been turned to ash by the dragon,” said Chrindle.

  “And become a burden to the crown.”

  “And how much do the temples charge?” said Pagnell.

  Maegor unrolled his scroll further. “They have kindly provided us with a sliding scale from high ranking nobles to paupers.”

  “I think, given that those who died either had no home or were destroyed along with their house,” said Jynn, “we could argue most convincingly that all the dead are paupers.”

  “But many of the dead are naught but ash and charcoal,” said Cunnan. “If we are to pay per body, how are we to distinguish one from another?”

  “Skulls?” said Maegor.

  Pagnell who had seen what dragonfire could do to a body on his way into the city doubted that there would necessarily be many skulls to be found.

  “Weight,” he said.

  “For what?” said Chrindle.

  He tutted. “We pay them by weight. If it is a penny per pauper then we pay them a penny for a pauper’s-weight of human remains.”

  “A penny is probably optimistic,” said Maegor.

  “And — and! —” said Pagnell, excited by a sudden idea, “given that the wealthier the individual the more portly and corpulent they are likely to be then the more we will be paying for them proportionally.”

  “Although much of that portliness is fat,” mused Maegor (who was not a thin man himself). “Tallow for the candles.”

  “Are you suggesting the fat and wealthy burn better?” said Jynn.

  “It’s funny where idle thoughts take you.”

  By the look on her face, Chrindle did not think it funny. A soldier, she had perhaps seen enough of death to think it distasteful or perhaps not think anything of it at all.

  “Speaking of temples,” said Cunnan, “there are now, I believe, thirteen temples in the city.”

  “Oh?” said Chrindle.

  “Folks are calling the new one the Temple of the Dragon.”

  “Oh, I walked past that. Down by the banks of the Turge. I thought it was a restaurant. Or a brothel.”

  “It does have a certain gaudy quality about it, aye.”

  “I was concerned about the amount of gold leaf they were using on the statue out front.”

  The woman was obsessed with the dangerous dragon-luring effects of gold.

  “And what are the principal tenets of this new faith?” asked Jynn innocently. Pagnell could hear the innocent tone in his voice, the deliberately innocent tone.

  “It seems they believe that the dragon is a god,” said Cunnan.

  “Blasphemy,” said Maegor.

  “Maybe. But it does live in the sky and it does visit ruin on those who displease it.”

  “Not distinguishing between wicked and virtuous,” Maegor pointed out.

  “Aye, sounds like a god to me. And they say that if you give gold to the Temple of the Dragon then you’ll be protected from its wrath.”

  “And people believe that?”

  “Well, the priests are keen to point out that the building housing the temple was not burned down in the dragon attack, so…”

  “But the temple only came into existence after the dragon attack,” said Pagnell. “So, they simply set up in one of the buildings that was left standing.”

  Cunnan itched his grey whiskers. “The people of Grome are many fine things. Intelligent is not one of them.”

  The remainder of the afternoon was devoted to dealing with many of the unresolved issues on Maegor’s agenda. A decree was worded to the effect that any new buildings in the city should be constructed of non-flammable and therefore hopefully dragon-proof material. Plans for reopening trade routes with neighbouring cities were discussed and orders put into place from clearing the charred shipwrecks that currently blocked the harbour. It was decided that ‘dragon courts’ would be set up to resolve disputes over who owned what — including houses, possessions and corpses — in this crazy post-dragon city. Each of the privy councillors went away with tasks to do and their own minions to muster.

  Pagnell loitered as Maegor and his copyist, Zirocks, tidied and tried to make sense of all the scribbles and notations made that day.

  “I wondered if you would like me to take a look at the priests’ proposals,” said Pagnell. “I could do some calculations regarding body weights and the relative social status of the corpse.”

  “You know how much a burned body weighs?” said Maegor.

  “Give me a set of weighing scales, a sausage and pot to cook it in and I could make an intelligent guess.”

  Maegor smiled. “You are a very clever man, aren’t you?”

  “Too clever for my own good sometimes,” the wizard agreed. “By the way, I suspect your lord treasurer has a controlling share or at least some stake in the Temple of the Dragon.”

  “I suspect it too,” said Maegor. “As long as they pay their taxes I might be disinclined to care.” He moved to the balcony. “It must be somewhere over… there.”

  Maegor pointed past the rock solid Turge River on which young men now boldly strolled. Pagnell couldn’t be sure exactly where Maegor thought it might be.

  “If it has a gold-plated statue of a dragon outside, I’m surprised no one’s tried to destroy it as some belated form of revenge,” said Maegor.

  “Or steal it,” said Pagnell.

  “It would be worth something.”

  “Not as much as a real dragon. Dead or alive.”

  “Or even just a dragon egg.”

  “Or even just the shell,” said Pagnell before he could stop himself.

  “Oh, but people will believe that stealing that statue would make the dragon god angry,” said Maegor.

  “It’s funny what people believe.”

  Maegor appeared to be about to disagree and then changed his mind.

  “The king’s — the late king’s great aunt believed she was destined to be eaten by a crocodile.”

  “The queen? Mad as a sack of fairies?”

  “That was her,” said Maegor.

  “Mad monarchs tend to believe all manner of foolish things.”

  “Odd thing was, she was right.”

  “Really?” said Pagnell.

  Chapter 4 - The Queen and the Crocodile

  It was told to me thus [said Maegor].

  The king’s great aunt, the queen, was obsessed by the belief that she would one day be killed by a crocodile. It was, without doubt, her greatest fear.

  A crocodile. A legged river serpent, with scaly armoured plate and in possession of a mouth like a trapdoor full of sharp teeth. They crave the sun’s warmth and, if exposed to the cold, become sluggish and lifeless.

  Yes, we do live in a more temperate corner of the world. A crocodile would find life here far too chilly. And indeed that did make the queen’s fear a little unusual. This was compounded by the fact that she believed the crocodile in question — her inescapable doom — would find her in the bath.

  She was mad, of course. Though I would not have said so at the time. Who am I to question the mind of a monarch? I may be a scribe and the advisor to the throne but I knew my place. But I did try to counsel the woman.

  I queried her belief and pointed out the more obvious flaws in the notion.

  She said to me, “Maegor, I feel it is true in my very bones. And there is, of course, precedence. I recall most clearly being bitten in the bath as a child.”

  “Bitten?” I said. “By a crocodile?”

  The queen gave me a thoughtful look. “I do not remember if it was a crocodile specifically but in my mind’s eye
, I see a dark shape, those foul red eyes and feel — oh, I feel it now, Maegor! — sharp teeth nipping at my toes.”

  I did not dismiss the queen’s comment out of hand, but I asked if she might have misremembered the event.

  “I would imagine,” I added, “that the appearance of a crocodile in the young princess’s bath tub would be quite a story and be remembered by many of the older members of castle staff. I have asked around…”

  The queen waved my objections away with her fan.

  “They can barely remember anything from one day to the next. The cook can’t remember how I like my eggs salted, and when I ask the maid of my chamber for my favourite dress…”

  “Yes, your majesty,” I said, “but, a crocodile… I mean, a crocodile. I am certain it would stick in the mind.”

  And she gave me one of those looks. A wise man does not ignore such a look. I did not question her further that day. It is the monarch’s prerogative to think as he or she wishes. If the monarch says up is down, the moon is the sun or that his army must make war against the rainclouds then so be it. Yes, that last was the old king’s father. There are still holes in the roof of the northwest turret tower from where a catapult’s load went astray.

  The king’s father, the queen’s nephew, comes into this story of course. For, just as the queen felt it was her destiny to be eaten by a crocodile in the bathtub, so he felt it was his destiny to become king, his duty even. He was of the opinion that if his mad aunt — his words at the time, not mine — were to meet her grisly end then it should be sooner rather than later. Why so pressing?

  The queen was to marry.

  A suitor had been chosen, a prince from some far off kingdom. A marriage might soon lead to children and, then, the queen’s nephew would no longer be next in line to the throne. He resolved to put his plan into action before the prince even arrived. Oh, we can speak of it now. We live in strange times and, besides, regicide, as long as it’s done by close family, is part of the natural order of things. Meanwhile, while he plotted to assassinate the queen, I resolved to tackle another matter most pressing.

  You see, the queen so feared finding a crocodile in her bathtub that she had not bathed, to my knowledge, since childhood. There might have been a little light washing of various bits as and when they became available but the queen was more inclined to mask her, um, her natural aroma with scents and oils. Oh, the noble folk do smell far sweeter than we common soil but — how should I put this? — the queen had accumulated more than a little filth over the years. Oh, it fell off her in clods, your majesty. We have a surprisingly large example in the family chapel.

  The queen needed a bath. Her groom-to-be might have been a noble of lesser standing, but no matter his status, his ardour or his state of intoxication, a man expects certain standards on his wedding night.

  I approached the matter gently.

  “How,” I asked the queen, “do you imagine a crocodile might get into your bath?”

  “Well,” she replied, in the manner of one who had thought about it at length, “I expect it will come up through the pipes.”

  “Pipes?” I asked.

  “Yes, Maegor. The pipes that carry the water.”

  “They are quite small,” I pointed out.

  “I imagine crocodiles are very squishable,” she replied. “Bones made of rubber or some such.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can look into that but I’m very much given to understand that crocodiles are both gargantuan in size and, in no sense at all ‘squishable’.”

  “Or up the toilet,” said the queen.

  “We can block the toilet for the duration of your bath. We could have your heaviest maid sit on it.”

  “Or perhaps,” she said shrewdly, “the crocodile is already there.”

  “Pardon, your majesty?” I said.

  “It’s already there. Maybe it entered my bath chamber as a baby crocodile — or an egg! — and then proceeded to grow.”

  I was speechless for a moment and I rarely am such.

  “Your majesty,” I queried gently, “you are suggesting that the enormous crocodile that you fear is already in your bathtub and has been there for several years, growing? I am confident that someone would have spotted it before now. Or, indeed, been eaten by it.”

  “Perhaps they have. We do have a lot of servants. If one or two went missing, who would notice?”

  I attempted a different approach.

  “Your majesty,” I said, “even if any of this were true, why would a crocodile be here, thousands of miles from its tropical home?”

  “Perhaps it escaped from a travelling menagerie,” she said promptly.

  “Menageries and zoological exhibits have been banned throughout the kingdom on your command for that very reason,” I said.

  “A dealer in rare pets!”

  “No, your majesty.”

  “Or… someone who wishes me harm might procure one and… and… encase it in ice to send it to sleep – they do sleep when cold, do they not? – and then place it in my bathtub to defrost.”

  The queen was most pleased with this explanation, but it was up to me to bring her back to reality.

  “Your majesty,” I humbly began, “the chances of you being eaten by a crocodile are remote beyond comprehension. You are far more likely to simply drown in your tub or slip on a bar of soap and crack open your skull.”

  “Nonsense!” she scoffed. “So tawdry a death! So banal! Do you forget who you speak to?”

  I retreated hastily but, over the weeks to come, I chipped away at her resolve. A bath before her wedding day was essential and I knew in my heart that her life was not in danger.

  I consider myself a man of subtle persuasions. I endeavour to rip back the veil of folly and reveal the path of wisdom to all who will listen. The queen consented to a bath at last.

  Oh, she put up a struggle. She insisted on a number of ‘crocodile drills’. The entire household was instructed what to do in the event of a loose crocodile. Certain doors were identified as ‘emergency exits’ and marked with plaques bearing the image of a figure pursued by a crocodile. Certain stewards were nominated as ‘crocodile marshals’ with the role of guiding people out and ensuring all were accounted for. A unit of the palace guard was designated as the Royal Crocodoons, given their own unique livery and equipped with an array of weapons that the master of arms thought best for fighting crocodiles.

  It was a mistake to concede to the queen’s request that, during the crocodile drills, one servant was dressed up as the offending beast and instructed to run up and down the corridors, roaring and flapping its ridiculous jaws. Yes, the queen had sent to Carius for the eviscerated remains of a crocodilian — a sad and flaky specimen that was coming apart at the seams, I recall. Between drills, she insisted the crocodile be placed in her bedchamber.

  She was mad, you see. I did say. The old king’s father said it and he was right. She stared at her nemesis for hours with horrified fascination. Shortly before she took her bath, I approached to offer words of encouragement and I found her staring into the dull black eyes of the beast, hypnotised. Whatever came next, her mind had already been consumed.

  “I hear,” she said faintly, “that the peoples of the far south revere the crocodile as a god, a thing to be feared and respected.”

  The queen retreated to her bath chamber alone to take her bath.

  I was not there at the end. Of course not. There are certain facts I can tell you and my own reverie of how the queen would have met her death. The facts then: there was no crocodile in there before she entered, the toilet and garderobe chute below were securely sealed. At no point did the queen cry out. The maid outside the room thought she heard the queen mutter a handful of words but could not be sure.

  My thoughts? The queen undressed to bathe. Her stinking clothes, mired with the grime of years, were found draped over a chair. And then, at some point, she saw the crocodile. Oh, what a beast. Any man would feel honoured to have such a monster attend
the moment of his demise. Twenty feet of muscly death, every inch of it armoured in green-black studs of horny plate. A mouth as deep as your arm is long, as wide as your head. Teeth like diamond shards. Picture it. Picture that open maw, its tongue, wet and pink, waiting to taste you. Eyes? No glint of demonic fire in those eyes, no cruel intent, but a cold yellow gaze with an indifference that would make you tremble.

  The queen could have screamed for what good it would have done her but she did not. Was she struck dumb? No. The maid outside reported after that she thought she heard the queen say, “No, not like this,” or something similar.

  I think it was then that the queen stepped into the bath and sat among the steam and scented soap bubbles. She had declared that she would be eaten by a crocodile in her bath and, I think, was determined that it should be so. To be eaten by a crocodile was not enough. A true monarch knows that their word and their authority trumps all other things. Better to be dead than fallible.

  The crocodile put its clawed feet on the edge of the bath and hauled its great bulk over the rim. The queen’s body was all aquiver. Whose wouldn’t be? She raised one foot daintily in encouragement. It obligingly opened its mouth. A fast and savage chomp or a delicate nibble, I couldn’t tell you. As I say, she did not scream once.

  The prince arrived the following day and left, unwed, the day after that. And the queen’s nephew, the old king’s father, was crowned king.

  How did the crocodile get into the bathroom? I have absolutely no idea. The new king? No, not at all. That’s a ridiculous notion. The queen’s nephew had hired a foreign assassin to slit the queen’s throat and lost his deposit when it turned out no throat slitting would be necessary.

  A king? Use a crocodile to kill someone? Of course not. He wasn’t mad.

  Chapter 5

  “You made that up,” said Pagnell.

  “I did not,” said Maegor. “On my word of honour.”

  “Crocodoons?”

  “Crocodoons. Absolutely.”

  Pagnell shook his head but said nothing more.

  There was a shout from far below, little more than a mewl at this distance. Pagnell and Maegor looked down at the dusky streets. On the dried River Turge a hole had appeared, such as a fork might make in a pie crust. From the hole steam drifted and something bubbled. Of the man who had made the hole in the crust, there was no sign.