The Flight of Dragons (2 page)

Marcus looked up from the book and guessed the professor’s dilemma. “It’s OK,” he said with a grin. “You’re not my tutor anymore. Were there really dragons at Niven’s Knowe? Or is it just a story?”

“Indeed, there were.” The professor sat back and waited for the onslaught of questions.

“WOW! When? Why did they go away? Who got rid of them?” Marcus was on his feet and wild to hear more. “Will they ever come back? What —”

“Hang on, kiddo!” Marlon raised a wing in warning. “Here comes Her Majesty! Company with her, by the sound of it, so I’ll be offski. Back soon as. See ya!” And he was gone before Professor Scallio could stop him.

Alf flew hastily back to the darkness and settled down to watch.

Marcus, in an agony of suspense, waited as the door opened and Bluebell, Queen of Wadingburn, came sailing in. Behind her puffed a well-rounded gentleman who was protesting, “Pretty young thing’s doing her best, Bluebell, m’dear. Sure of it. Just need to get it sorted out.”

“You certainly do! Can’t imagine coping without a cook. Whatever was Fedora thinkin’ of ? Oh!” The queen’s eye fell on Marcus, and her expression changed from irritation to pleasure. “Dear boy! How nice to see you!”

Marcus was looking at Bluebell’s companion, his face alight. “King Horace! Sire! I’ve just discovered something absolutely amazing. You used to keep dragons at Niven’s Knowe!”

“What?” The king turned a curious shade of purple. “Certainly not! Not in my lifetime. As if I’d allow such a thing! Whole idea is ridiculous — totally ridiculous. Never heard of anything so stupid. Luckily my grandfather was a man of sense. Said no king could call himself civilized when he had dragons rampaging around his kingdom; never believed those silly superstitions about evil coming in if the dragons went out. Got rid of the lot of them eighty years ago — and not a moment too soon. And not a sign of evil! Not a sign!”

“Oh.” Marcus did his best to hide his disappointment. “I wouldn’t mind having a few dragons in Gorebreath.”

Up in his lofty perch, Alf applauded enthusiastically, but Queen Bluebell peered over her lorgnette. “Don’t be silly, Marcus. There’d be young women screaming all over the place — and think of the cost! You can’t feed a dragon on peanuts, you know. And there’d be endless fire damage to pay for — you can’t keep dragons caged up, so they’d have to be taken for walks and so on, and there’d be accidents with haystacks and thatched cottages and wooden sheds for sure. Besides, there are laws about that sort of thing. ‘No Undesirable and Non-Permitted Residents,’ if I remember rightly. No zombies, sorceresses, werewolves, or unreliable creatures of any kind allowed in the Five Kingdoms, and that includes dragons. Exclusion Laws, that’s what they’re called. Keep us safe in our beds at night.”

King Horace was still glaring at Marcus. “Ancient history, those dragons. Where’d you find out about ’em?”

Marcus, taken aback by the king’s reaction, pointed to the open book. “It’s all in there, sire. There are pictures of them outside your palace.”

“What? What, what, WHAT?” The king gave every appearance of being about to explode. “Thought those books had all been destroyed! Never allow rubbish like that in my library. Look to the future, that’s my motto. What’s past is past, and best left that way. I’m shocked, Bluebell, shocked to the core! Thought you’d have known better.”

Bluebell raised her lorgnette and inspected the page. “Don’t see the harm in a little history, myself. Hmph! Fancy that! Dragons carved on the archway. Don’t remember ever seeing those.”

“I can assure you, Bluebell, m’dear, that those are long, long gone! Cut them out years ago!” The king was still trembling with anger as he leaned across the table and slammed the book shut. He gave the professor a cold stare. “I’d suggest you burn these books before they cause trouble. History! Stuff and nonsense, the whole lot of it! Now, I must be off. Promised young Tertius I’d be home for tea. If there is any, that is.” His frown deepened. “If you should hear of a reasonable sort of cook, Bluebell, old girl, send us a pigeon with a message.”

Bluebell slapped her forehead. “Knew we’d come here for a reason. Be a good chap, Professor, and ask your sister to put the word out. The palace of Niven’s Knowe needs a cook; Princess Fedora’s sent the old one packing.” She turned back to the king. “If I find a suitable candidate, Horace, I’ll bring her to Niven’s Knowe myself. If your son’s foolish enough to allow his brand-new wife to upset one of the best cooks in the Five Kingdoms, he deserves every dried-up kipper he gets, and it’s time somebody told him a few home truths!”

Alf started to giggle, wobbled, slipped — and only just saved himself from falling into view. Made wary by his narrow escape, he moved farther into the darkness, and settled himself on a dusty pile of papers. His eyelids began to droop; only the boom of King Horace’s voice kept him awake.

“Now, now.” The king’s belligerent expression melted into a sentimental smile. “Fedora’s a pretty little thing, and I’m sure she means well. It’ll be teething troubles, that’s all. Expect it’ll settle down in a day or two.” King Horace nodded wisely, and puffed his way out of the library.

“Hmph!” Bluebell shook her head. “ ‘Pretty little thing,’ indeed! Fedora needs a good shake, if you ask me. Still, not my place. I’d better be off. Good to see you, Marcus. Bring that nice girl Gracie Gillypot with you next time.” With a cheery wave, she sailed out of the library.

Professor Scallio watched her go, then turned to look out the window, his brow furrowed.

Marcus sat down on the edge of the desk. “I can’t believe the laws won’t allow dragons into the Five Kingdoms. No wonder the place is so boring.”

His old tutor gave a noncommittal grunt. “Did you say you were going to see Gracie tomorrow?”

Marcus nodded. “Yes. I’ll go as early as I can, or Nina-Rose’ll try and make me join her and Arry on some ghastly outing to make daisy chains or pick roses or skip among the dewdrops.”

All but asleep, Alf chuckled to himself. A moment later, he was snoring steadily, his effort to stay awake abandoned.

“Hmm . . .” The professor was still staring out at the clouds, an abstracted expression on his face. “I wonder. Marcus, could you do me a favor? Ask my sister, Val, if she’s noticed anything odd about the web of power.”

“The web?” Marcus was immediately curious. “Am I allowed to ask why, sir?”

“No.” Professor Scallio sounded irritable, but as Marcus looked at him in surprise, he went on, “I’m sorry, dear boy. You’ll have to excuse me. There’s something on my mind. Just do as I ask — there’s a good lad. I’ll see you again soon.” And the old man sat down and pulled a pile of books toward him.

Marcus hesitated. Then he said, “You can trust me, sir. I’m not a kid anymore. If there’s something wrong, I might be able to help. Me and Gracie, that is . . .”

There was a pause before the professor looked up. He studied his former pupil with some care, while Marcus did his best to be patient. “I
do
trust you, Marcus,” he said at last. “And Gracie. And you may well be able to help, you and Gracie and the Ancient Crones.” He glanced toward the library door and lowered his voice. “There have been sightings of dragons, and no dragon has been seen near the borders of the Five Kingdoms for decades. Marlon’s been keeping watch for me, he and his team of bats. So far no humans have seen them, but it’s only a matter of time — and then there’ll be total panic, and the armies will be called out, and who knows what’ll happen then? Dragons are incredibly powerful beasts; they make excellent friends but very terrible enemies. Very terrible, indeed.”

“I see.” Marcus was trying hard not to bubble over with excitement. “I’ll tell Gracie, and I’ll ask the crones if they know anything.”

“Excellent. But Marcus . . . remember. Not a word to anyone else!”

Marcus stood at attention and saluted. “You have the word of Prince Marcus of Gorebreath, sir!” He grinned, leaned forward, and slapped the professor on the back. “But you have to admit, Prof — it is REALLY exciting!” And he strode out of the library, whistling as he went.

A moment later, he was back, still grinning. “Hey! Do you think they’re trying to get back to Niven’s Knowe? That’d give old Terty a scare and a half!” And he was off again, leaving the professor looking extremely thoughtful.

B
ack in the kingdom of Niven’s Knowe, the pretty little thing was throwing a tantrum. It was her third that day, and her husband, Prince Tertius, was doing his best to soothe her.

“Darling Fedora, I
promise
we’ll find another cook soon. Father’s gone to ask Queen Bluebell if she knows of one, and very soon you’ll be able to have your breakfast eggies exactly the way you like them. And your fishy pie. And chocolate cake with chocolate-cream icing three times a day if that’s what you want.”

Fedora pouted. “But you promised that yesterday, Terty,
and
the day before. And I’m TIRED of rubbery eggs and bony pies, and we haven’t had chocolate cake for ages and ages and
ages
. Your head butler’s a simply dreadful cook, and if my dinners don’t get better soon, I’m going home to Mother.”

Tertius went pale. “Oh, dearest darling BEAUTIFUL Fedora — please don’t say that!” He hesitated. “We could . . . we could ask Mrs. Basket if she’d come back.” Fedora’s face darkened, and he went on quickly. “I know you hate her, and you told her you never ever wanted to see her again, but she
is
a very good cook. And she’s been here more than thirty years, and she’s still in her cottage, and it’s only just across the park, and I could ask her to make you the loveliest chocolate cake you’ve ever seen. She’s sure to do it if I ask her, because she’s known me since I was a baby, and she’s a big old softie if you get on the right side of her.”

“NO!” His bride scowled. “She said I was the fussiest eater she’d ever met. All I did was tell her I don’t like brussels sprouts. Or cabbage. Or smelly kippers. Or lumpy custard —”

Tertius could bear it no longer. “Hang on a minute! Mrs. Basket makes the best custard ever!”

“I didn’t say she didn’t,” Fedora said petulantly. “I was just trying to be ‘observant of the kitchen and what goes on there,’ like it says in
The Handbook of Palace Management
that Great-Aunt Gussie gave me as a wedding present. The next bit says, ‘Always inform Cook of your desires and wishes in a firm but kindly manner,’ so that was what I was doing. And then she went all huffy and said she’d never had any complaints before, so I said there was a first time for everything, and that was when she asked if you knew I’d come to see her and I said no. And then she sniffed and said she’d always thought you’d end up with a bossy young thing for a wife. She was rude to me, Terty, and I’m not having her in my palace!”

There was a brief silence while Tertius wondered what would happen if he pointed out that it was a long way from being Fedora’s palace. His father, King Horace, was very much alive and active; indeed, at this precise moment, he was doing his best to make his daughter-in-law happy in her new home by finding a new palace cook. Deciding to play it safe, Tertius said, “Well. Let’s wait and see what Father says. Shall we go and play spillikins, darling one?”

Fedora shrugged. “If you want. But I won’t feel better unless I have some chocolate.”

“Dearest — I’ll send for a page this minute.” The prince tugged at a velvet bellpull, and there was a resounding
clang! clang! clang!
somewhere deep down below.

In the servants’ quarters, three tall footmen, four middle-size housemaids, and five small pages leaped to their feet, but the head butler waved them back to their seats around the kitchen table with an imperious gesture. “Nobody leaves this kitchen until we’re in agreement,” he boomed. “A stand has to be taken! Mrs. Basket was dismissed for no good reason. Thirty-five years she’s been here, and never a word against her or her cooking until that spoiled little madam arrived.”

There were nods and mutters and murmurs of “You never said a truer word, Mr. Trout.”

Mr. Trout nodded. “So — are we all agreed? Until Mrs. Basket is returned to her post, we’re on strike. No more answering of bells. No more cleaning or mopping or serving the meals. And”— he banged the table with a heavy iron ladle —“NO COOKING!”