The Outsorcerer's Apprentice Read online

  Which is why, at the very last moment, the knight managed to get one finger round the pommel of his sword, hook it towards him, catch it with his other hand and hold it out quite still as the dragon lurched down on him for the kill. The sword’s point went into the dragon’s armpit with the minimum of fuss, like a needle into cloth.

  The knight let go of the sword and staggered back. The dragon looked slowly down and saw the hilt, which was all that remained visible. “Oh,” it said.

  The knight had regained his balance and was walking backwards. He stopped after nine paces. Dragonfire, as they both knew, has an effective range of eight yards.

  “Sorry,” the knight said. “Nothing personal.”

  For the first time in its thousand years of existence, the dragon knew what it was like to feel weak. Suddenly, all that strength, which it had taken for granted for so very long, wasn’t there any more. It took all its reserves of courage and determination to lift its head a little. Then it fell over. The ground jarred its head as it landed, making it wince.

  After a little while, it heard the knight say, “Excuse me, are you still alive?”

  “Mphm.”

  “Fine,” the knight said pleasantly. “No hurry. You just take your time.”

  He wanted his sword back. Well, of course he did. The dragon tried to draw in a deep breath, for a final foe-incinerating blaze of glory; but it was hard, so very hard, and deep inside it could feel the embers of its internal furnace starting to go cold. Oh well, the dragon thought; it’s been a good life, plenty of flying around and crunchy people and expensive armour glowing cherry-red. No hard feelings. Then it remembered there was something it was supposed to do at this point; and, being a conscientious creature, it resolved to make the effort. It opened its cavernous mouth–painful and difficult, like flexing a knee after you’ve been sitting in one position for too long–and said, “Listen to me.”

  “Sure,” the knight said amiably. “Fire away.”

  “Learn your destiny,” the dragon said. It had no idea where the words came from; they were urgently inside it somewhere, like a large egg in a small chicken, and they needed to come out before–well, the end; because otherwise it wouldn’t be right, somehow. Dragons have a strong sense of right and wrong, which is why they always wipe their feet after bursting into a crowded mead-hall. “You must ride to the forest of Evinardar, beneath the White Mountains of Glathinroth, where you will find—” The dragon hesitated. “Excuse me. Are you listening?”

  The knight looked up from the book he was reading. “Sorry?”

  “I said, are you listening to me? This is your destiny.”

  The knight marked his place with a dandelion and closed the book. “Sorry, yes, that’s fine. Go to the forest of Evinardar, beneath the White Mountains of Gladinroth—”

  “Glathinroth.”

  “Whatever,” the knight said. “And there I shall find a crystal cave where awaits a twelve-fingered giant; if I overcome him, I get to claim the golden chalice of Northestroon, and so on and so forth. Sorry,” he added with a slight smile, “heard it all before, actually. And to be honest, I can’t say I’m all that bothered. All a bit too New-Agey for me, I’m afraid.”

  It occurred to the dragon that maybe it wasn’t the first of its kind this knight had killed. It felt a faint pang of irritation, but no matter. “I forgive you,” it sighed. “Go in peace.”

  “Jolly good,” the knight said absently. “How are you feeling?”

  “I go to join my ancestors in the heart of the Great Fire,” the dragon said. “Soon I shall be at one with the elemental force from which we all derive our being, and from whence—”

  “Splendid,” the knight said, munching an apple. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  “But you must know—” the dragon started to say; and then it stopped, because it didn’t feel at all well. And then it died.

  The knight saw the light in the great creature’s eyes go out. He finished his apple and stood up, wincing as his horribly abused muscles made a formal complaint to his brain, then went over to the corpse and pulled out his sword, which he wiped carefully on the grass before sheathing it, because swords cost money. As he turned and walked away, he was doing mental arithmetic under his breath.

  They were all waiting for him at the bottom of the hill. He paused to flick out an apple pip that had got lodged between his teeth, then strolled down to join them.

  “Sir Turquine,” the king said, in a strained voice. “Have you—?”

  The knight nodded. “All done,” he said. “Now, I’ll be needing a large cart—”

  His words were drowned by an eruption of wild cheers from the soldiers and courtiers, while the king closed his eyes in silent thanksgiving. The knight waited politely until they’d quietened down a bit and he could make himself heard. “A large cart,” he repeated, “and if you could spare a dozen men for the afternoon, I’d be ever so—”

  A choir of local children broke out into a hymn of thanksgiving, while a large, plain girl tried to hang a garland of flowers round his neck. He fended the flowers off as tactfully as he could, and cleared his throat loudly. The king raised his hand and the children fell silent, though their mouths continued to open and close for some time. “Sir Turquine,” the king said. “We are forever in your debt. Thanks to you, the long night of horror and fear—”

  “Yes,” the knight said. “So, as I was saying, if you just let me have a large, stout cart and ten men—”

  The king looked at him as though he’d suddenly turned green. “Nothing,” he said, in a slightly snarky voice, “will ever be able to express our true gratitude. However, half the kingdom and my daughter’s hand in marriage is, I believe, the traditional reward.”

  The knight’s lips were tightly pursed. “Terribly sweet of you,” he said. “But, thanks but no thanks. Really.”

  “Sir Turquine?”

  The knight sighed. “No offence,” he said, glancing briefly upwards as though gauging the time of day by the position of the sun, “but honestly, I’d rather not.”

  The king frowned. “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear,” he said. “As a reward for your heroism, I would like you to rule half my kingdom and marry my only daughter, the heir to the throne. To bestow any lesser reward would—”

  “Yes, got that, thank you,” the knight said, in a very clear voice; so clear, in fact, that the children all took a step back, and the chancellor ducked smartly behind the archbishop. “Like I said, desperately generous of you, but I’m not what you’d call the ruling type. Also, if memory serves, your northern provinces are in open revolt, your economy’s just gone into triple-dip recession and the dragon burned down all the frog-apple trees, whose fruit is your country’s only export and source of hard currency. It’s terribly feeble of me, I know, but I prefer my rewards just a bit less challenging.”

  “My daughter—” said the king.

  “Don’t let’s go there,” the knight said. “No, honestly, it’s been a real treat for me, and a privilege to have been of service, but what I’d really like is a nice strong six-wheeler hay cart and the loan of half a dozen strong men for a couple of hours, and then we can call it quits. Agreed?”

  It occurred to the king that taking offence with the man who’d just killed the invincible dragon might not be the wisest thing he’d ever done. “Agreed,” he said. “One cart, six men. If that’s what you really—”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  A soft red sunset had begun to fill the sky when the knight, seated on the crossbench of a heavily loaded cart, rolled up the long, narrow road that led through the high pass in the Blue Mountains and down into Sair Carathorn, the Wizard’s Vale. Pulling gently on the reins, he paused for a moment to gaze out over the harsh, wind-scorched fells towards the obscure horizon, beyond which lay the Seven Kingdoms and, further still, his half-forgotten home in Westeresse. One day, he thought; one day, perhaps, but not yet. Not, in fact, for as long as humanly possible, unless they’d eventually
got around to doing something about the drains, and his people had finally lost their ancestral passion for double-fermented pickled cabbage. With a soft word of command he urged the horses on, and began the long descent into Sair Carathorn.

  When he reached the gate in the stockade, the gatekeeper grunted reluctantly and let him pass, although technically it was already past curfew. He drove across the empty square, jumped down and tied the reins to the hitching-post in front of the great bronze doors of Enith Carathruin, the Abode of the Wizard. The night shift could take it from there, he decided. What he wanted most of all was a drink.

  The taproom of the Blue Boar was almost deserted, but for a solitary figure sitting beside the fire, his hood drawn down to obscure his face. Nevertheless, the knight took his pint of ale and sat down beside him.

  “Bedevere,” said the knight.

  “Hello, Turkey.” Sir Bedevere yawned, and put his mug down on the floor. The innkeeper’s whippet got up from under his chair, sniffed the mug and walked slowly away. “Any luck?”

  Sir Turquine shrugged. “One,” he said. “Bit on the small side, but what the hell. You?”

  “Three,” Bedevere replied. “Mind, you should’ve seen the one that got away.”

  Turquine suppressed a frown. “Three,” he said. “Not bad.”

  “Small ones,” Sir Bedevere said. “I’ll be lucky if I get nine shillings for the lot. Still,” he added, “nine bob’s nine bob.”

  “Quite,” Turquine said. “Where did you—?”

  Sir Bedevere made a slightly vague gesture with his left hand. “Some place out east I’d never even heard of. Remarkable, isn’t it, how many of these little tinpot kingdoms there are in these parts.”

  Turquine nodded thoughtfully. It was, in fact, a subject to which he’d given a certain amount of bemused thought over the past few years. Practically every valley south of the Mouthwash was a tiny independent entity, with its own king, royal court and interchangeable simpering princesses; and, it went without saying, its own dragon. Not that he was complaining, needless to say. Even so; how had it come about that way, he couldn’t help wondering. How did they all survive? What did the people of these miniature principalities all do for a living? It couldn’t be trade, because they were all dirt-poor. Not agriculture, because most of the land was barren scrub, and the few acres that weren’t tended to be infested with a ridiculously large population of dragons. Still, he told himself, there was bound to be a perfectly simple explanation, which everyone else knew except him, and he didn’t want to make himself look stupid by asking. Besides, the more dragons the better, as far as he was concerned.

  Even so—

  “I had a narrow escape with one of them,” Bedevere was saying.

  “Oh yes?”

  Bedevere nodded emphatically. “Buggers ambushed me,” he said, “on the way back from the lair. Flowers, bridesmaids, brass band, little kids throwing rose petals, bishop in a red dressing-gown, the full nine yards. I had to pretend I was already married before they let me go. And even then they gave me a bloody funny look. I think they’d probably been checking up beforehand.” He sighed. “That’s not right, if you ask me. Leaves a nasty sort of taste in your mouth, that sort of thing.”

  “You’ve got to be so careful,” the knight agreed.

  “Too right. You know, sometimes, for two pins I’d pack the whole thing in. Still,” he added thoughtfully, “nine shillings, in these hard times.”

  The knight sipped his beer, shuddered, and put the mug down on the floor. “What I want to know is—” He stopped, having realised what he’d just started to say. But there was no going back. “What I want to know is, where do all these dragons come from?”

  Bedevere looked at him. “You what?”

  “All these dragons.” The knight couldn’t remember when he’d felt so foolish. Still. “Think about it. How many have you had this month? Nine? Ten?”

  It was one of those things you simply didn’t ask. “Actually, twenty-six. Not, if you don’t mind my saying so, that it’s any of your—”

  “Sorry,” the knight said quickly (and he was thinking; twenty-six? At, say, three shillings a head? My God.) “You’ve got to admit, though, that’s a lot of dragons.”

  Bedevere shrugged. “Loads more where they came from.”

  “Exactly,” the knight said, “that’s my point. That’s a hell of a lot of dragons.”

  Bedevere sighed. “You’re not going to turn out to be one of those wretched tree-hugger types, are you? Because dragons are pests, they burn crops and eat sheep. They kill people, for crying out loud. If it wasn’t for us—”

  “Of course,” the knight said quickly, “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. I just can’t help thinking—”

  “I can.” Bedevere stood up abruptly. “Good lord, is that the time? Think I’ll turn in. Nice bumping into you and all that. Cheerio.”

  After he’d gone, the knight sat alone for a long time, thinking; twenty-six. That’s three pounds nine shillings. That’s—

  He stood up, yawned and stretched. His earlier exertions, together with a long ride on an unsprung cart, were beginning to set hard, rather like slow-drying plaster. I’m getting too old for this, he thought. He was twenty-two.

  By the time he reached the wizard’s house, the night shift had finished skinning and quartering the dragon; they’d hung the quarters on a great steel frame on little wheels, and the bronze doors were open so they could take it inside. Through the open doors Turquine caught a glimpse of a vast, high-ceilinged chamber, brilliantly lit, its walls and floor white as snow. It was filled with row upon row upon row of skinned dragon quarters on steel frames, hundreds, thousands, of them. A bitter chill from inside wafted over him, and he shivered. The night-shift foreman was marking one of the quarters with a stencil. He turned to Sir Turquine, and grinned.

  “You all right, mate?” he said.

  Turquine nodded. “That’s a lot of—”

  “Yeah, well.” The foreman shrugged. “You go on down the office, they’ll give you a blue form and a receipt. All right?”

  “Thanks,” Turquine said. He was peering over the foreman’s shoulder. Right at the back of the great white chamber, set into the furthest wall, he could see–what? A gateway? A portal? It was round, maybe fifty feet in diameter, surrounded with a sort of golden-brown frame that glistened and sparkled in the pure-white glare, as though studded with thousands of diamonds, though the hole in the middle was as black as soot. The men working inside had loaded a dozen racks of dragon quarters on to a crane, which swung across into the black hole in the centre of the portal; a moment later, the crane swung back again, empty.

  The foreman was looking at him. “All right?” he repeated.

  “What? Sorry.” Turquine got the feeling he wasn’t entirely welcome. “I was just—”

  “Go down the office,” the foreman said firmly, “they’ll give you your blue form and your receipt, and then you can get paid. All right?”

  “Yes, right.” For some reason, the look on the foreman’s face made Turquine nervous, in a way dragons never did. Not live ones, anyway. “Thank you.”

  “ ’S all right,” the foreman said, still looking straight at him. “Mind how you go.”

  He went to the office, where a very old man in a brown coat and a curious flat-topped cap gave him his blue form and his receipt, smiled and put up the “Position Closed” sign before he could say anything. He looked round, but the only other living creature in the office was a very tall, thin young man, leaning against the wall, eating a sausage. He didn’t look as though he was in any position to answer difficult questions, though he nodded politely as Turquine walked past him into the cold night air.

  The drill was, you took the blue form and the receipt to the other office, right round the other side of the building, where you got your money; but the other office closed at dusk and didn’t open until three hours after daybreak. Turquine glanced down at the blue form, and was pleasantly surprised; 907 l
bs @ 15d./cwt = 6s. 2d. Six shillings and twopence. A warm smile spread over Turquine’s face, like spilled oil on water. Six bob. Hey.

  He went back to the inn and asked for a beer. “The good stuff,” he specified.

  The innkeeper looked at him. “You sure?”

  Turquine nodded. “I can afford it.”

  The good stuff was still pretty bad, but it was unimaginably better than the other stuff. Turquine sat by the fire, nursing his beer, staring into the flames. He was trying to remember what it had been like, before the wizard came. He found it remarkably difficult. How old would he have been? Hard to say. Nine, twelve, something like that; he was pretty sure he’d been in the dragon-slaying business for four years, and he’d won his spurs when he was eighteen. Of course, those four years had felt like for ever.

  Yes, but it was so much better now, wasn’t it? He unfolded the blue form and looked at it, just to make sure the numbers were still there. Six shillings and twopence. The family estate, to which his father and now his brother had devoted their lives, brought in a gross income of one pound two shillings and fourpence (in a good year, when the harvest didn’t fail and the chickens didn’t get fowl pest), and that put their family in the top third of the nobility; new shoes once a year, fresh cabbage leaves for the outhouse and half a bottle of malmsey wine at Candlemas. Before the wizard came, any transaction involving six shillings and twopence was big news, the sort of thing they’d be talking about in the inn and the smithy from lambing through to blackberry-time. Now, though; now, a no-account younger son like Bedevere (a nice enough chap in his way, but scarcely the sharpest bodkin in the quiver) could earn himself three pounds nine shillings in a single month, and for doing what? Pest control. Forty-one pounds a year for being basically a glorified rat-catcher.

  And what was good for the younger sons of the nobility, of course, was good for the kingdom; all that extra money in circulation, leading inevitably to prosperity for all. True, there wasn’t much sign of it to the casual observer. The villages were still poverty-stricken, mostly because of the depredations of the dragons, but no more so than before; about the same, in fact. Turquine thought about that. If the wizard hadn’t come along when he did, they’d presumably still have had the plague of dragons (where did they come from? Good question), but without the vital cash boost to the economy that the wizard provided. Without the wizard, in fact, they’d be in all sorts of trouble, though of course it was no use trying to tell that to the average peasant-in-the-stocks. That was the trouble with ordinary folk. They simply couldn’t get their heads around the complexities of economics.