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I left Zambini Towers at midnight and spent the rest of the night at the Dragonslayer’s apartment. The crowds of press hadn’t gone by the morning, and pretty soon I had to leave the phone off the hook after two radio stations, the lifestyles section of The Daily Mollusc, the features editor of The Clam and a representative from Fizzi-Pop all called me within the space of forty-seven seconds. All was not bad news, however. Gordon had excelled himself at breakfast, and I was soon tucking into a massive stack of pancakes. I was just reading in the paper about a border skirmish between the Kingdom of Hereford and the Duke of Brecon when there was a knock at the door.

‘If it’s that idiot from Yummy-Flakes tell him I’m dead,’ I said, not looking up from the newspaper. It wasn’t the Yummy-Flakes man. It wasn’t even the theme park guy. It was a royal footman in full livery who ignored Gordon and approached me at the breakfast table. He had a pomaded wig, scarlet tunic and breeches. His shirt had deep frilly cuffs and his starched collar was so stiff he could barely move his head.

‘Miss Strange?’ he asked in a thin voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Dragonslayer?’

‘Yes, yes?’

‘I am commanded by His Majesty King Snodd to convey you to the castle.’

‘The castle? Me? You’re joking!’

The footman looked at me coldly.

‘The King doesn’t make jokes, Miss Strange. On the rare occasion that he does he circulates a memo beforehand to avoid any misunderstandings. He has sent his own car.’

The footman and chauffeur didn’t say a word as we drove out of Hereford towards Snodd Hill, traditionally the place of residence of the Monarch of Hereford since the Dragonpact, as it nestled comfortably – and strategically – against the eastern edge of the Dragonland and was thus completely free from attack in at least one direction. The high ramparts and curtain walls grew larger as we rattled over drawbridges on our way to the inner bailey. I didn’t have time to ponder much as the car pulled up outside the keep and the door was opened by another footman in impeccable dress. He beckoned me to follow and I almost had to run to keep up as we negotiated the winding stairs of the old castle. After a brief sprint he stopped outside two large wooden doors, knocked and then flung them open with a flourish.

The doors led into a large medieval hall. The high ceilings were decorated with heraldic shields and from the massive oak beams hung tapestries depicting the Kingdom’s dubiously won military triumphs over the centuries. At the far end of the room was a large fireplace, in front of which were two sofas which seated six men. They were all watching a young man who was outlining something on a blackboard. None of them seemed to take the least notice of me so I walked closer, listening intently to what was going on.

‘. . . the trouble is,’ said the man at the blackboard, who I recognised instantly as His Gracious Majesty King Snodd IV, ‘that I have no idea what that rascal Brecon is up to. My sources tell me . . .’

His voice trailed off as he noticed me. I suddenly felt very small and naked as all the High Lords of the Kingdom swivelled their heads to stare at me. I knew most of them by sight, of course – they quite liked to get on TV. There was one in particular who was on our screens more than the rest – Sir Matt Grifflon, who was Hereford’s most eligible bachelor and about as handsome as any man could be. He smiled at me and I felt my heart flutter. Despite this, there was an uneasy silence. The other men on the sofas were all clearly military men, although the only one I recognised for sure was the Earl of Shobdon; Kazam had once charmed all the moles off his estate.

‘Your servant, Sire,’ I stammered, curtsying clumsily. ‘My name is Jennifer Strange; I am the Dragonslayer.’

‘The Dragonslayer?’ echoed the King. ‘The Dragonslayer is a girl?’

He said the last word with a tone of derision. I watched silently as he started chortling with small grunty coughs. I have to say I had taken a dislike to my King already. The others started to laugh too and I felt a hot flush of anger rising under my skin. The King raised a hand and the laughter stopped.

‘Aaaah!’ said the King in alarm, before quickly recovering and clapping his hands in delight. ‘My goodness! A real live Quarkbeast!’ He snapped his fingers and a footman appeared.

‘Some meat for the Quarkbeast,’ he said without turning. ‘A most unusual pet, Miss Strange. Where did you find him?’

‘Well, it was more of a case of him—’

‘How fascinating!’ replied the King, cutting me dead. ‘You are loyal to the Crown?’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘That’s a relief. Tell me, Miss Dragonslayer, do you have an apprentice yet?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

The King moved closer to me and I found myself backing away. I had to stop when I came up against a pillar, and he took the opportunity to regard me minutely through a monocle that he had screwed into his eye.

‘Hmm,’ he said at last. ‘You will fire your apprentice and hire the man I send to you. That is all. You are dismissed.’

I started to leave but then stopped as I realised my sixty-second accelerated Dragonslayer course had furnished me with one or two snippets about despots and how to deal with them. Instead of hurrying off, tail between legs and heartily intimidated, I stood my ground.

‘Are you deaf, girl?’ he repeated. ‘I said dismiss! Away with you! Shoo!’

‘My Lord,’ said I, my voice cracking as I stared into the beetroot-red face of the monarch, ‘I wish only to serve my King and will do anything that he reasonably expects of me. But I must point out that by the Mighty Shandar’s decree and ancient law, the concerns of the Dragonslayer are of no consequence to my noble King.’

There was a deathly hush. One of his advisers started to giggle but wisely changed it into a cough. The King’s monocle dropped from his face. He turned to his advisers and asked in an exasperated tone:

‘Was that a refusal?’

His aides all muttered to one another, nodded their heads and generally made noises of assent. The King turned back to me and wagged a slender index finger in my face.

‘You dare to speak of a higher authority than I? Where, might I ask, is this so-called Mighty Shandar? He has not been seen for a hundred and sixty-one years, yet you tell me that he is the last word on Dragons? You are in big trouble, young lady.’

‘No, Sire, I think she does you greater honour by her refusal.’

The voice was raw and gravelly and sounded like that of the janitor from the convent. It was one of the King’s advisers. He rose from his sofa, disturbing one of a pair of greyhounds that had been asleep at his feet, and approached us both.

‘What is the meaning of this, Lord Chief Adviser?’

The Lord Chief Adviser was a tall man of advancing years. His hair and beard were snow white and he walked with a limp. He smiled at me and I breathed a sigh of relief. It stood to reason that a king had others to advise him who were, well, smarter.

‘I remember the last Dragonslayer, my Lord, perhaps you do not.’

‘Of course I do,’ snapped the King. ‘Frightful bounder by the name of Spalding. He was insolent too.’

‘Perhaps. Then you know that a Dragonslayer has a position quite unique. They are answerable not to one king, but to all of us. The independence of the Dragonslayer should not be compromised, and never coerced.’

‘Speak English, damn you! Besides, who’s coercing?’ asked the King in a shocked tone. ‘I am ordering. It is quite a different matter. Guards, lock this Dragonslayer up in the most frightful room of the highest tower and feed her on powdered mouse until she agrees.’

‘You cannot, Sire.’

‘Cannot?’ asked the King, his face growing red with anger. ‘Cannot? I am the King. I WILL BE OBEYED!’

‘As powerful as my Lord is, not even your finest squadron of super-dreadnought landships can come close to the power of magic.’

‘Magic? Pah!’ scoffed the King. ‘This is the twenty-first century, Lord Chief Adviser. I think you accord too much relevance to antiquated notions.’

But the Lord Chief Adviser was not going to be defeated.

‘Your father never dismissed magic so readily, and neither should you.’

The young King bit his lip and looked at me. The Lord Chief Adviser continued:

‘I do not advise you to hold a Dragonslayer against their will, Sire. I also think you should apologise to Miss Strange and welcome her to the court.’

‘What?!’ said the King, his monocle popping out of his eye again. ‘Outrageous!’

At that moment the footman arrived with a small plate of meat for the Quarkbeast.

‘What’s that for?’ asked the King, who had forgotten all about it.

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast, who hadn’t.

The King took the plate and placed it on the floor next to the Quarkbeast, who looked at me obediently. I nodded my assent and he demolished the food, then chewed the pewter plate for a bit before spitting it out in such a mangled and ugly state that one of the ladies-in-waiting fainted and had to be carried out.

‘Goodness,’ said the King, who had never seen a Quarkbeast eat before. The greyhounds saw it too and wisely scurried away to hide.

The Lord Chief Adviser took advantage of the distraction and leaned forward to the King’s ear and whispered something for about thirty seconds. The King’s face gradually broke into a smile.

‘Oh, I see. Of course. Will do.’

He turned to me again but his manner had abruptly changed.

‘I am so sorry, my dear. Please accept my apologies for my brusque behaviour. No doubt you will have heard about the border skirmishes with the Duke of Brecon early this morning. Intelligence sources tell me that since your surprise appointment yesterday and the realisation that this Dragon chappie will soon be dead, Lord Brecon is considering moving his troops forward to capture as much of the Dragonlands as he can. I fully appreciate your position in all this and I hope I can trust in your loyalty to Hereford?’

I was suspicious about his rapid about-face but decided not to show it.

‘You can, Sire.’

‘Perhaps you would consider a small request that I have in mind, then?’

‘And that is . . . ?’

He shook his head sadly.

‘No no no. I am the King. You say yes, then ask me what I require. Your upbringing has not been good, girl.’

‘Very well,’ I replied, ‘I will consider very carefully any request my King might make of me.’

‘A bit better,’ conceded the King doubtfully. ‘You realise that only you can get into the Dragonlands?’

I nodded.

‘Good. I should like you to stake the claim of this crown all over the Dragonlands. So when the good Dragon dies, your monarch and state will be in a more powerful position to better serve its citizens. In return for this I offer you the title of marchioness and a hundred-acre tract of the Dragonlands. Am I not the most generous king ever?’

‘I will consider what you have said most carefully, my Lord.’

‘That’s all agreed then. Lord Chief Adviser, would you show this good lady to my car?’

The royal adviser took me firmly by the arm and we backed away together for a respectable distance before turning our backs on the King and leaving the room.

‘I am Lord Tenbury, Miss Strange,’ announced the adviser in a kindly tone. ‘You may call me Tenbury. I was an adviser to the King’s father. You will forgive King Snodd’s quick temper.’

We continued to walk along the corridor.

‘You have trouble with the Duke of Brecon?’ I asked him.

‘As usual.’ He sighed. ‘Brecon would dearly love to expand into the Dragonlands as soon as Maltcassion dies and I’m afraid we can’t allow that to happen. You and your apprentice have the only access to the Dragonlands and that is very useful to us. I beg you to consider the King’s request most carefully.’

He stopped and looked into my eyes with an earnest expression.

‘Remember you are a subject of King Snodd, Jennifer, and that your duty as a Dragonslayer is second only to your duty as a loyal defender of this crown.’

‘All I want is the best for the Dragon, Tenbury.’

The adviser smiled.

‘Things are never as simple as they appear, Miss Strange. By taking on the mantle of Dragonslayer you have inherited a political position every bit as delicate as that of the skilled court adviser. I hope in all this you will make the right decisions.’

We had reached the front door, where the mute driver with the Jaguar awaited me.

‘There is one other thing I would ask of you,’ said Tenbury, looking about nervously and moving closer.

‘I respect your candour, sir,’ I replied. ‘What do you wish?’

‘That you think very carefully about merchandising.’

‘What?’

‘Merchandising. Dragonslayer toys, games and so forth. It’s big business these days; the King’s useless brother and myself are regional representatives of Consolidated Useful Stuff and have been authorised to offer you twenty per cent of everything sold. We think that plastic swords are probably worth a half million in sales alone.’

He smiled and gave me his card.

‘Promise me you’ll think about it?’

‘I will promise you that.’

Up until that point, I had almost liked him. I sighed deeply. King Snodd’s rapid about-face meant only one thing: I hadn’t heard the last from him.