---

‘What did the King have to say?’ asked Gordon van Gordon, who was doing the washing up in a flowery pinny. He had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but was still wearing his brown derby hat.

‘My appointment yesterday has made everybody think that Maltcassion isn’t long for this world. Brecon is looking to increase his lands and the King is unwilling to let him do so. They want us to lay out the Crown’s claims on the Dragonlands before he dies, thus allowing the land to cede painlessly into Snodd’s hands.’

‘I see,’ said Gordon, ‘and what are your opinions on these matters?’

‘I’m a Dragonslayer,’ I replied, ‘not an estate agent. It won’t make me very popular with the King, though.’

‘I agree with that. But you must do what you feel is right. Fancy a cup of tea?’

I nodded gratefully.

‘I had another call from Fizzi-Pop,’ said Gordon.

‘Oh yes?’

‘They upped their offer to fifty thousand for your endorsement.’

‘What about Yummy-Flakes?’

‘They only went as far as forty. ConStuff want to talk some more about merchandising rights, Cheap & Cheerful want to launch a line of Jennifer Strange sporting clothes, and ToyStuff want a licence to release a model of the Slayermobile. The bookies won’t take any bets for you to win but they are offering the Dragon three hundred to one, and a tie at five hundred to one.’

‘Is that all?’

Gordon smiled, finished filling the kettle and plugged it in.

‘No. MolluscTV want to do a documentary about you and the UKBC’s wildlife department is interested in you taking a camera into the Dragonlands. I’ve had three producers wanting to buy the exclusive rights to your story and one even said that Sandy O’Cute was very big on the idea of playing you in the movie.’

‘I bet she was.’

‘In your mail, ninety-seven per cent want you to kill the Dragon and three per cent want you to leave it alone. Five people have written in with offers of marriage, and two have claimed they are the real Dragonslayer. One little old lady in Chepstow wants you to use your sword to dispose of a particularly invasive thorn tree, and another in Cirencester wants you to appear at a fund-raiser for the Troll Wars Orphans appeal. And finally, the Wessex Rolls-Royce club want you to bring the Slayermobile on a rally next month.’

‘And this is just the beginning,’ I murmured.

Gordon poured the boiling water into the teapot.

‘It’ll calm down, as soon as there’s no more news.’

‘I hope. Milk, please, and half a sugar. Mind you, I’m not averse to appearing for the Troll Wars Orphans appeal.’

The doorbell rang. Gordon looked at his watch and pulled off his pinny.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

‘The Yogi Baird Daytime TV Show. You said you’d do a live phone-in from here.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’

He opened the door and Yogi Baird strode in, shook my hand, grinned wildly and said how wonderful it was to meet me and how he simply knew it would be a great show. As he was telling me this he was being dabbed at by a make-up woman. They were joined by a cameraman, an engineer, two electricians, a producer, three PAs and someone who wore black whose function it was to talk about not very much on a mobile phone. Within a short time they had the camera set up and a live uplink to a local transmitter. The same make-up person faffed over me as they set up two chairs in front of the spiky Rolls-Royce and a sound engineer fixed me with a microphone.

While all this was going on I had placed a paper bag over the head of the Quarkbeast with a single hole for him to see out of. It wouldn’t do to unnecessarily frighten the crew, and if the Quarkbeast went on live TV, he might cause a panic and small children to start crying, something neither of us wanted.

The floor manager counted Mr Baird in with his fingers and pointed at him as the red ‘live’ light mounted on top of the camera flicked on. The TV presenter grinned broadly.

‘Good afternoon. This is Yogi Baird, speaking to you live from the Dragonslayer’s office in Hereford, capital city of the Kingdom by the same name. In just a minute we’ll be talking to our very special guest, Dragonslayer Jennifer Strange. But before all that, a word from our sponsors. Has your get-up-and-go got up and went? Need a pick-me-up for a hard morning’s work?’

He produced a packet of breakfast cereal.

‘Then you need to try Yummy-Flakes for that extra vavoom!’

He put down the packet as the jingle played briefly, then he smiled into the camera and continued:

‘Listen, everyone’s been talking about Dragons these last few days. Dragon this, Dragon that, seems like a bit of a drag to me. That joke will slay me, but listen, folks . . .’

He didn’t seem so funny live. The audience back at the studio were doubtlessly holding their sides, but I was feeling uncomfortable. Like almost everyone in the Kingdoms I had watched the Yogi Baird show all my life, but was beginning to feel as though I was being used – and that Dragonslayers should perhaps show more dignity. I stayed for Mother Zenobia’s sake. I knew she would be watching – or listening, anyway.

‘. . . have you noticed just how many people have converged on the Dragonlands? Biggest show in town. Maltcassion will soon have his own TV station.’

The cameraman zoomed out to include me in the shot as the floor manager waved frantically at me to be ready.

‘. . . but all kidding aside, for the past few days the small Kingdom of Hereford has been alive with speculation over the death of the world’s last Dragon. With rumours of his demise imminent, this four-hundred-year-old Dragonland may very well soon be passed to any number of lucky claimants. I have with me the one person who could be battling with the Dragon some time in the next week. Ladies and gentlemen, Jennifer Strange.’

I looked across at Gordon, who gave me the thumbs-up through the glare of the lights. I was being beamed live into the homes of over thirty million people. Two days ago no one had heard of me, yet today you would be hard pressed to find someone who hadn’t. The power of the media.

‘Welcome to the show, Jennifer.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Miss Strange, have you met with Maltcassion today?’

‘Yesterday,’ I replied.

‘And was he as horribly grotesque as you had thought?’

‘No; on the contrary. I found him a highly intelligent creature.’

‘But ugly, of course? And potentially a maneater with nothing on his mind but death and destruction?’

‘Not in the least.’

Yogi Baird abandoned that line of questioning.

‘O . . . kay. Even pre-cogs as low as B-3 are receiving visions that he is shortly to be killed at your hands. What’s your reaction to that?’

‘I can’t say. Maltcassion has not transgressed the Dragonpact so it all looks like a lot of smoke to me. He will die eventually, of course, and when he does I am firmly of the opinion that the Dragonlands should be converted into a national park—’

‘What a novel idea!’ Yogi laughed. ‘This area is badly in need of more housing, Miss Strange. Three hundred and twenty square miles of prime real estate on the borders don’t pop up every day, and they represent thousands of jobs and much prosperity. Are you seriously trying to tell the viewers that we should ignore all that and instead devote the land to a few creatures of dubious value?’

‘Well . . . yes. I saw a herd of Buzonjis up there; until yesterday they were thought to be almost extinct.’

‘I’m no expert, of course,’ said Baird in the sort of voice people use when they are trying to tell you they are an expert, ‘but I think you’ll find the best place for endangered species is in a zoo. What are zoos for anyway? Without all these endangered species kicking around, there’d be no work for zookeepers and naturalists.’

‘Eh?’

Yogi steered the show towards something less controversial.

‘So tell me, what makes a good Dragonslayer? A steady hand and a sharp sword?’

‘I think the name Dragonslayer is a misnomer,’ I answered carefully. ‘I see myself more as a keeper, who has to weigh the interests of the Dragon against dangerous outside influences.’

‘Ah yes. Some newspapers have criticised you for your pro-Dragon stance. Our researchers have uncovered that Dragons are, and I quote: Dangerous fire-breathing and evil-smelling loathsome vermin who would think nothing of torching an entire village and eating all the babies were it not for the magic of the Dragonpact.’

‘Where did you read that?’

‘My researchers have sources.’

‘Well,’ I conceded, ‘it is the populist view, although after my short meeting with Maltcassion I was more inclined to think him a gentleman of considerable learning.’

‘So, loathsome worm or learned gentleman? Let’s see what the callers have to say. I have Millie Barnes on line one. Hello, Millie, what is your question, please?’

A little girl’s voice came over the loudspeaker. She couldn’t have been older than five.

‘Hello, Jennifer. What’s a Dragon like?’

‘He looks like a huge pile of stones, Millie. Rough and shapeless. You wouldn’t know he was there unless he spoke. As for character, he is noble and fearless and has much that he could teach us—’

‘Thank you for your question, Millie,’ said Mr Baird dismissively. ‘I have Colonel Baggsum-Gayme on three. Go ahead, Colonel.’

‘Jennifer, m’girl,’ said the colonel gruffly, ‘best not to try and attack the blighter on your own, what with you being a girlie and all. Allow me to offer my services as the finest hunter of big game, advice absolutely free as long as I can stuff the ruffian and put him in the trophy room. I’ll even have one of his legs made into an umbrella stand for you. Deal?’

‘Next caller?’ I asked.

‘Hello, yes, I think you have been beguiled, my dear. Everyone knows that Dragons are evil reptiles with no sense of reason and exist only to steal livestock, frighten small ladies and little old children and make us vote Marxist.’

‘Hello,’ said the next caller, ‘I think what you’re doing is absolutely right and you should follow your own obviously high moral code in this most difficult of situations.’

I liked this caller better.

‘Thank you, Mister . . . ?’

‘Strange. Or at least it will be. I think that I should adopt your name when we are married. Do you like Chinese food?’

‘Thank you, caller. I have Mr Savage from Worthing on line six. Hello, caller, go ahead.’

‘Hello, Miss Strange.’

‘Hello, Mr Savage. What’s your question?’

‘You call yourself a Dragonslayer, Miss Strange, but I have irrefutable evidence shown to me by a man in the pub that it is I who am the true Dragonslayer. I see you as an usurper, keeping me from my true calling.’

‘Well, Mr Savage,’ I began, thinking how wrong I was to suppose that I would get only one nutter on the phone-in, ‘perhaps you and I should discuss this inside the Dragonlands. As you know, only a true—’

But the line had gone dead.

‘Our next caller is Mrs Shue from the Corporate Kingdom of Financia. Hello, caller, go ahead.’

‘Hello, yes. My husband is up at the Dragonlands, waiting for this creature to die, and we wanted to claim a small hill overlooking a stream. I wonder if you can tell us the best place to go once the force-field is down?’

‘My advice to you,’ I began slowly, ‘is the same as for every person who might be waiting up at the Dragonlands.’

‘Yes?’ said Yogi Baird expectantly.

‘Go home. No matter what prophecy you’ve heard, the Dragon has done nothing wrong. He is fit and well and will doubtless last for years.’ I suddenly felt very angry. ‘What is the matter with you people? A noble beast may die, and all you are thinking about is lining your own pockets. You’re like a bunch of vultures hopping around a wounded zebra, waiting for the moment to poke your heads into the ribcage and greedily pluck out a piece of—’

I was almost shouting in my anger but stopped when one of the TV lights popped.

‘That’s it!’ said the engineer, looking up from his mixing panel. ‘They’ve pulled the plug. We’re off air.’

Yogi pulled his earpiece out and glared at me.

‘I have NEVER been pulled on a live programme before, Miss Strange! Who do you think you’re talking to? This is my show and I like to keep it light. You want to get on a soapbox? Go on Tonight with Clifford Serious.’

‘But—’

He hadn’t finished.

‘I’ve been on TV for twenty years so I think my opinions count for something. Let me give you some advice: act a bit more responsibly in front of thirty million people. The bosses at Yummy-Flakes are not going to be pleased. If I knew you were a troublemaker I would have interviewed Sir Matt Grifflon instead. At least he has a song he’s promoting—!’

‘Yogi, darling!’ yelled his producer, holding a telephone. ‘I’ve got the Zebra Society on the phone; they think we’re negatively portraying zebras as passive victims. Will you have a word? They’re a bit upset.’

Baird glared at me.

‘And I’ve got the Vulture Foundation on line two. They think your programme is spreading unfair stereotypes about a noble bird.’

‘See what you’ve done? A few badly placed words in this business and it’s curtains. Ratings are everything – how could you be so selfish?’

He turned, glared at me and took the phone from his producer.

‘No, sir,’ I heard him say. ‘I simply adore zebras . . .’