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Lady Mawgon was true to her word. She sat up all night in the lobby, and whenever any of Grifflon’s men came in to look for me, she gave them such a devastatingly withering look that they scurried out again, tail between legs. Tiger and I talked deep into the night down in the kitchens. At 1 a.m. a thump in the laundry room made us nervous until we found that it was the Quarkbeast, who had managed to sneak back into Zambini Towers by way of the laundry chute without being noticed.

The early morning radio bulletins estimated that the crowds up at the Dragonlands had topped eight million people, and anticipation was high. Neither King Snodd nor Sir Matt Grifflon had made any further proclamations, so I could only assume that they were still looking for me. Unstable Mabel made us pancakes for breakfast, and then a special batch for the Quarkbeast, who liked them with curry powder instead of flour.

‘Every exit is covered by at least three Imperial Guards,’ said Tiger, who had been around to check. This was not good news.

‘I need to retrieve Exhorbitus from some wasteground and then get to the Dragonstation,’ I replied. ‘No one is permitted to hinder a Dragonslayer while on official duties, and to be honest, once I’m in the armoured Rolls-Royce, nothing but an artillery shell could stop me – and even King Snodd would think twice before trying to kill me in broad daylight and in front of the TV cameras.’

‘It’s five hundred yards to the Dragonstation,’ said Tiger. ‘They’re not after me. Perhaps I could fetch the Slayermobile for you?’

‘Can you drive?’

‘How hard can it be?’

Just then, Lady Mawgon walked into the kitchen and handed me a copy of The Daily Mollusc. The front page had banner headlines explaining how everything was fine after all and it was no longer necessary for me to slay Maltcassion. It added that the Duke of Brecon and King Snodd had kissed and made up, the Quarkbeast was no longer an illegal animal, the sale of marzipan had been banned and all foundlings everywhere were to be reunited with their parents.

‘This is all far too good to be true,’ I muttered, and as soon as I had, the enchantment crumbled. I was no longer reading a newspaper but simply staring at a colourless grey pebble.

‘What you have in your hand is a Pollyanna stone’, explained Mawgon. ‘Whoever holds the pebble will see what they expect or hope to see. It might be of use if you are stopped on the way.’

‘Can’t you just make her invisible?’ asked Tiger.

Lady Mawgon stared at him.

‘Entire lifetimes have been spent and lost in that pursuit,’ she replied, as though Tiger should know better. ‘I will leave you now.’

She turned away, thought for a moment, then turned back.

‘If you tell anyone I’ve been nice to you,’ she said, narrowing her eyes, ‘I will make it my solemn duty to render both your lives as unbearable as possible. And don’t think I’m not going to have you both replaced on Monday, for I will.’

And without another word, she left the room.

‘The sorcerers are an odd bunch, aren’t they?’ said Tiger with a smile.

‘They grow on you,’ I replied, ‘even Lady Mawgon-Gorgon there.’

‘I heard that!’ came a voice from outside.

We finished breakfast and talked about a plan to get me to the Dragonstation. There were several possible ideas mooted, but none passed the stringent ‘remotely plausible’ test. We were still scratching our heads when we heard a noise outside, and found that the Quarkbeast had dragged a pram from one of the building’s many boxrooms, and was looking at us excitedly and wagging its tail.

‘Brilliant!’ said Tiger. ‘The Quarkbeast’s a genius! Listen carefully: we’ll need some baby clothes, a piece of card, a felt-tip pen, some old clothes and a wig.’

Twenty minutes later, and after Tiger had wished me all the very best of luck, I let myself out of the garage doors at the back of Zambini Towers and walked towards where the guards were standing on the corner. I was dressed in one of the Sisters Karamazov’s old outfits and a red wig I had borrowed from Mr Zambini’s dressing-up box, and was pushing the Quarkbeast in the pram. The Quarkbeast was wrapped up in a baby shawl and wearing a pretty pink bonnet. A placard tied to the front of the pram announced that I was collecting for the Troll Wars Orphans Fund. I wasn’t convinced this would work but Tiger was smart and it was the only idea we had had.

‘Everyone has lost someone in the Troll Wars,’ he had explained, ‘so no one will stop you.’

He was right. Since Troll Wars widows begging for coins were not at all uncommon, I was ignored by the members of the Imperial Guard who were searching every car on the roads. There were posters of me up on the walls, telling the general public how I was a dangerous lunatic and a traitor and had to be stopped as a matter of national security. As I crossed the road a police car passed with a large loudspeaker on the roof, offering an earldom and a guest spot on the You Bet Your Life! quiz show to whoever turned me in. I quickened my pace and made it to the waste ground where I had hidden Exhorbitus. I wrapped the sword in a blanket, hid it under the pram and turned into the road in which the Dragonstation was located.

There was a ‘Police line do not cross’ tape barring my way, and outside the Dragonstation were two Imperial Guard armoured cars, and upwards of a dozen soldiers, all armed. I took a deep breath and walked towards them. It was all going well; if I could make it to the Rolls-Royce all would be—

‘Quark.’

‘Shhh.’

‘Good morning, ma’am. Going somewhere?’

Two of the Imperial Guards had walked across to see who I was and what I was doing there. It was galling. I was almost within spitting distance of the Dragonstation.

‘Spare a groat for a poor Troll War widow?’

‘This road’s closed,’ announced the first soldier sharply. He didn’t look as though he had a very charitable nature. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Taking my poor, sweet, orphaned, fatherless and ill child to his check-up. He has bad calluses on his legs, a bald patch and his poor orphaned heart, well, it’s—’

‘I get the point. Identification papers?’

I handed him the Pollyanna pebble. If he thought I was a war widow then all would be well. If he was expecting the worst or was even vaguely suspicious, all would be lost. I was lucky. The guardsman looked at the pebble as though it really were identification papers, turned it over and said:

‘Name?’

‘Mrs Jennifer Jones.’

‘Identification number?’

‘86231524.’

He nodded and passed the pebble back to me.

‘Okay, move along.’

I thanked him and started to walk off.

‘Wait!’ said the second soldier, and I held my breath.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out . . . a coin.

‘Here’s a groat for you. I fought in the Troll Wars and I lost some good friends. May I see the baby?’

Before I could say or do anything he looked into the pram at the Quarkbeast. I held my breath. The Quarkbeast stared up at him.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Quark?’ said the Quarkbeast, blinking nervously.

‘Sweet kid. Okay, Mrs Jones, move along.’

I walked on, my heart beating heavily and a cold sweat on my forehead.

‘Well,’ I heard the second soldier whisper to his colleague, ‘I’ve seen some ugly babies in my time but that little Quark Jones was uglier than all of them put together.’

The two officers turned away, and as soon as I was opposite the broken-in front door of the Dragonstation I jumped inside and ran to the Rolls-Royce. The Slayermobile whispered into life, I engaged first gear and floored the accelerator. With a splintering of wood I drove through the locked garage doors, and pushed the Imperial Guard’s armoured car out of the way. I pulled the wheel over and accelerated up the street, the spang of rifle fire bouncing off the heavy iron plating. At the end of the street was a barricade of cars, manned by a group of policemen whose puny weapons could not hope to damage the heavily armoured Slayermobile. They jumped out of the way as the vehicle tore through their cars, the sharp spikes ripping the bodywork as though it were tissue paper.

Once I was out of the tight police cordon that had ringed the Old Town, I found quite a different scene awaiting me. The public, who had been told that a Dragonslayer – although not necessarily me – would be heading up to the Dragonlands that morning, had lined the route in eager expectation. An excited yell went up as the Slayermobile appeared and several hundred flags were waved in unison. Somewhere a brass band started up and garlands of flowers were thrown in the path of the Rolls-Royce. Sir Matt Grifflon had laid all this on for himself. He had thought, in his arrogance, that I would be caught and dispatched before morning.

I slowed down as the danger subsided. There was little that Grifflon or even King Snodd would dare try with all these potential witnesses about. As I drove past, the crowds broke ranks and followed the Slayermobile in one long procession. We were joined by the Guild of Master Builders, two marching bands and a contingent from the Troll Wars Veterans’ Association. TV cameras at every corner beamed my journey live to half a billion viewers worldwide. From China to Patagonia and from Hawaii to Vietnam, my progress was being eagerly watched.