Dragon Removal Service Read online

  Isolde sniffed, shook her head as if clearing it. "Right. I thought for a moment, it was another mud pot. But one filled with chocolate. Wouldn't that be wonderful—"

  "No. It wouldn't," Gulchima said flatly. "That much chocolate would spoil within hours. Plus the mud around it would mix with the chocolate, ruining it. Unless you like dirt in your food." She crossed her arms. "Which I don't."

  Gulchima gestured at the ground between them and the haunted woods. "Plus, you'd boil alive in that mud pot. If you didn't fall into that geyser first. See it, bubbling there? That's hot scalding death." She turned to face her little brother. "Oh and Novvy, Scratchy-Do-Dongs is dead. He fell off the boat and drowned last fall. Sorry you were never told."

  Novvy and Isolde stared at her. Gulchima stared back. Their shocked expressions were probably from realizing how right she was. She'd give them time to come to terms with it.

  "You are so . . . odd," Isolde said. She put a protective arm around Novvy.

  Odd? Isolde had thought of food, and Novvy of his dead pet dog. It was odd, and a little sad really. Of the three of them, Gulchima was the only one who had thought of their parents.

  How could they be so heartless?

  ✽✽✽

  Gulchima, Isolde and Novvy headed to the burgh's main entry gate. The fields near the geyser basin were barren, but as they moved upwind, a few green shoots poked through the white pebbly soil. Not nearly enough crops for a burgh this size.

  Near the burgh's wall, Gulchima passed through a tunnel that led under the dock ramp. The ramp was constructed of rammed earth and faced with flat rocks to stop it from collapsing. The ramp stretched from the top of the wall to the docks, but whoever had designed it was an idiot. Neither the ramp nor the tunnel was straight. The curves were random, not the systematic banked design that would slow cargo.

  Gulchima would build two more ramps at least, she decided, then tear down this one and make it as straight as an arrow. That would triple the loading capacity of the burgh's warehouses, and ensure cargo could flow easily. And it would look better.

  From the top of the wall, the wranglers slid boxes down the ramp to waiting cargo ships on the river. Each box sat on a sleigh with smooth wooden runners. A simple block attached to a drag line, slowed the cargo to manageable speeds. There was no need for hoists here, at least for the downward flow of goods. Gulchima liked that.

  But half the time, the boxes got stuck at the second sharp angle of the ramp, scraping away the earth mounded up there. A wrangler stood on top of the ramp with a long pole, helping the boxes to move past that angle. Ridiculous. Gulchima decided she'd straighten that out on the very first day.

  At last, Gulchima, Isolde and Novvy arrived at the riverside entry gate and found it largely destroyed. Two tall, muscular women stood guard over the rubble, which was smeared with the greasy green tinge of magical fire. The guards held identical pikes and both had cloth wrapped over their eyes. They snapped to attention when Gulchima approached.

  An elegantly dressed man, with an embroidered maroon mantle on his shoulders waved lazily when he saw Gulchima. He gestured and the blindfolded guards moved out of his way.

  "The final contractors, at last. I had all but given up hope," the man said. He introduced himself as Jaroo, the spiritual, economic, and fashion adviser for the burgh. "You received my letter?"

  Jaroo was her father's age, but seemed younger. His lower lip protruded, giving him a permanent pout. His pot-belly and gangly arms and legs, reminded her of a bag of wet oats with sticks poking through it. Though he stood outside, the man wore neither boots nor sandals, but soft vermillion slippers, now soaked to a dark brown from the mud.

  "We're here now," Gulchima said. Because as her father always said: Never give excuses to a customer.

  "Correct," Jaroo said, rolling the word off his tongue. "I would show you around, but I assume you have already sized up the job. Today is the final day to do so, naturally. Are you ready to bid? The other contractors are waiting."

  "Other contractors?" Isolde asked. "I thought you offered us the job."

  "Oh I sincerely hope you hadn't journeyed under that assumption," Jaroo said in a brisk tone. "Well, nothing to do about it now but apologize, most deeply." He bowed to them, but Gulchima noticed he gave the guards a little smile when he did so. He wasn't sorry.

  Jaroo continued: "There are several other companies interested in this contract, I'm afraid. They have tremendously impressive experience dealing with this sort of situation. Whereas your Outfit . . ." Jaroo shrugged. "Well, your Outfit was one of the lesser known choices. But since you are the only contractors from the local area—the rest are experienced foreigners—we thought it prudent to give you an opportunity." He looked around. "Now where is your Uncle? I understand he is really in charge."

  "He works for me," Gulchima growled. She was fuming, bubbling, ready to explode like one of those geysers. She'd read that letter a hundred times. It clearly offered them the job. What kind of game was Jaroo playing?

  Jaroo held out his hands, palms open. "Yes certainly, we must keep up appearances." He snapped his hands shut. "But I can't keep the other contractors waiting, children. Is your Uncle—your Outfit I mean—ready to bid? That is a yes-or-no question."

  This would have been a great time for Uncle Rattbone to come barreling in, saying, "Now wait jest' a minute". But he didn't come. He was at the alehouse.

  Gulchima rubbed her boot in the mud. There was something wrong about the situation, about Jaroo's smug little smile. But then again, the docks had been crowded. Maybe some of those boats really were from the foreign contractors. She had to stall.

  "The ghosts at the geyser, that's a bid item isn't it?" Gulchima asked. It was a reach, but it might work. "One part of the contract?"

  Jaroo scratched his nose, irritated. "Yes. A bid item of minor importance."

  "Someone thought enough of it to put up a sign," Gulchima said. "And they put it in the contract too. So I'll take care of that for free to show you what we can do. Don't start the bidding until then. If I fail, we'll leave on the boats we rode in on. What do you say?"

  "That's also a yes-or-no question," Isolde added. She smiled at Gulchima.

  Novvy pinched his nose, crossed his eyes and stuck out his lower lip, imitating Jaroo. "Whereas, naturally, well, children," he said, in a breathy voice. "Yes, certainly perhaps. Corrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrect."

  Jaroo fussed with his mantle, drawing it over his chest. "Even if you get rid of the geyser ghosts, we can't hire you. We are on a tight schedule. You have no demonstrable experience."

  Gulchima stared at him. They were in danger of losing this contract. It would take time to gather up the houseboats and find another job. By then, Brunhild would probably have found them. They'd be forced to join the army, or sent to prison.

  "Ok, let's negotiate the terms," Gulchima said. "I assume actual local experience removing magic is worth a lot to you on this job. We have that, but you're right, we don't have a lot." This was another of her father's tricks. Agree with the customer. Or at least, appear to.

  "Removing local magic is the job," Jaroo said. "We have big plans for Bayadev. A port for inland river barges, a takeoff point for trade routes through the Western Sea, an expansion of our 'certified non-magical fizz-water' products into new markets. To do that, the magic must be remediated."

  "Wait. Magic is the job?" Isolde exclaimed.

  Isolde grabbed Gulchima's arm, pulled her a few paces away from Jaroo. She wagged her finger in Gulchima's face. "You never told me the contract was for removal of magic. You said it was a rebuild."

  "I didn't know," Gulchima said. She'd suspected it. Thought it was likely. Prepared for it. But she hadn't known. "But what's the difference. We remove dangerous walls and replace them with safe ones all the time. Who cares if the wall is dangerous because of an earthquake or because some dragon knocked it loose. Work is work."

  "You said there was magic hither-and-thither," Isolde said. Her face was
tight, the cords on her neck stood out. "You did not say we had to remove it. I won't do it. I won't sign the contract."

  Gulchima took a deep breath. She glanced at Jaroo who smiled faintly at their argument. What she wanted to do was to tell Isolde to go jump in the hot pot, then slap that smug smile off Jaroo's face. She didn't need Isolde's approval to sign the contract. Gulchima was the boss, applesauce.

  No, she didn't need Isolde's signature, officially. But they were family. Gulchima needed her support. She needed her family.

  "I've already put us on the spot," Gulchima said quietly. She looked over Isolde's shoulder, trying to sound calmer than she felt. "Let me try it. You don't have to help. But if we don't get this contract, we'll be heading to prison. So I'll take care of all the magic, alone, and you and Uncle Rattbone handle the standard construction work. Agreed?"

  Isolde nodded once. "That makes sense," she said. "But don't you go getting zorged. And don't get Novvy involved."

  Gulchima reached out and squeezed Isolde's shoulder. "We got this. The Outfit can do anything." She turned and strode back to Jaroo. His smile soured.

  "You are right to have concerns about our experience," Gulchima said. Again, she was agreeing with the customer. It was the best way to tell them they were wrong. "And so in addition to the geyser ghosts, I'd like to offer to remove all the magic from your burgh. For free."

  Jaroo sputtered. He gestured to the two guards. "Frenja, Menja, go and fetch Lady Keyhide. She'll certainly be interested in this." One of the blindfolded guards walked confidently through the gate. The second guard spun on her heels to follow, but misjudged, and banged her knee into the pile of rubble.

  Jaroo sighed. He turned his attention back to Gulchima. "All of it for free? Even the fizz fairies? The never-ending salt quern? The wonder worms? You'll remove all magic from all areas of the burgh? At zero cost?"

  "Yep, you give us the contract to rebuild, and I'll remove the magic for free. You know you’re not going to get a better deal than that."

  Jaroo pulled a parchment contract out of his sleeve with a flourish. He scribbled on it with a plumbago, then showed Gulchima the changes he had made. She took his plumbago, made some additions of her own.

  They went back and forth a few times. There was the standard contract items about rebuilding the walls, the gate, the oast house, the smith. They wanted a new port for sea-worthy ships, but Gulchima could see they had a terrible design in mind. In addition to the fizz fairies there were additional tasks about something called trangles, the haunted woods, and a clause that stated the soil must be certified magic-free and ready for farming.

  Gulchima's eyes bulged when she saw the total amount they would be paid. The job was still a green-arrow. They could pay their debts with the rebuild alone. If things went well, they might make enough profit to free her parents from prison.

  At last, Jaroo handed her a pot of red ocher paint. Gulchima dipped her thumb in the paint, then pressed it onto the contract. She'd signed it.

  Jaroo took the contract, then carefully tore off a corner and gave it to her as proof. "And you understand you are forbidden to use magic? No left-over magical objects, enchanted doodads, or potions. All of these are forbidden."

  Gulchima smiled. "We hate magic. We eat left-over magic for breakfast."

  Novvy looked startled.

  "Magic for breakfast?" Novvy whined. "Isolde! You told me those were eggs—"

  A scream from inside the burgh startled Gulchima. She looked up.

  Something green and flappy was in the air. It was dead. And huge. And headed straight for her.

  Gulchima blinked, hoping she was seeing it wrong. But she wasn't.

  It was a dragon.

  Chapter 11: Hubward Catches His Monster

  It was the dragon. Hubward slid down the earthen loading ramp, then leapt off just before he hit the river. Six shadows thudded to the ground around him. The seventh shadow had missed the message, and plopped into the water with a muffled curse that sounded like crickets. But that shadow pulled itself onto shore and then cartwheeled over to them. Only a spray of dripping water showed where it had erred.

  The dragon was here. His dragon. The creature Hubward had been chasing, when it was alive. Now, it was a dead dragon. To the extent that a non-living magical nightmare could be dead.

  And it was falling. And that meant . . . .

  First, the dragon's tail smashed into the burgh's wall, turning it to powder. Its head dropped into the river, and the remnant fires in its gut spewed into the water, turning it to steam. Hubward leapt away, covering his mouth so as not to burn his throat.

  A loud rumbling boom, like thunder inside a cave, shook the ramp, throwing piles of dirt and rocks onto him and his companions. Hubward dug himself out, patted the dust from his clothes. It was remarkable no one was hurt.

  Actually, it was more than remarkable. It was impossible. That meant someone nearby had magic. Powerful, individualized, life-saving, magic.

  It was someone close. Someone he could see.

  Hubward's training kicked in, and he catalogued each person standing there, despite the steam. Jaroo stood with the three strangers from the houseboat: The bossy girl with the too-small mouth, her brother and her much more beautifuler older sister. Lady Keyhide, the Fizz-Meister and the two female guards with Seer-Slip blindfolds lurked suspiciously near the gate. But there were more people standing at the burgh wall, locals mostly. He'd have to remember each of them quickly, give each just one characteristic. The Alewife (tight dress), Ninestone (basket), WentWrong (a limp), and StickyBritches (obvious) were all watching too. Maybe twenty in total, including some newcomers he'd never seen before. He marked them all with some trait or tick. Eye-patch, no-teeth, weak beard—

  A butterfly cleared its throat, interrupting him.

  Then, remarkably, it spoke in human language. "Is the dragon dead?"

  "Yeah, and I know what that means," Hubward said.

  The seven shadows faded, melted, wavered, and rustled until at last they were people again. As they always had been. But they were no longer magically hidden. Hubward's most powerful spell had been stripped away!

  He thought—he hoped—the change would continue. But they just stood there with those blank farseeing eyes.

  Hubward looked at them: three boys, three girls and a man. All blue skin, and stooped shouldered. All undead. His former team, or hand as they were called.

  Before the dragon killed them, they were one of the best hands in the army. They were trained by the Sorcerer of course. The best hands always were.

  "And I know what that means too," Hubward said. "There's only one person strong enough to bring down a dragon and remove my camouflaging spells . . . ."

  The Sorcerer? Here? Alive?

  The Sorcerer was banished to another dimension, or destroyed, or something. Certainly dead in any real sense of the word. But no one else could have cast that spell.

  Hubward could see the magical signature, fading in the air. The spiked crenulations. The double-bottom of the first wave, a subtle coaxing down of magical defenses. This wasn't a forceful push of some clumsy power-mage. This was active, devious magic. And that flair at the tail end, like an extra nip of poison flicked in your eye. That was the Sorcerer's signature. It could be no one else.

  The dragon—Hubward's quarry that he had been chasing for almost two years—was dead. But not like Hubward planned.

  Hubward was supposed to do it. When the dragon killed his team, Hubward had sworn revenge. And now, even that was taken away from him.

  He felt—what? Astonished? Sad? Guilty for taking his sweet buttery time. He'd hoped somehow the creature could change them back. A dragon can return what's stolen. That's why he'd waited. Wasn't it?

  Yet, the Sorcerer was here!

  Imagine that capture. Imagine the wonders Hubward could make the Sorcerer do. His team's lives would only be the start.

  "Double promise. I'll avenge you," Hubward said. "This time I won't fail." />
  Hubward was suddenly grateful for butter. That spell would have killed him, if he was magical. Since only the Sorcerer could have cast it, that meant the Sorcerer was here in Bayadev, pretending to be a normal person. That spell would have stripped even the Sorcerer's disguise.

  But who was it?

  A girl about his age walked out of the steam, rubbed her eyes in the bright noon sunlight. It was the one who ran the construction company, the one with the ridiculously tiny mouth. What was her name? Garlicka, Gulchima, Garanchala? Something like that.

  The girl looked worried. She was pale, almost green, her hair straight as silk curtains. Her beautiful older sister looked liked angry was her favorite face, and the young boy with them had his mouth open in a Q of surprise—like an O of surprise, but with a lollipop in it.

  A large bearded man, once a member of the Sorcerer's federati judging by his bawdy tattoos, stood with them. Their father maybe? He had bones tied in his beard, wards against puppetry. He kept them fresh, so he'd be a formidable opponent. Perhaps he was the Sorcerer in disguise.

  How convenient! A boat of newcomers shows up, and on that day the Sorcerer is revealed. It could be any of them. It could be anyone in town.

  The big man rumbled something to the girl, and she shook her head. He slapped his fist into his open palm, then dropped his head.

  "You signed it," the big man said in a whisper. "You signed the contract!"

  It was not a question.

  END OF PART I

  Chapter 12: Hubward Makes a List

  By delicious light of tallow candle—tallow made of bacon fat—Hubward wrote:

  The Sorcerer is here in Bayadev. I am SURE because:

  -> I saw someone cast that spell in the fog steam AND

  ->That spell had the Sorcerer's fingerprints all over it AND