Dragon Removal Service Page 7

-> Other people from the burgh saw that "someone" a few seconds later BUT AND

  -> The spell was so strong it would have removed all camouflage, even from the caster

  SO . . .

  -> They must know the spell-caster because they didn't run away

  SO . . . . . .

  THEY KNOW WHAT THE SORCERER LOOKS LIKE!!!

  Who is the Sorcerer?

  1. The Dragon - no because it is dead

  2. Lady Keyhide - She's old. She's acting suspicious + Who hates magic that much?

  3. Jaroo - Too much of a pompous foozle idiot, but Sorcerer could be pretending.

  4. Is there a pompous idiot potion? Look into it.

  5. Bacon is delicious even in gas form. FOCUS!!

  6. Someone else in town? The Fizz-Meister? WentWrong the Wright? Ninestone?

  7. StickyBritches, with that weird rash? The Alewife?

  8. Someone on the houseboats? Strange it happened the day they arrived.

  a. Gulchima - Seems pretty lucky when magic attacks her. Convenient story about disoppe disapar going missing.

  b. Uncle Rattbone (you know what his tattoos mean!!)

  c. That little boy? Newvy? Novvy? (Parents missing = Where did he come from?)

  d. Lots of people on that boat (dot-dot-dot)

  9. Note-> Add to play, a list of suspicious characters

  a. Have narrator read out loud to audience-> Who put lemon in lemonade mystery: (Butler, maid, stable-boy allergic to hay, evil sheep-shearer)

  b. + Don't forget the oatmeal thing.

  Hubward paused, and then circled the last line, the one about the oatmeal thing.

  Because it was important.

  "Just kidding! None of what I told you was true. So here's what really happened those five years I was missing:

  I travelled to this magical kingdom, and the people there called me 'Cinder'. They thought I was beautiful and elegant and had fabulous glass shoes, so it didn't matter that I was poor.

  I think that's the most important thing: to be beautiful and elegant and always have nice shoes. Then, everyone can agree how great you are . . . I mean, if you're ugly, people will inquire further into your financial situation. Maybe ask you to sing a little."

  -The Collected Lies of Gulchima Brixby

  (33/100: Unlikely)

  Chapter 13: Gulchima Surveys the Work Ahead

  Two days later, Uncle Rattbone woke Gulchima up early for a walkabout—a tour of Bayadev. It was the first time they'd been alone since the crash. Uncle Rattbone said little, just enough to point out the work that lay ahead.

  Everywhere, Gulchima saw the beginnings of construction: The wall-makers raking rubble, the soil crew leaning on clean shovels, the wood for a gantry splayed near the damaged double-cylinder oast house. Isolde had been busy setting it all up.

  But that's all it was: a beginning. About the only thing completed was the new geyser-powered sauna, and Uncle Roog has built that without telling anyone. Roog was crazy about taking sauna. So were most of the men.

  Everywhere, too, Gulchima saw the mark of magic: Wonder worm silk floated from between cracked wallboards, red eyes glowered beneath rusted gates. Lights flashed and zigged in the bakery, accompanied by giggling too high-pitched to be children. A foul smell emanated from behind the alehouse, but Uncle Rattbone said that was just the normal stink.

  Each magically infected area was painted with a red "M" in a circle. And almost every building was marked. Outside the burgh walls, more work waited. The pathway to the caverns which housed the fizz factory was also posted with signs, each bearing a red "M". She shuddered at the thought of going into a dark moist cavern infested with magic. She'd leave that one for last.

  Gulchima knew that all of these preparations formed the frame of work, the skill before the labor. But taken as a whole, this mass of inaction looked bad. They needed some tangible progress (besides Roog's sauna). The Outfit needed a check mark somewhere on the contract. But where to begin?

  They surveyed the remains of the inland entry gate, opposite the riverside gate. Not here, Uncle Rattbone said. This whole section would have to come out. The fortifications were smeared a greasy green-black, the stone and mortar melted like raked butter. Magical Fire. Some skinny old man had brought the gate down with a flick of his wrist.

  The entire burgh had been touched by war, as had all of Baltica. But here in Bayadev it was brief, a swipe of claw from a retreating beast. The Sorcerer's armies had fought a rearguard action on their way to the Bastion. A few hours, a few soldiers, a few magical hazards hastily thrown up to slow their pursuers. And Gulchima had to remove it. Somehow. The job seemed a lot more complicated now that she actually had to do it.

  They passed by a cluster of crafthouses, on their way to the river. The air tasted of iron and sweat. The hostelry and smithy had been burned, the crumbled granaries plundered (in the name of good or evil, it amounted to the same), and most of the wattle-daub cottages inside the burgh had damage from the spray of arrows, projectile stones or haunted flame.

  Gulchima pulled an arrow from a nearby wooden post. The feather fletching had rotted off, but the wood was springy, the metal tip sharp.

  "So. You ready for the Festival of Rough Peter?" Uncle Rattbone asked casually. "Word is you're going to be planning it."

  "Yep I got it handled," Gulchima said. "I won't forget."

  Great, just what I need, another job to do for free. But she had a few weeks before the big holiday. She'd think of something for the kids on the boat to do.

  Gulchima picked up a half buried metal helmet with a peaked cap. The inside felt sticky, and she saw a thin strand of goo on her fingers when she removed them. Magic?

  "That's Gumption," Uncle Rattbone said. He didn't look at her when he spoke. "Makes sure your helmet don't fall off if you get knocked over."

  "What's it made of?" Gulchima asked. This was the most words he'd spoken to her since the dragon crash, and she wanted to keep him talking.

  Uncle Rattbone shrugged, then took the helmet from her. His right sleeve slipped up, and Gulchima caught sight of one of his tattoos, a half-naked Swan Maiden draped over the word "SAAREMAA".

  "Actually . . . it's not Gumption," Uncle Rattbone said. Some warmth returned to his voice. "See, when you melt a person's brain too quickly, it leaves a sticky residue like this." He rubbed his fingers together. "But to be honest, I suppose there's no right speed for brain meltin'."

  A breakthrough! She had to keep him talking.

  "Were they good guys or bad guys, do you think?" Gulchima asked. "Can you tell from the helmet?"

  Uncle Rattbone's face drained. "Good or bad? What's that got to do with it?" He threw the helmet to the ground with a clang. "No such thing as good and bad in war. There's only 'us' and 'them'."

  He stomped back toward the river, back to the docks. Gulchima followed.

  "Maybe," she said, hurrying to catch up. "But Jaroo seems bad. If anybody is, I mean."

  Uncle Rattbone spit. "Jaroo? When I met him, he was just Jax. A plumber. Used to work for your Dad before . . . Well, before your Dad threw him off the top of the houseboat for stealing lead."

  Gulchima said nothing. Uncle Rattbone was on a roll, finally. She'd let him talk, let him blow off some steam.

  "Changes his name, and expects us to bow to him," Uncle Rattbone muttered. He stopped walking, peered at a crack in the foundation of a cottage. "Now he's a politician. I suppose that's not too different from being a bad plumber."

  "How's that?" Gulchima asked.

  "Because he's used to being knee deep in other people's poo!"

  Gulchima burst out laughing. Jaroo, a failed plumber! Now he called himself the spiritual-menu-and-fashion adviser for the burgh. What a joke! And she'd been intimidated by him.

  Uncle Rattbone's anger softened, and then he smiled. "I was ticked with you Gulch, after you hauled off and signed that contract. You should have—"

  Gulchima squeezed his forearm. "I messed up. I can give you all the reaso
ns I messed up. All the things I should have done differently. But it boils down to the same thing: I messed up. I am responsible."

  Uncle Rattbone tried not to, but he smiled again. He looked tired and relieved, as if being angry at her was hard work. "Just like your Dad with those straight speeches. That man could talk the scales off a dragon. Awful with money—that's where your Mom came in—but your Dad could be darn persuasive."

  "I wish he was here," Gulchima said. "I could use his help with the dragon. If we can't use magical objects, and only magic can pierce a dragon's scales, then . . . ."

  "Yeah I've been thinking about that too," Uncle Rattbone said. "About the dragon, and the ghosts, and all the other magical nimbys hanging around here. I got some ideas to run by you—boss."

  He winked at her. "Let's go see your dragon."

  ✽✽✽

  It was worse than she'd hoped, but not as bad as it could be, because the dragon was still dead.

  Gulchima counted two hundred paces, from the river where the dragon's neck was visible, to the iridescent tip of the dragon's tail. The end of the tail extended over the wall rubble, but stopped a dozen feet into the burgh's interior. It would be no problem to shift it, then finish the wall. Were people so afraid of magic that they wouldn't touch a dragon's tail?

  The dragon had augured down when it fell from the sky. The wound that killed it, almost certainly to the underbelly of the creature via some magical object or spell, was now eight-feet below the topsoil. That wound was where you’d want to start cutting, if you were going to dismember a dragon. But because it was buried, it would be hard to reach.

  The dragon's head, thankfully, bobbed under the water. Dragons emitted fire after death. No one knew why. Something to do with the scales probably.

  It was the scales that stopped you, Gulchima thought. They retained magic. They could not be pierced, except by magic. And she couldn't use magic. Not even the kind of magic where everyone pretends it's not magic, so that the dragon goes away. Not even potions.

  Uncle Rattbone handed her a crowbar. "Try this first," he said. He pointed at the dragon's hind leg. Just below the dragon's rump, a patch of scales were slightly lifted, like loose roof tiles.

  Gulchima fitted the crowbar underneath a scale and levered down. But the crowbar's edge slipped off, as if the end of the scale was coated with grease. She ran her finger along the scales and they felt cold and hard, like stacked metal plates. If anything, the dragon scales were slightly rough to the touch, not slippery. Gulchima was surprised that up close, the dragon smelled like the Western Sea, all fish and salt and frigid water. She'd expected something foul, some unnatural rot.

  "What about wood?" Gulchima asked. "Maybe it has special nimby powers against metal. Or maybe a stone wedge would work. Maybe potatoes?"

  "That's smart, we'll try it later." Uncle Rattbone prodded underneath the dragon with an iron bar, levering against a rock. Clunk. The rock fractured.

  After they cut up the dragon, they'd still have problems moving it without magical assistance. But with a few pulleys, and a few trenches, they'd have the dragon bits removed. Could you eat dragon meat? That would be quite the party.

  Gulchima examined her crowbar. It was heavy enough. She swung it over her head, then slammed the crowbar into the dragon. She'd expected sparks, or a ringing in her ears, like when your axe blade slips and you hit rocks. But that wasn’t what happened. The dragon wasn't solid. Hitting the dragon was like pulling on a giant bow string the wrong way.

  With an audible Boing, the crowbar rebounded off the dragon, flew out of her hands and embedded in the burgh wall behind her. It vibrated slightly.

  "Oh right, sorry I forget to tell you," Uncle Rattbone said. "Don't try to do that. We're still looking for Roog's splitting maul. I think it flew a good half-mile into the haunted woods."

  Uncle Rattbone took out a knife with a sharp glittering blade. Obsidian? He started to saw at the dragon, but gave up after the stone blade spalled and then fractured. Uncle Rattbone blew on his hands.

  "Hot?"

  "Cold," Uncle Rattbone said. "Like frozen metal. Blade's ruined. Guess I'm out five thalers." He stood up straight and stretched his back. "Not sure what we're going to do with it. We'll find a way."

  A cheerful voice interrupted them. "I say leave it where it is and use the dragon as a drift fence."

  Gulchima looked up. A dirty chubby-cheeked boy, slightly younger than her, strode toward them. The boy wore a girded up tunic, torn and stained, and looked like he hadn't washed since before the war. He kept his hair annoyingly long at the front, and he flipped it up out of his eyes every few steps.

  "He's a local war orphan," Uncle Rattbone whispered to Gulchima. "It always pays to hire a few on each job. Makes it harder for the local politicians to fire you."

  Uncle Rattbone tugged at the bones in his beard. "Plus, orphans are good luck. Sure, sometimes they miss several weeks of work to go on some adventure, rescue a long-lost relative, find some spotty necklace or whatever. And yeah, there's a bit more prophecy associated with them than I'd like—" He rolled his eyes. "But overall, they're good workers if you treat them well."

  "Okay, but what exactly will he be—" Gulchima started to ask.

  "Hello again Hubwind!" Uncle Rattbone said, in an overly cheerful voice. He waved, though the boy was only a few feet from them now. Not really within waving distance.

  "It's Hub-ward," the boy said. Hubward's smile faded, then his eyes focused on Gulchima and he smiled again, more brightly. "And I'm tremendously excited to be working for you today." He flipped his hair out of his eyes. "I'm an orphan. I'll drop everything to help interesting strangers."

  How plucky, Gulchima thought.

  "And this is Gulchima," Uncle Rattbone said. "Gulchima, I thought it best if I pair you with a local your own age. Always good to train others. And maybe you two could be friends. Hubward here, says he's got experience with magic."

  "Experience?" Gulchima asked. "Polishing boots or cleaning dishes?"

  "A messenger," Hubward said. He flipped his hair out of his eyes again. "For the Sorcerer." Flip. Flip.

  Argh! That hair! Should she glue it in place? Or just yank it out?

  "And he knows the burgh," Uncle Rattbone added. "And . . . he works at the fizz factory, which is another magical headache. So I'd thought you’d be good partners."

  "So what's the plan, partner?" Hubward asked Gulchima. "I hear you like plans."

  Gulchima held out her hands and counted on each finger. "Wonder worms, geyser ghosts, haunted woods, fizz fairies, salt-quern, trangles, and now, a dragon. Plus a few other things that are easy. Probably. And we're not partners or friends. You work for me."

  "Uh-Hubward says he's got experience with dragons," Uncle Rattbone said.

  "I've ridden them." Flip.

  "Is that right?" Gulchima asked. "How exactly did you get a saddle to stay on a slippery dragon?"

  Hubward shrugged. "Okay, I didn't exactly ride them. They carried me like a package, then dropped me off. Still, I learned a bit from the dragon handlers."

  Gulchima's hand crept down to the bone knife on her belt. Not for protection. She needed to cut Hubward's hair. Immediately. She couldn't take another—

  Flip.

  "Yeah, but tell her about the weight thing," Uncle Rattbone said.

  Hubward nodded, moved some dirt around on his face in a thoughtful gesture. "Well the thing about a dragon is: it can't fly. But it does fly. Even though all it has are those stubby little wings. So after it dies, the dragon has additional weight to it. It sort of . . . owes a debt . . . to gravity."

  Gulchima snorted. "A debt to gravity! That's one of the stupidest ideas I've ever—"

  "Just listen," Uncle Rattbone warned her.

  Hubward continued. "Let's go over to the tip end of the tail, and I'll show you."

  Without waiting for agreement—Flip—Hubward climbed over the remains of the wall, then stopped at the end of the dragon's tail.

&nb
sp; "Orphans!" Uncle Rattbone said. He held his hand over his heart. "Don't you just love 'em."

  Gulchima frowned. She followed Uncle Rattbone to where Hubward stood.

  "Now lift the end of the dragon's tail," Hubward instructed her.

  "What, with my bare hand?" Gulchima asked.

  "You have bear hands?" Hubward said with a grin. "You’re even tougher than I've heard."

  Uncle Rattbone laughed, and even slapped his knee. "Good one Hubward!"

  That was bit much. He's heard that joke a thousand times.

  Gulchima reached down and tried to lift the tip of the dragon's tail. It was no thicker than a rope, easily gripped, and covered with swirly whorls that looked like smaller versions of the cold metal scales she'd felt earlier. But she couldn't lift it.

  She couldn't even nudge it. The tail seemed glued to the ground.

  Gulchima looked around and noticed that the nearby soil sloped inward, toward the tail, forming a shallow trench. "If the tail's that heavy, then the rest of the dragon's body must be immovable," she said. Her stomach felt like a block of ice.

  "Yes, if you think about it logically," Hubward said. "But in this case, logic is wrong."

  "Logic is wrong . . ." Gulchima said. She rocked back and forth on her heels as she mulled this over. "Logic is wrong. Logic is . . . Congratulations Hubwind. That definitely is the most ridiculous thing I've ever—"

  "Gulch you need to listen," Uncle Rattbone said. He put his hand on her shoulder, a reassuring warmth. "You don't have to agree or like it. But you have to listen. Will you take him on for a week? For me?"

  Gulchima nodded slowly. "For you."

  Hubward continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted. "It helps if you think magically, not logically." Flip. "For a dragon, the debt-gravity runs uphill. So the tail is the heaviest part." He flipped his hair again.

  Again!

  "That's why the head floats," Uncle Rattbone added. "Kinda makes sense, if you don't think about it whatsoever."