Dragon Removal Service Read online

  Did it? Did it make any sense? Did partnering with Hubward make sense?

  Flip.

  A dragon owed a debt to gravity.

  Flip.

  The tail was heaviest.

  Flip.

  And old gravity ran uphill.

  FlipFlip.

  Plus, the scales couldn't be cut.

  Flip. Flip. Flip.

  Yes. It did make sense. As long as zero sense was allowed. But magic had rules. So there must be a way—

  Suddenly, she had it! Gulchima wondered how many pulleys it would take.

  She'd need more rope. But the solution was simple: Put the tail in the water and the dragon would sink!

  She could get the dragon out of Bayadev. A few feet past its official boundaries anyway.

  All she had to do was dump the dragon in the river!

  Flip.

  Chapter 14: Brunhild Lives

  From Brunhild's point of view, it was just bad luck. She'd only wanted to ruin Rattbone, ruin his company, ruin his niece and their boats. It wasn't about the money. The money was just how she kept score.

  [If he were not evil, the gods would not have sent you to destroy him.]

  They'd done the expected, Brunhild thought. Rattbone and the others had trundled to Bayadev in those ponderous river barges they lived on. The River-Hags had even slowed them, just as Brunhild had instructed.

  Everything went to plan. She'd had Rattbone within her iron grip.

  And then that muckspout had showed up with the potatoes!

  Now, Brunhild lay in the delightfully brisk water on a stretch of gritty beach along the river. Her soldiers had abandoned her. And who could blame them? She had not been particularly kind.

  She opened her eyes. It was mid-morning, and the sun traipsed just behind the trees, darting out playfully in squares and triangles of light on the beach.

  [The world-mill grinds us all. But heroes break the pattern.]

  Yes, heroes did break patterns, Brunhild reflected. And she knew for certain, that she was a hero. The very word was written on her heart. Brunhild knew this, because she'd torn it out and read it for herself.

  That had been an afternoon to remember, she thought fondly. Brunhild's voices had guided her, as always. What wondrous teachers they were. And when had they led her astray?

  [NEVER!]

  Yes, never. She reflected that her voices had always told her the right path to take.

  [ALWAYS!]

  She paused.

  Always? Perhaps, not always. For instance, her voices had a penchant for the one-felled-swoop approach to problems. Perhaps the attraction to singular swoop-felling was genetic. Her mother had been a tremendous swoop feller, after all.

  [Bunch their game-pieces to clear the board.]

  Brunhild chided the voices. That sort of thinking was exactly the problem. It occasionally led to trouble.

  "All flowers grow in blood," Brunhild said. To her surprise, she spoke the words out loud. Sometimes this did happen, she lamented. The voices just bubbled out.

  Brunhild shook her head. The din of some long forgotten battle rose in her ears. A woman sang-screamed instructions in an unknown language. That meant danger. She sat up.

  A rough man stood over her, grinning. He had a nice, even, evil smile. Well practiced, imposing. Brunhild would tear out his teeth and make a necklace of them, she thought. A memento of that wonderful smile.

  "That's some nice armor you got," the rough man said. "How about handing it over, then I'll let you go free."

  "There is no freedom until the last sorcerer is strangled with the intestines of the last king," Brunhild's voices said.

  That wasn't really within the context of the conversation, Brunhild thought. But the voices had a limited vocabulary. Brunhild shook her head again. A warm wave of confusion passed over her as the voices took control.

  There were others here, Brunhild saw. Perhaps two dozen rough men and women surrounded her. Not thieves, and certainly not beggars, judging by their clothes and weapons. Brigands, perhaps? Her eyes narrowed. Gold-teeth, eye-patches, leather jerkins . . . Bandits! She'd been abandoned to a band of bad bandits! Fortune had smiled on her this morning.

  Brunhild catalogued their weapons, her eyes slashing across each bandit. They couldn't hurt her. They had no potatoes, today.

  She got to her feet. Brunhild rotated her left arm until she heard a snap. Rattbone would pay for that injury. He'd pay for stabbing her through the chest. This band of bad bandits would help her.

  "I said hand over the armor," the rough man said. "Or we can take it, and throw you back in the river." He brandished a bondsman's axe.

  Questions fluttered across her mind like startled sparrows. The potato incident led one to consider: Had Rattbone finally guessed what she was? Was that why he'd annulled their marriage? Her mother was a River-Hag, her father was misled. Not a common pairing, but they'd made a shambling home of love for her and her siblings.

  As if Rattbone's family was free from magic. Oh the things he had confessed to her. About his brother. About his brother's wife. And their daughter, Gulchima. Brunhild knew all about her too. Probably more than the girl knew about herself.

  "Kiss the arm you cannot break, then cut it off and eat it."

  The rough man took a step back. "What?" he looked at his fellow bandits. "That's not how it goes. Did you mean, 'kiss the arm you cannot break, and pray the gods will break it'?"

  Brunhild paused. Had her voices been misquoting this entire time?

  [Impossible! Crush his skull!]

  "I've heard it both ways," Brunhild said, embarrassed. She started to giggle, then laugh, then cackle. The voices made her do this when they were confused or nervous.

  The rough man took another step back. His axe was still in range, however.

  "Last chance," he said.

  Brunhild continued laughing. The man with the evil smile was correct. It was a last chance. But not for her.

  She'd failed to destroy Rattbone on the river, but she had another chance. Rattbone needed to be signed to a valid contract. Without that, she could take him to debtor's prison to collect on his debts. Admittedly, a contract law technicality wasn't as dramatic as the chase and subsequent boat smashing she'd envisioned, but it would be effective. Rattbone would pay.

  And even if Rattbone got the contract, Brunhild had an insider at Bayadev who would stop them from finishing the job. But perhaps, given their relationship, "insider" was not the correct word choice. They weren't really inside. Not exactly.

  She could call the insider an "assistant", but that was too businesslike. Perhaps "puppet" was the most apt description. It paid to be apt, Brunhild knew. One could make a lot of money, if one maximized their levels of apt. Even with minimum aptness, her puppet could ruin the contract. If Rattbone even got that far.

  Brunhild smiled.

  The biggest and baddest of the band of bad bandits strode forward. He was massive, bald, and had a long beard. The other bandits whispered his name: Kondo.

  Kondo didn't want to talk. He raised his two-handed long sword, and grinned.

  It was a nice sword, well balanced, cared for. Brunhild caught the blade in her hand, as he brought it down.

  "It appears you intend to stab me through my chest," she said. She sprung up, flipping neatly in the air, then came down behind him.

  Kondo turned his head to look at her, his mouth slack, his eyes bulging. She could smell what he ate for breakfast.

  "You're . . . you're . . . ."

  Brunhild's eyes flared a brighter purple.

  "Oh, I'm not magic," Brunhild whispered. "But I am woman." She took a sip from her drinking horn, gargled, spit. "Do you want to hear me roar?"

  Brunhild started to sing.

  Chapter 15: Hubward Gets the Fizz

  "So I think just before the curtain opens, we'll have a narrated description of the weather," Hubward said to absolutely no one.

  He sat, obviously alone, in the amphora storage room of
the fizz factory. He was deep within the cavern, near the gas-baggery. A single wall torch provided light. Officially he was stacking cartons of the amphora, empty clay vases which were used to transport liquid fizz-water. But to an outsider it would appear the cartons of clay amphora were stacking themselves, while Hubward sat on the floor scribbling notes about the play he was writing. And, the shadows looked all wrong.

  Hubward had done his best to restore the camouflaging magic for the seven undead members of his team. The haunted woods had some residual magic he could tap into, but the work was sloppy. He'd used second-hand magic, after all. What would you expect?

  "When a scene has good things happening, it will be sunny and bright. But dramatic scenes will have dark and stormy weather: Drizzly disagreements, cold confrontations, misty mysteries, that sort of thing. We need to spend time establishing the weather. Where the sun is, how it is feeling that day. We'll just establish that in the first few minutes of every single scene in the play."

  A dust mite sneezed.

  "Oh so now you have a better idea? Ok . . . what else would work?" Hubward chewed on his chalk. "Breakfast! We'll start each scene with the actors eating breakfast, but combine it with the weather. Everything has to do two things, you guys know that. So we'll have rays of light on raisin-oatmeal, gray clouds on gruel. Before—I mean when we were all . . . well before your incident—people in the audience were always coming up to me and asking about the weather. And what the characters had for breakfast."

  A cricket rubbed its legs together, once.

  "Well they ought to have been," Hubward said, grumpily.

  The door to the storage room creaked open. A middle-aged woman walked in, carrying a wide basket filled with fragrant leaves, foul ointments and clinking tinctures. She was Ninestone, the factory herbalist. She smelled of woodsmoke and lavender.

  Hubward jumped up and pretended to stack the last of the amphora cartons, shoving it too hard. One of the clay containers clanked loudly.

  Six of seven shadows darted away, flattening themselves against the wall, contorting into strange shapes. But the seventh shadow stood where it was.

  Hertrude was stuck again? Zorgs! And he'd just fed her a pumpkin.

  "Hubward, there you are," said Ninestone. "I see you're done already." Her smile faded. "And how did you manage to stack those cartons way on top?"

  "Just good at jumping," Hubward said. "Normal boy games always involve jumping. Like, 'I got you', we yell and then pretend to cut off the other boy's leg with a sword. But then, that boy jumps over the pretend sword, and he's like, 'Aha, now I got you'." Hubward rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "So that's how."

  Ninestone narrowed her eyes. She poked Hubward in the stomach, but grunted with satisfaction when she felt the roll of fat on his midsection.

  This time, the roll of fat was real. He'd been drinking butter.

  Ninestone put down her basket. "Factory orders, you need a physical before you start working. But you've been here two weeks and I haven't seen you."

  She was right. Two weeks since his job interview. Two weeks of spending his days working at the factory, his nights prowling around Bayadev. After the mysterious dragon murder, he'd started working a side job with the Outfit, helping that mean mumbly girl, Gulchima. He was exhausted.

  The Sorcerer would slip up, eventually, and he could quit these jobs, capture the Sorcerer and finally (finally!) get some time to work on his play. But there was so much powerful magic in this place, it was hard to tell what was really going on. Of one thing he was certain. The heart of Bayadev's powerful magic was in the underground fizz factory.

  Hubward glanced behind him.

  Hertrude, his seventh shadow, was visible to him as the dusky outline of a teenage girl. She started shuffling backwards. Worse, she was headed directly for Ninestone's basket.

  The other shadows protested, trying to get Hertrude's attention. But the cacophony of mouse muttering, cricket chirping and dew drops dripping, did not work. This was a small room, and though Ninestone could hear the strange noises, she didn't seem to notice.

  Adults! Did they notice anything besides money, and who was kissing who?

  "I've only been here since last Runesday," Hubward said. "So almost two weeks." He slid his body between Hertrude and the basket. She bumped into him, and he leaned over the basket, pretending to study its contents.

  Hertrude started slowly shuffling forward. But her steps were not magically obscured. Hubward could hear the shuffling, plain as oatmeal.

  "Almost is too long," Ninestone said reproachfully. "Rub this on that rash on your arm." She handed him an ointment.

  Hubward did as he was told. He tried to hand the small clay jar back to Ninestone.

  "Keep it," she said. "Now open your mouth, let's see your teeth. We don't want any of your weird orphan diseases in our fizz-water." She smiled faintly. Hubward had a hard time not smiling back.

  Ninestone placed a mint leaf on his tongue. To his surprise, it evaporated.

  With one hand, Ninestone pulled and wriggled his teeth, with another, she ran a thin string between them, freeing the meat and kernels that were stuck there.

  "Swish, but don't swallow," Ninestone commanded. She gave Hubward a small vial of fizz-water, but when he poured it in his mouth, he could tell it was laced with something sour. Green foam erupted from his mouth.

  "Ma-mic?" he asked. He spit the foam onto a proffered cloth.

  Ninestone laughed. It was a twittering sound, and it made her look young. She held her warm hand to his cheek. "Magic is illegal," she said, peering into his eyes. Her eyes were a non-descript faded blue, but she had a freckle in her left eye shaped like a diamond. She slapped his cheek, and he blinked.

  "See, all done Hubward," Ninestone said. She fussed with something in her basket, then picked it up.

  His face still felt warm from her touch, and he could smell lavender. "Not so bad," Hubward said.

  But then he saw what Hertrude was doing.

  Hertrude shuffled forward, then smacked into the wall of stacked amphora cartons. The wall started to waver. The uppermost carton tipped, started to fall.

  Hubward grabbed Ninestone by the arm and spun her around, so that she was facing the door. At least she wouldn't see the sloppy shadows.

  "I wanted to ask you—" Hubward started to say.

  The other six shadows darted out from their hiding locations and caught the falling amphora, which rained down like a sudden hailstorm. The tallest shadow jumped onto the back of another, then tossed them back into the carton. Its throws were incredibly accurate. Two other shadows escorted Hertrude to the corner of the room, and hid her.

  A ladybug buzzed, warning Hubward. He slapped out his hand, and caught a wayward amphora that spun wildly toward the back of Ninestone's head.

  "—about this fizz-water," Hubward finished. "Is it healthy?" He showed her the empty amphora he had just caught. "Oh this one's empty. Never mind."

  Ninestone paused, and narrowed her eyes. "You seem well fed, Hubward. Healthy. But why are you so jumpy all the time? Did something happen?" She lowered her voice. "In the war?"

  It was still odd to Hubward. Ninestone was openly suspicious, and yet she couldn't see his companions. They stood only a few feet away. Seven people shared the room with them. All she had to do was stumble into one of them, and he'd be found out.

  If that happened, what would he do? Hubward wouldn't hurt someone like Ninestone. Avenging the Sorcerer's atrocities did not give him permission to hurt innocent women that smelled like lavender and had a freckle in one eye.

  "I move around a lot," Hubward said. "And I'm not much use in a fight. So when someone bigger comes along, I run. Every time I enter a room, I think of how I'm going to escape."

  Ninestone tapped a finger to her lips. "Very believable," she said. She sighed. "And very predictable. Hubward, I'm going to advise you, as your herbalist, not to be so predictable. You can't always run."

  "Why not?"

/>   "Because predictable things get put on lists," Ninestone replied. "And do you know what happens to things on lists?"

  She smiled, and Hubward found himself smiling back. "Eventually, things on lists get crossed off."

  Hubward paused, not certain how to respond. He suddenly wondered if Ninestone would let him stay with her, instead of sleeping rough in the forest. He could play with her other children, watch them, help around the house. Maybe the Sorcerer had already fled. Maybe Ninestone could be his . . . friend.

  "Do you have children?" Hubward blurted.

  Ninestone's lips trembled, and she held her hand up to her mouth, as if steadying them. "Yes. Once." She looked at him, and Hubward saw her faded eyes were starting to tear up. "Now, I am here."

  Once, but now I am here. It was the common refrain for those who had lost someone in the war. It meant: Yes it happened, and yes, I do think about it. But not all the time. I have a life to get on living. "Now I am here," meant simply: I survived, and I live for those who didn't get the chance.

  Hubward didn't press her. He saw the word was tattooed on her inner forearm. He should have noticed it.

  Ninestone paced forward, and the shadows, who Hubward could see as normal people, slid out of the way. She picked up an amphora, and the tall shadow contorted, bending backwards to avoid her touch. The shadows weren't magic. Only their camouflage made them appear so.

  "Well you're quite the worker, I must say," Ninestone said, changing the subject. She turned to face Hubward. "The Fizz-Meister is impressed. He says you've filled twice as many containers of fizz-water as any other novice."

  "Happy to have found work," Hubward replied.

  Ninestone held her index fingers in front of her face, and stared over them for ten seconds. She shook her head, as if clearing it. "Apply the ointment twice a day. And I wonder if, and forgive me for questioning you, but I wonder if you couldn't do with some vegetables once in a while."

  Hubward stiffened. Vegetables? Him?

  "I just hate to see such a small boy—on his own, a young sir of course, but still small—I'd just hate to see him lose his teeth. Do you know what they say about teeth? Teeth are like girlfriends . . . ."