The Dragon Charmer (20 page)

“Are you not the queen?” countered Moonspittle, echoing Ragginbone’s whispered dictates. “Are you not omniscient and wise, both the emblem and the confidante of your people?”

“That is true.” She lowered the mirror, diverted by his flattery. “Who—?”

“One Bradachin, a house-goblin, formerly a resident of Glen Cracken. Do you know him?”

“I know them all,” said the queen, forgetting her lofty pose of moments before. “Bradachin… that is a human name. We gave him another, but I have forgotten it. No matter. Like all house-goblins, he spent too much time with Men. He wanted to play their games, squabble their squabbles, fight their silly wars. I fear he picked up bad habits: rashness, and folly, and the stupidity they call honor. Mortal stuff. I have not seen him in a long while. What comes to him?”

“He left the castle,” said Moonspittle, “and crossed the border to a house on the moors.”

“Why?”

“The castle was modernized. Central heating, bathrooms, too many visitors.”

Mabb shuddered. “I hate bathrooms,” she said, rather unnecessarily. “There is so little suitable accommodation for a house-goblin nowadays. Everywhere there are machines that whirr, and gibber, and bleep. No more quiet corners, no more cracks and crannies. We are being driven back to the woods—if they leave us those. Yes, I remember Bradachin. I remember him too well. He was obstinate—unreliable—a traitor to his own folk. I banished him once, but that was long ago. It had slipped my mind.”

“Where did you banish him?” asked Moonspittle, and then, at a word from Ragginbone: “Why?”

“Elsewhere. Why? He had something—something I wanted—and he would not give it to me. I am his queen, but he denied me.
Me!
There was a witch who offered to pay me in phoenix wings—wings that would carry me up to the clouds—and all for a trinket, a piece of rusted metal, a giant’s bodkin. But he would not give it to me, and I banned him from my sight. He said it was a sacred charge. I told him, I am all you should hold sacred. But he hid it from me, and I did not get my beautiful wings. I had forgotten. I will never forgive him.”

“What was this sacred thing?”

“I told you. A bodkin. I don’t want to talk of it anymore.”

Moonspittle raised his hand, murmuring dismissal, and the pharisee was gone. The smell followed her more slowly.

“She is grotesque,” he said to Ragginbone afterward. “An ugly little pixie as vain as a courtesan and as wanton as an alley cat.” Mogwit groomed his belly fur complacently, unruffled by the chaos he had caused earlier.

“Malmorths are not noted for their moral fiber,” said Ragginbone. “However, she was useful. I needed to be sure about Bradachin.”

“What do you think it was—the artifact he refused to give her?”

“I believe it might be a spear. I recall Will telling me that Bradachin was carrying one when he arrived.”

Moonspittle began to complain that Ragginbone abused
his power and his hospitality while telling him nothing, but made little progress.

“Your power and your
what?”
said Ragginbone.

“Hospitality,” said Moonspittle, defiantly. “I let you in. Didn’t I?”

“You had no choice.” Deep eyes glinted at him. “Come. We are not finished yet, and you are wasting time.”

“Time is there to be wasted,” grumbled Moonspittle. “What else would you do with it? You live your life like a rat on a treadmill. Running, running, running. Going nowhere.”

“Probably,” said Ragginbone. “Restore the circle. I need to call someone—anyone—from the vicinity of the Tree.”

“You can’t! You saw what came to Bethesne. She—”

“It must be tried,” Caracandal insisted. “Concentrate.”

But Moonspittle was nervous; his power of concentration, like his other powers, was limited. In the circle, leaf patterns formed and faded, livid gleams of werelight hovered like will-o’-the-wisps, wing shapes beat the air and vanished. The night noises of the city came to them for the first time, un-dimmed by the spell, faint as a distant music: the sound of traffic rumbling and generators humming, of people chatting, drinking, quarreling, making deals, making love, of lives being lived, of a million different stories briefly interlocking, of time passed not wasted, of minutes and seconds being seized and savored and devoured. A wonderful sound, thought Ragginbone. The symphony of life…

“It’s no use,” whispered Moonspittle, though there was no need to whisper. “I cannot reach… anything. There must be an obstacle—a restriction of some kind. Or else there is no one there to reach.” There was a thin rime of sweat on his pallid brow, as unlikely as dew on flowers long dried. He looked both frightened and relieved.

The figure appeared without warning at the heart of the circle. There was no buildup of magic, no slow materialization: he was simply
there
. A figure far more solid than his predecessors, with an intense, virile reality that made the perimeter seem inadequate to contain him, a flimsy barrier against the impact of such a presence. He looked part man, part monster, not tall but disproportionately broad and heavy in the shoulder, his bare arms and torso showing great knots and
twists of muscle, ribbed with veins. He was in deep shadow, but either he wore breeches made of animal fur or his legs were unnaturally hairy, matching the ragged dark mane on his head. His outthrust brow branched into curling horns, ridged like those of a ram; something behind him might have been the sweep of a tail. His bulging, uneven bone structure achieved an effect of ugliness that was close to beauty: a crude, brutish beauty rendered more sinister by the lance of intelligence. For there was a mind behind that face, agile and amoral, though what it was thinking would have been impossible to guess. The other beings summoned to the circle had all appeared in a strong light, but he was in darkness, a red, sultry darkness that clung to him like an odor. In twin clefts beneath his forehead the Watchers saw the ruby glitter of eyes at once feral and calculating.

“Well, well,” he said, “if it isn’t the spider. A leggy, whey-faced spider babbling charms to summon flies into his web. You should be careful, spider. I am big for a fly and I might snap the threads that hold me—if hold me they can.”

“What are
you
doing here?” demanded Moonspittle, unnerved. “You were not called.”

“I came without a call, O gormless one—for the pleasure of your company. The door was open, the way clear. Ask of me what you will.” The words were a taunt, the note of mockery vicious.

“Begone, half-breed,” snapped Moonspittle, still shaken. “Back to whatever midden you came from.
Vardé
—”

“You cannot dismiss me, half-wit. I am too strong for you. Who is that sly shadow whispering orders into your ear?”

Ragginbone, who had determined to seize control of the encounter, was startled. Spirits who come to the circle can normally see little beyond the rim and should hear only the voice of their interlocutor. “Did you come merely to bandy words with an old man?” He spoke directly to the unwelcome visitant. “That was kind of you: we have so little to entertain us. How is your mother?”

The ugly face grew a shade uglier. “As ever.”

“Really? I had heard she was dead, but obviously rumor lied. They said she had eaten herself in her insatiable voracity, poisoned herself with her own bile. One should never believe
all one hears. Is she still pleased to see you, best-beloved of her children?”

“As ever
.” This time, it was little more than a snarl.

“Ah, well, blood is thicker than water, is it not? Even when diluted with the unholy ichor of the immortals. You have your mother’s beauty, your brother’s charm. What did your father bequeath to you?”

The figure in the circle, needled beyond detachment, gave way to rancor. “I do not have to listen to this!”

“Then go.”

Immediately the circle was empty. Moonspittle sank back into his chair; his wan face looked ghostly with fatigue. “It is enough,” he insisted. “More than enough. You spoke rashly there—you often do. That one can be dangerous. He has no… proper… limitations.”

“He was badly brought up.” Caracandal allowed himself an unpleasant smile.

“I don’t understand how he came here.”

“I have an idea about that. Clearly his mother lives. I assumed the world’s weariness had drained even her, and she had passed the Gate at last; but I was overoptimistic. Somewhere—
somewhere
she must be hiding—waiting—chewing on her old plots like a jackal with a carcass of bones. I knew she had tutored Alimond, doubtless for her own ends—but that was long ago. I wonder…”

“Let me close the spell,” begged Moonspittle, uninterested in such speculation.

“Not yet. There is one more question to be asked.”

“Of whom?” Moonspittle’s tone was dark with foreboding.

“Place the crowned toad in the circle.”

“No!” The little remaining color quitted his face, leaving the small features looking uncomfortably isolated in a waxen façade. “You cannot—the risk is too great. I will not do it!”

“Fear clouds your judgment. The toad is a little god, a thing of few powers and forgotten myth. Only a handful ever worshiped it.
He
must be bound by that.”

“I will not—I
cannot—”

“Why keep the thing,” said Ragginbone, “if you do not mean to use it?”

“A curiosity. I am a collector…”

“So I see,” Ragginbone said dryly. The gloom hid the lewd prints, the ill-assorted books, the jetsam littering and lining the room. “There are people who might be interested, if they knew of this place. Perhaps you should open the shop…”

“No—no—” Moonspittle’s voice shriveled to a whisper; he huddled into himself, deep in the chair, a shivering bundle of terror. “Not people—not
customers
—” The word was pronounced with an inexpressible loathing. “I never open …
I never open
.”

Ragginbone did not smile. The Gifted have their own bogeymen, feeding on the imagination that is the source of all magic. In a lifetime lasting centuries, on the borderline of reality, such fancied demons may outgrow their more tangible rivals, dominating every nightmare.

“I opened once … I forget the date. I always forget dates. It was the last time … The city was burning. My city. A man came in without his wig. I knew him even so: he was a duke—a lord—a wealthy merchant—whichever. He carried a child in his arms with its face burnt off. ‘Give me a potion,’ he said, ‘to heal my son,’ but I sent him away. The dead are beyond healing. I shut the door, and locked it, and bolted the bolts, and chained the chains, and came down here until the fire was gone. Maybe it passed over me: I do not know. When I next went upstairs—it must have been a century or more later—the city had grown again as if it had never been lost. I could feel the busyness of it, the life. Heaving and bustling like an anthill. But I don’t go out. Not now. And I never open.”

The ensuing pause signified Ragginbone’s understanding. Now he was calmer, Moonspittle seemed to have acquiesced, resigned to his visitor’s recklessness. He placed the jade image at the heart of the circle.

“What of its name? Do you know it?”

“I hope so,” said Ragginbone.

“I fear so,” sighed Moonspittle.

He was back in his chair; Ragginbone’s hand was on his shoulder; the wizard’s voice spoke with his mouth. At the ominous words the darkness seemed to grow denser; the cat shrank into stillness. One by one the candle flames dwindled and went out, as if snuffed by damp fingers. There was no smoke. In the circle, the squat figurine began to glow with a
green nimbus, like marsh light. Awareness grew in its crystal eyes, filling them with a baleful glare, sending spiked rays darting round the room. “Agamo—” Elivayzar’s lips moved helplessly “—swamp god, mud god. Eater of the moon. In this name I conjure you, in this form I bind you. Come to me!”

The toad’s throat flexed: the sound that issued from its mouth squeaked and crackled like a badly tuned radio. “I hear you. Who has—the insolence—to call me thus? Agamo—is long forgotten. I am no more—in this guise.”

“It will suffice for my purpose.”

“Your purpose!” Rage distorted the voice still further; the word cracked, ending on a shriek. “I serve—no man’s
purpose
. Who are you? I will remember—your impudence.”

“Caracandal.”

“You lie. The Brokenwand—has sunk—to the level of a vagrant—a starveling beggar—homeless—powerless—dispossessed. He could not summon—the ghost—of a flea.”

“I take my power on loan. I too have my instruments. Enough of this ranting. There are things I must ask you.”

“I will not—be questioned by you!” Fury stretched the toad’s mouth too wide: resistant to the pressures of spell and Spirit, the corners began to split.

“You are Agamo,” his challenger intoned. “A lesser god of mangrove and marshland. There is no belief left to uphold you, no lingering myth to keep your memory green. Only the image in which you are bound. You
must
answer me.”

“No—NO—”

“You sent the
tannasgeal
to take the girl, but her phantom eluded you. Where is she?”

“NOOO—”

The statuette shuddered as if in an earth tremor; the room rocked; books fell from the shelves. The Watchers saw the cracks widening, dividing, spreading; snakes of lightning flickered from the crystal eyes. Then the mouth gaped to an impossible extent, wrenching the head in two, and with a report like a small bomb the image exploded. Jade fragments flew like shrapnel. Ragginbone ducked; Moonspittle scrunched himself into a ball, crossed arms screening his face. Silence came with the patter of the last few flakes of stone, the slither of a dislodged print descending the wall. On the narrow window
the blind had been torn away, and remote streetlighting filtered through the shattered pane. They saw the circle quenched and scattered, pictures crooked, books tumbled. On the table at the far end of the room, several of the retorts were broken. A husk of ragged glass rocked on the carpet.

“Someone will have heard,” Ragginbone remarked.

“Oh, no,” said Moonspittle, plucking a splinter from his outermost cardigan. “They never do.” For a moment, his button eyes shone dimly with the afterglow of power.
“They never do.”