The King's Dragon Page 2

  DOCTOR WHO

  the front of the building, Amy leaned inside, exactly far enough to be able to touch one of the spoons on the table. It too was warm. More than that, it was...

  Wriggling.

  'Whoa!' Amy jerked back her hand. 'Now that is the most freakish thing in a whole world of freakishness!'

  She was about to test it again, but the conversation at the front of the house was finishing.

  Quickly, she pulled the window down again and slipped back into the shadow of the wall.

  The gate was open. Rory slunk in, tail between his legs.

  'Poor Rory,' Amy whispered to him. 'I'm guessing you didn't think of something.'

  She edged round to the road, keeping to the shadows. The Doctor was gabbling away, at the gatekeeper and his wife. Then a carriage pulled up. A golden carriage.

  'How lucky you are,' gushed the gatekeeper's wife, as Rory and the Doctor clambered into their carriage. 'You're going to meet the King! The King!'

  'King?' Rory whispered to the Doctor, as they took their seats. 'I thought this was a republic or something.'

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  THE KING’S DRAGON

  'It is. It was.' The Doctor leaned over to open the door on the other side of the carriage. Amy hopped in. 'Hurry up!' said the Doctor. 'We're going to meet the King!'

  'King?'

  Amy

  nodded

  back

  towards

  the

  gatehouse. 'You should see how the other half lives.'

  The carriage clattered along. The Doctor frowned out of the window, beyond which the city of Geath gleamed silently. Rory and Amy waited patiently.

  Eventually, the Doctor held up some fingers.

  'There are three things wrong here. Firstly, as Rory pointed out, the people of Geath don't have a king.

  They have a council. They have elections. They have made an art form out of elections. That's the first thing wrong.'

  One of the Doctor's fingers went down. He stopped talking and resumed frowning. Amy and Rory exchanged a look.

  The carriage continued through the deserted city. They went down long curved avenues, through little plazas with statues and fountains at the centre, caught glimpses of covered steps leading up the hill and alleyways leading down to the river - but they saw nobody. The carriage rattled into a plaza bigger than any they had passed through yet and far more elaborately gilded. The 25

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  torchlight glittered on the thick metal that coated the fronts of the buildings. A deep-noted bell gouged; once, twice.

  Amy jumped. 'This place is giving me the creeps.'

  Crossing the plaza, the carriage came to a halt.

  The travellers climbed out and found themselves in front of a huge round building. This had to be the hall they had seen from the hilltop, Amy thought; the one with the magical dome. That was too high for her to see it clearly; looking up she saw instead a haze of soft light rising above the hall. The walls of the building were enamelled; the decoration more intricate than anything she had seen so far, with swirling spiral patterns that bewildered her eye when she looked for more than a few seconds. Two men stood on guard in front of the hall's big arched doors. There was nobody else in sight. Silence enveloped the city, a watchful, anxious silence. The night heat was cloying. Amy looked at the golden hall and gave a shudder of trepidation.

  'The second thing that's wrong,' the Doctor said, 'is that the streets are empty. Geathians live their lives out in the streets and the plazas. Daytime: they sit outside and work and talk. Night-time: they sit outside and eat and talk. So where is everyone?

  Why are they hiding away and locking 26

  THE KING’S DRAGON

  their doors?' He put one more finger down.

  The two guards came towards them, bowed low, and gestured at them to come inside. They walked into a wide white corridor with an arched roof; there were alcoves at intervals along each wall, and in each of these some golden artefact was on display: vases, statues, figures clasping gilded lamps.

  The further in they went, the more lavish these objects became, as if they were drawing nearer and nearer to the source of it all.

  'The third thing that's wrong,' said the Doctor,

  'and, speaking for myself, I think this probably comes under the heading "most wrong" — is that gold doesn't occur naturally on this world. Not an ingot, not a leaf, not a flake. There shouldn't be any gold.' He glanced back down the corridor. 'But there is. There's quite a lot of gold.'

  They came to a pair of double doors. One of the guards pushed these open, and the companions walked through into a huge chamber, full of light and music and people. The Doctor still had one finger raised. It stayed raised and, as Amy watched, those closest to them began to notice.

  They fell silent; they nudged the next group along, who looked round and, seeing the Doctor, also fell silent. The clamour of conversation lessened steadily and the music faltered. Soon the hall was in complete silence and everybody in it was 27

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  looking their way.

  The Doctor waggled his finger in greeting.

  'Hello! I'm the Doctor. No, don't get up.'

  28

  Chapter

  2

  A chamber full of courtiers glared at them. The Doctor beamed back, his smile like a ray of pure white light through the hostile, shimmering room. Hundreds of people were gathered there, glorious in their finery, as if the jewel-drenched and fantastic figures of a mosaic had stepped down and taken shape in the real world.

  Amy looked around in amazement. If the gatehouse had been stuffed with gold, this place was smothered in it.

  'Blimey,' Rory whispered. 'Bling Central.'

  Suddenly, as if someone had breathed life into them, or turned their key, the courtiers began to move apart, as methodically as dancers, half 29

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  of them shifting to one side of the great round chamber, half to the other. As they moved, the heart of the hall was slowly revealed: the source of the glamour, the place from which it all sprang.

  Raised up on a dais, apart from the rest of the gathering, a young man sat on a golden throne. He was tall and strong and handsome, and he wore a narrow circlet of gold around his head. Standing at his right shoulder, tactfully behind him, was another man. He was only slightly older, although his dark clothes were very severe, and he looked almost nondescript compared to everyone else in the hall. The only decoration he wore was on his left hand, which was covered in fabulous rings.

  These two men, however, were not quite the star attraction. Curled up in front of the throne, one red eye fixed upon the entrance of the chamber and thus upon the travellers, was a huge, sinuous, golden dragon.

  'So... which one's the King?' whispered Amy.

  Rory turned his laugh into a cough. The Doctor raised a remonstrative eyebrow.

  The silence stretched on, charged and distinctly unwelcoming. Then the older of the two men leaned forwards and whispered something in the King's ear. The young man burst out laughing. So did the Doctor. Within seconds the whole room was in uproar, from the gaudiest toady to the 30

  THE KING’S DRAGON

  lowliest hanger-on.

  The King clapped his hands together. The room fell instantly silent. He rose up from his throne, taller than everyone around him, stronger, confident of his beauty and his power. He was like a lazy, well-fed lion, muscular and commanding.

  'Nice,' Amy said, appreciatively.

  The King smiled down at the new arrivals. 'To our friends and neighbours,' he said, 'I, Beol, King of Geath, offer a most hearty welcome. Come, my friends! Come and join me! Come and speak with me!'

  'Hooray!'

  cried

  the

  Doctor.

  'All

  friends!

  Marvellous! Amy, let's go and pay our respects to our host. Rory,' he put his hand against Rory's shoulder and gave him a gentle shove, 'mingle.'


  His voice dropped. 'And listen. Both of you.'

  'Neighbours, Doctor?' Amy muttered, as they made their way through the curious whispering crowd.

  'Oh, the psychic paper, you know,' he said offhandedly. Reaching the foot of the dais, he swept out an outrageous bow. 'Friend! Lord! King of Geath! Love what you've done with the place — and what,' he spun round to look at the dragon, 'do we have here?'

  The man behind the throne jumped forwards.

  'Don't touch it!'

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  The Doctor's long hands, bare millimetres away from a great golden haunch of dragon, swung up again, palms out. 'All right, won't touch. Hey, nice rings! Who are you?'

  'He's my Teller,' Beol said. He seemed to be entertained by the scene unfolding in front of him.

  'Teller, Doctor?' Amy murmured.

  'Oh, you know,' the Doctor said. 'Oral cultures —always someone whose job it is to do the memorising and the storytelling. Not to mention the spin-doctoring.'

  'So nothing to do with counting the cash?'

  'Not usually. But then there's a lot of "not usually" going on around here. A whole heap. A hoard. This is Amy, by the way,' he said to Beol.

  'Amy, say hello to the King.'

  Amy lifted her hand to hip-height and gave a little wave. 'Urn... hello.'

  Beol, in return, delivered up a heart-stopping smile.

  'Wow,' Amy said. 'And we get Prince Charles.'

  'That's aristocracies for you,' said the Doctor.

  'You never know what's going to come out. Bit like a tombola. Where did you say you'd found this dragon?'

  'We didn't,' said the Teller. 'Where did you say you'd come from?'

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  THE KING’S DRAGON

  'Dant, wasn't it?' said the King. Something was definitely amusing him.

  The Doctor produced another ludicrous bow.

  'From the people of Dant, greetings and all the best and, urn, cheers. So - the dragon? Can't be many of these lying around. Where did you dig this one up?'

  Beol turned to his Teller and gave him an odd smile. 'Why don't you tell them?'

  There seemed to be some private joke going on between them, although the Teller wasn't laughing.

  He looked put out.

  'Be seated, my friends,' Beol said to the Doctor and Amy. 'He tells this tale so very well.'

  He clapped his hands again. Servants carried up two ornate chairs onto the dais. Beol gestured to them to sit down.

  'Last question for the moment, Doctor,' Amy said, as they took their seats. 'Dant?'

  'Don't know... Hang on, yes I do, next city along. Up the river and left a bit.'

  'And that's where we're from?'

  'Apparently.' He gave her his lopsided grin.

  'Citizens of Dant, though! Well done us!'

  'I know!'

  'Noticed anything yet?'

  'Yes. That dragon. Is it me, or is it, sort of, oozing? Or something?'

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  The Doctor's smile switched off. 'It's not you.'

  Rory drifted obediently through the room and listened to the conversation. He soon realised that everyone was talking about the same thing. Beol.

  Who had seen Beol, who had spoken to Beol, what Beol said, how he said it, and what he was wearing at the time. Not all of what Rory heard had the ring of truth and, in fact, the further away he got from the centre of the hall, the more fanciful the stories became and the more they carried with them the distinct

  whiff

  of

  desperation.

  'Help,'

  Rory

  muttered. 'I'm a prisoner in Heat magazine.' He inched his way to the edge of the crowd and looked for a quiet spot where he could observe people in peace.

  A covered arcade ran around the perimeter of the room, providing a haven for those who found the bustle close to the dais too much. Chairs and tables had been placed between its columns. These were mostly deserted, apart from one, at which an old woman sat, alone. Her chin was propped up on her hands and she stared out across the hall with a bored expression. Seeing that Rory was looking at her, she gestured to him to join her. When he got close, she rose up from her seat and, with some ceremony, pulled out a chair for him.

  'Hello,' Rory said, as he sat down. 'I'm Rory.'

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  THE KING’S DRAGON

  Why did it sound better when the Doctor said it?

  The old woman gave a brisk nod of the head.

  'And I'm Hilthe. Welcome to Geath.'

  'Thank you.'

  'I haven't seen you here before,' she said.

  'I haven't been here before. First time in Geath.'

  'Yes? Then tell me, Rory, what do you think of my city?'

  Rory gazed out across the chamber at the glamorous gathering and then up at the shimmering light-filled dome. He could not see Beol, or the dragon, but he knew they were there, and he could easily picture how magnificent they both looked. 'I think it's amazing.'

  Hilthe reached for a bottle and another glass. 'I think it's tasteless.'

  The glass chinked against the bottle. Rory blinked. Suddenly everything around him seemed garish and flashy. The gold was a slick coating over the hall's true beauties. When Rory peered past it, he was able to see how the hall had once appeared.

  Pale stone and subtle frescoes; measured and delicate. 'That's the trouble with bling.'

  'Bling?'

  Rory gestured around them. 'All this stuff.

  Showy. You know.'

  'Bling.' Hilthe rolled the word around, trying 35

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  it out. 'I like that. I'll remember it.' She pushed a glass towards him. 'Drink up. It makes the evening pass more quickly.'

  From the centre of the hall, applause broke out. It rippled outwards, until soon the people standing at the edge near their table were clapping and pressing forwards. Hilthe sighed. 'Here comes our bedtime story. Same story, every night. And every night, they hang on the Teller's every word.

  They've all gone quite mad.' Her voice took on a note of cheerful desperation. 'Or I'm getting old. Or both.'

  'The same story? What's it about?'

  'How brave Beol won the dragon and brought it to Geath.' She spoke violently, almost viciously. That was when Rory noticed she wasn't wearing any gold. 'What else could we possibly want to hear about?'

  Rory got up from his seat to look over the crowd, trying to see what was happening in the centre of the hall. The older man, the one who had been standing behind the King — the Teller, presumably —walked to the front of the dais. He made a brief show of reluctance but the crowd cheered him on. From deep within the hall, a chant arose, taken up by everyone until it boomed around the dome. It was the King's name: Beol! Beol! Beol!

  'See what I mean?' Hilthe said. 'They've all 36

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  gone mad.'

  The man lifted up his left hand. The rings on it glittered sharply in the lamplight. The crowd fell silent. 'So,' he said, and then paused for effect.

  Hilthe groaned and reached for her bottle. 'Here we go again...'

  The Tale of the King and the Dragon

  'Hear now,' said the Teller, 'great men and women gathered here in the heart-hall of Geath, how Beol—'

  Hearing the name, the crowd said, 'Ah!'

  'How Beol, of all men bravest and boldest, haled to this high hall a gift of great worth—' The Teller flung out his arm.

  'Ooh!' said the crowd.

  ' — hear now how Sheal was shorn of the golden worm —'

  'Is he alliterating?' whispered Amy to the Doctor.

  'It's the form. It's how it's done. Shush! Want to listen.'

  Amy settled back in her chair and got comfortable. The hall was very full and very warm.

  The light from the lamps and the torches filled the place with a soft gold haze that imbued it with a dreamy feeling. Amy closed her eyes.

  When you listened
carefully, she thought, the 37

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  Teller's voice had a lot going for it. He used it like a musical instrument - one moment dropping down to a whisper that made Amy lean in to catch his words, the next moment bellowing out a war cry and making her jump back. There was something else too - his voice conjured up vivid images in her mind. She could picture in detail everything he described - not like television, little images flickering away in the corner of the room - this was more immediate, more immersive, like a lucid dream. It swept you up and carried you along.

  Amy followed the Teller as he led her through Beol's deeds: she gasped at the King's audacity, tricking his way into the city of Sheal; she laughed herself nearly into hiccups to hear the way he made such fools out of the townsfolk; she chewed her nails at the suspense of him creeping through the city; and she thrilled at the knockdown fight with the guards. And then he laid hands upon the dragon...

  Amy opened her eyes. There it was, lying at the heart of the city, the red slit of its eye watching, its mouth curved in a hungry smile. The Teller's tale went on without her. Amy leaned forwards in her chair, mesmerised by the hugeness of the dragon and the beauty of it. She marvelled at the craft that must have gone into each scale upon its back, the long flat ears, the elegant snout, the humming...

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  THE KING’S DRAGON

  Humming? Amy shook her head. Yes, she could hear humming: a faint and distant chord that was pitched perfectly with the Teller's rich tones. Was it the musicians, accompanying him? Amy listened more closely. No, it was too precise for that. This sound was mechanical... Amy strained to listen. And then she heard something else — behind the Teller's voice, behind the dragon's music. A whisper in her mind, inchoate and almost suppressed, but she could just make out the sense of it. The whisper said: Wil it come back tonight? Wil the monster come back tonight?

  Monster? Fear clawed at Amy and she began to tremble. She looked round the room, but she could only see strangers, alien strangers on an alien world. She was quite alone.

  Suddenly, the Teller's voice swooped up in anger. Amy jumped. He was describing the pursuit of Beol made by the people of Sheal in their anger at the theft of the dragon. They chased him like a vagabond up hill and down dale, set their dogs after him ('Boo!' hissed the crowd), but at last he came to Geath, and he brought the dragon with him. But Sheal was angry. The crowd shivered in fear at this threat — but then the Teller soothed them, reminded them how Beol had won once and would win again. Beol was their King, he said. Beol would protect them.