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I shut up the office at five after completing the form P3-8F for Wizard Moobin’s accident and all the B1-7Gs for the day’s work. Once they were signed by the magician they related to, my day was done. But as I walked along the corridor towards the lobby the Quarkbeast’s hackles rose and he made growly Quarky noises deep in his throat. It was easy to see why. There were two men waiting for me beneath the spreading boughs of the oak tree.

‘Call the Quarkbeast off, Miss Strange,’ said one of the men. ‘We’re not here to harm you or it.’

The two men were well dressed and very familiar. They were Royal Police, and were always the ones assigned to investigate any possible deviation from the Magical Powers (amended 1966) Act. I’d known them for as long as I had been here, and two things were certain: one, they would go away empty handed, and two: they always began with the same introduction, even though they knew exactly who I was – and I them.

‘I’m Detective Norton,’ said the taller and thinner of the two, ‘and this is Sergeant Villiers. We work for the King and we would like you to help us with our inquiries.’

Sergeant Villiers was a good deal heavier in body and face than Norton, and we often joked that the pair of them looked like the ‘Before and After’ in a slimming advertisement.

The Quarkbeast sniffed Villiers’ trouser leg excitedly, and wagged his tail.

‘You have a new wooden leg, Sergeant,’ I observed, ‘made of walnut.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Walnut is catnip to a Quarkbeast. If you still have your old one, I’d wear it next time you come round.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ he said, peering nervously at the Quarkbeast, who was in turn staring intently at his leg, his razor-sharp fangs dripping with saliva. He’d have eaten the leg in under a second if I’d allowed him, but Quarkbeasts, for all their fearsome looks, were dutiful to a fault. They were one tenth Labrador, and the rest was a mix of velociraptor and kitchen blender. It was the tenth that mattered.

‘So, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘how can I help?’

‘Is Mr Zambini back yet?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘I see. You have a few soothsayers and pre-cogs on yours books, I understand?’

‘You know I have,’ I answered, ‘and they both hold Class IV Premonition Certificates.’

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast, sensing the defensive tone in my voice.

‘Have any of your pre-cogs mentioned the death of Maltcassion?’ asked Norton.

‘It doesn’t take any special skills, Detective. Take a look up at the Dragonlands. Besides, doesn’t the King have a seer of his own?’

Villiers nodded in agreement. ‘He certainly does. The Inconsistent Sage O’Neons has predicted the death of the Dragon, but also mentioned that the Dragon was to be killed by a Dragonslayer. Does this sound correct?’

‘No one can enter the Dragonlands but a Dragonslayer, Villiers. I think perhaps Sage O’Neons is less astounding than you think.’

‘Insulting the King’s advisers is an offence, Miss Strange.’

I’d had enough of all the beating-around-the-bush stuff.

‘What do you want, Norton? This isn’t a social call.’

Villiers and Norton exchanged glances. The door to the Sisters Karamazov’s apartment opened and they both popped their heads out.

‘I’m fine, sisters, thank you.’

They nodded and withdrew. It was Villiers who spoke next.

‘Sage O’Neons said a young woman named Strange would be involved in the Dragondeath.’

‘There must be hundreds in the phone book.’

‘Perhaps, but only one has a Quarkbeast.’

The Quarkbeast looked up quizzically.

‘Quark,’ he said.

They both stared at me as though I was somehow meant to account for myself appearing in one of the royal seer’s visions.

‘Pre-cogs,’ I began, measuring my words carefully, ‘even royal ones, don’t always get it right. Any seer worth his salt will tell you a premonition is seven-tenths interpretation. And remember, Strange isn’t just a name, it’s an adjective.’

Villiers and Norton shuffled uneasily. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to them either, interviewing someone on the basis of a vision, but when the King speaks, they have to do his bidding.

‘We’re just following a number of leads, Miss Strange. I hope you would consider your allegiance to His Majesty King Snodd IV (may he live for ever) above all else?’

‘Of course.’

Villiers nodded.

‘Then I would expect a call if you knew anything?’

‘Goes without saying.’

They knew I didn’t mean it, and I knew they knew. They bade me good afternoon and left, purposefully leaving the front door open.

I went up to my room and switched on the television. It was as I had feared: the news about the potential Dragondeath was going national. The Ununited Kingdoms Broadcasting Corporation was running a live feed from the Dragonlands – they had even sent their star anchorwoman.

‘This is Sophie Trotter of the UKBC,’ announced the reporter, ‘speaking live from the Maltcassion Dragonlands, here in the Black Mountains. A wave of premonitions about the death of the last Dragon has given rise to a gathering in the Marcher Kingdom of Hereford. No one can say for sure when this event will happen, but as soon as the repulsive old lizard kicks the bucket you can be sure that there will be a wild race to claim as much land as possible. When he dies, the good people of the Ununited Kingdoms can finally sleep easily in their beds, secure in the knowledge that the last of these loathsome worms has been eradicated from the world. The question that is on everyone’s lips is: when? An answer that we, as yet, do not know. But when the Dragon finally croaks you can be sure that UKBC will be in with the first wave of new claimants. Next up, an exclusive interview with leading Herefordian knight Sir Matt Crifflon, who explains why the dragon needs to die, and plays his latest hit song: “A Horse, a Sword, and Me”.’

‘Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’ said a voice from the door. It was Wizard Moobin, none the worse for the explosion that morning.

‘Sir Matt Grifflon’s new song?’ I asked. ‘No, I thought it was quite good – if you like that kind of thing.’

‘The Dragonlands. If I had my way I’d make them a national park, a safe haven for wild Quarkbeasts. Isn’t that right, lad?’

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast happily. I gave him two unopened tins of dog food. He crunched them up happily, can and all.

‘We agree on that,’ I replied, ‘but if you’re going to play jokes on the new boy, can you please not ask Patrick of Ludlow to help out? He’s very impressionable.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. Watch this.’

And so saying, he put out his hand and narrowed his eyes. There was a crackle in the air and a vase displaced itself from my dresser and flew across the room to his outstretched hand. The Quarkbeast Quarked excitedly; there was now a bunch of flowers in the vase as well.

‘These are for you,’ said the Wizard gallantly, presenting the roses with a flourish.

I took the flowers carefully, for they were not real in any sense of the word, just images conjured up by the wizard. They twinkled with small sparks of electricity in the dimness of the room, and changed colour slowly, like the setting sun. They were beautiful, but wholly out of Moobin’s league.

‘They’re fantastic!’ I muttered, adding: ‘Don’t think me rude, but . . . ?’

‘I’m as surprised as you are,’ he confessed, pulling a small device from his pocket. It was a portable Shandarmeter – a device for measuring wizidrical power. He turned the gadget on and handed it to me. I pointed the meter at him as he levitated the vase.

‘What did I get?’

‘3000 Shandars.’

‘Last week I could barely manage 1500,’ said Moobin excitedly. ‘Even if we discount the lead/gold switcheroo as a surge, I’m still twice as powerful as I was two days ago.’

‘You think it’s connected with the Dragondeath?’

‘A definite link between Dragons and magic was never proved, but the nearer I am to the Dragonlands, the stronger my powers. The same jobs I might try in London take a lot more effort.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ I replied drily. ‘I can’t send Mrs Croft to do anything worthwhile farther than Oxford, and Roger Kierkegaard failed utterly when he was on that geological survey in the Sinai.’

The wizard sighed.

‘I rarely like to work much farther than Yorkshire, yet my father was powerful as far away as the Great Troll Wall.’

‘There were more Dragons then,’ I answered. ‘More dragons, more magic, fewer dragons, less magic. The thing is,’ I added, ‘when Maltcassion dies, does magic go with him? All this might be the last knockings – the brief surge an engine will give before it runs out of petrol.’

Moobin went quiet.

‘There could be something in what you say. Sister Karamazov mentioned a Big Magic, but I have my doubts.’

‘Big Magic?’

Moobin shrugged.

‘It’s an old wizard’s legend – of a massive burst of wizidrical power that changes everything.’

‘Good or bad?’

‘No one knows.’

We stood in silence for a moment.

‘Perhaps if I were to talk to the Dragonslayer?’ I ventured.

‘Is there one?’

‘There has to be, doesn’t there? It was part of the Dragonpact.’

‘You could try. It’s possible that the Dragon may not die. After all, seers and pre-cogs only see a version of the future. There are few premonitions – if any – that can’t be altered.’

Wizard Moobin left soon after and I gazed at the roses as they twinkled and faded as the magic wore off. Then Owen of Rhayder knocked on my door. He was our second carpeteer. Owen had defected to Hereford from the ramshackle Cambrian Potentate in Mid Wales about ten years previously, which wasn’t hard to do if your particular skill was carpet.

‘Look at this, Jennifer, girl,’ he said crossly, unfurling the carpet and letting it hover in the middle of the room.

‘There’s mangy for you.’

He waved a table light under the carpet and the light gleamed through the threadbare old rug.

‘As soon as a hole opens up I’m going to retire. I don’t want to go the way of Brother Velobius.’

Brother Velobius had run a magic carpet taxi service about thirty years ago, in the days before all sorts of regulations seriously hampered the carpet business. On a high-speed trip to Norwich Brother Velobius and both his passengers died when his Turkmen Mk18-C ‘Bukhara’ carpet broke up in mid-air. The Air Accident Investigation Department painstakingly rebuilt the carpet, and eventually concluded that the break-up was caused by rug fatigue. All carpets were vigorously tested after that and none passed the stringent safety rules for passenger carrying, and they were relegated to solo operation and delivery duties. But that wasn’t all: operators were told to carry licences, a registration number, navigation lights for night flying and a mandatory upper speed limit of 100 knots. It was like selling someone a Ferrari and telling the new owner not to change out of first gear.

‘It looks like we’re going to lose the live organ transportation contract,’ I told him.

His face fell and he lowered the carpet to the floor, where it rolled itself automatically and hopped into the corner, startling the Quarkbeast, who dived under the table in fright.

‘So it’s pizza and curry deliveries, then?’ he asked bitterly.

‘We’re in negotiations with FedEx to make up the shortfall.’

‘Deliveries aren’t the spirit of carpeting, Jenny, bach,’ he said sadly. ‘Organ delivery made us relevant.’

‘I’m really doing my best, Owen.’

‘Well, perhaps your best is not good enough.’

He glared at me, unfurled his carpet and was off out of the window, streaking back towards Benny’s Pizzas to do some deliveries.