‘Aaaah!’ said the King in alarm, before quickly recovering and clapping his hands in delight. ‘My goodness! A real live Quarkbeast!’ He snapped his fingers and a footman appeared.

‘Some meat for the Quarkbeast,’ he said without turning. ‘A most unusual pet, Miss Strange. Where did you find him?’

‘Well, it was more of a case of him—’

‘How fascinating!’ replied the King, cutting me dead. ‘You are loyal to the Crown?’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘That’s a relief. Tell me, Miss Dragonslayer, do you have an apprentice yet?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

The King moved closer to me and I found myself backing away. I had to stop when I came up against a pillar, and he took the opportunity to regard me minutely through a monocle that he had screwed into his eye.

‘Hmm,’ he said at last. ‘You will fire your apprentice and hire the man I send to you. That is all. You are dismissed.’

I started to leave but then stopped as I realised my sixty-second accelerated Dragonslayer course had furnished me with one or two snippets about despots and how to deal with them. Instead of hurrying off, tail between legs and heartily intimidated, I stood my ground.

‘Are you deaf, girl?’ he repeated. ‘I said dismiss! Away with you! Shoo!’

‘My Lord,’ said I, my voice cracking as I stared into the beetroot-red face of the monarch, ‘I wish only to serve my King and will do anything that he reasonably expects of me. But I must point out that by the Mighty Shandar’s decree and ancient law, the concerns of the Dragonslayer are of no consequence to my noble King.’

There was a deathly hush. One of his advisers started to giggle but wisely changed it into a cough. The King’s monocle dropped from his face. He turned to his advisers and asked in an exasperated tone:

‘Was that a refusal?’

His aides all muttered to one another, nodded their heads and generally made noises of assent. The King turned back to me and wagged a slender index finger in my face.

‘You dare to speak of a higher authority than I? Where, might I ask, is this so-called Mighty Shandar? He has not been seen for a hundred and sixty-one years, yet you tell me that he is the last word on Dragons? You are in big trouble, young lady.’

‘No, Sire, I think she does you greater honour by her refusal.’

The voice was raw and gravelly and sounded like that of the janitor from the convent. It was one of the King’s advisers. He rose from his sofa, disturbing one of a pair of greyhounds that had been asleep at his feet, and approached us both.

‘What is the meaning of this, Lord Chief Adviser?’