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“I don’t know,” whispered Twigleg. “I don’t know what kind of creature the alchemist made him from. His armor is some kind of indestructible metal, but no one knows what’s underneath it. Our maker gave Nettlebrand the appearance of a dragon so that he could get close to them more easily when he went hunting. All dragons know it’s best to avoid humans, but no dragon would flee from one of its own kind.”
“That’s true.” Zubeida Ghalib nodded thoughtfully. “But why did the alchemist need a monster to kill dragons in the first place?”
“For his experiments.” Twigleg mopped the tears from his eyes with the hem of his jacket. “He was a very gifted alchemist. As you can see, he’d discovered the secret of creating life, and I’m the proof of it. But he wanted more. Like every alchemist of his time, he wanted to make gold. Human beings are absolutely mad about gold, aren’t they?”
Vita Greenbloom stroked Guinevere’s hair and nodded. “Yes, some of them,” she said.
“Well,” Twigleg continued in a trembling voice, “my maker discovered that the essential ingredient for making gold is the ground-up horns of dragons, a material even rarer than ivory. In the old days he paid knights to go hunting dragons and bring back their horns for him, but the knights weren’t killing enough. He needed more horns for his experiments — many, many more. So he created Nettlebrand, his own dragon killer.” Twigleg looked at Firedrake. “He gave him the shape of a real dragon but made him much, much bigger and stronger. The one thing Nettlebrand couldn’t do was fly, because the alchemist had made his armor from an indestructible heavy metal that even dragon-fire couldn’t melt. Then he sent Nettlebrand out hunting.”
Twigleg fell silent for a moment, looking out to sea where the fishing boats rocked gently on the water.
“He caught them all,” the homunculus whispered. “He came down on them like a terrible storm. My maker was carrying out experiments day and night. And then the dragons suddenly disappeared. Nettlebrand searched high and low, until his claws were blunt and his limbs ached with walking. But they were nowhere to be found. My maker was furious. He had to give up his experiments, but he soon discovered that was the least of his worries. Nettlebrand began to get bored, and the more bored he was, the more violent and evil-tempered he grew. My maker created enchanted ravens to search the world for the missing dragons, but in vain. Then Nettlebrand, in his rage, ate all my brothers. He spared me only because he needed someone to clean his armor.” Twigleg’s eyes closed as he remembered.
“And then,” he went on quietly, “on a day when yet another raven came back without news of any dragons, Nettlebrand, the Golden One, ate our maker, too, and with him the secret of his own origin. But,” said Twigleg, raising his head and looking at Firedrake, “he’s still searching for dragons. The last group he found escaped when two sea serpents and his own impatience robbed him of his prey. However, he’s learned his lesson. This time he’s waiting patiently for you to lead him to the dragons he’s been searching for all these years.”
The manikin fell silent, and the others did not speak. A fly settled on Twigleg’s thin legs, and he brushed it away wearily.
“Where is he now?” asked Ben at last. “Is Nettlebrand somewhere close?”
Sorrel looked around uneasily. None of them had stopped to think that the golden monster might be quite near them already. But Twigleg shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Nettlebrand is far, far away. I did tell him about the djinn’s answer,” he added, a small smile appearing on his tearstained face, “but I was lying to him. For the first time ever.” He looked at them proudly. “For the very first time in my life, I, Twigleg, lied to Nettlebrand, the Golden One!”
“You did, did you?” inquired Sorrel suspiciously. “And you expect us to believe you? Why would you suddenly lie to him when you’ve been such a fabulous spy, fooling all of us?”
Twigleg looked crossly at her. “Certainly not to save your shaggy skin!” he said nastily. “I wouldn’t shed a tear if he ate you!”
“Huh, it’s you he’ll be eating!” Sorrel snapped back furiously. “Always supposing you really did lie to him.”
“I did, I did!” cried Twigleg, his voice trembling. “I sent him off to the Great Desert, far, far away, because … because …”he added, clearing his throat and glancing shyly at Ben, “because he was going to eat the little human here, too. And the young master was kind to me. For no reason at all. He was kind and friendly, just like that. No one was ever friendly to me before.” Twigleg sniffed, rubbed his nose, and looked down at his sharp, bony knees. Very quietly, he said, “So I decided he can be my master from now on. If he likes.” The homunculus looked anxiously at the boy.
“Your master! Oh, orange birch boletus!” Sorrel gave a scornful laugh. “What an honor! And when are you planning to betray him?”
Ben sat down on the stone dragon and put Twigleg on his knee.
“Never mind all this nonsense about masters,” he said. “And don’t keep calling me young master, either! We can be friends, can’t we? Just ordinary friends, okay?”
Twigleg smiled. A tear ran down his nose again, but this time it was a tear of joy. “Friends,” he repeated. “Oh, yes, friends!”
Barnabas Greenbloom cleared his throat and leaned over the pair of them.
“Twigleg,” he said, “what did you mean just now about sending Nettlebrand into the desert? What desert?”
“The biggest desert I could find on the map,” replied the homunculus. “Only a desert can hold Nettlebrand prisoner for a while, you see. Because” — Twigleg lowered his voice, as if his old master were lurking in the dark shadows cast by the stone dome — “he speaks and sees through water. Only water gives him the power to move instantly from one place to another. So I sent him where there’s less of it than anywhere else.”
“He is lord of the water,” said Firedrake softly.
“What did you say?” Barnabas Greenbloom looked at him in surprise.
“It’s something we were told by a sea serpent we met on the way here,” explained the dragon. “She said Nettlebrand has more power over water than she does herself.”
“But how does he do it?” asked Guinevere, looking inquiringly at the homunculus. “Do you know, Twigleg?”
Twigleg shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know all the secrets the alchemist told him. When one of his servants spits or throws a stone into water, the image of Nettlebrand appears. He talks to us as if he were actually there, even if he’s at the other end of the earth. But no, I don’t know how it’s done.”
“Oh, so that’s what you were up to beside that water cistern,” said Sorrel, “when you tried to make me think you were talking to your reflection. You treacherous little locust! You—”
“Stop it, Sorrel!” Firedrake interrupted her. He looked at the homunculus.
