A dragon it was; a worm of the seagoing variety. It rose up twenty feet above the seething waters, the back of its head spread like the hood of a cobra, and lined with foot-long spikes. Its very appearance rocked the Belbelo so violently that it nearly capsized.

“A’zo and Cha!” Mischief said. “Look at that thing!”

“Get the child!” Geneva yelled.

Two-Toed Tom immediately raced up the length of the rocking vessel to claim Tria from the bow. Even the sudden arrival of the great serpent had not disturbed her from her meditations on Finnegan’s whereabouts. But she put up no protest when Tom took her from her vulnerable position and brought her into the little cabin.

The dragon, meanwhile, was speaking.

“These waters are mine,” it said, its voice deep and smooth; its tone quite equitable. “I demand a toll from anyone who sails through them” Its head swooped low as it scanned those upon the deck of the Belbelo. “Today, I will be generous. In return for your trespass here, I will only take… let me see, what will I take?” It sniffed, its head skimming the creaking boards of the boat. “I shall take a girl-child,” it said. “Where is she? Don’t hide her away.”

The dragon’s head drew closer to the cabin door.

“Bring her out!” the dragon demanded. “Come on! Let me have her and I will guarantee you safe passage.”

He turned to Carlotti.

“What is your destination, sir?” the worm said, all politeness.

Carlotti shook his head.

“Don’t deny me now” the dragon went on, its terrible teeth perilously close to poor Carlotti’s head, as though in an instant it would behead him.

“You’ll get no answers from him,” said Geneva, glancing around to locate her sword. “He has no tongue.”

“Ah,” said the dragon, turning to Geneva. “Then you tell me, woman. Where are you headed? To the Nonce is it?”

“Maybe.”

“I can work up a current with my tail that will get you there in half the time.”

“I’m sure you can,” said Geneva, pulling her sword out from the heap of garments where it lay.

“Just give me the girl-child,” the dragon said, breathing so hard on the cabin doors they shook.

“Not a chance,” said Geneva, poking the side of the dragon’s throat with her sword, drawing its attention away from the cabin.

The beast threw its cadaverous gaze back toward her.

“Now don’t incense me, woman,” the worm said. “Just let me have my toll.”

“You heard me, worm,” Geneva replied. “Not a chance.”

“Damn thee, woman,” the dragon said. “Take this!”

It made a foul retching sound and suddenly regurgitated the contents of its five stomachs in a noisome torrent that struck Geneva with such force it threw her across the deck. Her sword went out of her hand and spun across the boards.

Geneva pulled herself to her feet, her boots sliding in the slime of the dragon’s stomach juices. Twice she slipped, but on the third attempt, she succeeded in standing upright. She had picked a new weapon—one of the bigger bones the worm had spewed up. Racing back across the deck she beat the bone back and forth against the snout of the dragon, and when the bone shattered, she picked up another, continuing to strike at the thing until that bone, like its predecessor, was smashed to smithereens.

“How long is this little game going to go on for?” the dragon said, putting on a show of weariness. “I’m getting irritated.”

Mischief and the brothers were standing watching all of this, not knowing whether to hide or fling themselves over the side.

“I’m not going near that thing,” John Serpent warned.

“You of all people, Serpent,” said John Pluckitt, “should be happy in its company.”

The exchange had drawn Geneva’s attention.

“Mischief!” she yelled. “Distract it!”

“Do what?”

“You heard me: distract it!”

“How?”

“Use your imagination!”

So saying, Geneva went down on her knees in the stinking filth that had been expelled from the worm and searched for her missing sword.

“The grappling hook!” said John Moot. “Mischief! Listen to me! Get the grappling hook.”

“Where is it?”

“Behind us!” said John Drowze.

“I don’t see it!”

“On the cabin wall, Mischief!” John Moot yelled. “Are you blind?”

There was indeed a hook hanging in place against the wall of the cabin. Unfortunately, it was directly beneath the dragon, which had reared up to better assess the dispersal of its enemies.

“Don’t worry,” Drowze said. “It’s not interested in us! We’re beneath its notice.”

“Famous last words,” said John Serpent.

But Drowze was right. For the moment at least the dragon was uninterested in the John brothers. It was watching Geneva on her hands and knees, smiling with satisfaction at the sight of her humiliation.

Mischief ducked beneath the snaking neck of the beast and snatched the grappling hook out of its cradle. It was about six feet long, and it had an iron hook at its end, but it didn’t feel like the most potent of weapons.

“It’s going to break!” Mischief said.

“You’ve no choice!” John Drowze yelled to Mischief.

“I know,” Mischief said. Then he hollered up at the great worm. “Hey you!”

The dragon glanced down at the brothers for a moment with a supercilious look, then it casually knocked them aside with its snout, as though they were a piece of bad meat that had somehow found its way onto its plate. With Mischief floored, it slid its huge spiked head past him to get to the cabin door. “Girl-child!” it said. “You can come out now.”

It pushed at the door, which flew open, its hinges wrenched from the frame.

Giddily, Mischief got to his feet. He heard Tom yelling to the beast to stay out. The creature drew a breath and expelled it. As it did so, all the windows in the cabin blew outwards, and a wave of smoky heat erupted from the interior. Coughing and blinded by tears, Two-Toed Tom and Tria stumbled out of the cabin, driven from their refuge by the heat.

Then the dragon opened its mouth, sliding its scaly chin over the ship’s creaking boards to scoop up the child.

Before it could do so, Kiss Curl Carlotti came at it with a short sword and stabbed the tender flesh around its nostril.

Dark blood sprang from the wound and hissed as it hit the Belbelo’s boards. The dragon’s lip curled with anger and it opened its mouth horrendously wide, dislocating its bottom jaw so that its mouth gaped like a tunnel.

“Watch out, Carlotti!” Mischief yelled, scrambling over the wet deck to draw the dragon’s attack away from the child.

He went straight for its eye, driving the grappling hook at the narrowed orb. The hook caught under the dragon’s eyelid, more by chance than design.

“Pull!” John Serpent yelled.

Mischief did exactly that. The delicate membrane of the dragon’s eyelid tore and a second spray of blood came from the beast. Some of it spattered on Mischief’s bare arms. It stung ferociously.

The dragon shook its head, forcing Mischief to let go of his weapon. It reared up, letting out a bellow of narcissistic fury.

“My face!” it cried, its din making the vessel reverberate from end to end. “My perfect face! My beautiful face.”

It shook its head, loosing the hook from its lid. More blood spouted from the wound, filling the dragon’s eye.

“I think you did it!” John Moot said.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Mischief, backing away over the blood-slickened boards.

Half-blinded, the dragon lowered its head to the deck again, opening its tunnel mouth and sliding its lower jaw over the boards to scoop Mischief up.