Dragon Business, The (11 page)

L
ONG AFTER MIDNIGHT,
m
ost people in the castle were asleep. The hallway torches had been extinguished, except for a few small candles to serve as night lights.

Three manservants had steered King Norrimun off to his bedchamber. After overindulging, the banquet attendees lay restless in their beds; many had staggered to the castle apothecary’s shop, which observed extended post-feast hours and offered a “St. Bartimund’s Day Special” of antacids, heartburn remedies, and hangover spells.

Cullin and Sir Dalbry had a guest room not far from Sir Tremayne’s. Outside in the courtyard, the rooster had been set to wake them at dawn.

But the young man couldn’t sleep, and Dalbry lay silent on his bed. “Remember, stay flexible,” the older knight said. “I’m sure Reeger has done his part by now.”

“And I’ve done mine.” Cullin lay back, grinning in the dark. “By morning, the only thing Sir Tremayne will be riding is a chamber pot.”

Suddenly, the castle was rocked by a scream and a horrific explosion from Princess Affonyl’s tower chamber.

Cullin scrambled for his breeches, stumbling in the dark. “What was that?” He yanked them on after tangling his foot in the left leg.

Dalbry was already off his pallet, searching for his sword. “It sounded like a dragon attack to me.”

He and Cullin bounded down the hallway, bumping into walls and into each other, unable to see because the torches had been extinguished. Others emerged from their rooms, chattering in terror. The two ran up the winding staircase, pushing ahead of gawkers.

When they reached Affonyl’s chamber, Sir Phineal stood shuddering out in the corridor, too frightened to approach. Smoke curled from beneath the barred wooden door and through a splintered gouge in the planks.

Cullin pounded on the door. “Princess! Princess, are you all right?”

They heard no sound except for the crackling of flames and the yowling of distressed cats. Again a woman screamed, but it did not sound like Affonyl. Dalbry used the pommel of his sword to hammer the latch, then stood back and gave the door a sharp kick with his boot. Cullin added a kick of his own, anxious to save the princess.

When Sir Tremayne made it to the top of the stairs, he looked winded and shaky. He had taken the time to don his shining armor, and had done it in only a few minutes. Driven by duty, he stepped up, shoulder-to-shoulder with Sir Dalbry and Cullin, and added his own kick against the door, which finally resulted in a crack. They all threw their shoulders into the blow while Sir Phineal supervised, and finally the door crashed open.

Affonyl’s chamber was filled with smoke and the stench of sulfur. Cullin stared in amazement: the window had been torn away, leaving a great hole in the stone wall. Her furniture had been toppled over. Smoldering bits of draperies lay singed on the floor among hoops with sketched embroidery patterns.

Cullin felt a sharp chill as he spotted long gouges in the stone wall, parallel tracks in sets of three as if made by . . . dragon claws! “Princess Affonyl!” he shouted again.

They heard a whimper, and Cullin found the old nursemaid cowering against a large wardrobe. Mother Singra hunched down, covering her gray hair with her hands, and the several cats sniffing her seemed very concerned. Cullin crouched at her side. “What is it? Can you tell us what happened?”

The old woman looked up, as if to be sure others were listening, and wailed, “A dragon! A dragon smashed through the balcony and seized the poor, dear princess. It flew off with her in its monstrous claws. Look!” She gestured toward the deep gouges in the stone wall.

Once the room was shown to be unoccupied by either princess or dragon, Sir Phineal dared to enter. “What a t-tragedy! She’s been d-devoured.”

Cullin’s heart ached, but Dalbry pointed out, “I see no blood. Maybe the dragon just carried her off to its lair.”

Mother Singra wailed, “She’s dead!”

“Why would a d-dragon attack here?” asked Phineal. “And why go after f-fair Affonyl?”

Swaying and unsteady, Sir Tremayne stood next to Dalbry. Though queasy, he snorted at the cowardly knight. “Everyone knows that dragons have a fondness for beautiful princesses. The monster probably added her to its treasure hoard.”

Cullin pointed out, “Affonyl did have beautiful hair of gold.”

Mother Singra sniffled and moaned.

Dalbry moved cautiously through the room, nudging aside embroidery hoops, studying the debris on the floor. Cullin bent down to pick up something that caught his eye—a triangular-shaped scale, obviously from a reptile. He looked at it in disbelief. “This must have come from the dragon.”

As he held the large scale in his hand, his entire world was spinning. He thought of the scams that he, Dalbry, and Reeger had perpetrated, selling splinters of the True Cross, or the bones of Saint Bartimund at different ages, all of which had culminated in the dragon business. It had been good fun and occasional profit, but he didn’t
believe
any of the stories.

He was not prepared for a real dragon.

Curious bystanders crowded the corridor outside the princess’s room, but they parted when King Norrimun pushed his way in. The corpulent king wheezed, exhausted from the climb.

Duke Kerrl accompanied him, looking surprised but pleased. He had urged the gasping Norrimun to great speed up the steep stairs, and now he stroked his thick black mustache, assessing the situation. Cullin disliked him even more, realizing that if King Norrimun were to collapse from a coronary, and Princess Affonyl were kidnapped or devoured by a dragon, the duke would no doubt consider it a productive day.

The king gazed around the ruined chamber, his mouth agape as he saw the blasted hole in the wall, smelled the smoke, spotted the long claw marks. Several disturbed cats milled about the room. “The dragon has my sweet princess! Now who’s going to marry the Duke?”

Sir Tremayne staggered forward with a groan, bravely clutching his abdomen. The defiant words on his lips faded, and he could barely manage a thin voice, “I am ready to go fight the dragon—in just a little bit! Excuse me, Majesty.” He raced off, pushing his way through the crowds, and rushed down the spiral stairs to the nearest garderobe.

Without even a glance at Cullin, Dalbry squared his shoulders, seizing the opportunity. “I came to your kingdom offering my services as dragon slayer, Majesty, and I still vow to kill the monster for you. Sir Tremayne is obviously indisposed, and no one can better care for a knight than another knight. I suggest that Sir Phineal remain behind in the castle to ensure his swift and full recovery, while I take on this quest.”

Through chattering teeth, Sir Phineal said, “Yes! W-we need to be sensible about this. P-poor Sir Tremayne looks so ill.”

King Norrimun looked confused, still out of breath. “Yes, go rescue my little princess. I would prefer her back intact.”

Mother Singra sniffled and moaned some more.

Dalbry said, “My squire will accompany me, and we’ll leave at dawn’s first light. Provided you can give us horses?”

“Yes, yes. That seems a reasonable request.”

Cullin had never thought they would ride out to fight a real dragon. He felt dizzy.

Looking intent rather than sympathetic, Duke Kerrl hauled the shaking old woman to her feet. “Come with me, Mother Singra. I’ll comfort you, and we can talk about what you saw.
Exactly
what you saw.” He led the crone away, and she seemed unsteady on her feet.

Norrimun shouted out calls to arms and hurried off, leading the crowds down the spiral staircase, while Cullin and Dalbry remained behind at the scene of the attack. “We need to study our nemesis,” the older knight said, and no one argued with him.

As soon as they were alone, Cullin turned to him, “Why did you volunteer, now that we know a real monster is on the loose? This isn’t what we do! You don’t know how to kill a real dragon, and neither do I.”

Dalbry sniffed. “Young Cullin, sometimes the course of honor is the most appropriate. After seeing what has happened here, I am convinced of what we must do.”

Cullin swallowed hard. “But . . . but—”

Then Dalbry smiled. “But I’m not worried, lad. Look carefully, and you’ll see for yourself.” He gestured to indicate the hole ripped in the wall, the smoldering curtains. “Those claw marks are obviously fake, chiseled into the stone. And note the characteristics of the explosion: the windowsill and the stone wall were blown
outward
. There’s almost no debris inside the chamber—it’s all strewn on the ground below. If a real dragon had attacked from the outside, the stones would have been smashed
inward
.”

Cullin scratched his head, his curiosity piqued. He hurried to the windowsill and saw that the older knight was indeed correct. “But what does all that mean?”

“I think Affonyl set this up to look like a dragon attack. She must have blown the hole in the wall herself.”

Cullin ran his fingers along the shattered edge of the stone, and his eyes widened when he found an iron eyelet hammered into one of the cracks. “This is how Affonyl dropped herself down to the ground!”

Dalbry took a closer look at the “dragon scale” Cullin had retrieved. “And this, carved and shaped from a tortoiseshell, no doubt.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “It seems the princess is perpetrating a scam of her own.”

Cullin let out a gasp. Then, understanding how much Affonyl had wanted to get away from her father and Duke Kerrl, he chuckled. “I think I like this girl a lot.”

In the Scabby Wench, Hob Nobbin finishes playing a short set but he pays little attention to the crowd. The young girls from the town still swoon and fawn over the aloof minstrel, pressing closer to the stage. One opens her bodice and flashes her breasts, but Reeger hurries over and makes her cover up. “Rust, none of that! We run a family establishment here.”

Maurice divides his attention between the minstrel and my story, but at least he finally seems interested. Every father wants his son to like and respect him, and I have realized that I need to make more of an effort. I rule the kingdom, sure—I meet regularly with peasants, sign decrees, keep my army ready to defend our borders, but the prince’s interests and mine have diverged. He spends more time with his mother than with me, and I never invite him out into the courtyard so we can toss a ball back and forth or whack at each other with wooden swords—you know, the sort of father/son bonding experience that nonroyal families enjoy.

By exposing Maurice to the rough camaraderie of common folk, the concerns of everyday people, and my friends from times past, I’m hoping to warm things up between the two of us. Alas, Maurice has been brainwashed by too many unrealistic stories.

He isn’t impressed with the attitude of Hob Nobbin, however. After a couple of his better-known songs, the dreary minstrel starts to sing atonal experimental tunes, none of which please the audience. His girl groupies scream and swoon only out of habit, though without any sincerity.

At their table, the mercenaries grumble and call out, “Play ‘The Goose and the Noose’!”

The other mercenaries laugh and add their shouts, “Yeah, ‘The Goose and the Noose’!”

Hob Nobbin stops and looks at them as if they are no more than dungheaps in clothes. “If you want that kind of musical crap, go to some other establishment.”

Yes, the minstrel certainly knows how to be a crowd pleaser.

The tough mercenaries are taken aback by his attitude. “But everyone loves ‘The Goose and the Noose,
’
” growls one of the shaggy men.

“‘The Goose and the Noose’!” someone else cries.

Soon, a groundswell of people add their voices, not because they have much fondness for that particular song, but because they’re fed up with the minstrel’s attitude and want to hear anything other than what he’s been playing.

Hob Nobbin remains oblivious to the rising tide of anger. “I am practicing my art. I won’t sell out and perform commercial drivel. You might as well ask me to play ‘The Fart in the Park
’
!”

One of the mercenaries yells, “Yeah, ‘The Fart in the Park!’” Others take up the shout.