Dragon Business, The (12 page)

The minstrel sets down his lute and lifts his pointed nose in the air. “I can’t perform under these conditions.”

Two mercenaries rise from their stools. “We’ll make you perform under these conditions, or maybe you’d rather play your lute strings with broken fingers?” Three more mercenaries join them and encroach on the stage.

Maurice’s eyes are wide and white. “Father, aren’t you going to do something? You’re the king.”

“Not here I’m not.” I give a dismissive wave. “These things have a way of working themselves out. Besides, that minstrel’s being a jerk.”

The baker’s girl throws herself in front of the threatening men. “Don’t you hurt him.” The nearest mercenary knocks the girl out of his way, and she goes sprawling on the floor.

The town blacksmith—who is nearly as muscular as the mercenaries—lurches to his feet with a scowl and a growl. The blacksmith is no fan of the minstrel’s songs, but won’t let the thugs push a young lady around. He doesn’t threaten, doesn’t wait, simply cocks back his arm and throws a punch like a sledgehammer into the mercenary’s face, breaking his nose and spraying blood and teeth.

The other mercenaries bound forward, roaring, while the townspeople draw together to defend the blacksmith.

The minstrel pulls his lute close to his chest, tiptoes off the stage, and starts toward the safety of the bar.

Just then Wendria appears from the kitchen, an apron across her wide hips, a cast-iron skillet in one hand, and flour all over her square face. Reeger looks at her. “Crotchrust, my lovely, looks like this is getting out of hand.”

“I’ll deal with it. As usual.” Wendria snatches an oaken clout from beneath the bar and moves like an avalanche into the fray.

Reeger glances at me, and we share a smile. We’ve both seen Wendria in action before. She swings the cast-iron pan with one hand and clubs sideways with the oaken staff in the other. Within moments she has scattered the mercenaries and townspeople, leaving a room full of groans, bruises, and cowed expressions.

“I won’t abide rowdy customers,” she says. “You all know the rules. The Scabby Wench is a classy place.”

The people mutter their apologies.

Maurice has been watching with an amazed expression. Reeger chuckles and picks at his teeth.

As Hob Nobbin tries to slink away, Wendria sets the oaken club aside, grabs him by the collar, lifts him off the ground, and swings him back to the stage. His lute strings jangle as the instrument thumps onto his lap.

“You! We hired you to play music, and that annoying noise you’ve been making is not music by my definition.” She shakes a finger at him. “First, you’ll play ‘The Goose and the Noose,’ then ‘The Fart in the Park.’ Afterward, you will take requests for the rest of the evening. Have I made myself clear?”

Hob Nobbin trembles, his carefully cultivated arrogance dribbling away, as if from an emptying bladder. “Yes, ma’am.”

She looks around the tavern. “Now don’t make me come out here again. I’ve got pies to make.” She stills the entire crowd with her stare, then stalks back into the kitchens.

“That’s my lovely wife.” Reeger grins. “Now, who’s ready for another tankard of ale?”

I look at Maurice. “And I’ll get on with my story.”

A
S WAS USUALLY
the case after monster attacks, no one in the castle got much sleep. The members of court could talk about nothing other than preparations for Sir Dalbry’s upcoming dragon hunt and possible (though optimistic) rescue operation. Old Mother Singra delivered tea to anyone who wanted a cup, though her trembling hands spilled much of it. She looked haunted and dismayed, and her private chat with Duke Kerrl had not calmed her a bit.

With Affonyl gone, Cullin was too agitated to sleep. Even before the screams and the explosion, he had lain awake, plagued by undeveloped romantic fantasies. The beautiful blond princess had so flirtatiously ignored him. And now that she was perpetrating her own scam to rival anything that he, Dalbry, and Reeger could make up, Cullin found her more intriguing than ever.

Unfortunately, before dawn Duke Kerrl came up with an idea that caused another round of complications and consternation.

Kerrl frowned, stroking his long black mustache. “Sire, now that we know the magnitude of the threat, we also have to think of history. Brave Sir Dalbry is experienced, to be sure, but this is a more personal matter for you and me. She is my betrothed and your daughter. We must both join the dragon-slaying party.”

Norrimun balked. “I’m sure that’s not necessary.”

“Oh, but it is, Sire.” Duke Kerrl proved he could be quite persistent. “Just think about Nightingale Bob’s lyrics.” His dark eyes were intense. Cullin wondered what had changed the duke’s mind.

Cullin and Dalbry were alarmed by the added complication. “Dragon slaying is a profession best conducted alone—or with no one but my apprentice, Squire Cullin. Your company is not required.”

Norrimun was unprepared for a dragon hunt, even an imaginary one, and the duke seemed less devastated than annoyed that his plans had been thrown off-kilter. He took the loss of the princess with an undukely lack of grace, as if dragons were an inconvenience that should not be tolerated.

“The king and I must insist,” Kerrl said, and bullied Norrimun into agreeing. Dalbry could no longer argue. He and Cullin sighed in unison and tried to readjust to the new circumstances.

The rest of the court remained on high alert. The fires in the castle kitchens were stoked and pastry chefs roused early so they could create a memorable pre-dragon-slaying repast.

Now that the king had been pressured into going along, Norrimun’s armorers and clothiers met in an emergency session to perform immediate alterations so the corpulent ruler could join the quest. He required armor that provided a modicum of protection for his bodily enormity, while also allowing him to look stylish, as befitted a king. (The clothiers engaged in a grammatical debate as to whether the proper declension of the verb was “befitted” or, in King Norrimun’s case, whether the word should be “befat.”)

Amidst the bustle, a shaky-looking Tremayne had stumbled out of his chambers. Though his skin was gray and sweaty and his knees wobbly, he declared, “I am ready to slay the monster and avenge the princess!” Then he turned green again and rushed back to his room for more quality time with a chamber pot. Sir Phineal bravely hurried to attend him.

Cullin followed Sir Dalbry, as a good squire should. “We have to play out the princess’s game, while also finishing our own,” Dalbry said in a low voice. “Fortunately, Sir Phineal and Sir Tremayne aren’t going to cause problems, but the duke and the king certainly are.”

“We’re not actually going to rescue her, are we? I mean, if Princess Affonyl staged being devoured by a dragon just so she could run away, it would be a grave disservice to drag her back to court and force her to marry that evil man.”

“We have no evidence that he’s evil,” Dalbry said. “Other than the fact that she doesn’t wish to marry him.”

“He does have a black mustache,” Cullin pointed out.

“Granted. But we have been engaged to slay a dragon—that is all. Any bonus quests are beyond the scope of our employment, especially if we’re only getting a modest honorarium.”

Cullin knew it would be difficult enough for them to find a way to sidestep the persistent and unwanted company, meet up with Reeger, and perform their required dragon-slaying duties without prying eyes.

Troubled, Dalbry paced the castle’s great hall while the rest of the court kept busy. “Before we set out, our first order of business is to remedy the situation that I am currently unhorsed.”

“You’ve been unhorsed as long as I’ve known you.”

“True, but at present it’s more of a hindrance than usual. The duke and the king will be riding, so it would be unseemly if I, the only dragon slayer among us, had to go on foot.”

“And I’m a squire,” Cullin pointed out. “It’s important that your apprentice dragon slayer should also ride.”

“Just make sure your horse is less impressive than mine. Perhaps a pony.”

Cullin decided to be satisfied with a pony.

Since they already had King Norrimun’s blessing, the two went to sign out a pair of rental steeds. The stablemaster came out, bleary-eyed and harried; he had had a busy night. He didn’t appreciate dragon attacks and unexpected quests, which threw off his entire schedule.

Dalbry presented himself. “I require a horse for myself and a pony for my squire, preferably recent-year models.”

The stablemaster grimaced. “What happened to your own horses?”

“My valiant horse was devoured by a dragon,” Dalbry explained.

“Poor Lightning . . .” Cullin said.

Dalbry put an edge in his voice, since the stablemaster didn’t seem inclined to move. “I am in the business of slaying dragons and hunting down the beast that stole Princess Affonyl.”

“Poor Princess Affonyl . . .” Cullin said.

Dalbry put his gauntleted hands on his chain-mailed hips. “We can get a written order from King Norrimun, if you like.”

The stablemaster pursed his lips. “I’ll let you look at my selection, but don’t expect much. My inventory is low right now.”

The selection of loaner horses was indeed limited. Most of the stalls were empty, although horses had been there recently, judging from the level of manure and scraps of hay. Cullin wondered if the surplus horses had been eaten during the previous night’s feast.

Dalbry frowned at the stablemaster. “This is all you have?”

“We had more last night, but twenty lords rode out this morning.”

Cullin feared that they all had gone out on a pell-mell dragon hunt, which would mess up the scam even further.

“They fled when they heard a dragon had attacked the castle,” the stablemaster explained. “Grabbed their possessions and saddles and raced away before dawn.”

Dalbry raised his bearded chin. “I am a knight, and I deserve a white stallion. It’s a mandatory accessory for dragon slaying.”

“I have one for you, but it’s not a stallion, just a gelding.”

“That’ll do. As long as it’s white.”

“It is white—underneath all the gray spatters and black spots.” The horse looked as if it had rolled around in the cold ashes of a campfire. “Best I can do.”

Dalbry sighed. “My other brave steed was named Lightning. He held a dear place in my heart before he sacrificed himself so that I might live.”

“Poor Lightning . . .” Cullin said.

“So I’ll name this one Lightning as well, for continuity and for nostalgia.”

The stablemaster shook his head. “We already have a Lightning on the stable rolls. Can’t have two horses with the same name. That would be confusing.”

“Very well. The alternative would be to name him Thunder.”

Cullin agreed that was an impressive name.

“Sorry, sir. We already have a Thunder as well.”

They went through a succession of meteorological alternatives until finally settling on the best available name. Sir Dalbry’s horse was henceforth called Drizzle.

For himself, Cullin had to make do with a pony that already looked exhausted. The creature’s condition was understandable: its previous owner had seven children, each one more rambunctious than the last, all of whom loved their pet pony and insisted on riding him all day long, every day, until the pony’s patience and life essence had been drained away.

When the two mounts were saddled (all tack bore a label that stated, “Property of King Norrimun the Corpulent”), Cullin and Dalbry rode to the castle gate, tied up their horses, and went back inside to see what was taking King Norrimun and Duke Kerrl so long.

The king had rushed through breakfast, consuming only three pastries, four eggs, a bowl of porridge, and a tray of scones slathered with jam. Still at the table, Norrimun looked haggard and dismayed. Duke Kerrl was at his side with a stack of official-looking documents as well as two prissy men who seemed less suited for armed combat than for bean counting (magic beans or otherwise). They were the duke’s lawyers.

The duke stroked his mustache. “The loss of your daughter is a tragedy, to be sure—we can agree on that—but no need to be overly saddened by these events, Sire. I was looking forward to the bonds of holy and lucrative matrimony, but all is not lost. There’s no need for our agreement to be null and void just because Affonyl is no longer part of it. I want you to think of me as your son. We can still sign the paperwork, with appropriate revisions and addenda.”

Norrimun’s shoulders slumped. “I wanted Affonyl to give me grandbabies, cook at your hearth, darn your socks, patch your armor. You would have given her something to occupy herself other than those silly books and scrolls and charts.” He let out a sad sigh. “Without you, she would have become an old maid, I’m sure of it. She should have been married to you.”

“And our lands should have been joined,” said the duke. “We can salvage that part at least, in her memory. She was a princess through and through, and she would have wanted it that way. My attorneys have redrafted the documents, and I assure you they are fully licensed in the use of whereases and wherefores. We must be prepared before you and I ride out to face the monster. Once you sign this and affix your seal, I will be your true son and heir, all nice and legal. Your kingdom and my dukedom will be permanently bound together, for the good of everyone.”

King Norrimun sniffed. “A dukedom and a kingdom . . . but what shall we call it?”

Kerrl brushed his black mustache. “Why, a
dukingdom
, of course.”

“Yes, I think dear Affonyl would have liked that.” Norrimun grabbed a goose quill, dipped its tip into an inkpot, and scrawled his name on the documents. Duke Kerrl’s lawyers promptly fetched a lit candle, poured a blob of wax onto the paper, and affixed the appropriate seal. King Norrimun’s notary came forward and placed a stamp on the document.

Kerrl’s entire demeanor changed immediately. “Now that the important but unsavory matters have been dealt with, we can get on with the rest of the day’s activity. Off to slay a dragon!” He looked up and saw Dalbry and Cullin. “Ah, and here are our companions.”

Cullin could see the masked disgust on Sir Dalbry’s face. “Reminds me of what happened to my fief,” the old knight muttered. “But there’s nothing we can do about it. The papers are signed.”

“I can’t see that King Norrimun is much better than Duke Kerrl,” Cullin muttered.

But the high politics of dukedoms and kingdoms, machinations and cartographical bargainings, were beyond him. He just hoped that after this job was finished they would find Princess Affonyl.