Dragon Business, The (2 page)

Reeger comes over with a grin wide enough to show that he isn’t the least bit self-conscious about his bad teeth. He carries two chipped ceramic tankards filled with foam-topped ale. Maurice turns up his nose. “I don’t like ale.”

“You’ll like this one, lad,” Reeger says. “I watered it down just for you.”

“Same price, I suppose?” I say.

Reeger lifts his stubbly chin. “Rust! Of course, Sire—I wouldn’t charge you for the extra effort of diluting the brew.”

Same old Reeger.

The tufts of black hair on Reeger’s head have had very little acquaintance with comb, brush, or shampoo. His brown eyes are unevenly set—which would be unsettling, except that he also tilts his head at an angle, so that the eyes are in line, even if his face isn’t.

His rounded nose looks as if it’s been broken many times, but it’s actually just nonaesthetic. Whiskers cover his chin, but not enough to be called a beard even by a chronic optimist. I call it “hedgehog pattern baldness,” which Reeger thinks is witty. His laugh is the best thing about him.

He sets down the two tankards and uses his fingernail to pick at something stuck between his teeth. “About time you brought the young prince with you, Cullin.”

“That’s
King
Cullin, Reeger. Or ‘Sire’ will do in a pinch.”

He rolls his eyes. “Crotchrust! Anyone who’s seen you scrubbing skid marks out of your unmentionables in a stream doesn’t have to call you Sire.”

“I suppose there’s no need to be formal,” I say. “Besides, Prince Maurice and I are in disguise, invisible faces in the crowd while we watch our people.”

Reeger takes a coin from another customer who is trying to pay so he can leave before the music starts. Reeger bites down on the coin to make sure it’s real, then holds it toward me. “Cullin, how can you be in disguise when your face is on every coin in the realm?”

“It’s not a very good likeness. How many people bother to look at their coins before they spend them?”

Reeger pockets the coin. “No argument from me . . . Sire.”

Prince Maurice blows on the foam in his tankard, moving the suds around but not deigning to drink. I slurp mine, make an appreciative grimace at the sour taste. The beer at the Scabby Wench is so awful one has to drink it quickly.

I’m about to start my story for the prince when the tavern door bursts open, and a wild-eyed man stumbles in. His hair is unkempt, his mouth agape, his eyes flashing from side to side. The stranger’s clothes are tattered, and I can see singe marks along the hem and sleeves of his cloak. “I barely survived!” He coughs, heaving great breaths. “Some ale, please! A full tankard before I tell my story.”

“You got the coin to pay for it?” Reeger asks.

The man extends his trembling hands. “No time for that—this is an emergency, a disaster! There’s been an attack!”

“Rust, there’s always time to pay for your drinks.”

The people in the tavern mutter. The mercenaries hunch over their table whispering to one another, no doubt discussing prices if their services should be needed in a local crisis.

Reeger fills a tankard from a keg behind the bar and comes back to the stranger. “If it turns out to be a real emergency, then the ale’s half price. More often than not, emergencies are the result of poor planning.”

The panicked stranger is wild-eyed. “It’s a
dragon
, I tell you! Peasant huts burned, fields torched, footprints everywhere. No telling how many people the monster devoured. Somebody has to kill it—we need a great hero.”

Gasps go around the tavern hall. “A dragon?”

Reeger yanks back the extended tankard before the terrified stranger can seize it. “A dragon, you say?”

“Yes—on the edge of the kingdom, sure to terrorize the whole land. We must do something!”

Reeger scratches his stubbly chin and gives me a knowing look. He winks before raising his voice to the crowd. “Did you all hear that? A dragon terrorizing the kingdom!” Then he guffaws. Everyone else starts chuckling. Even the mercenaries begin laughing.

The stranger is astonished. “But . . . but we need a dragon slayer! I know a brave knight. We must hire him to slay the beast before it murders anyone else.”

“No we don’t, lad—and you’d best get out of here before you cause yourself more trouble. Last person who came in with a story like that, I sank him up to his ankles in our outhouse—head first.”

“But . . . the dragon.” Gasping, the stranger spreads his arms. “Huge. A giant wingspan. Horrible scales. Breathing fire.” He seemed to be running out of vocabulary. “It was very big.”

Reeger looks at me. I shrug, giving him my tacit permission, so he strides to a large cabinet built into the tavern wall. “I’m not impressed by dragons. Bloodrust, we’ve already got plenty of dragon heads.”

He flings open the cabinet door to reveal six monstrous reptilian trophies. Some of the teeth are yellowed and falling out; the eye sockets are empty. Suture marks show where the scaly hide was stitched back together after being stuffed. Horns stick out from improbable places.

“I know all about your business, lad,” Reeger says with a warning growl. “Now run along and find a more gullible kingdom.”

The mood is growing ugly in the Scabby Wench, and some of the peasants move toward the stranger with the singed and tattered cloak. His demeanor changes. He looks disappointed, then haughty as he tries to gather his dignity. Straight-backed, showing no further panic or sense of urgency, he stalks out of the tavern as if we are beneath contempt.

As the conversation begins to pick up again, a good-humored Reeger announces a round of ale for everyone “courtesy of King Cullin, the true dragon slayer!” I suppose the expense is a worthwhile investment from the royal treasury.

Maurice remains wide-eyed. “But, Father—if there’s a dragon, aren’t you concerned?”

I respond with a snort. “Trust me, there’s no dragon, son. If I were a different kind of monarch, I’d have his tongue cut out for trying to scam all of us, but I’m a generous man.”

I like telling myself that. Truth is, I’ve been in that desperate stranger’s shoes before, and I’m glad no other king saw fit to remove
my
tongue. Now, I’m paying it forward.

The young prince shakes his head with growing dismay. “But why did that man say there was a dragon? What is Reeger doing with all those dragon heads in his cabinet? This isn’t like it is in stories.”

“Because those are just
stories
, son. The truth is quite different. Let me tell you what really happened, how your father became known as a dragon slayer. In fact, I wasn’t much older than you
. . .”

Reeger brings the boy a glass of sweet cider to replace his untouched ale. Leaning over, he says in a stage whisper, “What he’s about to tell you is true, lad. Just don’t let him exaggerate his own part at the expense of mine or Dalbry’s.”

I shoo Reeger away, glad that I finally have the prince’s attention. He’s intrigued. “Let me think of a good place to start telling our adventures.” I shift on the bench, and a splinter digs into my buttocks, but I ignore it. I clear my throat and say, “A story begins at the beginning—unless there’s a frame story.”

“What’s a frame story?” Maurice asks.

“It’s a literary device. Nothing you need to worry about now.”

I heave a wistful sigh and let my thoughts go back to the good old days. “When I was your age . . .”

A
SHTOK’S KINGDOM SEEMED
as good a place to start as any.

The land from sea to sea was a patchwork quilt of kingdoms, principalities, duchies, earldoms, baronies, and assorted ethnic neighborhoods. A person couldn’t throw a stick without going over some border or other. Anybody who could afford a larger-than-normal house called it a castle and crowned himself king.

It was a land of opportunities and a land of geographical confusion; kingdoms were always in flux, and mapmakers had job security.

The kingdom ruled by Ashtok was average; the people were average; the economy was average. His castle had crenelated battlements, stone turrets, and a shallow moat that was more of a landscaping conceit than a significant defensive measure.

On his interior walls, Ashtok displayed oil paintings of stern-looking nobles dressed in clothes from bygone days. The faces in the portraits bore no resemblance to King Ashtok; when questioned about this, he would admit that he had purchased the paintings in a clearance sale from another castle that was being torn down.

Ashtok was particularly proud of the parquet floor in his throne room, polished strips of wood inlaid in beautiful patterns and waxed every morning so that the entire chamber smelled of lemon oil and beeswax.

Ashtok was a slender, middle-aged man whose left arm ended in a stump. He had lost his hand, not in any great battle, but from an infected badger bite. The king had reached into a badger hole to retrieve a button that popped loose from his cloak, and the badger took offense at the intrusion. King Ashtok did not often tell that particular story.

One day while at court, Ashtok sat on his throne, bored. As a hobby, he had decided to work on developing his psychic powers. With his one hand, he would draw a playing card from the deck in his lap and try to guess the number and suit before he turned it over. After an hour with little success, the king decided that his psychic powers were better classified as “post-predictive,” because when he tried to guess the card
after
he looked at it, he was correct nearly every time.

The throne room doors were thrown open with a dramatic flourish, and the court herald scurried in ahead of two unexpected visitors. Startled, Ashtok knocked the playing cards from his lap, and when he tried to catch the pile with his left hand, he failed because he no longer had a left hand.

The herald struggled to announce the visitors, but tripped over his words because he had forgotten to ask their names. “Sire, these two strangers from far-off lands request an audience with you. A knight and his squire.”

A distinguished knight strode in with perfect posture and confidence. His pointed steel-gray beard was combed and trimmed. His chain mail had obviously seen many years of use but was well mended and maintained. A long sword hung at his hip, and a bright orange sash crossed his chest. A stiff cape of scales hung heavy from his shoulders.

He was accompanied by a young squire, a loyal, useful, and talented lad named Cullin. The squire moved forward, but his feet skidded on the fine parquet floor, because of the buildup of wax and polish. Catching his balance, he stood before the throne.

The knight bowed. “I am Sir Dalbry, Majesty, and this is Squire Cullin. I have come in response to the crisis in your kingdom.”

“Crisis?” Ashtok asked. “What crisis?”

Dalbry regarded him for a long moment. “Then it is a good thing I am here.”

The young squire piped up, “Majesty, brave Sir Dalbry is a renowned dragon slayer. Surely you have heard of him? The minstrels sing of him across the land.”

Ashtok quickly covered his ignorance. “Of course, we’ve heard of him. I know the songs, though I can’t quite remember how the tune goes right now.”

In fact, there were no songs—not yet—but that was on Cullin’s list of things to do. As he bowed before the throne, he saw his reflection on the gleaming floor—his mouse-brown hair, his handsome features, his youthful optimism, and his bright sparkling eyes.

“It’s strange when you tell the story like that,” says Prince Maurice.

“Like what?” I ask.

“I mean, referring to yourself as Cullin. It’s jarring. Ruins my suspension of disbelief.”

I hope he doesn’t keep interrupting, because then I’ll never finish the tale before last call at the tavern. Since the boy does a lot of reading, I try to explain in terms he’ll understand. “All I did was switch from first person to third person. It’s a perfectly acceptable narrative technique.”

Maurice finishes his sweet cider. The brownish foam on top of his untouched tankard of ale has congealed to the consistency of meringue. “Still doesn’t make me believe the story really happened. When I hear you talk about how handsome and intelligent you were, it makes you an unreliable narrator.”

“Not unreliable whatsoever.” I realize I must be sounding defensive, but I can’t deny that the queen would probably agree with him. I wish he had shown some of that skepticism with the traveler selling rainbow-impregnated unicorn horns. “Just pay attention now.”

Since Dalbry’s and Cullin’s boots were covered with mud, they left tracks on the parquet floor. Servants rushed in behind them with rags to wipe away the dirt, then they restored the shine with elbow grease.

From his high throne, Ashtok addressed the servants. “When you’re finished there, pick up my playing cards. I need them back on my lap.”

The servants hurried to do so.

Sir Dalbry faced the throne with a look of modest nonchalance as young Cullin sang his praises. “See here, Sire—his sash is orange because it reminds him of flames from the throats of all the dragons he has slain.” The squire ran around and held out the edge of the knight’s scaled cape. “And this is a genuine dragon hide, taken from a giant monster that nearly killed my master. He skinned the dragon after he killed it.”

Sir Dalbry drew his sword and pointed to the polished black gems set into its hilt. “These are made of hardened dragon’s blood, droplets that fell on the ground and petrified as soon as my reptilian nemesis was dead.” He turned the sword so that Ashtok could be suitably impressed.

Cullin knew the gems were simple obsidian, and the “dragonskin” cape was the hide of an alligator sold to them by a swampland trader from far in the south. But Ashtok seemed convinced, and that was what mattered.

The one-handed king leaned forward on his throne. “But what does all this talk of dragons have to do with me? And what is this crisis you mentioned? Shall I call for my treasurer? In my experience, a crisis is usually expensive.”

Cullin certainly hoped that the situation would prove to be expensive, but he and Dalbry had to set up their scheme further.

“I mention dragons, Sire, in order to establish my credentials.” Dalbry stroked his gray beard. “Your kingdom is currently being attacked by a bloodthirsty dragon. Are you not aware of the devastation the monster has already caused?”

Ashtok looked disturbed. “I . . . haven’t read today’s newspaper yet.”

Although some distant lands had invested in the printing press, Ashtok’s kingdom was not yet at the cutting edge of technology. His newspapers were painstakingly transcribed by a group of reporter monks, who took a week to write out the articles by hand and illuminate each edition of the daily newspaper, the
Olden Tymes
. Thus it was difficult for even a king to keep up with current events.

That worked in their favor, from Cullin’s point of view.

Dalbry continued. “Peasant houses burned, livestock carried off. There are strange noises in the night, shadows across the moon.”

The ladies at court looked up from their embroidery. One young lady pricked her finger with a needle, then gasped as a drop of blood stained the white cloth and ruined the pattern.

Cullin hurried over to the girl, who had a very pretty face. “Might I have that, my lady?” He looked up at the throne, explaining to Ashtok, “Virgin’s blood can be very useful in attracting a dragon.” Cullin lowered his voice to a stage whisper, “You
are
a virgin, aren’t you?”

“Of course, sir!” The other ladies looked away, muttering, shuffling their dainty feet. The girl dabbed more blood from her finger and handed him the bloodstained cloth, looking at him defiantly. “Surely you can tell the purity of a virgin’s blood just by looking at it.”

Cullin folded the cloth and tucked it into his belt. “Absolutely. The purest of the pure.”

The court chamberlain admitted, “I have also heard rumors in town, Sire. The people are frightened. Something needs to be done before there’s a panic.”

“But why would a dragon decide to prey here?” Ashtok said. “My kingdom hardly boasts enough wealth to tempt a dragon.”

“Who can comprehend the larger reptiles, Sire?” Dalbry said with a shrug. “I am an accomplished dragon slayer, references available upon request. I will use my expertise to rid your kingdom of the dangerous beast.”

Ashtok set his chin on his stump. “And how much will that cost me?”

Dalbry gestured to Cullin, since the brave knight considered financial negotiations to be beneath him. “For his effort and to cover expenses, Sir Dalbry will require two sacks of gold coins,” Cullin said. “I believe you call them
durbins
in this kingdom? I’m sure you’ll find the fee to be quite reasonable.”

Ashtok squirmed in his seat. “I can’t very well have a dragon running around my kingdom, can I? I don’t have enough extra knights that I can spare any to be devoured by a fire-breathing monster.”

Dalbry lifted his chin. “None of your knights has the experience I possess.”

Cullin piped up. “It’s truly a bargain.”

“Oh, very well. You shall be paid two sacks of durbins—but only
after
you have killed the beast and provided proof.”

Dalbry bowed. “I vow to return here in five days with the dragon’s head, or I shall never return at all.” He turned around with a swish of his heavy dragonskin cape.

“We’ll be back,” Cullin assured the king before following the knight out of King Ashtok’s throne room.

Behind them, the servants again rushed forward to polish the mud stains from the beautiful parquet floor.