Dragon Business, The (21 page)

When the paperwork was done, Tremayne bowed before the throne and seemed in a hurry to leave. “We’ll figure something out, Majesty. We do this to promulgate the glory of knights everywhere, not for any personal gain.”

Dalbry gave Cullin an unreadable glance. “Well, that does it. We have a dragon to slay.”

By now, the hour is late, and most of the Scabby Wench’s customers are either drunk, drowsy, or both.

Reeger says he can’t afford an accurate clock, and the one he owns is permanently stuck at half-past midnight. Whenever he decides it’s closing time—a combination of being sold out of Wendria’s mysterious meat pies, running short in the ale keg, or just being tired of dealing with customers—he hauls out the stopped clock, points to the time, and announces “Last call!”

I know his tricks, but many patrons fall for it night after night.

The minstrel finishes his third and final set and plays yet another encore of “The Fart in the Park” in such a lackluster fashion that even the inebriated mercenaries don’t demand more. Hob Nobbin claims it is past his bedtime and insists he needs sleep, thanks to his delicate artistic constitution. He takes his lute, waves farewell to the uninterested remainder of the audience, and leaves through the tavern door.

With shining eyes and silly grins, the baker’s girl and the candlemaker’s daughter flounce after him like two puppies hoping for a treat—thus reaffirming my long-held suspicion that women, especially lovestruck young girls, are incomprehensible to the rational mind. Maurice will learn that soon enough.

At least the prince isn’t watching the vapid girls at the moment. In general, he is easily starstruck, but I take pride in seeing that he remains interested in my story. I pause in the telling to order another “second” tankard of ale as soon as Reeger shouts out his last call. Reality is thirsty work.

Maurice says, “I see where this is going—Princess Minima is Mother, right? Our kingdom used to belong to Queen Faria?”

I’m surprised he would even ask. “You really don’t know much about your family history, do you, son?”

Maurice looks away. “I never thought it was interesting.”

“Before tonight, you mean?”

The young man gives a noncommittal shrug. “We’ll see. You didn’t describe her much. Was Princess Minima pretty?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Was Princess Minima pretty, you ask? Well, pretty enough on the princess scale. It’s a subjective measure.”

The boy looks at Reeger’s stopped clock. “Are we almost done with the story?”

“Getting there,” I say. “You’ll note that we’re building toward the climax, bringing the plot threads together, reuniting the characters as the seeds I carefully planted earlier come to fruition.”

“I am familiar with traditional story structure,” Maurice says.

Reeger brings my last tankard of the evening. “Don’t imagine that you know where the rustin’ story’s going, lad. This adventure is full of twists and turns, not to mention unexpected surprises.”

“All surprises are unexpected, by definition,” says the prince. “If they were expected, then they wouldn’t be surprises.”

I look at Reeger with a long-suffering “don’t blame me, I didn’t raise him this way” expression. Most of the remaining customers slurp down their tankards and upend them on the tables before leaving. “I’d prefer you settle up now, Sire, so I can close the till. How many tankards was it?”

“Two,” I say in a firm voice.

Reeger snorts and gestures to the full tankard at the table. “I’d say at least four, counting that one.”

Maurice surprises me by throwing in his support. “But you can’t count beyond two, Reeger. You said so yourself several times tonight—so two it is.”

Reeger grumbles, but knows when he’s defeated. “All right, pay for two. And I’m charging you for two glasses of top-shelf cider.”

I reach under the roughspun burlap robe for my purse of coins, only to come up empty. I pat my hip, then the other side, realizing that I was so excited to take Maurice to the tavern for his first real night on the town that I forgot to take spending money from the Royal Treasury. Or, just as likely, someone picked my pocket.

I frown. “Sorry, Reeger, old friend. I’m a little light at the moment. You know I’m good for it. Can you spot me a few coins?”

“Bloodrust, Cullin!” Reeger moves his lips as if he wants to spit on the floor, but Wendria holds up a scolding finger from behind the bar, so he restrains himself. “If I extend credit to you, then I have to extend credit to everyone.”

“Really? I am your king.”

“Anybody can be king. You proved that yourself.”

“It is my face on the coins. My credit is good.”

“Not a very good likeness—that could be anybody. I don’t like this one bit.” I feel highly embarrassed to have this happen, especially in front of my son, but Reeger gets a glint in his eye. “I can let the lad work it off. Wendria needs help scrubbing the pie pans, disinfecting the tankards, mopping the floors.” He claps Maurice hard on the shoulder, and the boy flinches as if from a stunning blow. “And something special—mucking out the tavern’s latrine, adding fresh corncobs and thistle leaves for the patrons.”

The prince sounds shocked and offended. “The latrine?”

When Reeger grins, Maurice apparently finds his teeth disconcerting. “It’s been newly refurbished, lad. You’ll like it.”

Now the boy turns to me, seeking rescue. “Do I have to?”

“I did promise you new experiences tonight. It’ll build character. Think of it as enforced volunteerism.”

“But—but what will Mother say when I come home with calluses?”

Reeger lets out a hearty laugh as he leads the uncertain boy back to the tavern’s kitchen. “Calluses? Nonsense, lad! You have to get blisters before you can have calluses.”

I snag my full tankard of ale and follow them
to the back. “While you work, I’ll entertain you with the rest of my story.”

T
HE DRAGON-SLAYING CONSORTIUM
set off into the wilds of the queendom.

The knights were full of tales, each one as imaginative as it was improbable. Cullin believed none of the stories, but he did file away the details for later use.

Sir Hernon puffed his broad chest and adjusted his wolf-skin cape. “Back in my own kingdom, I spotted a dragon flying overhead. I could tell it was intent on causing mischief, so I raised my fist, showed the monster my sword, and shouted to the sky. I threatened that dragon in no uncertain terms, explaining what would happen if it chose to challenge me and the land I was sworn to protect. So the terrified beast flew off, causing no harm.” He crossed his arms over his chest in smug triumph.

Brave Sir Morgan snorted at the tale. “Maybe you scared off a large dragon, Hernon, but I once encountered a
huge
dragon. When it flew into my kingdom, it intended to cause
even more
terrifying damage than your dragon would have, but I was up to the task. So I issued even
harsher
threats than you used.” The bald knight flushed. “I’m ashamed to recall some of my language, because it was definitely un-knightlike and not suitable for use in mixed company. I pulled my sword and my battle hatchet, threatening the monster with everything I had—and it flew away in terror.”

As they rode along in the forest, Sir Jems took a long swig from his wineskin. “That’s nothing. The dragon that came to
our
kingdom was indescribably gigantic, bigger than either of yours!”

By now, Cullin was getting tired of the one-upsmanship. So apparently was Sir Artimo. “Let’s just stipulate that we’ve heard your story, Sir Jems, and move on to more interesting tales.” The other companions applauded the idea.

Now that he had their attention, Artimo brushed his knuckles across his chest. “For my own part, I vanquished the dragon slug of Oglethorpe.”

“Never heard of it,” said Jems with crabbiness unbefitting a knight.

Artimo gave a lilting wave of his hand. “You’ve never heard of it because the locals considered it such a terrifying beast that they dared not repeat the story, although they whisper to their naughty children that if they don’t behave, the dragon slug of Oglethorpe will crawl all over them in the dark and devour them.”

Cullin asked because he knew everyone was wondering, “What’s a dragon slug?”

“A hideous beast that defies description,” Artimo quipped.

Sir Dalbry said, “Could you
try
to describe it? That would help the veracity of your tale.”

“It’s a monster, like a gigantic garden slug marked with black stripes, waving icky-looking antennae. And it has batlike wings, but the beast is so sluggish it can rarely get itself off the ground. Instead of breathing fire, like a normal dragon, the dragon slug breathes slime that can make a victim die from sheer disgust.” His expression twisted. “The monster rolled over entire peasant villages, consuming whole fields. My squire and I followed it.” Artimo heaved a shuddering breath. “Ah, my poor, brave squire. Ebbie, short for Ebberlin.” He shook his head.

“We tracked the dragon slug, ready for battle. Since the creature moved at the pace of a slug, we could hunt it down. When we cornered the thing, it reared up on its soft, blubbery body and wiggled its icky antennae at me. But I, and my graceful sword”—for emphasis, Sir Artimo whipped out his thin blade and waved it in the air, like a boy wiggling a willow twig—“had speed and skill.

“As the dragon slug vomited slime at me, I circled and slashed its soft hide. I don’t know that the creature felt pain as a person does, but it squirmed and tried to attack. I raced around to the other side, made another slash.” He smiled. “I continued that way for more than an hour, as my squire Ebbie cheered me on—for that was his duty as squire, and no one did it better. I slashed and sliced; I danced around. I attacked; I withdrew. It was a death of a thousand cuts, but I was willing to make
two
thousand cuts, if necessary.

“Finally, I lopped off one of its antennae, leaving the monster half blind. And I knew it was time for our secret weapon.” Artimo grinned at all of them. “I had consulted a natural-history guidebook, and I knew the only sure way to kill a rare but deadly dragon slug.”

“And what was it?” asked Sir Tremayne, absorbed in the story. “So we can add it to our repertoire, in case any of us ever encounters a dragon slug?”

Sir Artimo held the pause for a long, masterful moment, then said in a low whisper, “
Salt.
Squire Ebbie had brought along two casks of sea salt, and he cracked open the lids as I harried the monster with my blade. When I was ready for the coup de grâce”—he swished his supple sword in the air again—“Ebbie tossed me one of the casks, and I ran behind the dragon slug and dumped the salt all over its back. It roared in agony, for salt is like acid to the creatures. Slime oozed in buckets from its pores. It thrashed and writhed.

“Next, I raced around in front of the monster. Ebbie gave me the second cask of salt, and I poured it onto the dragon slug’s head, which made the thousand small gashes burn and sizzle. Its other icky antenna shriveled down. In its death throes, the creature oozed and shrank.

“But Ebbie, poor Ebbie. . .” Artimo heaved a deep breath. “He was too eager. He raced forward with his practice blade—like Squire Cullin’s there— and tried to hack off the head of the dragon slug. Ebbie was my apprentice dragon slayer.” He gave an appreciative nod to Cullin. “But now he lives only in my memory, rather than in the legends he had hoped to achieve.

“The dragon slug had one last surprise for us. In its last death convulsion, the monster vomited a wagonload of dying slime and inundated poor Ebbie. The slime itself was caustic and clingy, and I used my cape—my best cape, mind you—to try and save him, but before I could wipe the thick ooze from his head and face, Ebbie, alas, suffocated.”

Sir Artimo hung his head in respect, and the other knights in the consortium did the same. “And that is why I have no squire.”

Cullin was about to tell the story of why Sir Dalbry didn’t have a horse, but that tale was no longer valid, since the older knight had Drizzle.

“I killed an even bigger dragon slug once,” Sir Jems added, and the group rode on into the forest.

None of them knew exactly how to find a dragon. If this were part of their normal scam, Cullin, Dalbry, and Reeger would have set up a meeting place, planted clues, and arranged a rendezvous. Now that they had a real dragon and too many uninvited partners to contend with, neither Cullin nor Sir Dalbry knew how to plan.

They camped, told more stories, and set off again the next day for a popular nearby market town that drew travelers and merchants from miles around. The dowager queen’s swap meet, flea market, and multifamily rummage sale was renowned throughout the land. The market town was also the site of a popular annual Renaissance Faire, but Cullin had never actually seen one of the futuristic festivals.

Sir Morgan thought he might check out a new set of armor or an improved shield; Sir Jems hoped to purchase a second wineskin “just in case”; Sirs Hernon and Artimo said they just wanted to look around. Dalbry and Tremayne maintained their focus, intending to interview travelers and merchants to learn if anyone had seen signs of the dragon. Tremayne said, “With so many travelers in attendance, we should get some clue to the monster’s whereabouts.” Cullin wished he could have gone there on a date with Affonyl, but maybe that was rushing things. . .  .

When the group arrived at the flea-market site, however, they found more clues than they could possibly use.

The entire area was blackened and devastated. The air smelled of soot and burned flesh. The still-smoldering embers of wooden market stalls glowed here and there on the ground; part of a hand-painted sign from a lemonade stand lay charred in the wreckage. Souvenir kiosks had been torn to pieces, colorful trinkets strewn about. Carts were overturned. Roasted and gnawed skeletons of horses and people lay scattered everywhere.

Cullin gazed nervously up into the sky, wary of the monster. This time they didn’t have Affonyl to help out with her explosive mixtures if a dragon swooped down on them.

Stunned, Sir Dalbry and Cullin stood together by the large, deep impression of a three-toed footprint.

“We’re going to need bigger swords,” Cullin said.