Dragon Business, The (5 page)

“Why indeed?” She would slink off to her rooms and slip through a secret passage to the wizard’s library, where she spent her evenings studying natural science. Affonyl had become quite good at sneaking about, so she could have some measure of freedom in King Norrimun’s castle. She explored whenever she could get away with it.

Though not a particularly romantic person, Affonyl had found the man she wanted to marry. Down in the port of Rivermouth (though she rarely went to the seedier districts known as Sewermouth and Guttermouth), she had met a dashing young merchant prince named Indico, who had a fabulous sailing ship with gold leaf on the rails and figurehead. The sails were of colored silk, and his men wore the finest clothes. Indico was a handsome young man with a maroon leather doublet, a gold belt buckle, very tight and very flattering leather breeches, and boots that went all the way up to his knees.

Indico had thought he could melt Affonyl’s heart with a smile and a flower, but she was actually more interested in hearing about the places he had visited, the cultures, the landscapes, the species of birds and sea mammals. She even took notes.

After learning that she was a princess, Indico took a much greater interest in her questions, and was eager to hear about King Norrimun’s lands and castle. For the past six months, Affonyl had rushed down to meet his ship each time it came into Rivermouth.

Indico spent many hours describing the wide seas and exotic lands he had visited. He talked about sea monsters, showed Affonyl his charts of the coastline, all the kingdoms in the vicinity, as well as his own island principality just beyond the horizon. He brought her special presents: hand-painted charts of distant tropical islands, exotic shells, iridescent beetle specimens, even a wicked-looking tooth from a sea serpent. He told her how the monster had bitten down on the prow of his ship and left the tooth embedded in the wood after his crew fought back the creature with boat hooks and oars.

He told her the stars were different above his private island principality, that he had constellations all his own. She was fascinated by the possibility, although she felt that changeable star patterns must make long-distance navigation difficult. Indico promised that if she were ever to visit his island beyond the horizon, he would build her a private observatory so she could study the stars all day long if she liked.

“All night long,” she corrected.

“Possibly,” he said in a voice that oozed suaveness, “but I may be keeping you otherwise occupied during the night.”

Realizing that he was trying to seduce her—outrageously—Affonyl giggled, but when she thought she sounded like one of her ladies-in-waiting, she stopped. All in all, she decided this merchant prince would be a much preferable husband than the boorish Duke Kerrl.

Indico’s ship was due back within a week, and she couldn’t wait. She needed to set up her plan and work out the details for her flight. She’d have only one chance at this, if she meant to escape marriage to the duke. There had to be much better things in store for her. . .  .

“You don’t look hungry, my sweet,” King Norrimun said. “Think of all the starving peasants and eat it for
them
.” Affonyl dutifully took a piece of honeyed fruit, which was much too sweet for her. The king was very fond of the special honey from a distant village called Folly.

She decided to try one last time, pulling a father’s heartstrings. “As a hypothetical question, Father, let’s say I have a friend who’s a princess about to be married to a duke she doesn’t love. She feels she has more significant things to do with her life than being wedded to a brutish man who wants to take over her father’s kingdom so that he can finance his wars.”

“Oh, dear, that sounds terrible. Who is your poor, dear friend?” King Norrimun said. “I didn’t know you had other princesses for friends.”

“I said it was
hypothetical
, Father.”

“Ho-hum, yes you did. Unfortunately, princesses have certain obligations—as you know full well. For instance, you’re marrying Duke Kerrl because it’s best for the kingdom. Fortunately, he’s a charming, powerful, and wealthy man . . .” He ran his finger along his chubby lip. “Wait a minute—I think that hypothetical princess is you!”

Affonyl had the good grace to blush. “You caught me, Father. I really don’t want to marry Duke Kerrl.”

“
Want?
Hmmph, it’s your duty. A princess is a princess. Your only other choice is to be sequestered in a nunnery, and no one wants that.”

Affonyl considered. “Don’t nunneries have large libraries?”

“Being sent to a nunnery is supposed to be a punishment, and I’ll not punish my darling daughter. You are going to marry Duke Kerrl, and that will save our kingdom.”

“It’ll lose our kingdom, by making it part of Kerrl’s dukedom.”

“I prefer to consider it a win-win situation. I win, and the duke wins.”

“And I lose,” Affonyl said.

“Don’t think of yourself as a person, my sweet,” he reminded her. Frowning, he scratched beneath his multiple chins. “Princesses have been forced to marry against their will since time immemorial, but you could have it much worse. After all, other kingdoms are plagued by
dragons
.”

I’ve been so carried away with my story that I just now realize that others are listening in. They all love a good tale, but few of them have ever heard of King Norrimun, or Duke Kerrl, or that entire subset of my adventures.

Appreciating the audience, I raise my voice as I continue. Maurice, though, is eyeing me suspiciously as the story sinks in. “Now, wait a minute. How do you know that part? You weren’t there with Princess Affonyl or King Norrimun. Are you speaking as the omniscient narrator again?”

I drain my second tankard. If we had met the young prince on our travels, Dalbry, Reeger, and I would have considered him a tough nut to crack. “Who’s to say that Affonyl didn’t tell me the story afterward? A good audience participates in the tale through willing suspension of disbelief.”

The boy brightens as if someone had lit a candle over his head. “I see where the plot threads are coming together! Is Princess Affonyl my mother?”

This startles me. “You mean, you don’t even know your mother’s name?”

“Why, she’s . . . she’s Mother, and the queen, and Her Majesty.”

I sigh. My own son needs more education on important matters, and I intend to give it to him. I sit back on the bench, ignoring the din of the tavern crowds. “You’ll find out soon enough. Just let me tell the story.”

T
HANKS TO THE
reward from King Ashtok, Dalbry, Reeger, and Cullin could live high on the hog for a while. None of them owned a hog, although Cullin did manage to leave the castle with some wrapped salt pork.

On foot, the three followed a forest path that led to a wider road. Having seen Sir Tremayne’s proud stallion, Dalbry hefted the bag of durbins and did some calculations. “It might be time to invest in a good steed—preferably a white one, but the color doesn’t matter. A knight needs a horse. The role demands it.”

Reeger rolled his unevenly set eyes. “Crotchrust! How would we afford to care for a horse?”

“Sir Tremayne has one.”

“Who knows about Sir Tremayne’s rustin’ bank accounts? He was offering to slay a dragon for free; maybe he’s independently wealthy—a trust-fund kid.” He shook his shaggy head. “Fools like that bring down the market value of dragon slaying.”

“We have our mule,” Cullin pointed out. The beast grumbled and wheezed, perhaps as a sign of recognition that they were talking about him, or perhaps to share his misery at being overloaded with pots and pans, camp gear, Dalbry’s armor, and all the “sure to be useful” items that Reeger picked up along the way.

“If I had a horse, Cullin could take care of it,” Dalbry said. “That’s fitting work for a squire.”

The handsome young man sighed. “Back in my village, I always dreamed of being a stableboy with a warm place to sleep and slightly used straw, but that was above my station as a feral orphan boy.”

“Let’s think about this,” Reeger said. “True, a fine white stallion would make brave Sir Dalbry more dashing, but horses come with a lot of hidden maintenance costs. You have to feed them, shoe them. And then there’s the saddle—good saddles don’t come cheap.” He looked over at the knight. “An impressive warrior like yourself could never be seen with a bargain-basement saddle. And then there’s the stabling fees whenever we hit a town.”

“At least I wouldn’t have to walk,” said Dalbry. “I’m old enough that my knees and feet ache most days. And it’s awkward to claim I’m an important knight when I come into every town on foot.”

Reeger flashed his brown smile. “Simple enough explanation, Dalbry—your mount got devoured by a dragon during your last combat. You fought and wounded the ferocious monster, but you yourself were injured, your armor damaged. You fell to your knees and held up your sword, desperately trying to stay alive. The dragon lunged toward you, and all seemed lost—but then your brave steed . . .” He paused, tapping his lips as he thought of a name. “
Lightning
charged in to distract the beast—rearing up, striking the scaly monster with his front hooves! But the dragon roasted your valiant horse with a gout of fire. In that moment of distraction, though, you drove your sword into the monster’s throat. Alas, the valiant steed was mortally injured. There, on the blasted ground, next to the dead dragon, you cradled the head of your horse until he died. Poor Lightning . . .” He hung his head, then snapped his gaze up again with a bright smile. “And that, Dalbry, is why you don’t have a horse.”

Cullin grinned. “Reeger, you’re good at that.”

They all agreed that a good story was more cost-effective than buying and maintaining a real horse.

The trio headed to the next kingdom, which was ruled by a king legendary for his rotundness: King Norrimun the Corpulent. Traveling through a sparse forest where there were more stumps than trees, Dalbry reached into his magic sack that never got empty and pulled out a dried apricot to munch on. Feeling a certain largesse after his successful dragon slaying in Ashtok’s kingdom, he offered Cullin a handful of the apricots. They tasted delicious, but gave the young man such bad gas afterward that Reeger made him walk in the rear, even behind the mule.

As they entered the fringes of a woodcutter’s territory, they came upon a wiry man sitting on a weathered stump, strumming on a lute. For musical variety, he also owned a ukulele and a mandolin, which sat at his feet.

“You’re a one-man band,” Cullin said.

“I am a versatile minstrel,” said the versatile minstrel. “My name is Nightingale Bob, known throughout the land for my repertoire, my singing voice, and my witty lyrics.” Nightingale Bob was a short, round-faced man with blond hair, blue eyes, and nimble fingers—obviously not nobleborn, but handsome enough and with a pleasing voice. He sized up the three men and saw something in Dalbry’s eyes. “I do take commission work.”

“We’ve heard of you,” said Cullin.

The minstrel continued to strum, picking out a tune.

“There was never a knight so brave,

when he rode down the lane,

as the dashing knight Tremayne.”

Dalbry couldn’t hide his surprise. “Why are you writing a song about Sir Tremayne? Has he done anything noteworthy?”

“He believes so.” He strummed again, adjusted a string.

Cullin said, “The rhyme of
brave
and
Tremayne
seems a little forced.”

“They both have the long ‘a’ sound,” said Nightingale Bob.

“Nothing else, though,” Cullin said. “It doesn’t sound right to me.”

Reeger grumbled, “Rust, if minstrels start singing songs about Sir Tremayne across the kingdoms, it’ll hurt our business.”

Dalbry pressed further. “Exactly what did Tremayne say his accomplishments were, minstrel?”

“He wasn’t specific, but he didn’t pay much—only two copper coins. Still, he gave me carte blanche, the sort of artistic freedom a minstrel likes. He says a minstrel is honor-bound to promulgate the legends of brave knights.” Nightingale Bob snorted. “He actually did use the word
promulgate
. Try finding a rhyme for that!”

“Minstrels should be able to make a living,” said Reeger. “You’ve got a mouth to feed, even if it’s your own. With all the walking from town to town, you must need new soles for your boots every few months.”

Sitting on the stump, Nightingale Bob lifted his feet so he could look at the worn soles. “I wish I could afford my own horse so I didn’t have to walk everywhere.”

“Beware of the hidden costs,” Dalbry cautioned. “We were just discussing that ourselves.”

Cullin said brightly, “Sir Dalbry here is a knight. I’m his squire.”

Nightingale Bob reassessed the older man. “Shouldn’t a knight have a shield, sword, and armor?”

“Casual Friday,” said Reeger. “These are just our traveling clothes.”

“Sir Dalbry slew the terrible dragon preying on Ashtok’s kingdom and delivered the monster’s head to the king’s court,” Cullin said. “I placed it right on his parquet floor.”

Nightingale Bob chuckled. “Oh, I’ll bet he didn’t like that.”

“We were careful not to stain the wood.”

The minstrel nodded. “I thought Sir Tremayne was going to kill that dragon.”

“We got there first,” Reeger said.

Dalbry was distracted by other thoughts, however. “Now that you mention it, we could use the services of a good minstrel. Would you like another commission—a more lucrative one?” He opened the sack of gold durbins he had received as a reward, took out a large coin, and held it up so the minstrel could see its yellow gleam.

“Now, I do like that color better than copper,” said Nightingale Bob.

“Write a song about me and play it often—the tale of brave Sir Dalbry.”

Nightingale Bob hesitated, as a negotiating stance. “It’ll be a challenge. Nothing much rhymes with Dalbry.”

“Hallway,” Cullin suggested. “Fallberry . . . you know, like a winterberry.”

“Paltry?” Reeger said.

“We should avoid
paltry
,” said the knight. “Doesn’t set the proper tone.”

When the others couldn’t come up with any viable alternatives, Reeger picked something out of his teeth. “Bloodrust, for a gold piece he can make up his own rhymes. Just be sure Sir Dalbry sounds impressive.”

“I’ll need material about his exploits, but you can expect I’ll take a little poetic license,” said the minstrel. They told him about the dragon slaying for King Ashtok, complete with the heart-rending tale of the demise of the knight’s valiant horse Lightning.

To make sure Nightingale Bob had enough fodder for several verses, they told him about the ferocious basilisk of the gravel pit, which was so hideous that anyone who dared to gaze upon it turned to stone. Sir Dalbry lifted his chin, “When I slew the monstrous monster, I felt the splash of its hot blood and heard the groan of its dying breath, but I could not look upon my kill. Alas, my squire at the time, Norby, risked a peek—and promptly turned into a statue. Though I was grieving, I brought the poor boy’s stone head as proof to the king.”

In truth, it had been no more than a marble bust they had found in some old ruins. Nevertheless, the perfect stone head convinced their benefactor, and so they rode away with the reward.

Then, for good measure, since they still had Nightingale Bob’s attention, they made up a story on the spot, this time about the “slavering ogre of Ragnok.” The minstrel took notes.

“The ogre story should be the third verse,” Dalbry suggested. “But add as many verses as you like, so long as you sing my song far and wide. I want people to hear of my exploits so they know whom to call for assistance with their dragon problems.”

The minstrel accepted the gold coin, bit it to make sure it was real, then slipped it into his pocket. He seemed quite satisfied. “Just for the sake of full disclosure, as an artist I own the complete copyright to the song and lyrics.”

Reeger shook his head. “We commissioned the song—it’s a work for hire. We paid you for it. We retain the rights.”

Nightingale Bob dug in his heels, and they dickered for an hour before resolving to grant the minstrel the rights to the music itself and a nonexclusive but unlimited-term license to the lyrics, while “Sir Dalbry” (as an entity representing Dalbry, Reeger, and Cullin) retained all other rights to the story, adaptations, remakes, musicals, novelizations, and other media, whether now or yet to be invented, throughout the known universe or portions of the universe yet to be discovered, whether mythical, legendary, or otherwise.

It was a good deal.

The minstrel traded his lute for his ukulele and experimented with a tune. Picking out a melody, he began to sing.

“The dragons died,

and the king said Hi!

to brave Sir Dalbry . . .

in the hallway.”

He frowned and played with other lyrical combinations.

“Just make sure it’s a catchy tune.” Reeger tugged on the mule’s halter rope. They moved along the forest road, and Cullin kept trying to imagine words that rhymed with Dalbry.