Dragon Business, The (9 page)

T
HE SAINT BARTIMUND’S
feast was so long and so extravagant that Cullin quickly understood two things: (1) why King Norrimun was so corpulent, and (2) why the kingdom had so little money. At least they could listen to Nightingale Bob while they ate and ate and ate.

A pile of roasted beets came around, so red and dripping that they looked like fresh raw organs from a slaughterhouse. Seeing Cullin’s stunned expression at being offered yet another plate of food, one of the young pages leaned close. “Oh, this is nothing—and the feast is only half over. You should see what King Norrimun does for the annual feast of Saint Melbicore. It’s coming up next month.”

“Since the king doesn’t want to hire my master’s services, we won’t be around that long,” Cullin said. “The dragon should be taken care of by then, regardless.” He didn’t see much chance of becoming a brave young hero in his own right either, which would help him claim the hand of Princess Affonyl in marriage.

Observing Affonyl’s frigid demeanor next to her fiancé, Cullin was sure the beautiful princess would rather have him as a husband than the duke (although judging by Affonyl’s unhappy expression, she might even have preferred Reeger to Kerrl).

While Nightingale Bob sang about a mermaid and an unromantic fisherman who preferred fish filets to half of a beautiful woman, Dalbry excused himself from the table and headed to one of the back hallways. He signaled Cullin with his eyebrows, and the young man got up as well.

Cullin said to the page next to him, “I have to attend to my master, but you can have my beets if you like. Eat all you want.”

As he slipped out of the banquet hall, he saw Sir Phineal also get up from the table. Attendees familiar with King Norrimun’s feasts probably understood the need for a mid-banquet intermission.

Cullin left the heady smells of multiple courses, the buzz of conversation, and the tragic yet pragmatic lyrics about the unromantic fisherman. He wandered down the corridor looking for Sir Dalbry in the hallway. (The two words really did not rhyme at all, he realized.)

Torches guttered in wall sconces, shedding a smoky orange light. Half the torches remained unlit; with the kingdom’s budgetary concerns, King Norrimun had instituted energy-conservation measures.

He found Dalbry coming out of a side corridor, looking confused. “I found the ladies’ garderobe, but not the lords’. I went into that one by accident—do you know the women’s privy has sofas, makeup benches, and mirrors?”

Cullin was amazed at the extravagance. “All we ever get is a splintered seat with a hole underneath it.”

“That’s all a man needs,” Dalbry said. “As a knight, I’ve suffered worse hardships.”

Cullin pointed down another dim corridor. “Let’s try this way. You’d think they’d have signs.”

They bumped into a wide-eyed and fidgety Sir Phineal, who hurried toward Dalbry. “My dear knight, I b-beseech you! I require your assistance.”

Dalbry squared his shoulders. “A knight is honor-bound to offer assistance wherever it is necessary. You must be familiar with the demands of chivalry, Sir Phineal.”

“Yes, I’ve read the Knight’s Manual . . . but at the m-moment I require utmost discretion. As a d-dragon slayer, I’m not quite as experienced as you. I haven’t had the opportunity, you see.”

Dalbry nodded. “Judging from your demeanor, I can tell your monster-slaying experience is limited. I take it you’ve killed fewer than, say, ten dragons?”

Cullin barely restrained a snicker.

“Substantially f-fewer than that,” Phineal said.

Dalbry remained cool. “But surely you’ve slain at least one dragon?”

“Um, I’m afraid not. This has been a p-peaceable kingdom with a marked lack of dragons—until recently, alas.”

The older knight nodded. “Alas.”

“And it is r-rather late in my c-career to change my focus. D-dragon slaying is a specialized skill.”

“Indeed, it should only be attempted by a professional. Considering the size of the beast plaguing your kingdom, which can be accurately estimated by measuring the claw separation distance on the footprints, I would suggest you not attempt it yourself.”

The skittish knight looked both nervous and relieved. “I c-couldn’t agree more! But King Norrimun has put me in an awkward p-position.” He glanced back down the corridor as if he expected spies to be peeping through tiny holes in the stone walls. “And that is why I require your discretion.” He narrowed his eyes at Cullin. “Is your s-squire trustworthy?”

“He would no more tell a lie than I would.”

Cullin tried to look as honest as possible, and Sir Phineal took heart. “You see, my life story has not t-turned out the way I imagined it.”

“Many of us could say the same,” Dalbry said. “But is this a long story? They’ll be expecting us back at the banquet. I believe the turnip course is next.”

“I can tell an abbreviated version. The g-gist of it is that I never wanted to be a knight. Most boys dream of it, but I was railroaded into the career. My parents had several sons who all became doctors and lawyers, but Mom and Dad always wanted a knight in the family. So I got my suit of armor and became a knight, thanks to a technicality.”

“A technicality?” Cullin hadn’t known the option existed.

“In jousting matches, I was adept at dodging, though I never m-managed to strike an opponent. The ‘Phineal Squirm’ became an acknowledged move on the jousting lists. I could b-bend my body away from any oncoming spear with such proficiency that p-people began to say I had no backbone whatsoever. Only now do I realize that it m-might not have been a compliment. . .  .

“King Norrimun made me his champion after I beat him in a game of dice. I thought it was a triumph, but now I realize that the title is a great b-burden. This kingdom is quiet, and we haven’t gone to war in almost a century. I’ve never b-been in battle myself, never slain an ogre, never even seen a dragon. I was beginning to wonder if they existed.”

“Oh, they exist,” Cullin interjected. “That’s been scientifically proven.”

“I d-don’t doubt it,” Phineal said. “But I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to slay one, what tricks to use, or even how to find the m-monster.”

“We could sell you magic beans for protection,” Cullin said. Dalbry gave him a quick glance, and the young man fell silent.

Phineal pulled out a purse of coins. “I would be greatly indebted to you if I could hire your services as a d-dragon slayer. On the side. In secret.”

Cullin was delighted with the offer. Even if King Norrimun did not pay them, they could accept Phineal’s bribe and conduct their dragon business that way.

Dalbry, though, reacted with indignation. “You want me to be a dragon slayer by proxy? Are you suggesting that I not take credit for killing the monster?”

Phineal shuffled his feet; prominent beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “Just this once? I b-beg you to take pity on me. With your fame and your career, do you need to add another d-dragon to the list? I heard Nightingale B-bob’s song about your exploits.”

“And those were only a fraction of Sir Dalbry’s adventures,” Cullin added.

“Exactly my p-point,” Phineal said. “What’s one more victory on top of all that? This would be my first slain dragon. I wouldn’t b-brag about it overmuch, I promise, but it would mean the world to me.”

“I suppose it could be done.” Dalbry looked at the size of the pouch. “As a special favor to a fellow knight.”

“I’d do the same for you, if the boot were on the other f-foot—if, for instance, you found yourself trapped in a deadly competition of statistics or m-mathematics.”

“I’ve heard those can be treacherous,” Cullin said.

“If I take this contract engagement, the fee will be off book, correct?” Dalbry asked.

Phineal looked about to collapse with relief. His knees were quaking. “Yes! And when you’ve k-killed the monster—assuming you survive—we can arrange a rendezvous for me to deliver the severed head to King Norrimun with n-no one the wiser.”

Dalbry extended his hand for the pouch, and Sir Phineal placed the gold coins in it. Cullin realized their scam was going to turn out well after all.

A loud throat clearing echoed in the hallway behind them, and Cullin turned to see the very upright Sir Tremayne regarding the transaction with disgust. “Sir Phineal, did you actually just hire Sir Dalbry to perform your sacred task?”

The skittish knight fidgeted, cleared his throat. “I w-was, um, delegating responsibility.”

“And I was helping him to retain his honor,” said Dalbry.

Tremayne waggled his finger from side to side. “Appalling! When Nightingale Bob hears of it, he’ll add a new verse to his song that will change the tone of the tune.”

While Dalbry and Phineal were both dismayed, Cullin thought fast. “And why were you spying on your fellow knights, Sir Tremayne, slinking through the hallways like a footpad or a thief?”

Tremayne sniffed at the squire. “I was looking for the men’s garderobe. I never expected to come upon a heinous bribe in progress.” He knew he had the upper hand. “Dragon slaying is serious business and not to be undertaken by cowards. King Norrimun made a mistake in picking his champion.” A stormy expression crossed Tremayne’s face. “But I expected more from you, Sir Dalbry—you’re a real knight.”

Phineal snatched the purse of coins out of Dalbry’s hand and thrust it toward Tremayne. “I can offer significant c-compensation if you keep this embarrassing m-matter private.”

Now Tremayne was even more deeply offended. “Those coins are tainted by the stench of bribery.”

Even more embarrassed, Phineal pocketed the pouch. “You can’t b-blame me for trying.”

Tremayne turned to Dalbry. “The dragon must be slain, and Sir Phineal is obviously not up to the task. Politics and messy embarrassments aside, Sir Dalbry, the deed falls to the two of us. We shall go together, as freelancers. And by accompanying you, I might learn a few pointers—while also keeping an eye on your activities.”

“That is not necessary, Sir Tremayne,” the older knight said. “King Norrimun doesn’t want our help.”

“I can convince him otherwise,” Phineal broke in, too quickly.

Dalbry looked at the skittish knight. “I am willing to do my chivalrous duty, but I work alone.” Cullin knew that the last thing in the world Dalbry wanted was the annoyingly honest and honorable knight at his side.

“The Knight’s Manual allows brothers-in-arms,” Tremayne said, “so long as each knight faces the dragon individually. I can cite chapter and verse, if need be. I am very familiar with the Manual.”

Dalbry frowned. “I have no doubt of that.” He seemed to be searching for other excuses, but not for any cowardly reasons. Cullin understood that Tremayne had to be taken out of the picture. Somehow. “I have no horse, however. My valiant steed Lightning was killed by the last dragon I slew.”

“I c-can arrange a new horse,” Phineal said. “The king will allow it—for dragon-slaying purposes only.”

Cutting off further debate, Tremayne said, “We will set off at dawn.” Scorn dripped from his voice. “
If
we survive this interminable feast! There must be hours left.”

He wandered away in search of the garderobe, and Cullin politely directed him toward the women’s privy down the adjacent corridor.

I
T WAS A
perfect cave. Reeger concluded that as soon as he made his way through the sinister rock formations and at last found Old Snort.

He could smell brimstone and steam long before he actually saw the cave. Even from a distance the reek from the cave was so strong his eyes stung. He sneezed, coughed, and spat out a wad of phlegm, but clearing his nasal passages did not help. “Rust, it’s like the foul breath of a real dragon!”

Yes, he could work with that.

The locals shunned this cave. The rotten-egg smell, the wafting steam, the burbling sounds—Old Snort was indeed a scary place. His sources were already so fearful that they had given him conflicting directions.

For the time being, he left the mule and the supplies in their camp while he trudged through the trackless hills looking for Old Snort. Now he would have a long trek back. Such was his life, doing all the work while Dalbry reveled in feasts, listened to minstrels, and endured fine ladies fawning over him. On the other hand, in order to play his role properly, Dalbry had to bathe more often than Reeger thought was healthy. He had to brush his hair, add a dab or two of perfume, and speak courtly language. Reeger snorted to himself. Given the choice, he preferred refurbishing latrines.

Around the cave, the steam was so thick it hung like a yellowish fog in the low-lying areas, and the ground was a lifeless brown color. A few thorny weeds had struggled to survive but failed. It looked like a bleak wasteland.

It looked like a dragon’s lair.

Proceeding with caution, he entered the cave, where he was engulfed by fetid and stifling shadows. Moisture trickled down walls that were covered with greenish slime. “Oh, even better!” He smeared slimy fingers on his trousers before venturing forward. Towering rocks had fallen together to create the talus cave, but cracks in the ceiling let in enough light that he could make his way through the dim twisting passages.

When he heard rumbling and hissing ahead, a shiver went down his spine. Yes, gullible people would believe a monster lived here. Fortunately, Reeger knew enough insider tricks to cure him of gullibility.

He crept forward, worried about what he might find and glad that no one else accompanied him, because then he would have to pretend to be dismissive. On the other hand, he could have made Cullin go first, just in case something with large snapping jaws lay ahead.

Reeger wasn’t afraid of dragons—they were just creatures of myth.
Bears
, though, were certainly real.

When the tunnel opened to a large grotto, the steam was so thick that Reeger could barely see. The sulfurous stench was heavier here, and sweat dripped from his dark hair.

After the steam cleared, he encountered a large pool—a hot spring! He had heard of luxurious steam baths where lords and ladies would soak away the joint aches caused by a rich lifestyle. Nobles often suffered from acute gout. Since Reeger usually ate boiled potatoes seasoned with snake or salt pork, he didn’t have to worry about gout.

Reeger stood at the edge of the hot spring and dipped his fingers into the water before yanking them back with a yelp. Who would want to bathe in water as hot as a cauldron? How could lords and ladies stand it with their delicate skin? Maybe nobles had a toughness he didn’t understand.

As he hunched there, a gurgling came from deep in the pool. The water churned and roiled, and two huge bubbles of rotten-egg stench spewed into the chamber. Reeger recoiled from the smell. Then an idea occurred to him.

“Dragon farts. We can sell that.”

More bubbles churned up, and the steam thickened in the grotto. When a rumbling hiss grew louder from deep underground, Reeger decided it was an appropriate time to make his way back outside. He retreated quickly, winding his way back out of the passage as the rumble grew to a roar. He scrambled faster. His worn boots slipped on the slimy rock floor. Why did algae have to grow in such inconvenient places?

The hissing and grumbling became an explosive sound behind him, and superstitious fear yammered in his head. It couldn’t possibly be a real dragon—but
something
was emerging from under the grotto.

He bolted outside just as the churning reached a crescendo, and an explosion of steam and vapor vomited from the jagged mouth of Old Snort. Scalding water pattered all around him like a rainstorm from hell.

The column of steam died down within seconds, and Reeger blinked, catching his breath. He still didn’t understand what had just happened . . . and suddenly he knew what it was.

He had heard of geysers before, a matter of simple hydrogeologics: an explosion of boiling water caused by underground volcanic activity, surface water percolating down and striking hot rocks, then being ejected through a vent in a high-pressure column.

Yes, there was always a rational scientific explanation. A good con man never let himself be too caught up in his con.

If Reeger could predict how often Old Snort erupted, that would be an even more useful bit of information for Dalbry and Cullin. This was getting better by the moment!

The mule brayed loudly in either complaint or delight as Reeger returned to camp. He patted the beast on the head, ate some squirrel jerky, and gathered the sack of props. He had to trudge all the way back to Old Snort, since the mule would be much too skittish in the vicinity of the geyser.

Reeger headed for the ominous cave at sunset. Already the convincing abode of a monster, Old Snort needed little work from him to crystallize the picture, but Reeger took his work seriously. Small details mattered.

Outside the geyser cave, he selected from among the femurs, rib cages, and skulls they had harvested from the graveyard. He cracked a few of the bones for effect and scattered them in a pattern to imply the dragon’s satisfaction.

He explored the area thoroughly, climbed up and around the rocks, poked through the cave, and found another crack, a second entrance where he could slip in through the side. It was always good to have an emergency exit.

Satisfied, he built a campfire near the smelly cave and settled down.

Three times during the night the geyser erupted with a spectacular show. Reeger was impressed, although he didn’t appreciate the interruptions to his well-earned sleep.