Dragon Business, The (10 page)

M
EANWHILE, BACK AT
the castle . . .

The men’s garderobe was a spacious two-seater, but by the time they found it, Sir Tremayne had arrived moments earlier. He swung the door shut, carrying one of the kingdom’s monk-transcribed newspapers, which implied he would be in there awhile. Cullin and Dalbry decided they didn’t have to go after all.

As the two headed back toward the banquet hall, Sir Dalbry seemed embarrassed by the encounter. “Tremayne wants to accompany me on the hunt.” He frowned. “The last thing I need is a squeaky-clean knight with a disproportionate sense of honor breathing down my neck. How are we going to do our dragon business?”

“Tremayne chafes my smallclothes,” Cullin agreed.

Dalbry lowered his voice, sounding troubled. “He isn’t a bad sort. A true knight in shining armor, filled with an unshakable sense of honor. In fact, he reminds me of what I should have been.” He plucked at his sleeve. “Not this pretend knight performing pretend quests for gullible people.”

Cullin suddenly got an idea. “Why don’t we find a way to rescue Princess Affonyl from marrying that man she obviously despises? Would that make you feel honorable?”

“Nothing we can do about it, lad. Getting married against your will—it comes with being a princess. That’s one advantage to our lifestyle, footloose and fancy-free, never pinned down. Neither of us has to worry about being married to a spouse we despise.”

“But what if Princess Affonyl and I were happy together?”

“You’ve been listening to too many of Nightingale Bob’s sappy songs.”

Cullin shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with being innocent and romantic.”

“Right now my main concern is how to deal with Sir Tremayne. If he follows me on the dragon hunt, it’ll cramp my style.”

A slow grin slid across Cullin’s face. “How much longer do you suppose the feast will last?”

Dalbry stroked his beard. “Only another few hours or so. I’ve been warned they still have several more root vegetables, second salads, plus at least two dessert courses. And coffee.”

“Plenty of time, then. You leave Sir Tremayne to me.”

Fortunately, the castle’s apothecary kept extended evening hours, so the shop was still open. Due to King Norrimun’s frequent feasts and his corpulence, the apothecary stocked digestive aids of all varieties and potencies.

When Cullin entered, a tiny bell jangled on top of the wooden door. The apothecary behind the counter was a wizened old man with very little hair on top of his head, but eyebrows so large they made up for the lack elsewhere. All around the shop, shelves were loaded with clay jars, blown-glass beakers, tied leather pouches. The gift section offered scented candles, birthday scrolls, and potpourri for sale.

The apothecary squinted at him with a compassionate and earnest expression, as if he truly felt the pain of all the maladies his customers suffered. “I’m so sorry for your misery,” he said, as if Cullin had already told a tale of woe. “You look like such a strapping young man . . . yet, not all infirmities are obvious to the naked eye. How can I help? Is it the pox? The, er,
private
pox? When I was your age, I visited many a saucy wench, heh-heh. One must practice safe copulation.”

He clucked his tongue and kept talking before Cullin could even wedge in a word. “Now, is it the kind with just a rash, or the one with erupting pustules? Oh, that’s nasty. You have to lance the pustules with a needle, then cauterize them with a hot brand. Try finding someone to help you with
that!
”

Cullin managed to interrupt, “It’s not for me—it’s for a friend.”

Again, the apothecary looked painfully sincere. “Naturally, it’s always for a friend. But I have cures here—magic cures, specially formulated unguents prepared under the light of a full moon, sprinkled with holy water, and touched by a virgin’s kiss. Guaranteed to cure all sorts of sexual pox.”

“It’s not a sexual pox,” Cullin interjected. “And it really is for a friend. Actually, for my master—Sir Dalbry.”

The apothecary looked alarmed. “Sir Dalbry suffers from a pox? Yes, I can see why he might want to keep that a secret.”

“It’s
not
a pox,” Cullin said again. “But his condition is . . . embarrassing, and requires discretion.”

“But of course.” The apothecary patted his chest, searching the pockets of his smock for a notepad. “So long as you tell me all the details.”

“Sir Dalbry is renowned for his prowess on the battlefield and his skill as a dragon slayer, but he also suffers from . . .” Cullin made every effort to look uncomfortable and embarrassed. “
Severe and chronic constipation, and it is exacerbated when he rides all day in the saddle. Fortunately, his horse was eaten by a dragon, so he’s been walking for the last week or two.”

The apothecary nodded. “Exercise will often get the bowels moving.”

“I can tell when my master is regular by his improved mood,” Cullin said. “But tonight he has been sitting through King Norrimun’s long feast. He was already plugged up, and now I fear the worst.”

“Oh, dear.” The apothecary’s tone of voice expressed even deeper sympathy.

“I was hoping you might have something that’ll help? An extremely potent laxative? No need for it to be gentle, so long as it’s effective.”

“Ah, you need waterweed. One good dose will clean him right out.”

Cullin smiled. “That sounds like just the thing. Can it be added to food or drink?”

The apothecary rummaged among his clay pots and beakers. “Yes, the best delivery system is in coffee or some other hot beverage.”

He glanced at a sundial mounted on a countertop, but since it was nighttime, the sundial didn’t operate properly; the wizened apothecary brought a candle close, looked at the shadow, and said, “Yes, I can see by this hour King Norrimun should be ready for the dessert course.”

“Perfect timing. Give me a good strong dose of waterweed extract—in fact, make it two doses. Sir Dalbry is very plugged up. Most distressing.”

“Poor man. I hope he feels well enough to slay a dragon. Between you and me, I think Sir Phineal might require a little help.”

“Oh, he will,” Cullin said in a bright voice. “He would never let a little thing like constipation keep him from his duty.”

The waterweed extract came in a small vial. The apothecary cautioned him about the potency of the drug. “Use only half of this, or he’ll be quite miserable.”

After thanking the wizened old man, Cullin made his way back to the banquet hall, where the castle chefs were gathered in the serving corridors like an army about to launch a military assault on the dessert course. The ancient Mother Singra paced about, lining them up in ranks, sorting the treats into alphabetical order.

Seeing the cakes, tarts, pastries, and cookies, the bowls of clotted cream, scones and jam, pickled fruits, oozing honeycombs (with a special stamp indicating that it was genuine honey from the town of Folly), Cullin couldn’t understand how Princess Affonyl remained so slender. Perhaps it was worry over having to marry Duke Kerrl, or maybe she had a metabolism as beautiful as her features.

He reentered the hall amidst the flurry of serving dishes and the smell of sweets. Typically, diners would have celebrated such marvelous desserts, but after hours of a constant food assault, they groaned at the prospect of consuming even more.

Dalbry sat next to Sir Tremayne, both knights looking cool and formal to each other. On the other side of the table, Sir Phineal looked miserable and ashamed. Apparently, they had already announced they would go out on an independent dragon hunt in the morning, and King Norrimun had grudgingly allowed that—
if
they actually killed the monster—he would allow a small honorarium, then got distracted with anticipation of the impending voluminous desserts.

As the servants rushed forward with trays of apple pie, egg custards, lemon cake, and poppyseed cookies, others followed with pots of strong coffee brewed from beans brought into Rivermouth, imported from the fabled continent of Atlantis. Recently, a merchant ship filled with magically decaffeinated beans had gone down in a storm, and King Norrimun apologized that he could not provide decaf for his more sensitive subjects.

Cullin approached Dalbry as if he wanted to speak with his master, but he timed his movements so that as he came close to the two knights, servants were just pouring the coffee. Dalbry read something in his squire’s eyes, and Cullin surreptitiously flashed the glass vial.

Dalbry cleared his throat to distract Tremayne. “If you and I go out dragon slaying tomorrow, I’ll ask King Norrimun to grant me a loaner horse.”

When Tremayne glanced at the other knight, Cullin dumped the entire vial of waterweed extract into his coffee.

The shining knight said, “You must have a horse, Sir Dalbry, so that you can keep up with me. Together we will show them how dragon slaying is done.” He picked up the coffee and took a gulp. “That is a bitter brew.” He looked down the table. “Could someone please pass the sweetener?”

N
IGHTINGALE BOB WAS
still singing when the second dessert course came around. The minstrel had an astonishing repertoire that covered a range of comedies, tragedies, heroic deeds, and epic debacles. Out of consideration for his patron, he sang “The Tale of Brave Sir Dalbry” two more times. By now, the drowsy, overstuffed banquet attendees paid little attention to the music.

Sir Tremayne noticed, however. “Why do you have to sing that song again?”

“It’s my current hit.” The minstrel struck up the same tune on his ukulele. “This time I’m doing an unplugged version. Gives it a whole different sound.”

“When are you going to finish ‘The Ballad of Sir Tremayne’?
’
”

The minstrel fidgeted. “I’ve got an artistic block. Genius can’t be rushed.”

Tremayne frowned into his coffee, while Sir Dalbry tried not to show his pride; Cullin still found the rhymes problematic.

As Nightingale Bob played song after jaunty song about legendary knights who met horrible ends, Sir Phineal turned paler than sour milk, tinged with a faint shade of green. In the songs, one hero was gutted by wolves, but he crawled eviscerated for miles through a forest, dragging his entrails behind him, so he could return a lost handkerchief to a beautiful lady. Another knight fought hand-to-hand with a ferocious bear and had his eyes gouged out by the beast’s claws. But even blinded he was able to smell his foe and kill it by ramming his fist down the bear’s throat; the beast choked to death just after it bit off the knight’s arm; the elbow was too much for it to swallow.

“Ah, glorious,” said King Norrimun, applauding.

Another knight had climbed a tall tree during a thunderstorm to rescue the queen’s kitten, and in his metal armor he was struck by lightning and killed. But—happy ending—the fluffy kitten fell into Her Majesty’s arms and was safe.

In song after song, knight after knight slew monster after monster. But in order for the tales to be properly poignant, each hero had to suffer a tragic mortal wound in the process. Sir Phineal swallowed hard. “I see a p-pattern here.”

The great feast of Saint Bartimund wound down after a mere seven hours. Overstuffed and exhausted, Cullin said to Dalbry, “I’ll prepare your sword and armor for tomorrow’s hunt, oil your dragonskin cape, set out your boots and socks, make sure everything is ready for our departure at sunrise.”

On Cullin’s way out of the banquet hall, Sir Tremayne raised a hand and spoke privately to him. “Hold, boy.”

He hesitated. “What is it, sir?”

Tremayne shot a sidelong glance at Dalbry, but the older knight was paying attention to King Norrimun and Duke Kerrl. Servants had cleared away the plates and dessert bowls so the two men could spread out maps of their respective dukedom and kingdom.

“I’ve been watching you, young man—and I’m impressed. You do good work.” He lowered his voice further. “I could use a skilled page.”

Cullin sniffed. “I’m a
squire
, sir. I’m too old and too well trained to be a mere page.” He had never been a page either, nor a real squire, but he had the role down quite well.

“Apologies; I should have known. What are you doing with a washed-up, has-been knight like Dalbry?”

“He is my master, sir. He took me in when I most needed it, gave me the opportunities a young boy dreams of.” Cullin wondered where this was going.

“Good help is hard to find. I’d like to have your name and contact information.”

“At the moment I am happy with my employment.”

Tremayne narrowed his eyes. “It never hurts to have a fallback position. There’s no telling what might happen when we hunt the dragon. You might need a new master sooner than you think.”

Cullin wanted to escape this conversation. “I’ll leave my information with the castle’s human resources department.”

Sir Tremayne’s expression suddenly twisted, and he put a hand on his stomach. The honorable knight’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. He squirmed, held his stomach again, and a sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. His stomach gurgled so loudly it sounded as if a small dragon had slipped into the castle and was growling underneath the long table.

“Maybe it was something you ate,” Cullin said.

Meanwhile, Duke Kerrl unrolled a large map in front of the king, pulled a dagger from his waist, and used its sharp tip to trace the boundaries of his dukedom. Outside of the immediate area drawn on the chart, the cartographer had doodled ferocious beasts and marked “Unknown lands—Here be monsters” . . . even though detailed maps of the surrounding kingdoms were widely available in any monastery library.

Princess Affonyl sat next to her rotund father, studying the maps herself. She looked up at the duke with an icy glare. “Those boundaries aren’t correct. This line of hills is drawn much too far into your dukedom, sir. The tin mines are over here, not there.” She pointed with her delicate finger. “And the lumber road goes through this valley, which is definitely
not
in your territory.”

Duke Kerrl let out a brittle chuckle. “How charming you are, my dear. You shouldn’t bother with such details. I have it on the greatest rumored authority that my maps are correct and that your father’s need updating.”

“It’s not a matter of rumors,” Affonyl said. “It’s a matter of plain geography, cartography, and trigonometry.”

Kerrl rolled his eyes. “Where does your daughter learn such big words, Sire?”

Exasperated, Norrimun patted Affonyl on the hand, but she snatched it away. “What did I tell you, my sweet? Be a princess. No young man wants to date a woman who shows off her intelligence.”

“Intelligence is obvious to anyone who bothers to look,” Affonyl said. “I dispute Duke Kerrl’s claims to this territory. His maps are incorrect. We have other maps in our castle archives, and I can prove what I say.”

A dark expression crossed the duke’s face. “And who is to say that your ancient maps are accurate?”

Affonyl’s expression tightened. “Our court surveyors say it. We can send out teams to remap the kingdom if you like.”

King Norrimun forced a chuckle, stroked his curly beard. “Ho-hum! There’s no cause for debate, since it won’t matter once you two are married. With the duke as my proud son-in-law and you, dear Affonyl, as his radiant and faithful wife, our lands will be joined, and any disputed borders merely a matter of historical interest.”

Duke Kerrl relaxed and rolled up his map. “We’ll make sure all the proper documents are finished, signed, and sealed, so I can begin to absorb your kingdom into my lands.”

“I thought we were joining as equal partners?” Affonyl said.

Kerrl chuckled again. “My lovely princess, I can see you have far too much time on your hands. Once we’re married, you won’t have the time or energy to worry about books and alchemy and astronomy and cartography. You’ll be too busy having my babies—brave sons to grow up into powerful knights! And of course you’ll be mending my fine clothes. I’ve heard you’re proficient in embroidery with a new technique of abstract designs?”

Affonyl stood from her chair, like a rising thunderhead. Her expression darkened, her eyes flashed. Cullin thought she looked absolutely beautiful when she was feisty—so long as her wrath was not directed toward him. “Father, I feel ill. I’m going to my chambers.”

The old nursemaid Mother Singra hurried up to attend her, and the two of them stalked out of the banquet hall, followed by a herd of adoring cats. The princess went to her tower room and locked herself inside.