Dragon Business, The (20 page)

I
T WAS CULLIN’S
turn to sit in Pony’s saddle, while Reeger and Affonyl went on foot next to the overloaded mule. They made good time, heading away from the abandoned village in search of a connecting route out of the queendom. They did not expect to have trouble finding some other land where they could engage in the dragon business with less risk of encountering the real thing.

At midmorning, a group of knights came riding toward them. Even from a distance, Cullin could see their swords, shields, and flashing armor. Reeger immediately looked to the dense forest along the road. “You two can play knight and squire, but I shouldn’t be seen with you.”

He gestured for Affonyl to join him, but she wanted to stay with Cullin. “I’ll say I’m a peasant girl keeping company with these traveling knights on my way to Queen Faria’s palace, where I hope to find work as a muffin maiden.”

Cullin tried to imagine the former princess as a muffin maiden in the castle kitchens. “You’re getting the hang of making up stories.”

“I’ve been paying attention, Squirrel.”

“Suit yourself,” Reeger said. “Just don’t count on me to come rescuing you.” He yanked the mule’s rope and ducked into the underbrush.

Sir Dalbry reined Drizzle to a halt in the wide road so they could meet the five oncoming knights. The leader of the group wore dazzling armor and a spotless indigo-and-white cape. His white horse was unsullied by speckles of any color.

Dalbry lifted his bearded chin. “Sir Tremayne. I see you’ve recovered from the intestinal curse?”

“Fully recovered, Sir Dalbry.” The knight looked grim. “I would have helped you slay the dragon that killed Duke Kerrl, but my unfortunate digestive problems made that impossible.”

“Having diarrhea while wearing full plate must be difficult,” Cullin said. “And impossible to clean. So much for shining armor.”

The other four mounted knights blocked the road, swords drawn, as if intent on waylaying them. Affonyl tried to stay out of the way, and no one paid attention to her.

“We are honored to accept you into our chivalrous consortium, Sir Dalbry,” Tremayne said. “This queendom needs our help—it is infested with dragons.”

“
Infested?
” Cullin asked. “You mean there’s more than one?”

“So far it is a singular infestation,” said the burliest of the knights, a man with a ruddy complexion, dark eyebrows, and a dark beard. He introduced himself as Sir Hernon.

“Queen Faria requires our services,” Tremayne said. “And now she requires yours as well. Normally, I would seek the glory of killing the monster myself, but after the incident with Duke Kerrl, I realized that dragon slaying requires a coordinated effort. Therefore, we have formed this consortium of knights: myself and these four others, Sir Hernon, Sir Morgan, Sir Jems, and Sir Artimo.”

As he introduced them, each knight lifted a visor, tipped a sword, or raised a banner. Tremayne added, “We all swear by the sacred words in the Knight’s Manual.”

“Revised edition,” added Sir Morgan, an old bald knight with a missing front tooth.

Tremayne removed a fine leather-bound volume from his saddlebag, holding it as if it were a religious tome. “We studied every word and vowed to follow the expectations of knighthood.”

Affonyl interrupted, “Has everyone in the land read the Knight’s Manual? How does the public know what those expectations are?”

With a glance at Affonyl’s drab clothes, shorn blond hair, and dusty face, Tremayne dismissed her as a worthless lowborn. He turned his attention to Sir Dalbry instead. “I know the expectations. We all live by the Manual.”

“We all live by the Manual,” said the other traveling knights in unison.

Tremayne continued. “The Knight’s Manual even delineates the proper technique and requirements for an acceptable dragon slaying. That is one of the most important events of a knight’s lifetime.”

Dalbry’s brow furrowed. “I’m afraid I’ve never read it. Is the Manual a new publication?”

Sir Tremayne raised his eyebrows in indignant surprise. “It is the most important chivalrous work ever written. I have spare copies in my saddlebag.” He reached in, removed a tome identical to the first, and handed it to Dalbry, who reluctantly accepted it. “We are trying to put them in the nightstands of every guest room at every inn in the land.”

Dalbry looked at the book for an awkward moment, but couldn’t decide how to turn down the gift. “I haven’t read the Manual yet, so I am at a disadvantage, but I look forward to studying it carefully.”

Cullin leaned over from Pony to look, noting the name of the author imprinted on the leather. “It says Tremayne—did you write the Manual?”

The shining knight puffed with pride. “My father did, but I proofread it. This book standardizes knightly behavior, and all knights are implicitly bound by the rules.” He turned his horse about. “Including you, Sir Dalbry. We are going to Queen Faria’s Court. You will accompany us.”

The older knight cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we’re on a different quest. Now let us pass.”

Trying to hide his alarm, Cullin piped up with what he hoped sounded like a good excuse. “We’re headed to the barony next door where a cyclops has been kidnapping sheep and shearing them without the shepherd’s permission.”

“That can wait,” said Sir Jems, frowning. “Killing dragons takes priority.”

Sir Artimo said with a sniff, “It’s in the Knight’s Manual—Code of Honor, Section 12.” He was the thinnest of the knights and carried the thinnest of swords.

Sir Dalbry pointed out, “You have five fully armed knights—the monster won’t have a fighting chance. Queen Faria’s dragon is all yours, gentlemen. I’ll take care of the cyclops single-handedly, although I do intend to use both eyes.”

Sir Tremayne had drawn his sword, and now the other knights drew their weapons, pushing closer. The mood grew dark. Tremayne said, “I fear we cannot accept nay for an answer.” The five knights clustered around Pony and Drizzle. “You’re coming with us. It’s a matter of honor.”

Sir Jems said in a surly voice, “Besides, we could always use your squire for bait.”

Without giving Dalbry and Cullin a choice in the matter, the knights rode off toward Queen Faria’s main city.

“Chivalry is serious business,” said Sir Tremayne as they moved along the road. “If a knight’s armor is tarnished, it’s a sign that his honor is tarnished as well.”

“Let’s not paint with such a broad brush,” said Sir Hernon in a deep voice, scratching his unruly black beard. “When you’re living off the land on a vigorous quest, hygiene and suit maintenance aren’t always easy.”

Tremayne wasn’t convinced. “And yet my armor is always spotless.”

“We can’t all be as perfect as you,” said Sir Jems, whose favorite expression seemed to be a scowl.

“I wouldn’t expect everyone to be.” Tremayne flashed his white teeth. “But you can, of course, try.” He rode onward.

Cullin felt trapped as the knights guided their mounts along. Affonyl hurried to keep up with them, but they made no concessions for the “peasant girl” following them on foot. She didn’t complain, merely held her tongue and matched their pace. Though Cullin felt sorry for her, he knew she was a tough young woman. Still, she might have been better off running into the forest with Reeger and the mule.

When Sir Tremayne’s white steed paused to munch on a clump of juicy weeds at the side of the road, Pony caught up with him. “I take it your father was a famous knight, too, Sir Tremayne?” Cullin asked. “He must have been the greatest knight of all if he was the author of the Knight’s Manual.”

Tremayne glanced at the young man. “You might think my father was famed in story and song, but in truth he was just a knightophile, a collector fascinated by every aspect of chivalry and honor.

“He would buy dented or shattered shields after jousting tournaments. One entire hallway in our home was filled with pennants, and he collected trading cards of well-known knights. I grew up having to memorize coats of arms and heraldry sigils even before I learned how to read and write. Each night before I went to bed, he would tell me a story of some brave knight or other.

“As we learned tale after tale, we both realized that what we had assumed to be a mutually agreed-upon code of honor was not actually codified at all. Knights just blundered along, doing their best to behave in a knightly fashion, but they didn’t have any standardized rule book.”

He looked at Cullin, narrowing his eyes. “For instance, if a brave knight had to choose between retrieving his queen’s favor from a mud hole or rescuing a young virgin from the clutches of a cannibal giant, which would he choose?”

Cullin was surprised, for the answer seemed obvious. “I’d save the virgin, of course. She’s bound to be grateful.”

“Ah, but if she were so grateful, then how much longer would she remain a virgin? Might it not be better to ensure that she remained pure, even if it meant the giant devoured her?”

“Better for whom?” Affonyl interjected, but the shining knight ignored her.

“I’d still say saving a girl is preferable to saving a queen’s scarf from the mud,” Cullin said.

“Again, the answer is not so clear—what if the virgin were a commoner? That would equalize the choice.”

Affonyl gave a loud, annoyed cough, but somehow managed to prevent herself from making an unseemly outburst.

“My father spent years interviewing knights at festivals, jousting tournaments, even on the battlefield. One particularly well-known knight, Sir Eargon, had fought in a terrific battle against a goblin army. He slew a hundred of the creatures, but they had hacked off one of his arms and one of his legs. My father found Sir Eargon as he lay dying on the bloody ground and managed to conduct the very last interview. It was published in
Medieval Tymes
—maybe you saw it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t read the newspaper regularly.”

“Pity. He was very proud of that interview.”

As they kept riding along at a slow pace, Tremayne withdrew his bound volume from the saddlebag, opened it, and flipped through the pages. “You can have your own copy, squire, once you become a full-fledged knight.”

“That’s all right. I’ll have a look at Sir Dalbry’s when he’s finished.”

Tremayne patted the fine leather cover. “When my father finished his opus, he went from monastery to monastery, but none of the monks would publish it. Limited interest, they said. They claimed that it needed
editing
.” He snorted. “Who were the monks to tell my father that he needed editing? So we self-published the volume, and I’ve been distributing it widely ever since. Knights need to know how to behave. We have to abide by every letter of the rules.”

Cullin knew what to say. “To promulgate the mystique of the knighthood?”

“Exactly! And he was so proud when I was dubbed Sir Tremayne after my unusual displays of bravery.” He flushed, as if he didn’t want to brag. “I left a copy of the book for Sir Phineal in King Norrimun’s court. I hope he studies it carefully—that man has a lot of catching up to do. I was able to talk with him at great length while he nursed me back to health. I believe he’s a changed man now.”

Sir Artimo rode up to them. The wiry, beanpole knight grinned. “We all swear by the Manual. It’s a good read, boy—a real page-turner. Sir Morgan even gave it a cover blurb.”

Sir Hernon added, “Queen Faria will be impressed to see we have certain standards. She’ll know exactly what to expect when our consortium of chivalrous knights arrives in her court.”

H
EADING TOWARD FARIA’S
castle, Sir Tremayne led the group of knights along the rutted and muddy road known as the Queen’s Superhighway. As Cullin got to know his new companions, he began to imagine how to tell this tale if it were ever told, what spin to use—a consortium of knights joining their swords even without a round table, a band of armored brothers traveling together to slay a horrific dragon.

“We should have a motto,” said Sir Artimo. “A catchphrase the minstrels can use.”

Artimo was a wiry whip of a man who flaunted a wiry whip of a sword. He had such finesse with his slender blade that he claimed he could pluck the eyelashes from his opponent during a duel. Cullin doubted that such an ability would be of use against the huge dragon that had attacked them at the abandoned peasant-tourist village, however . . . but who knew when such skills could come in handy? Perhaps Sir Artimo should have referred to himself as a dragon
tickler
rather than a dragon
slayer
.

He wore intensely bright fabrics: scarlet, emerald green, shocking pink—the better to catch the attention of the ladies, apparently, although not advantageous on a quest that required camouflage.

After pondering, Artimo suggested a motto: “How about ‘All for one, and one for all’?”

“Sounds too sissy,” said Sir Hernon. “How about ‘Get on with it, or get out of the way’?”

Dour Sir Jems grunted, “How about ‘Every man for himself’?”

Jems seemed happiest when he was unhappy, as fond of complaints as he was of his wineskin. He filled his outlook on the world with clouds, finding sunshine to be bothersome and bright. When Sir Jems squirted from his wineskin at a rest stop under an oak tree, the wine had turned to vinegar (possibly from proximity to the knight’s mood). Rather than dumping it out, Jems relished having something else to complain about.

“Give the chivalrous consortium a chance,” said Sir Tremayne. “We must provide a unified front when we make our pitch to dowager Queen Faria—and we are very lucky that Sir Dalbry has joined us. His credentials imbue our consortium with considerable gravitas.”

“I daresay it would have even greater gravitas if my participation were
voluntary
,” Dalbry muttered.

As the squire and apprentice dragon slayer, Cullin rode on Pony, while Affonyl hurried to keep up with them. At least she had good walking boots and comfortable clothes. For a formerly pampered princess, she was in terrific shape.

He was more concerned about being trapped among a group of serious knights who had an altogether different philosophy about the dragon business. Knowing the others could hear him, Cullin commented, “We’ve slain so many dragons already, Sir Dalbry, we should give these brave men a chance.”

“That defeats the purpose of a consortium,” Sir Tremayne said. “Our aim is to promulgate the ideals of knighthood.”

“Doesn’t it negate those ideals if you kidnap us in order to accomplish your aim?” Cullin asked.

The shining knight with the improbably clean fabrics said, “Check the Knight’s Manual. The bond of honor may seem restrictive to a young squire, but it provides a safety net for all brave knights.”

“It feels like a net all right,” said Dalbry.

Walking alongside Pony, Affonyl let out a disbelieving snort. The knights did not react at all, since dirty peasant girls were supposed to be neither seen nor heard.

They traveled along the Queen’s Superhighway to the crowded city that had grown up around Faria’s castle. Sir Morgan licked his fingertip and smoothed his eyebrows, which were the only remaining hair on his head. “Should we stop at an inn so we can freshen up and make ourselves more presentable for Queen Faria? I hear she’s quite a looker.”

Sir Morgan considered his loss of hair a blessing because otherwise it would have gone gray. He was missing a front tooth, which he claimed allowed him to stand out among the other smiling knights. He frequently talked about how handsome he had been as a young lordling, how women had fawned over him; he had lost count of the number of pretty scarves ladies had given him to win his favor. Morgan carried a small axe at his waist (he called it his “battle hatchet”) and a sword with several notches on the blade.

“Each notch tells a story—would you like to hear them?” The other knights answered his question with a resounding “Maybe later.”

Sir Hernon let out a deep growling sound. “Make ourselves presentable for what? We need to appear fierce and invincible—true dragon slayers.” He plucked a beetle out of his voluminous beard. “That’s what counts.”

Hernon was big and gruff, with wiry black hair all over his head and face, as if he were preparing to infiltrate a group of recalcitrant bears. He wore a wolf-pelt cape, which to Cullin looked more like a dog skin. Because of his stocky, muscular build, Hernon had to have his armor and courtly clothes made by a specialist in larger sizes. Hearing about King Norrimun the Corpulent, Hernon had once asked for a recommendation to the big ruler’s armorer and clothier.

“No time to stop at inns,” Tremayne said. Despite their long, hard journey on the road, not a speck of dust had settled on him. “We have business with the queen.”

Queen Faria’s castle—which might more adequately be described as a palace—had a distinctive architectural style with an overabundance of arches, balconies, and crenellations, obviously more for aesthetics than for defensive purposes.

As the consortium of knights made their way to the front gates, Cullin gawked at the numerous statues and fountains, walls painted with frescos, flower boxes in every window filled with bright tulips that had been encouraged to bloom even out of season. Trellises were covered with morning glories; arbors were hung with grapevines.

Cullin admired the beauty. “I can see why the people don’t want a dragon to destroy this particular city.”

As the only squire among six knights, Cullin had the task of riding ahead with Pony so he could fill out the proper forms and get them an audience with the dowager queen. Affonyl accompanied Cullin, whispering protocol hints. With her help, they passed through the royal bureaucracy with no trouble at all.

But when Affonyl tried to accompany Cullin into the throne room, two guards frowned at her shaggy hair and dusty clothes. They barred her from entry. “Sorry, miss. We’re not letting a dirty little peasant girl into the presence of the queen.”

Affonyl’s eyes flared. “I’m not—” Cullin flashed her a warning glance, and she bit her tongue, reassessed, and said, “I’m not
little
.”

Cullin interceded. “She travels with the chivalrous consortium of knights as our personal assistant. While we go about our dragon-slaying business, would it be possible for her to stay at the castle, maybe find some work in the embroidery department? She has quite an interesting technique.”

Even though the guards arranged for her to be whisked off to the castle kitchens, Affonyl did not thank Cullin for his gentlemanly consideration.

At court the merchants, trade ministers, decorative knights, and visiting aunts and uncles were fully aware of the dragon’s horrific depredations. Peasants were evacuating the queendom, tourism was down, and everyone felt nervous.

When word got to the throne, the dowager queen was giddy at the prospect of so many brave and handsome knights coming to rescue her (particularly the “handsome” part). The six knights entered en masse, displaying their various suits of armor, banners, coats of arms. Cullin walked beside Sir Dalbry as he always did, but this time he felt awkward and unbalanced, not sure how to proceed. Normally, their scheme was well rehearsed.

Queen Faria’s sergeant-at-arms introduced the brave knights by their brave names—Sir Tremayne first, who cut a dashing figure as if he had walked straight off the pages of an illustrated children’s storybook, then Sir Morgan, Sir Jems, Sir Artimo, Sir Hernon, and Sir Dalbry. Cullin had intended for them to be introduced in alphabetical order, but the crier got the slips of paper mixed up. The knights rearranged themselves to step forward and take a knee before the old queen. Sir Morgan flashed his gap-toothed smile, trying to be flirtatious.

Queen Faria was as ancient and as powdered as Affonyl had suggested. The wrinkles on her prunish face were like troughs to hold white makeup powder. She had added dabs of rouge to her cheeks to imply a youthful blush. Faria beamed when she saw all the knights, and even giggled when Sir Morgan flirted, but she was most impressed when Sir Dalbry was announced.

The older knight stepped forward, cutting an excellent figure with his dragonskin cape, his sword, and his confidence. “We are here to save your queendom, Majesty.” He bowed and then stepped back, for they had agreed to let Sir Tremayne do the talking.

Queen Faria had a breathy voice as she surveyed the knights. “My, my, so many legendary knights, right here in my throne room . . . although I can’t say that I’ve heard your legends before.”

“Trust me, Queen Faria,” Sir Artimo said with a flourish of his chin as if it were a fighting blade, “we are indeed legendary.”

“And
Sir Dalbry
—my, my!” The dowager queen grinned at him. “Everyone’s heard your song. Minstrels sing it night after night, and here you are! Brave Sir Dalbry—right in my hallway.”

She laughed at her own cleverness. Everyone in court laughed. The knights also showed polite amusement, although they were plainly unhappy to see the most reluctant member of their company receiving so much attention.

Sir Tremayne cleared his throat. “Majesty, a ferocious dragon is preying upon your queendom, and we are honor-bound to offer our services, according to the Knight’s Manual. We will slay the dragon for you.”

Knowing the unprofitable way that Tremayne conducted his business, Dalbry spoke up. “And in doing so, Majesty, we will incur certain expenses, yet we charge only a modest fee. As a profession, dragon slaying is highly skilled, but not lucrative. We can solve your dragon problem. We are ready to start the job today, provided we can work out the details of compensation.”

The other knights fidgeted at Dalbry’s boldness, but he remained firm. Queen Faria was not surprised by the negotiations and called in her court contracts advisor. “Are you suggesting I should hire
all six
of you to slay one dragon? It doesn’t usually require such an effort.”

“This is a dragon of substantial proportions, Majesty,” Tremayne asserted, even though he had never seen the monster.

She smiled at Dalbry—flirtatiously, Cullin feared. “Maybe I should just have the famous dragon slayer Sir Dalbry do the job—not weighed down by a bunch of amateurs.”

The other consortium knights were offended to be called amateurs. Appeasing them, Tremayne said to the queen, “Together, we can do a better job overall, Majesty.”

“Well, if you insist . . . although I’m not convinced that dragon slaying by committee is necessarily more effective.”

Having seen the real monster, Dalbry was hesitant. “The point of forming our chivalrous consortium, Majesty, was that this would be a team effort.”

Tremayne stepped forward, holding the leather-bound Knight’s Manual. “We will face the dragon one at a time, per the accepted rules of conduct, Majesty, but the others can provide support services in the meantime.”

The queen brushed flaky white powder from her dress. “I understand the economic impact the dragon is having on my queendom, so the investment would be worthwhile. I can offer you a chest of gold coins for slaying the beast.” She held up a gnarled finger. “That’s one chest for the lot of you, mind—a fee for the job.”

Tremayne and the other knights were uncomfortable even discussing financial matters. Dalbry got back to business. “When the dragon is duly slain, we will divide the reward according to the shares stipulated in our consortium’s articles.”

“But there’s more to dragon slaying than mere money,” Queen Faria said. “In order to make this endeavor more appropriate for the minstrel record of history, I will add a treasure more valuable than gold.” She put her fingers to her lips and blew out a shrill whistle that could have shattered glass.

A young woman entered through a side door near the throne. She was slender to the point of waifishness, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a shy demeanor.

Queen Faria beamed. “Brave knights, this is my beautiful daughter, Princess Minima—my only child, my greatest treasure, and worth infinitely more than gems or gold. Whichever knight actually slays the dragon will have the hand of my daughter in marriage. Isn’t that wonderful?”

In a dutiful knightly fashion, the would-be dragon slayers agreed that it was indeed wonderful. Princess Minima didn’t seem overjoyed, though. “Thanks, Mom,” she said without enthusiasm.

When the queen raised her eyebrows, flakes of white powder fell from her face onto her gown. “Only one knight can have the hand of the princess, naturally. Find some way to choose amongst yourselves when you actually fight the dragon.”

The royal contracts advisor had already drawn up a document, based on a boilerplate from other dragon-slaying endeavors. “If I could have each one of you sign?” He passed the document and a peacock feather around while his assistant carried an ink pot. Even Cullin was asked to affix his signature to the terms and conditions of the slaying.