Dragon Business, The (28 page)

W
HEN CULLIN REACHED
the court of Queen Faria, he saw that for once the minstrels were not exaggerating. Being a hero was magnificent. Riding proudly through the streets on Pony and leading the mule, he cut a dashing figure.

Too late, Cullin realized that he really should have taken one of the white stallions left posthumously to their band. That would have been more in line with the expected image. A pony might be appropriate for an apprentice dragon slayer, but a victorious knight deserved a full-fledged horse. But Cullin made do. He liked Pony, and when he rode the small beast, his own stature was increased, relatively speaking.

The mule plodded along, dragging the monster’s head behind it. On their way through the countryside, a rope in the makeshift harness had snapped, and Cullin made quick repairs before anyone saw him in town.

The dragon’s iridescent blue-green scales protected the trophy from the relentless bouncing, bashing, and battering, but even so, by the time he arrived in town the ferocious monster looked well pummeled, and several of its fangs had been knocked out. Cullin explained the wear and tear by claiming that he had given the monster a good beating during the slaying process.

As he rode down the paved streets toward Queen Faria’s terraced and well-decorated castle, awed crowds came out to cheer and laugh and applaud the brave knight. Children danced in the streets, singing “Ding-dong, the dragon’s dead!” Unfortunately, none of them could remember Cullin’s name offhand, since on his previous visit, he had been overshadowed by the more impressive knights in Sir Tremayne’s chivalrous consortium.

Cullin sat erect in the saddle, keeping his gaze on Queen Faria’s palace. Pony snorted and also lifted his head high, although the mule maintained a sedate pace as if wondering what all the fuss was about, and then wondering when someone would get rid of this bothersome reptilian burden that it had been dragging along for miles.

Carrying lavender pennants, the queen’s guard rode down from the gates on matching chestnut horses. They offered their services as escort, which impressed Cullin, as he had never before used an escort service. The people continued to cheer, and colorful flags were raised from the castle towers.

One of the guards leaned close and whispered, “What was your name again, so the criers can make a proper announcement when we get to the castle? Queen Faria wants to welcome her most impressive and dear friend by name.” After Cullin answered, the guard broke away from the group, wheeled his mount, and trotted back to the gates.

A persistent monk scurried alongside Pony and the mule. Holding a quill pen and a torn section of scroll, he asked Cullin a succession of questions about the time and date of the dragon’s demise, the full names of the other knights who had died, the complete scoop on what had happened. “It’s for the queendom’s newspaper. My fellow monks will transcribe it and put out an Extra edition. This is real stop-the-presses stuff! We’ll have it distributed within the month. Now, is that Cullin spelled with one or two els?”

“Before I give interviews, I feel obligated to inform Queen Faria first. Sorry.”

Cullin hoped the dowager queen wasn’t too overwhelmed; if the old woman collapsed from heart failure, that would put Princess Minima on the throne too soon, and the princess might not consider herself bound by the previous agreement for treasure and matrimony.

On the other hand, maybe that would be for the best. Cullin still felt conflicted, even depressed about the whole settling-down-in-a-castle situation. But he was obligated. The Knight’s Manual was clear about what he had to do.

Pets and horses were not allowed inside the palace except for service animals, and Cullin’s arrival caused some consternation: he obviously had to deliver the enormous dragon’s head to Queen Faria’s throne, but the large scaly trophy required a mule to drag it. After a quick discussion, the queendom’s protocol ministers wrote up a temporary exemption for the mule.

Pony, though, had to remain tied up outside. Cullin dismounted and gave his trusty half-sized steed a consoling pat. Pony’s obvious disappointment changed to contented acceptance when handlers gave him a trough of sparkling spring water and a bucket of oats to snack on. The mule gave Pony a look of sheer envy as the escort service guided them into the queen’s court.

The sergeant at arms bellowed at the top of his voice, “Brave Sir Cullin, dragon slayer!” Although he was standing right next to the throne, the sergeant at arms had to yell because the ancient queen was hard of hearing.

By now, the severed end of the dead dragon’s neck had stopped leaking, but it still left an ugly zigzag smear across the marble tiles. Cullin shuddered to think what King Ashtok would have done upon seeing such a mark on his coveted parquet floor. A guard cut the makeshift rope harness so the dragon head could be deposited in place.

Old Faria’s vulture-like eyes were bright, and she grinned so broadly that a full teaspoon of white facial powder was displaced from her cheek wrinkles to fall like dandruff on the front of her dress. Her enthusiastic applause dislodged more white powder.

Cullin bowed. “As you can see, Majesty, your dragon is slain, and I’ve come to claim my reward.”

To add its commentary, probably referring to the part where it had been tied to a tree as dragon bait, the mule defecated on the throne room floor. This caused a flurry of dismay among the protocol officers, who sent for a scribe to draw up an order revoking the exemption that had granted this specific mule a one-day pass into Queen Faria’s throne room. Handlers shooed the mule out, while the queen’s court pooper-scooper took care of the mess.

The dowager queen leaned forward, squinting. “I am surprised to see you, Sir Cullin. Were you not just a squire when you visited us last?”

“I was, Majesty, but I’ve since earned an honorary knighthood. Of our consortium of chivalrous knights, only I remain.”

“Oh, dear.” The dowager queen fluttered her hands in front of her face. “Whatever happened to brave Sir Tremayne?”

“Dead, Majesty. Devoured by the fire-breathing dragon.”

“And brave Sir Morgan? He was quite handsome.”

“Likewise dead, Majesty. Devoured by the dragon.”

“And Sir Artimo, with his strangely effeminate sword?”

“Dragon food as well.”

“I see a trend here.” She folded her gnarled hands on the quilt that covered her lap. “But those are just peripheral story lines, I suppose. You are obviously the main character in this tale—sometimes it’s difficult to tell.” She heaved a deep breath. “Regardless, my queendom is saved. Hooray!”

She clapped her hands in command rather than applause. “Bring forth the designated treasure chest.” The dowager queen adjusted the quilt. “And bring forth the lovely Princess Minima. We’ve got a wedding to plan.”

Two royal assistants staggered in with a wooden chest, which they set next to the dragon head. They opened the lid to display a mound of sparkling gold coins and an assortment of precious gems.

Next, Princess Minima entered, carrying a hoop with stretched white fabric on which she was painstakingly embroidering a tangled pattern. Cullin recognized one of Princess Affonyl’s modern abstract designs, which were sweeping the land. Since Affonyl had never signed her work, the patterns were attributed to “the artist formerly known as Princess.”

“Sorry to interrupt you at your embroidery, my dear, but I thought you’d like to meet your husband-to-be,” said the queen. “It’s all been arranged.”

Minima looked at Cullin as if she were assessing a cow in the marketplace, deciding whether or not to purchase it. She studied the dragon head, then the chest of treasure, then Cullin. “Of all those knights, you’re not the one I expected. You’re adequate, I suppose. Certainly better than some of the matches my mother has proposed over the past year.”

“It was the luck of the draw, Princess. And I am proud to be your betrothed.” He bowed.

The queen gave another commanding clap of her hands, and royal helpers came forward to slam shut the chest of treasure. “Since you’re going to be my daughter’s husband, we’ll hold this gold here for safekeeping.” She raised her eyes expectantly. “Now, young man, suitors after the hand of Princess Minima generally offer a special gift to woo her. What did you bring to show her your undying love?”

Cullin’s mind raced. “But . . . I brought the head of the foul dragon terrorizing your queendom. Isn’t that enough?”

Queen Faria gave a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Dear boy, don’t be silly. Killing the dragon was a gift to
me
. And while it’s always wise to stay in the good graces of your mother-in-law, you should be thinking of your own wife-to-be.”

Cullin felt dizzy. He was just a poor imitation squire who now claimed to be an honorary knight. The few coins he had been saving for passage to the New Lands would barely buy Princess Minima a cup of gourmet coffee. Even the finest imported beans wouldn’t be enough to get him out of this fix.

Then he remembered. He struggled to hide his relieved grin as he gave a deep respectful bow. “Of course, Majesty.” He dug into the pouch at his belt and withdrew three small, hard objects. “These are
magic beans
, unlike any you’ve ever beheld, reputed to have powerful protective properties. Of all the brave knights who tried their hand at slaying the dragon, only I survived—in no small part because of these beans.”

He held out his palm, and the queen gestured for her chamberlain to take the three beans. The man touched them as if they were precious diamonds before presenting them to Queen Faria, who then gave them to her daughter.

Princess Minima inspected the beans. “We could have them set into a wedding ring.”

Beans
. Cullin gave another smile. “I can think of no more appropriate way to symbolize our marriage.”

Prince Maurice helps Wendria prepare pie pans for the next day’s baking. The Scabby Wench’s Sunday brunch is known throughout the kingdom and gets very good reviews.

By now it’s late, and we are ready to go back to the castle. The prince’s mother will already be worried about him, afraid that I’ll undo all of her careful mothering. Given my own questionable background, the queen believes I will lead our son down a path of juvenile delinquency. I’m not convinced that spending a year abroad being raised as a feral child among a pack of wolves would be altogether bad for Maurice. He needs toughening up, but I’ll never convince my dear wife of the idea. Nobody is that good of a con man.

Maurice removes his apron and hangs it on a peg. He has been enthralled with my tale at times, but now looks disappointed again. “I expected something a little more romantic—fireworks, maybe, or love at first sight? You’re talking about my heritage here, Father.”

Wendria puts a stack of dishes away. “Life is full of disillusionment, young man. Those silly romantic stories are a con job foisted on people by minstrels. Reeger here thought he’d have a glamorous life as a tavern owner.”

Reeger has been dozing in a chair, bored by my story since he’s heard many variations of it over the years. Now he stirs. “And a beautiful wife.” Wendria shoots him a sharp glance, and he quickly adds, “I came close enough, though.”

“Don’t give up hope yet,” I tell the prince. “I’m not quite finished with the tale.”

P
REPARATIONS FOR THE
wedding of Sir Cullin and Princess Minima proceeded with as much spectacle, regimentation, and expense as the queendom’s last war. The happy couple were feted with feasts, jousting tournaments, juggling performances, acrobatics, even puppet shows, which the dowager queen enjoyed more than anyone else.

Cullin sat beside the princess while she smiled at the crowds and waved. Minima moved her hand in a well-practiced gesture that showed just the right mix of fondness for the people and the haughtiness of nobility.

A protocol minister spent an hour working with Cullin on how to wave properly. Again and again, the young man raised his hand, while the minister held his wrist and directed him to move it from side to side in a languid gesture. Despite the vigorous training, Cullin had a difficult time getting the hang of it, and the protocol minister grew exasperated. “Come on, Sir—you’re to be a
prince
. Show the public you really mean it!” Cullin practiced and practiced waving, trying to get just the right amount of suppleness in his wrist.

Whenever Princess Minima sat beside Cullin during court functions, she treated him like a piece of furniture. Each time he tried to strike up a conversation, Minima rolled her eyes or glanced at him with disapproval and then looked away again. This was far different from the flirtatious way Affonyl had ignored him during the feast of St. Bartimund. “You have much to learn about courtly manners, Sir Cullin. It is inappropriate for a man and his fiancée to speak to each other.”

He was crestfallen, but tried to hide it. “I just wanted to get acquainted with the princess I’m about to marry. I hardly know you. With all these spectacular wedding preparations, we don’t have time to talk.” He gave her a hopeful smile. “Still, I suppose we’ll have many years of wedded bliss to catch up on conversation.”

Minima eyed him with continued displeasure. “Why ever would a husband and wife want to do that?”

Done with talking, she folded her hands in her lap and turned to watch the continued escapades of the royal pie-throwing contest, which Queen Faria had staged in celebration of the wedding. The best pastry bakers in the queendom displayed their prowess by destroying one another’s wares. The entertainment was unlike anything Cullin had ever seen.

Meanwhile, Queen Faria had assigned the best taxidermist in the queendom to stuff, preserve, restore, and polish the dragon head. The royal taxidermist mounted two red glass spheres in the eye sockets, then painted them with an evil-looking reptilian slit. Replacement fangs for the missing teeth came from a dead Saint Bernard, a beloved old family pet. The canine teeth didn’t match the dragon’s missing fangs in either size or shape, but they were the best the taxidermist could do, unless Sir Cullin felt like killing a second dragon for spare parts. Cullin declined. The taxidermist folded the scaly lips down over the affected area and hoped no one would notice.

As the days went by, Cullin began to have more doubts. When he’d first glimpsed Affonyl in King Norrimun’s court, he had been smitten with her, and even after she discarded her royal trappings, the attraction remained undiminished. Affonyl was the standard by which he judged all princesses, and Cullin was sorry to admit that Minima fell far short of the mark.

Still, caught up in the constant and exhausting wedding preparations, Cullin tried to put those regrets aside, but his heart weighed heavy within him. It wasn’t because of some puppy-love mooning for Affonyl, nor was it merely that he saw how lacking Princess Minima was in conversation, sense of humor, common interests with him, and other regards. He also missed his footloose life on the road, seeing the world, going from kingdom to kingdom. He missed his friends.

At court, he often thought of all the lessons Dalbry had taught him. He regretted that the old knight now had only an unadorned practice sword, because Cullin had brought the damaged fancier blade to bolster his dragon-slaying story (it wasn’t seemly for a knight to kill a bloodthirsty monster with what amounted to little more than a toy sword). He should have seen to it that Dalbry got a new sword for his trouble.

And Reeger . . . rust! The man had a broken arm. How was he supposed to harvest graves for usable skeletal components? Cullin supposed Affonyl was their helper now, but he couldn’t let the girl do all of his former duties. No matter how she dressed now, Affonyl was still a former princess, with all the inherent delicateness that implied.

For his own part, Cullin didn’t know anything about being a prince. It was all he could do to pretend to be a squire, and then an honorary knight. Now that he had an insider’s glimpse of what the real job of a prince entailed, he couldn’t rely on what he had heard in stories. He studied how Queen Faria went through her days and met her responsibilities. It came as a shock to Cullin when he realized that the old dowager didn’t even
like
ruling the queendom—and Princess Minima wasn’t looking forward to taking her place either.

And what did that mean for him? He was only prince by proxy and under somewhat false pretenses. . .  .

On the night before the gala wedding celebration, when the church bells rang so loudly and so constantly that no one in the queendom would be able to sleep, Cullin went to the royal stables. He wanted to spend time with Pony and the mule, his only remaining links with his fond past.

While the squire/knight/prince felt restless with his new situation, the two animals were quite content to have a comfortable stable, straw to lie in, and all the oats they could eat. “At least somebody’s happy,” Cullin said. The mule snorted.

He barely had ten minutes of peace before a court pageboy found him in the stables. The boy looked flushed and flustered, as if he feared a spanking. “Queen Faria sent all of us to find you, Sir Cullin! You must come back to court for the rehearsal.”

“Another rehearsal? We’ve already done thirteen.”

“Yes, sir, but thirteen is an unlucky number, so the queen wants to do it again just to be sure. And the protocol minister has scheduled another hour with you to practice your wave.”

With a groan, Cullin patted Pony’s head. “Stay here and be content, my friend. Some of us have duties to do.”

The relieved pageboy said, “I have an entire written list of what’s expected of you this evening. Would you like to see it?”

“Not really.”

The page was taken aback. “I can read it aloud to you then.”

“No, I’d just like a quiet walk back to the castle.”

The boy didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t resist chattering. “I’m entitled to extra dessert tonight because I found you. All the other pages will have to go to bed without supper.” He grinned. “I’m going to get a plum pudding—with a cherry on top.”

“I’ve heard that’s delicious.”

Back at the castle, they went through the wedding rehearsal twice more for good measure. Princess Minima said her lines to perfection, batted her eyes, and smiled as a princess was supposed to, but her smiles were not directed toward Cullin. He worked hard not to fumble his lines. He wanted his performance to be perfect, because he didn’t wish to endure another rehearsal.

After another hour of successful hand-waving practice in the conservatory, Cullin retired to his room for a good night’s rest before the wedding day. He wished Reeger, Dalbry, and even Affonyl could attend the ceremony, for moral support if nothing else. But by now he was sure they had moved on to Outer Innermiddle, or wherever the roads had taken them.

When he entered his chambers, he was startled to find the royal tailor standing there with bolts of stiff but colorful fabric, paper patterns, stickpins, measuring tape, and scissors. “There you are, Prince! Hurry, we have a dozen outfits to try on. I’ll be doing alterations all night.”

Cullin allowed himself to be stripped of the already formal clothes he wore around court. He had considered them fancy enough to get married in, but the dowager queen would not hear of it.

In a wardrobe in the corner of his private bachelor suite he kept his old patched dragon-business clothes, laundered to remove the stains of reptilian blood. But they had only sentimental value now. Princess Minima and her mother would never let him be seen around court in those old rags.

Wearing his perpetual frown, the tailor tugged a doublet onto him and stepped back to inspect it. Then he had Cullin pull on a pair of tight lavender hose, offering his assistance and fumbling with the fabric around Cullin’s thighs, though the young man did not need or want the help.

“It’s a little tight.” Cullin adjusted the waistband and fiddled with the doublet’s hem. The garment rubbed under his arms, and the collar felt confining around his neck.

“A little tight?” the tailor said. “I’ll make adjustments then. It must be
extremely
tight, or I’ll lose my reputation.”

“Then I’d barely be able to walk,” Cullin said.

“That’s the point. You must sit straight and rigid, the better to look regal. Once I have your measurements, I can make an entire wardrobe of fine-looking and extremely uncomfortable clothes. You’ll wear them every single day.”

“Why would I want to wear uncomfortable clothes?”

“Because that is the fashion, my good sir knight. The more uncomfortable, the better. Enduring unpleasantness is a sign of regal character.”

Cullin didn’t think he was going to like this—not one bit. The royal tailor grunted with the effort as he cinched the waistband tight. Cullin lost his breath. “Good, that’s the way to do it! Exhale deeply, so I can tighten it further.”

Black spots of suffocation hovered in front of his eyes before the tailor let go of the measuring tape. Muttering to himself, he used a lead pencil to jot down numbers. “I have all I need to complete the final alterations. You’ll look so fine, I guarantee the princess will have no further regrets about marrying you.”

“That’s just what I wanted to hear,” Cullin said.

The tailor left in a flurry of threads and fabric, leaving Cullin blessedly alone at last. But his thoughts continued to whirl.

He liked being with his friends. He enjoyed traveling and camping. If he stayed here—princess, castle, and all—he would never have a chance to see the New Lands. Even though he was legitimate now, a true dragon slayer, was a brave knight expected to retire after only one impressive victory? That didn’t seem right.

After he married his princess, every day would be like this. Circumstances confined and suffocated him even more than the uncomfortable clothes did. The tailor was the last straw, but Cullin had been collecting straws for a long time, reason after reason why he should change his mind.

He waited until late at night when the castle was asleep (despite the ringing of too many church bells). He changed out of his stiff everyday court clothing, which the queen and the courtiers considered casual wear, and put on his old clothes again. Comfortable and familiar clothes. He closed his eyes and drew a long, wistful breath.

He had slain the dragon and earned his reward, but since the dowager queen kept the chest of gold and gems locked in the treasury for safekeeping, he would never be able to sneak it away. He would have to leave it here. Without regret, he decided to leave Princess Minima behind for safekeeping, too.

Cullin felt a pang of guilt at having to ruin the extensive and expensive wedding plans, but he realized that the dowager queen was more excited about the planning and the pageantry than she was about having a real son-in-law. Sooner or later, Queen Faria would find someone else to be her daughter’s husband. This way, she would get to enjoy the wedding preparations all over again.

Taking one last look around his room, not regretting a bit what he was leaving behind, Cullin rigged a rope and swung himself out the window of the tower room. He dropped down into the courtyard and sprinted away into the darkness, leaving the queendom and his princess behind.

Prince Maurice is shocked when I end the story. “Now wait a minute—that’s not how it’s supposed to be!”

After we leave the Scabby Wench, I keep trying to hurry him through the streets back home. I nudge him to keep up the pace as I talk. It is long past midnight, and the streets are empty, the whole town sleeping—as we should be by now. We’re both going to catch it from the queen for staying out so late.