Dragon Business, The (3 page)

P
EASANTS LIVED MISERABLE
lives, regardless of the kingdom.

Reeger knew it was not politically correct to refer to them as “slaves,” but these indentured people toiled much longer than the standard forty-hour workweek that had been instituted by OODM, the Organization of Dwarven Miners. Peasants worked all year round, from dawn until dusk. They lived in decrepit huts made of sod or piled twigs daubed with mud. During winter, they huddled around smoky fires, red-eyed and coughing because they couldn’t afford a contractor to install a chimney hole in the roof.

These particular peasants were so poor that when Reeger offered them a real coin, their eyes went as wide as saucers (not that any peasant owned a saucer, or a teacup, or any sort of china whatsoever). The coin was only a copper penny, but so shiny that when Reeger told the family that it was pure gold, they believed him. Having never seen either copper or gold, they were unclear on the relative values of precious metals.

“Just take the rustin’ money and go! It’s a new beginning, a fresh start.” Reeger tried to move them along so he could be about his preparations. “Leave your shack, the goat pen, and the chicken coop to me.”

When a mud-covered boy dressed more in patches than in clothes began to sniffle, Reeger said, “Don’t cry, lad.” He coughed and spat a lump of phlegm off to one side. “You’ll find a better life.”

“Don’t wanna leave Lulu behind,” said the boy, adding another sniffle.

The peasant father explained, “Lulu’s our goat.”

Reeger considered. “All right, take the goat. But leave the chicken. That’s part of the purchase price.” Since he was about to build large fires, he might as well roast the scrawny thing and get a good meal out of it.

The father crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’re keeping the chicken, then I’ll take one more of those gold coins.”

“A gold coin for a
chicken
?” Reeger said. “Maybe if it was prepared, seasoned with herbs, and stuffed with truffles. I doubt that thing would even lay an egg.”

“It’s a rooster,” the peasant wife pointed out.

“Of course it’s a rooster. Crotchrust, that was the irony in my joke.”

They haggled, and finally Reeger deigned to give them another copper coin, the smallest one. “Smaller coins denote larger denominations,” he said. “That’s the way currency works.”

The peasant shook his head in confusion. “Never understood economics. I’m glad we’re just indentured serfs to King Ashtok. It makes life simpler.”

Reeger urged them away from the shack. “Now then, I haven’t got all day. Off you go. Take your goat and don’t show your face in this kingdom again.”

With the boy leading the scrawny Lulu, the family hurried away from their squalid hut, the little corral, and their small garden plot, which was poorly watered but well manured, thanks to the goat.

When they were gone, Reeger set about catching the chicken, which gave him a more exhausting chase than he had anticipated. He repaid the effort by wringing the rooster’s neck with great satisfaction, then cleaned, plucked, and spitted it for roasting. He’d have a good meal after all this was done, but he couldn’t linger long. Someone would come to investigate the smoke and flames—which was, of course, the point.

Reeger opened his large sack and removed a pair of flat wooden “dragon feet,” planks joined together and cut into the shape of a large, three-toed footprint. Everyone knew that dragons had three toes; anybody claiming otherwise had not listened to the proper tales.

Reeger strapped the wooden feet onto his worn shoes and proceeded to stomp around the area with great gusto. He spread his legs as wide as possible and took long strides, because dragons were huge creatures. He made prominent tracks in the garden, squashing a three-toed print into the soft and fragrant manure.

Once he made enough tracks to imply the monster’s rampage, Reeger unstrapped the dragon feet, then removed cracked human femurs, a broken spine, several curved ribs, and even an eyeless old skull from the sack. He scattered the bones around the peasant grounds.

It wasn’t a complete skeleton by any means, certainly not enough to account for the whole family and the goat Lulu, but a hungry dragon would have eaten all but a few remnants; the illusion should hold up well enough.

As the afternoon sun dropped toward the horizon, Reeger used his flint and steel to light the dry grass on fire, followed by the dilapidated hovel, and the dispirited plants in the garden plot. When the flames rose higher, Reeger roasted the chicken over the fire. The meat was tough and stringy with a distinctive aftertaste of goat manure—which was to be expected, since Reeger hadn’t taken time to wash his hands since wiping down the wooden dragon footprints.

The fire spread across the grass before it died down, leaving singed patches; all the tossed human bones were charred and blackened. The rickety hut collapsed into embers. Reeger admired his handiwork: the peasants’ hovel and the small plot of ground looked thoroughly wrecked by a dragon.

The ruins would still be smoldering by morning, leaving a smudge of smoke in the dawn sky, but he would be long gone. His sack was much lighter now that he had discarded the load of bones, but that could always be replenished from any convenient graveyard.

Before turning to go, Reeger pulled out a child’s rag doll—well loved, battered, stained. It looked as if it had been used as a teething toy long past the time when a child’s teeth had grown in. He positioned the tattered rag doll against the collapsed hovel, letting its head flop just so, and stepped back, nodding.

“How poignant.” He picked a shred of chicken from between his teeth and licked his finger; it still tasted funny. He set off to meet up with Dalbry and Cullin at their camp.

Maurice is obviously skeptical. “If you weren’t present in that scene, then how do you know what happened? Reeger was the only character there.”

I’m glad that my son is less gullible than I thought. I finish my tankard and signal Reeger to bring another one. “I’m telling the story, son—I can choose the format and style. It’s called an omniscient narrator.”

Maurice snorts. “I know what omniscient means. Mother says you don’t know everything.”

“A king is allowed to be
omniscient
in his own kingdom. This story is inspired by actual events.”

Reeger comes over with the tankard of ale and another small glass of cider for the prince. “Here’s your second one, Sire. Did the queen cut you off again at two?”

“That’s what she said,” I answer with a frown.

“I’ll have another one ready just in case,” Reeger says and winks at the prince. “Never had any fancy schooling. Some nights I can’t count higher than two.”

“I can keep track,” Maurice says. “I’ve got my own mathematics tutor.”

Yes, he’s my son and he’ll be the next king someday, but Maurice can be too straightlaced for his own good. “You just let me worry about counting tankards.”

Reeger leans over to the boy. “Listen to his story, lad. What Cullin tells you is true, every word of it. I’d never lie to you. I’m a trustworthy man.”

Reeger hurries off before either the prince or I can dispute his statement.

N
EITHER CULLIN NOR
Dalbry was in any hurry to get on with the alleged dragon slaying. A good scam required time and careful attention to detail, and every step had to play out appropriately. The exciting parts were punctuated by long periods of relaxation—or boredom, depending on one’s point of view.

The rumors had been carefully planted ahead of time—Reeger was particularly good at that. Once a few interesting tidbits were suggested, the stories took on lives of their own.

Cullin had been with Dalbry and Reeger for several years now, and he had played his usual role in front of King Ashtok, though little of it was true. The young man was lowborn and had never imagined that he might become a squire to a genuine itinerant knight, one with a coat of arms, armor, a sword, and all the ingredients that constituted knighthood.

Sir Dalbry was no fake; he had a real set of armor, had once ruled (and been scammed out of) a small fief, and he did have noble blood in his veins. On the occasions where Cullin had actually seen Dalbry’s blood, however—such as when the old knight had nicked his face while shaving or caught his thumb on a thorn—it looked the same color as his own. . .  .

When the two left King Ashtok’s castle, the court had been in a flurry. The king summoned his advisors to discuss the horrific monster preying on the land and demanded to know why he had heard no tales of the dragon’s depredations beforehand. The chamberlain responded by asking why King Ashtok had not been able to
predict
the dragon’s arrival with his fortune-telling cards.

Cullin and the distinguished knight trudged away from the castle, following the main road into the surrounding forest. The only missing detail was that Sir Dalbry had no horse. Everyone knew that a good knight was supposed to ride a majestic mount, preferably a white stallion, but since Dalbry couldn’t afford one, he and his squire both went about on foot.

After dark, they found the camp Reeger had set up in a nice hollow among the trees. The three had been here a week already, casing the town and subtly inquiring as to which peasants might easily be bought off and sent away.

Reeger’s mule let out a loud braying when the knight and squire arrived. Cullin had never been able to tell whether the mule made the noise as a happy greeting or out of annoyance.

Reeger had strung a rope between two trees, rinsed some of his garments in a nearby stream, and hung them up to dry directly in the path of the smoke wafting from the campfire. He looked up at them with his cockeyed gaze. “Rust! You two took your sweet time.”

“Nobility has its own pace,” said Sir Dalbry. “But King Ashtok is hooked. I am officially hired to slay the dragon. I won’t be able to collect our payment for a few days. We have to allow time for me to stalk and kill the monster.”

“When we get paid, we could use some new pots.” Reeger used a stick to nudge a battered pot over the campfire where several potatoes were boiling. “I killed a snake, skinned it, and added the meat to the broth. You two eat all you want. I’m not terribly hungry.”

“You? Not hungry?” Cullin asked. “Are you sick?”

“No, but I just had a roast chicken before I came here.”

Chicken sounded better than snake. Or their usual squirrel.

Dalbry fished out two chewy dried apricots from a pouch at his side. “I’ll continue to eat the apricots from my magic sack, which never gets empty.” He popped the leathery fruit into his mouth.

Reeger snorted and grabbed his crotch. “I’ve got a magic sack.”

Dalbry rolled his eyes in distaste. “And that is why we can’t let you be seen at court.”

The other man picked at his teeth, found something there, and pulled it out. “That’s why I’m good at the dirty work.”

“I don’t mind camp food for a few more days,” Cullin said. “In the meantime, Sir Dalbry could share his apricots.”

“If I do that, then my magic sack will get empty.”

“I thought it was magic,” Cullin said.

“Magic only extends so far. My magic sack never gets empty because I am wise enough to refill it when necessary.” Dalbry chewed on his apricot, spat out the pit, and placed it in another sack on the opposite side of his waist. “I may have to put on a disguise tomorrow and go to market to buy some more.”

Cullin found a green twig and poked at the simmering water, the lumps of potato, and the blobs of rubbery snake meat. Their nourishing stew wouldn’t be done for some time yet.

Sir Dalbry wore his armor only when he had to play the part of dragon slayer; he changed clothes now into more comfortable camp attire. The companions had several outfits so they could appear as different strangers each time they went into town. In fact, the first time Cullin had met the two men, they were dressed as wandering friars.

He smiled at the thought. How that day had changed his life!

The two men had come to Cullin’s town dressed in roughspun cloaks, barefoot, chanting a somber but well-coordinated song. They claimed to be holy friars with a heavy burden and an important mission, and everyone in town believed them. After all, who would lie about such a sacred subject?

Cullin had grown up in a town called—depending on who was asked—Miller’s Folly or Honey’s Folly; he had been only a boy when the village realized it needed a name at all. He was the son of the town’s miller, a good man but a poor accountant, who never seemed to have any coins in his pockets. The reason for this, the miller eventually discovered, was that his pockets had holes in them, and each time he got paid, the coins would drop out along the ground; other townspeople had a habit of shadowing him wherever he went.

The miller’s brother was a woodcutter who harvested dead trees around the mill. Fortunately for the woodcutting business, though not for the health of the forest, a beetle infestation had killed many of the trees, and the woodcutter could harvest plenty of wood without going far.

One sunny day, the miller was working on the top floor of his mill with the windows open to catch the breeze. His brother the woodcutter felled a large nearby oak, which turned out to contain a massive beehive. When the tree crashed down, the disturbed bees swarmed out in an angry buzzing thundercloud, seeking a target.

The woodcutter was wise enough to dive into the shelter of the fallen tree, so the bees swept away without seeing him. Instead, they flew across the stream and swooped in through the mill’s upper windows. The innocent miller tried to escape. Flailing, he staggered out the open window, fell down into the waterwheel, and was never seen again.

Afterward, the woodcutter harvested several barrels of delicious honey from the hive he had discovered, and the bees took up residence inside the mill. Since they had proved themselves to be killer bees, no one dared disturb them, although occasionally the woodcutter would sneak inside the mill and harvest the honey, which soon proved to be quite a lucrative business.

Afterward, the villagers argued over whether to name their town Honey’s Folly or Miller’s Folly, and eventually settled on simply Folly.

Regardless, young Cullin became an orphan, with no means of supporting himself. His woodcutter uncle opted not to adopt the boy, telling him that it was good for his character—at age seven—to make his own way in the world.

From that point on, the boy existed as a scamp, finding berries in the woods and hoping that a kindly family of wolves might take him in and raise him as one of their pack. He had heard stories about that, but Cullin had no luck finding a receptive wolf pack.

He did get occasional work in town slopping out a pigpen, acting as a scarecrow for a farmer’s fields, or hauling rocks from the quarry for the local castle, which was always under construction. And he was lucky to find the work. By the time he was thirteen, Cullin still had no other prospects.

Then two wandering friars came to town, Brother Dalbry and Brother Reeger. They asked for alms (even though the local currency was called a tuckus) or even a ladle of cool water from the town well. Brother Reeger emphasized that he preferred the alms over the water.

Brother Dalbry clutched a small silken parcel in his calloused hand. “Is there a church in this town? We have a holy relic that can only be given to the most pious parishioner or the most faithful priest. We have carried this burden for a long time, and it needs a true home.”

The townspeople gathered around in awe, and Cullin worked his way close enough to hear.

“Of course we have a church—we are a town of devout people,” said one man who fancied himself the mayor of Folly, although no one had elected him. “And we have excellent honey, too.”

“We’d like some of that honey,” said Reeger. “A jar or two, if you have it.”

“It’ll take more than honey to purchase our relic,” said Brother Dalbry. He scanned the curious faces around him. “You’d better send for your priest.”

He drank a ladle of water from the well as someone ran to fetch the priest. Despite the people’s persistent questions, Dalbry and Reeger would say nothing more about the holy relic until the dark-robed priest bustled down from the ornate church.

Cullin had had his run-ins with the priest before. The man refused to respect the orphan boy until he cleaned himself up, got fine clothes and a decent job, so he would be in a good position to contribute to the collection plate.

When the priest asked about the mysterious relic, Brother Dalbry extended his silken packet, tugged at a bit of ribbon that held the fabric together, and opened the folds to reveal a dark sliver of wood about as long as a man’s finger.

“We have come from the Holy Land,” said Dalbry, “and endured many travails as we plodded from kingdom to kingdom, bringing this, our most prized possession. It is our holy quest to present this relic to one special church, one particularly worthy priest, in one pious town.”

The priest frowned; clearly, he had expected something more extravagant to warrant all the fuss. “A piece of wood?”

“
Sacred
wood, if you please,” said Reeger.

Brother Dalbry said in a voice pregnant with awe, “This piece of wood is a
splinter of the True Cross
. It possesses miraculous properties that are yet to be discovered.”

The priest remained skeptical. “If the properties have yet to be discovered, then how do you know they’re miraculous?”

“Because it’s a miracle we survived this long,” Brother Reeger interjected. “After all we’ve been through, we could not have survived without the grace projected by that splinter.”

“We must have it!” said the town’s self-proclaimed mayor. “The splinter will put Folly on the map.”

The priest was unable to tear his eyes from the bit of weathered wood on the faded silk. “We would be happy to relieve you of your burden, Brothers. Rest assured that this sacred object will be prominently displayed in our church.”

“Excellent,” said Brother Dalbry with a smile. “But we must be assured of your church’s commitment. Your townspeople must prove themselves worthy—nothing this precious comes without a sacrifice.”

“What kind of sacrifice?” asked one of the local farmers.

Brother Dalbry lowered his voice and said with great import, “A
financial
one. It is impossible to place a value on a relic such as this, but if your people dig deep into their pockets and come up with as many gold coins as possible, we’ll deem the sacrifice worthy.”

“How will we know?” asked the priest.

“The splinter will know,” said Brother Dalbry.

So the two friars remained by the town well, sipping water, while Brother Reeger kept asking for samples of the famous honey. Someone finally brought a small clay pot filled with honey, as well as half a loaf of leftover bread.

The townspeople were atwitter with the possibility that their very own Folly could become the home to a splinter of the True Cross. The people would consider it a great vindication, and a boost to their self-esteem, after having suffered a disappointment several years earlier:

Two men had come to town selling the actual skull of Saint Bartimund, a beloved local saint who was a hero to the people because he had cured sick sheep of a hoof blight. When the two strangers had offered to sell the skull of Saint Bartimund, the townspeople jumped at the chance. Such a relic could attract tourist trade and improve the local economy. The deal had been consummated, the two men were paid, and the town put the precious skull on display.

Just as the skull-sellers prepared to leave Folly, though, someone came riding in from the adjacent village with the proud claim that
they
owned the genuine skull of Saint Bartimund.

The townspeople of Folly grew ugly, believing they had been cheated. But the skull-sellers simply explained that there was no deception, no trick. They were aware of the relic in the adjacent village, but
this
was the skull of Saint Bartimund as a younger man, and therefore purer and more valuable.

Relieved and reassured, the people of Folly sent the men off.

And that had begun a “relics race” in the area, because each town wanted their own genuine skull of Saint Bartimund at varying ages. For miles around, every local church had a skull of the man at age sixteen, or seventeen, or eighteen. Before long, the relics covered most of the saint’s lifespan, and some towns even split the hairs down to the months of Bartimund’s life. . .  .