Dragon Business, The (4 page)

Now, standing around the well, the supposed mayor of Folly said, “If we get a splinter of the True Cross, we’ll have something even better than a skull of Saint Bartimund.”

The excited townspeople scrounged up their savings, and by nightfall they presented Brother Dalbry and Brother Reeger with a sack of coins and gems. Even though the church had gold-plated and bejeweled candlesticks, baptismal fonts, ornate stained-glass windows, and gold chalices, the priest didn’t see fit to contribute to the collection.

Brother Dalbry weighed the payment and consulted with his fellow friar. They agreed that the splinter deemed it a worthy sacrifice, so they left the sacred shard of wood, took their payment, and departed from town.

The priest held a celebratory mass and put the splinter on display at the main altar. The church was crowded as people took turns gazing with awe upon their new relic, which proved that Folly was special.

Scruffy Cullin, who had watched everything from the outskirts, stood at the door of the church, trying to gain entrance so he could glimpse the sacred object as well. Since he’d been paid a copper coin for slopping out a pigsty that day, he felt lucky.

But with one glance at his filthy appearance, the priest scowled. He looked as if someone had forced a pickle down his throat in his sleep. “What makes you think you deserve to have a look? Did you contribute anything? Did you help the town acquire these sacred objects?”

Cullin had not, so the priest shooed the dirty orphan boy away from the church. Disappointed and angry, Cullin ran into the surrounding forest, vowing to find a better life. The people of Folly had never welcomed him, and he decided to try once again to find a kindly family of wolves who might take him in.

Instead, he heard voices, the crack of branches, the clink of a hatchet, and he came upon a man dressed in a plain tunic and trousers, hunched over a stump with his back to Cullin. There was a small smoky campfire over which a squirrel roasted.

The man used the hatchet to chip slivers of wood from an old downed branch. He discarded the slivers that he judged to be the wrong size, then dipped the appropriate pieces in the squirrel’s blood before smearing them in campfire ash.

Sensing Cullin, the man looked up. It was Brother Reeger—but no longer wearing his friar’s garb. Cullin saw the brown homespun cloak hanging from a branch on a tree. “You spying on me, lad?”

From the other side of the clearing, Brother Dalbry led a mule forward. “Who is this now?”

Cullin looked from one man to the other, trying to understand. “What are you doing?”

“Making more rustin’ splinters of the True Cross,” said Reeger. “Where do you think they come from? I sold the other one we had.”

And that was how Cullin had fallen in with the two men, becoming part of their team, a friend, companion, and useful helper. Cullin had learned a great deal as they traveled together from kingdom to kingdom, year to year, selling saints’ bones or splinters of the True Cross.

But those had just been small scams before they learned there was much more money to be made in the dragon business.

T
HREE DAYS AFTER
King Ashtok hired Sir Dalbry to remove the troublesome dragon, another knight arrived at court.

Sir Tremayne was a very impressive knight. Even though he did not have a dragonskin cape or a sword adorned with hardened dragon’s blood, Tremayne had an air about him, as if his noble blood were closer to the surface. He wore thin, flexible plate armor that gleamed like a mirror in the sun. His perfectly fitted metal helmet showed the unmistakable shine of recent polishing, although no squire accompanied Sir Tremayne. When asked, the knight said, “I am currently unhindered by having a young life dependent on my own, therefore I am free to go wherever the obligations of honor take me.”

Sir Tremayne’s colors of indigo and white looked freshly laundered. Most knights avoided white for their daily fabrics, because they were so easily dirtied by sleeping on the ground, riding through rain and mud, and becoming blood-splattered during fights with ogres, werewolves, or less mythical opponents. Nevertheless, Tremayne wore his colors with a certain panache.

And he did have a white stallion, which he rode through the gates of King Ashtok’s castle. He dismounted with a fluid grace, even in his plate armor; he tossed his white-and-blue cape over his shoulder, adjusted the sword at his hip, and handed his steed’s reins to a wide-eyed stable boy who had never seen such a fine horse before.

“I’ve heard the rumors from afar, and I have come to rid your land of a horrific dragon,” said Tremayne. “Take me to your king at once.”

The stable boy looked confused, holding the reins. “Shouldn’t I take care of your horse first, sir?”

“Good point.” Tremayne looked around. “Who else can lead me to the king at once?”

“At once” took more than fifteen minutes, which exasperated Tremayne, but as he was a revered knight, he endured with patience.

The castle courtyard was a dusty place where peasants had set up a market. A blacksmith made a deafening clamor with an anvil and scrap metal; children played a game of tag that consisted of throwing handmade balls of mud and horse manure. Even so, not so much as a wayward speck of dust soiled Sir Tremayne’s armor or garments as he waited.

Finally, he was summoned into King Ashtok’s court. When Tremayne marched across the well-polished parquet floor, he left no mark—to the amazement and consternation of the servants who stood ready with polishing rags. His boots clacked on the hard floor, his sword brushed against his metal armor, but it made a sound like music.

Ashtok was impressed. Now,
this
was the sort of knight he expected to come save his kingdom. The one-handed king set aside his deck of fortune-telling cards and smiled at the visitor, while casting a sidelong glance at his chamberlain. “See, another knight arrived—exactly as I predicted!”

Sir Tremayne went to one knee in a deep and respectful bow. “Majesty, I come to your kingdom just in time. My name is Sir Tremayne, and I exist for honor and for glory. My life is dedicated to promulgating the mystique of the knighthood.”

“I am most impressed, Sir Tremayne,” said King Ashtok. “I’ve never heard anyone use the word
promulgating
in a sentence before.”

Sir Tremayne regained his feet without even a clatter of his armor. “I vow to slay the dragon that has been plaguing your subjects.” He bowed his head, as if a weight of grief pressed down upon him. “I saw the devastation myself, a peasant hovel burned to the ground, blackened bones strewn all around. And enormous three-toed footprints.”

He reached into a pouch at his side and removed a filthy rag doll. He shook the limp doll so that its stuffed arms and legs dangled. “Only this remains of that poor family.” Tears stung his eyes. “Such a beast must be killed before it murders more innocents!”

The chamberlain interrupted, “And what do you charge for your services, Sir Tremayne?”

The knight drew a deep breath, offended. “I am a knight. It is my duty to slay dragons. I offer my services because your kingdom requires it. Honor requires it.” He growled deep in his throat, “I cover my expenses. I am a nonprofit enterprise.”

King Ashtok perked up. “You mean you’ll do it for free?”

“Exactly. No hidden fees, no fine print . . . although, a bed and a meal would be most appreciated.”

The king grinned. “That sounds like an excellent deal.”

Just then, the throne room doors were flung open, and Sir Dalbry marched in with his dragonskin cape over his shoulders. He looked dusty and smudged, with singed hair, but he had a triumphant glint in his eye. He strode ahead of Squire Cullin, who had to struggle to keep up, because of the bulky burlap sack slung over his shoulder.

“Too late.” Dalbry gave the other knight a dismissive glance. He and Cullin left muddy footprints on the parquet floor, but the throne room servants were too astonished by this new arrival to do their work. “Mission accomplished. The foul dragon is no more.”

Cullin stepped up to the throne, opened the heavy sack, and dumped a hideous reptilian head onto the beautiful inlaid floor.

“Careful, lad,” Dalbry said. “Dragon’s blood can damage fine wood.”

The squire tucked protective folds of cloth under the severed head. With a long snout and sharp fangs, it was impressive and ugly, although not quite as immense as one might have expected a dragon’s head to be.

One of Reeger’s shady associates imported stuffed crocodile heads from the arid lands across the Desert Sea. To make the creature look more fearsome, Reeger had adorned the crocodile’s head with artificial horns made from sanded-down antler nubs.

King Ashtok, though, saw what he wanted to see, as did the Chamberlain and the curious courtiers, including the young virginal ladies who still worked on their embroidery. When Cullin revealed the dragon’s head, a cheer echoed throughout the throne room.

King Ashtok rose to his feet, spilling his fortune-telling cards again. “You did it, Sir Dalbry!”

“As I promised, Majesty. The vicious creature gave me a terrific fight. It breathed flame, thrashed its wings, and struck at me with its powerful claws. But my sword and my skill were too much for it! Once I had pierced its throat with the tip of my blade, fire vomited out—killing the beast and starting a small blaze in the forest. I brought its severed head directly to you, according to the terms of our contract.”

“Yes, you did fulfill your end of the bargain,” Ashtok said, as the financial reality set in. “Our minstrels must hear the full story so they can sing appropriate songs.”

“Do you have Nightingale Bob playing at your court, by any chance?” Dalbry asked. “I hear he’s quite talented.”

“He was through here last month, but we don’t expect him back soon,” said the Chamberlain. “He’s on an extensive tour.”

Ashtok proclaimed, “We’ll have a grand celebration throughout the kingdom! Sir Tremayne, you are welcome to stay.”

Disappointed to be upstaged, the shining knight muttered his excuses. He bowed to the king. “Apologies, Majesty, but I must be on my way, for there are other dragons to slay.”

Cullin was eager at the prospect of a feast, as well as getting to look at pretty ladies of the court. Sir Dalbry saw the glint in the young man’s eyes and turned to King Ashtok. “My squire and I would be honored to take part in the celebration, Majesty.”

Cullin was thrilled by the party that evening. He drank too much wine—one goblet—and his head was spinning. He listened to the music and watched the dancing, although he had never been taught. (And he had a tendency to trip in the presence of a lady.) Many of the women fawned over Sir Dalbry, but the older knight seemed immune to their affections.

Giggling and blushing, some of the serving girls flirted with Cullin. He adored their attentions, but didn’t quite know how to respond. He was barely sixteen, and his experience with romance was limited to the coarse jokes Reeger made. (And Reeger himself didn’t seem to have much experience with sex, despite his bluster.)

Even with the pageantry around him, Cullin thought of his friend in the forest. Reeger claimed that such finery was beyond him, and he was not interested in that kind of life, but Cullin could picture him outside, looking up at the well-lit ballroom windows and imagining the feast.

He surreptitiously pocketed stolen bits of roast and pastries from the table. They would be smashed by the time he could give them to Reeger, but his friend would appreciate the treat, nevertheless. It was bound to be better than potatoes boiled with snake meat.

Next day at the break of dawn—at Sir Dalbry’s insistence, though Cullin would have liked to sleep in—the two gathered their things. The knight graciously accepted his reward, two (small) sacks of gold durbins, which he let Cullin carry. They departed to resounding cheers and headed down the road, on foot.

Off to the next kingdom . . .

B
EING A PRINCESS
wasn’t all that the fairy tales made it out to be.

Princess Affonyl had no one to complain to, certainly no one who would understand what she had to endure. Her ladies-in-waiting were tittering girls whose heads were unburdened with complex thoughts. They all found great excitement in stitchery techniques, dress designs, and gossip. Affonyl was much more interested in alchemy, astronomy, and specimen collection than she was in fashion trends.

But her father, King Norrimun the Corpulent, insisted that she meet expectations. “A princess is a princess,” he said. “Don’t go thinking of yourself as a person.” How could she respond to that? Her father told her to pick out the finest autumn gown—it was only late spring, but the new model year started early—and to be content with her lot in life.

After much study, Affonyl concluded that varying clothing styles from kingdom to kingdom was a devious conspiracy. The fashion industry wanted to foster constant demand for changing hemlines, sleeve styles, lacings, bodices, gloves, corsets, or lack of corsets. Recently, a scandal involving the land’s primary corset manufacturer had shut down his factory, and the man was put into stocks in the public square for restraint of trade (when his true business should have been restraint of waistlines).

The princess cared little for frilly dresses, and she had no desire to make herself more beautiful for Duke Kerrl, whom she would soon be forced to marry. When she told her father she would rather study at a university, he responded that being a dutiful princess, and then a dutiful duchess, was her homework assignment.

Affonyl’s ladies-in-waiting swooned when they thought of Kerrl, his thick black mustache, his dashing features, his black hair swept back in a ponytail, his rich eyebrows that looked like woolly caterpillars on his brow. Affonyl didn’t care about him, or about marriage. There were frogs to dissect and alchemy experiments to conduct.

Alas, Duke Kerrl was a man of great wealth and power, and he was deeply in love—with her father’s kingdom, which had fallen on hard times. Although the treasury was nearly depleted, Norrimun’s land butted up to an adjacent kingdom, against which Duke Kerrl wished to wage war—which constituted the primary source of his attraction to Princess Affonyl.

King Norrimun considered it a fine business opportunity, a chance to get his kingdom out of financial discomfort. Affonyl didn’t think much of it at all, and no one else—except maybe her ancient nursemaid, Mother Singra—understood why. The deal looked good on paper.

Affonyl sat in her tower room fumbling with her hoop and stretched linen fabric, dipping a needle and thread to create unrecognizable patterns. The ladies-in-waiting were dismayed by the princess’s embroidery, but fortunately she had studied art criticism and learned the erudite vocabulary. She could speak with her nose held high in the air. After pretending to contemplate the tangle of thread, Affonyl would say, “This is my abstract work, a composition meant to symbolize the chaotic nature of unexpected events that can occur in a conventional life. Note the intensity of contrast between simple flow and the disruptive tangles in the lines of possibility. Yes . . .” She nodded, poking the needle and thread through again, coming back up with a cross-stitch that trapped several threads. “I believe I’ve captured the paradigm perfectly.” Affonyl even quoted the maxim of many art and literary critics, that if a work was comprehensible to anyone but critics, then it hardly qualified as art.

The ladies-in-waiting discussed it amongst themselves, and agreed that Princess Affonyl’s vibrant artwork hit the mark precisely and was quite exceptional.

Affonyl was not interested in embroidery. She would rather have spent her afternoon reading the many books and scrolls sealed in Wizard Edgar’s old library. Even though the wizard was long gone, she had access to his tomes, as well as natural history treatises, astronomical charts, chemistry tables, alchemy tables, and hand-transcribed horoscopes from old newspapers. She wanted to read it all, learn it all.

King Norrimun didn’t understand the strange girl’s curiosity. He was sure it must be some passing fad, and she would become a true princess, sooner or later. While Mother Singra covered for her, Affonyl played with spare vials from Wizard Edgar’s chemistry sets, conducting experiments that often left her with stained fingers and stank up the castle’s corridors with the smell of brimstone, rotting flesh, rancid butter . . . or even, once, petunias.

At night from the top of a high turret, she loved to gaze skyward and pick out the constellations, find the fuzzy veil of the Milky Way, or trace the planets moving along their courses. Alas, when she brought her ladies-in-waiting outside to show them the universe and listen to their complaints about the tedium of stargazing, she was reminded of the emptiness between the stars.

She had shared such a close bond with Wizard Edgar, but he had left the kingdom years earlier, and although her old nursemaid was sweet and understanding, Mother Singra’s curiosity ended at the castle walls.

Bored with embroidery, Affonyl sat in her tower chamber looking out the window across her father’s kingdom: the rolling hills dotted with cottony puffs of sheep, the patchwork of grain fields, the crowded darkness of forests, the narrow river that wound down to the port of Rivermouth and the sea. She let herself daydream about the wide world.

A princess is a princess. Don’t go thinking of yourself as a person.

As soon as she sat still, one of her cats—a gray tabby—jumped onto her lap and situated himself, forcing Affonyl to move her embroidery aside. She stroked him, scratching under his chin. The white cat jumped up next, fighting for a position, and was followed by a tuxedo cat. The chorus of purring drowned out the ladies’ chatter about buttons and beaus.

“How cute!” cooed one of the young women. “Your cats are so adorable, Princess. Won’t you tell us their names?”

“They don’t have names. They just come to me—from all around the kingdom, I think. I’m like catnip.”

“They certainly like you,” said one of the other ladies.

“Of course they like her,” snapped another companion. “She’s the princess—she’s likable by law.”

“I like rainbows,” said another. “Especially when the colors are in the right order.”

“Rainbows and butterflies,” agreed another, which led to a lengthy discussion of the merits of rainbows and butterflies. Affonyl sighed. She had tried, she really had, but their conversations did not engage her.

Four more cats swarmed around her ankles, awaiting their turns to be petted.

“Do you like puppies, Princess?” asked one of her companions.

Affonyl was rescued when Mother Singra knocked on the door. “Time for lunch with the king, dearling.”

The frail old woman claimed to have served six generations of Affonyl’s family—six generations? Affonyl questioned the endearing woman’s counting ability, because that meant Mother Singra was either extraordinarily ancient (a possibility, considering her appearance) or the royal family’s generations were alarmingly short. Affonyl decided to study genealogy for a while once she finished the natural science tomes she was currently reading.

She left her ladies-in-waiting to continue their discussion of the fine points of embroidery, rainbows, and butterflies, and closed the door behind her before the drowsy cats could decide to follow her wherever she went.

“What’s for lunch today, Mother Singra?”

The old woman sucked in her cheeks, which made them look even more hollow. “The chef’s invented something new—two slices of bread with a piece of lettuce, a slice of tomato from the New Lands, and strips of fried bacon, all in one big pile. Accompanied by potatoes sliced thinly and fried crisp in oil.”

“More fried food,” Affonyl muttered.

“And bacon,” Mother Singra said. “But at least we might trick the king into eating a piece of lettuce.”

“That’s a start.”

“Norrimun was always a finicky eater even as a boy, never liked his vegetables. Just like his father before him. And his grandfather.”

“I’m glad to be the exception.”

“Oh, dearling, you are an exception in many ways.”

Although Affonyl took care to exercise and eat a healthy diet, her father was called King Norrimun the Corpulent for obvious reasons, and he showed no signs of wanting to get in shape. She worried about his health. Their kingdom was woefully short on leeches, barber surgeons, and cardiac specialists.

Mother Singra led her to the dining hall where her father sat in a double-wide chair at the head of the table, ready to devour a tottering stack that consisted of two slices of bread, then tomatoes, then lettuce, then strips of bacon. King Norrimun struggled to balance his food as he took a large bite.

Affonyl saw what was wrong. “It might work better, Father, if you placed the bread on the top and the bottom, sandwiching all the material in between.”

“You may be right, my sweet,” said the plump king, “but the last thing I want to see before it goes into my mouth is the bacon, which makes the whole mess much more palatable.”

“As you please, Father.” She sat down at her own place, and Mother Singra brought her an identical lunch.

King Norrimun wiped his mouth. “We must finalize the formal wedding preparations between you and Duke Kerrl. I can’t let this opportunity slip through my fingers.”

Affonyl had been stalling for months. “Aren’t there complicated legal matters that need to be discussed first? Paperwork, fees, contracts? It could keep our lawyers busy for years.” In fact, she had hired additional attorneys to guarantee exactly that.

“It’s a simple merger. They have standard forms for situations like this. My kingdom needs this marriage—you understand that—but I want to make you happy in every possible way.”

“Except for making me marry a man I don’t want to.”

“Yes, except for that, but it’s a minor detail. A princess is a princess. You’ll still have your ladies-in-waiting, you’ll be able to do all the needlepoint you wish, and you won’t need to worry your pretty little head about politics, economics, education. I insist on making your life simple, without all those headaches. See how fortunate you are?”

Affonyl picked at her lunch. “Father, how long have you known me?”

“Why, all your life! You’re my princess, my darling little girl. You’re my star in the heavens.”

“There are countless stars in the heavens. I could take you out to look at them some night.”

“Not much point in that,” Norrimun said. “They’re just confusing.”

“They don’t have to be. There are patterns, even maps of the stars. Think of star groups like the kingdoms of the land,” Affonyl said. She had tried to educate him, help him, but he simply wasn’t interested. She knew what the duke was up to, but her father couldn’t see it. “You should study maps to know where your kingdom’s boundaries lie, where Duke Kerrl’s dukedom is, and where all of the adjacent duchies, princessdoms, baronies, and principalities are.”

King Norrimun took another bite of his disorganized sandwich. “I’ve been looking at maps a great deal of late, my sweet. Duke Kerrl has been kind enough to bring in his own mapmakers to help me. It seems there are some errors in our assumed boundaries. Would you believe that many of the iron mines and the richest agricultural acreage that I thought belonged to me actually fall within Duke Kerrl’s borders? It’s embarrassing.”

Affonyl frowned. “We should hire our own surveyors.”

“We can’t afford that, my sweet. I’m glad that the duke did it for us.” He asked Affonyl if she intended to eat her bacon (he was not interested in the lettuce). “But it’s no matter—once you and the duke are wed, my kingdom and his dukedom will be joined into one large happy land, and your children will be heirs to it all.”

Affonyl had looked over her father’s finances, and she knew the kingdom was weak and poor. Duke Kerrl’s takeover was a more polite method than an all-out invasion with his military forces—which he could certainly do. But it was less expensive and more efficient for him to marry Affonyl, especially in light of the fact that the father of the bride was expected to pay for the celebration.

Duke Kerrl had even suggested eloping (once the numerous treaties and legal documents were signed, of course), because that would save money for the treasury he intended to absorb. Fortunately, King Norrimun the Corpulent refused. Affonyl was his only child, and he wanted the finest fairy-tale wedding for her. No elopement would do.

Affonyl also rejected the idea of running away for a quick marriage, because that would hasten the very fate she hoped to escape, and she still had plans to make. If an elopement was in her future, it would certainly not be with the unpleasant Duke Kerrl!

Though her father insisted on making her wear lacy gowns, Affonyl was prone to being a tomboy. She liked to sit on tree branches or to climb the castle towers by scrambling up the tangled vines. She had learned all of Wizard Edgar’s chemical and wizardly tricks, and she grasped
reading
, which her father neither enjoyed nor encouraged. “Why read poetry,” he would ask, “when we can just bring in a minstrel to do all that tiresome work for you?”