The Dragon's Son (16 page)

The mad monks were still out there, still searching for Grald’s son, but not
in any great number. Grald had not been able to coerce or seduce Ven into
talking to him, but the dragon was able to see Ven far more clearly than Ven
imagined. Grald saw Ven hiding in his cave, refusing to come out into the world
of men. Grald saw Ven’s desires and fears and torments. As far as the dragon
could, he fostered them. They would drive the young man out one day, as the
flames and smoke of the forest fire drives out the rabbit.

Patiently, Grald waited. His people were in place,
ready.

Located on one of the continent’s major rivers, the Urb, only thirty miles
from the sea, Rhun was easily accessible by water and by the kingdom’s
well-kept roads. The faire was held every fall at harvest time in honor of the
saint for whom the city was named. The saint did -well by his city, for though
Father Rhun himself had lived a life of poverty and self-sacrifice and died a
martyr, he was seeing to it that his city was blessed with wealth and granted
every self-indulgence.

The kingdom of Weinmauer and its neighbors were currently at peace and had
been for many years. The absence of armed troops marching about meant that
people could travel the roads in relative safety, and crowds poured into the
city. The inns were sleeping three to a bed and charging double for the privilege.

Ven and Bellona arrived at the faire without incident on the road. They set
up their tent, working from it as usual, and they did extremely well for
themselves. Ven sold out his small stock of handcrafted bows and arrows in the
first day. Bellona did her usual brisk trade in pelts. She was right in her
thinking that Ven would not stand out in the crowds. He roamed the fairegrounds
and the teeming streets of the city from morning to night, a silent, watchful
observer, avoiding speech with anyone, rebuffing friendly advances with a shake
of his head. Few glanced at him twice.

Ven enjoyed watching the crowds, though he felt more isolated among the
masses of people than he did in his solitary life in the forest. He looked with
bitter envy at the wealthy young men sauntering about in bright-colored hosiery
that showed off their shapely legs. He felt the difference between himself and
them acutely, as he imagined the looks of horror on their faces should they see
the scales and claws beneath his crude trousers. Sometimes the thought made him
smile maliciously. Most times he writhed in shame.

He especially avoided the women, many of whom cast a favorable eye on the
comely youth and favored him with a come-hither glance and smile. Most of these
were whores, plying their trade and wrongly thinking by Ven’s crude manners and
plain dress that he was a witless bumpkin.

Ven did not need Bellona’s warnings to be put off by such women. He
witnessed several in the act of earning their pay in the alleys behind the
taverns, stopping to observe the gropings and squeezings and jouncings with a
throbbing fascination that left him feeling disgusted and wanting a bath.

The aching longing in Ven grew, but he wanted love to come to him shyly and
sweetly, not spreading her legs in an alley.

Ven imagined himself alone among the throng, but he wasn’t. One man spotted
Ven early on. Ramone was the man’s name and he was not connected with Grald or
any of Grald’s mad monks.

Ramone •worked for only one person’s best interests and that person was
Ramone. He was thirty years old, handsome in a slick, dark way, with an
ingratiating smile and quick, deft fingers. He was always involved in many
schemes, most of them illegal, though not so illegal that he might endanger his
own skin, which was very dear to him. He was a pickpocket, albeit not a very
good one. He was better at swindling, filching, petty theft, and rolling
drunks.

Ramone had a predator’s instinct for choosing his victims and he had been
spying on Bellona and Ven ever since sighting them pushing their pelt-laden
cart through the narrow city streets toward the fairegrounds. Ramone took it by
their rough clothing that they were barbarians, members of a savage race who
lived in icebound lands somewhere to the north and who had once, centuries ago,
attempted to invade the city of Rhun.

Ramone knew all about barbarians because he had just watched a miracle play
relating the story of the city’s patron saint, who had turned aside the
barbaric hordes by standing before them and telling them that, in God’s name,
they could not enter. The barbarians had responded by shooting the pious Father
Rhun full of arrows and hacking his body to pieces. While indulging themselves
in this light entertainment, the barbarians put off invading the city, allowing
time for the king to summon reinforcements. The barbarians were slaughtered,
the city saved, and Father Rhun began his journey down the road to sainthood.

Ramone added this barbarian to his list of sheep meant for shearing and kept
his sharp eyes open. Ramone observed Ven wandering the city streets; aloof,
friendless, fondly imagining that he was keeping himself to himself. Ramone
lingered about his tent, keeping track of fur sales on the first day, and he
was pleased to see that they did well. He meant to share in their success.

Ramone was kept busy for two days with certain other matters. These having
gone well, he decided it was time to check on the barbarians. He found the cart
of furs empty and his mouth •watered. He kept their tent under observation all
that afternoon and, as the day was waning, he was fortunate enough to observe
Bellona handing over the day’s proceeds to Ven.

The youth deposited the coins in a leather purse that was already well
filled. Mindful of pickpockets, Ven tied the purse around his waist, beneath
his leather jerkin.

Bellona said something about going to bed early, for they were leaving when
the sun rose on the morrow. She entered their tent and Ven started to go in
after her.

Ramone gnashed his teeth.

“No, lambkin, no,” he muttered beneath his breath. “It’s too early to go to
bed yet. You’ll just lie awake, staring into the darkness. Come out and have a
good time with Ramone.”

Almost as if he’d heard the man, Ven paused at the tent’s entrance, and
looked around. Loud and boisterous laughter drifted on the air.

“That’s right,” Ramone said softly. “They’re having fun down there, lambkin.
You and I could be having fun, too.”

Ven hesitated a moment longer; then Bellona’s voice called out something. He
turned back toward the tent. Ramone had seen the wistful look at the sound of
that laughter. He had watched the young man wandering the city streets, alone
and aimless, for the past three days.

Ramone slithered forward. “Ven is your name, isn’t it?” he called in
friendly tones. “Don’t go to your bed yet. I would do business with you.”

The young man eyed the visitor with cool appraisal. “The hour is late, sir.
What do you want?”

“One of your fine bows,” said Ramone, striding up to stand in front of the
young man. “I am shooting in the tourney tomorrow, before the king himself, God
save and keep him. With one of your marvelous bows in my hands, I am sure to
win.”

Ven glanced at Ramone’s meager chest and skinny arms. Bowmen were strong
men, well built. Ven started to turn away.

Ramone laughed. “Ah, I know -what you are thinking. This man does not have
the build of an archer.” He flexed an arm muscle. “I am thin, but I am wiry.”

Ven shook his head. “I have sold all my bows.”

“A vast pity,” said Ramone, heaving a sigh. “Why, just this day, I saw a man
use one of your fine bows to win the prize in the queen’s archery contest. He
gave the bow and the bowmaker the credit. ‘His name is Ven,’ he said, ‘and he
has a tent upon the hill.’ He pointed this way. I knew you would be besieged by
customers on the morrow and so I made haste to reach you tonight. Still”— he
sighed again—”I am too late after all.”

Ven glanced around. “A man won the tourney with a bow I made?”

“He did indeed. A fine match it was, too. I never saw better.”

“Tell me about it,” said Ven, interested.

Ramone lowered his voice. “I will, gladly, but I fear we might wake your
father if we talk here. Come, let us take a walk. Though I cannot have the bow
I want, at least allow me the honor of buying the maker a mug of ale.” He
added, in a conspiratorial whisper, “It is fine for older folk to go bed with
the chickens. But the night is early yet for the young.”

Ven looked back at the tent. He had spent many nights lying awake in the
stifling warmth, listening to Bellona mumble in her sleep and seeing in his
mind slovenly girls with their backs to the wall, their breasts bare and their
skirts hiked up to their waists, with men clutching them, heaving and sweating
and grunting.

He had never tasted ale before. His bow had won a tourney and he wanted to
hear about it. And he did not want to wake Bellona.

“I’ll come,” he said, adding, “Just let me fetch my sword.”

Ramone was about to say that were going out for a drink, not to do battle.
Then he noted that the young man’s sword, through plainly made, was of good
quality.

Ramone smiled and stroked his mustache.

The city of Rhun had outgrown the walls built long ago to protect it. The
city was divided into Inner City and Outer City, with Inner City containing the
famous cathedral, the royal palace, the theaters, government buildings, hostels
and inns. Outer City was residential, with markets and shops and taverns.
Ramone headed for Outer City where there were several taverns that he
frequented. He chose those whose front doors faced busy streets and whose back
doors opened onto dark alleys.

For this night’s business, Ramone selected the Rat and Parrot, a name that
tickled his fancy, for he was the rat who meant to pluck the parrot. Pausing in
the doorway, he sent a quick, searching glance about the tavern.

“Everywhere I go, I am besieged by my friends,” Ramone complained with a
shrug. He smoothed a thin, black mustache with a slender finger, as his sharp
eyes took note of every face. “It is hard to find a quiet table to talk to a
companion without being constantly interrupted.”

Not seeing any of his former victims, Ramone sauntered into the tavern. Ven
hung back, not certain he wanted to enter. His was the solitary nature of the
dragon. He did not like this crowded, stinking place.

Lit by candles that melted on the tables and by a desultory fire, over which
several drunken youths were roasting a capon, the tavern teemed with people and
shadows. Faces suddenly leaned into the candlelight, to be brightly
illuminated, then just as suddenly returned to the darkness. Smells of ale and
vomit and unwashed bodies mingled with hot wax and roasted meat and burnt
pinfeathers. There was laughter and hooting, giggling, and swearing. Most of
the customers were busy with their own affairs and few paid any attention to the
newcomers. Those who did took stock of the situation and exchanged knowing
winks or grins.

Ven started to back out the door, but Ramone—sensitive to his sheep as a
mother to a sick child—said in a loud voice, “Come in, my friend, come in and
have a drink. What is the matter? You are not too good for this establishment,
I hope?”

Conversation stopped. People turned to look.

Yen’s skin burned.

He could not leave now.

He walked inside the door. Feeling clumsy and oafish, he slid into the first
empty chair he found. His sword banged against the chair and his flush
deepened. Ramone sat down and ordered ale. A woman started toward the table.
Ramone scowled and jerked his head, warning her off. She stuck out her tongue
at him and returned to her seat by the fire.

“We’re here for a drink, not a tumble, eh?” Ramone said to Ven, who had not
seen the woman and who had no idea what the man was talking about.

The ale arrived, served in two dented pewter pots. Ramone’s plan was simple.
He would get Ven staggering drunk, steer him into the alley on the pretext of
helping him home, and then bash out his brains and rob him.

Ramone lifted his pot in a toast. “Try the ale. You’ll find it excellent
here. The best in the city.”

Ven took a sip and made a face. “It’s bitter,” he said.

“But it quenches the thirst,” urged Ramone. “Swallow it quickly. Gulp it
down and you will not notice the taste.” He set the example by drinking off
half his pot.

“I’m not thirsty,” Ven said. He shoved the pot away. “You were going to tell
me about the archery match.”

Ramone was dumbfounded. He eyed the young man and considered seizing him,
prizing open his jaws, and dumping the ale down his throat. Such a course of
action lacked subtlety, however.

“Archery match?” Ramone repeated irritably. He was so rattled he’d forgotten
his ruse. “Oh, yes. The archery match. Let me recall all the details. I want to
get this right.”

His brow furrowed in thought, Ramone slid his hand into the top of his boot.
His fingers closed over the small vial he kept with him in case of emergency.
He flicked off the cork with an expert thumb and secreted the open vial in his
palm.

“Six arrows in the black. One right after the other. The last three arrows,”
said Ramone, who knew nothing about archery and hoped that his companion didn’t
either, “struck one on top of the other. The second arrow split the first and
the third split the second. We were all amazed—”

He paused in his story. Casting a significant glance over Ven’s head, Ramone
gave him a sly wink. “You have a face the ladies love, lad. Look at that wench
there. The fine one with the red hair. She has been watching you since we came
in. Perhaps that is why you are not thirsty, eh?”

Ven did not look around. He stared at the table. His fingers drummed
nervously.

“Come, lad. Smile at her,” said Ramone testily. He was rapidly losing
patience. “You do not want to hurt her feelings.”