Page 5 of Deven and the Dragon
“Because Stephen doesn’t know the dragon,” said Mrs. Drucker. “None of us do. He moved into Baron Marlow’s castle — and we haven’t heard anything since, except for his servants coming to town for supplies. They pick everything up, don’t even order deliveries. No one’s spoken to him. We assume he can change himself into human form like all the stories say, but he’s only been seen as a dragon.”
“All right,” Deven said slowly. Every alarm bell he possessed was ringing at its loudest pitch. Nothing waseverstraightforward with a bloody committee. “All true. Do I really need to point out that I don’t know the dragon either?”
“But you have, let’s say, a gift for getting to know people,” Mrs. Drucker said, leaning forward and fixing Deven with a piercing stare. “Without mincing words, you can charm the pants off of anyone, and you frequently do. Quite literally. We don’t need a thief, Mr. Clifton. The scale must be given of the dragon’s own free will, and since dragon scales can be used against the giver in other types of magic, according to the same book, he won’t be easy to persuade. We need a seducer.” She sat back with a sharp nod, as if that settled the matter.
Deven gaped at her. He shut his mouth with a snap, and then gaped some more. At last he managed, “Are you completely out of your mind? A seducer? You’re quite seriously sitting here,” and he gestured wildly at the violet-patterned tea set, as if its respectable presence ought to confer some sanity on the proceedings, “telling me you want me to go up to the castle and ‘charm the pants off of’ a dragon? Whobreathes fire. And quite possibly eats people, have we forgotten that? My chances of getting back alive with the scale are a hundred to one.”
Barclay let out a crack of laughter, and Deven whipped his head around. He’d almost forgotten the man was there. “Well, it’s not like anyone would miss you, and in the meantime maybe not every husband will be cuckold—”
“Shut up,” Mrs. Drucker hissed. “You’re not helping. And the dragon hasn’t eaten anyone that we know of, anyway! Dragons usually don’t these days, I understand.”
“Very reassuring,” Deven said, “but seriously, this is the worst plan I’ve ever heard. What am I supposed to say to account for showing up on his doorstep, anyway? They wouldn’t even let me in the castle.”
“Glad you asked, Mr. Clifton, because we have it all worked out.” She nodded again, this time with a smile, and Deven had the sudden sensation of a man who’d stepped into quicksand without realizing it, and was in up to his neck before he could blink.
“No, hang on a moment, I haven’t agreed to any—”
“A tribute,” Mrs. Drucker said, rolling over him with the ease of a veteran of a thousand council meetings. “It’s traditional to offer a human sacrifice to dragons when they move to a new place. Usually it’s a virgin, but,” she shrugged, “in this case that would be a bit counterproductive, wouldn’t it? So we’re emphasizing your innocence, since after all you haven’t committed any crimes that we know of and it’s not technically a lie.”
“You’re — you’re — when the hell have you had the chance to talk to the bloody dragon about myinnocence, of all things?” Deven’sinnocence? He wasn’t sure he’d ever had any, and if he had it was years gone, and not missed at all.
“We’ve sent a letter, and we’re awaiting a reply. And I’m sure it will be affirmative, because what dragon doesn’t want gifts from humans?”
“We’re going to send you along with a nice bottle of wine,” Holling put in, his tone conciliatory. “To make you more welcome.”
Deven stared, fighting the urge to rip out his own hair with both hands. A hysterical burst of laughter welled up.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he choked. “Are you completely barking mad? You’re going to send me to be possibly eaten by a fucking dragon, and you’re including awine pairing?”
“It’s not a wine pairing, for God’s sake, and mind your language,” put in Mrs. Drucker. “And anyway, Stephen, I did tell you the wine was a stupid idea.” She sighed. “Forget the wine, please, and try to focus! Young Peter’s life is at stake, and itistraditional to send — would you be more comfortable being described as an envoy?”
“It’s better than ‘afternoon snack’!”
She rolled her eyes. “We’ll call you an envoy. ‘Sacrifice’ is the traditional word, or ‘tribute,’ but that’s simply left over from a less civilized age. We need someone to meet the dragon and assess his intentions anyway. His presence could be bad for trade if Knightsbridge merchants think he might be a threat. A friendly dragon might draw more travelers hoping to gawk at him, but an unfriendly one could mean the end of Ridley as a center of commerce, even if he doesn’t eat anyone.”
“And I’m your canary in the coal mine. And also, not to put too fine a point on it, the town slut. Is that about it?”
“Well, that’s not precisely how I’d put it, but essentially —”
George let out a sound like a whistling teakettle and then began to shout about how his nephew was never going to do anything so stupid, Mrs. Drucker shot back, and Deven left them to it, leaning back in his chair and running his hands over his face. What the sodding fuck was wrong with him? Because far from agreeing with uncle George, he — well, he was bloody well going to go.
There. He’d admitted it to himself, at least. Wine pairing or no wine pairing, he was going to end up doing this, wasn’t he? Peter’s small smiling face hovered before him, chirping about whether the horses would prefer apples or carrots as a treat. What the fuck was he supposed to do, shrug and walk away? Besides, the dragon’s servants came down into town on the regular, buying hams and onions and butter just like any other wealthy household’s staff. Presumably at least some of the hams were for the dragon, in place of human flesh. And the servants all seemed perfectly happy. How dreadful could the beast be, really?
And besides…this was anadventure. Excitement at the thought of something different, something magical, was taking root in his mind and blossoming by the moment. He’d wanted to see the dragon for himself. The prospect of whitewashing stable walls for the rest of his life didn’t fill his heart with joy. He didn’t really need to seduce the dragon, only make friends with him, didn’t he? And when he returned, safe and sound, every pretty woman and handsome man in Ridley would be chasing him down to hear about it…
“I’ll do it,” he said, the words disappearing under the avalanche of argument crashing down around him. “Hey! I said I’d do it!”
He was utterly ignored. George had turned the color of an eggplant and was leaning precariously over the tea table, shaking his finger in Barclay’s face, while Mrs. Drucker shouted at them both indiscriminately.
George would do anything for him, and so would Phina, and Deven swallowed a twinge of guilt at the worry his decision would cause them. His parents had buggered off to join some idiotic religious order out in the woods when Deven was only a little boy, and George and Phina had raised him at the inn ever since, trying to mold him into someone who’d follow in their own respectable footsteps. They’d tolerated his philandering, and loved him, and supported him always — and now he’d cause them grief, on top of disappointing them.
But it was his life, and his choice. He glanced at Holling, who sat still and silent amidst the din. Would Holling ever know a moment’s peace or joy again, if Deven failed and his grandson died? Deven wasn’t sure he could live with himself, either.
On the bright side, the dragon might eat him and spare him brooding over it.
Since no one in the room seemed inclined to pay attention, Deven simply rose and left, shutting the door softly behind him.
Sam was practically hopping from foot to foot in the hall. “What’s going on in there?” he demanded. “Does Mrs. Drucker need me?”
