Dragon Business, The Read Free

footprints everywhere. No telling how many people the monster devoured. Somebody has to kill it—we need a great hero.”
    Gasps go around the tavern hall. “A dragon?”
    Reeger yanks back the extended tankard before the terrified stranger can seize it. “A dragon, you say?”
    “Yes—on the edge of the kingdom, sure to terrorize the whole land. We must do something!”
    Reeger scratches his stubbly chin and gives me a knowing look. He winks before raising his voice to the crowd. “Did you all hear that? A dragon terrorizing the kingdom!” Then he guffaws. Everyone else starts chuckling. Even the mercenaries begin laughing.
    The stranger is astonished. “But . . . but we need a dragon slayer! I know a brave knight. We must hire him to slay the beast before it murders anyone else.”
    “No we don’t, lad—and you’d best get out of here before you cause yourself more trouble. Last person who came in with a story like that, I sank him up to his ankles in our outhouse—head first.”
    “But . . . the dragon.” Gasping, the stranger spreads his arms. “Huge. A giant wingspan. Horrible scales. Breathing fire.” He seemed to be running out of vocabulary. “It was very big.”
    Reeger looks at me. I shrug, giving him my tacit permission, so he strides to a large cabinet built into the tavern wall. “I’m not impressed by dragons. Bloodrust, we’ve already got plenty of dragon heads.”
    He flings open the cabinet door to reveal six monstrous reptilian trophies. Some of the teeth are yellowed and falling out; the eye sockets are empty. Suture marks show where the scaly hide was stitched back together after being stuffed. Horns stick out from improbable places.
    “I know all about your business, lad,” Reeger says with a warning growl. “Now run along and find a more gullible kingdom.”
    The mood is growing ugly in the Scabby Wench, and some of the peasants move toward the stranger with the singed and tattered cloak. His demeanor changes. He looks disappointed, then haughty as he tries to gather his dignity. Straight-backed, showing no further panic or sense of urgency, he stalks out of the tavern as if we are beneath contempt.
    As the conversation begins to pick up again, a good-humored Reeger announces a round of ale for everyone “courtesy of King Cullin, the true dragon slayer!” I suppose the expense is a worthwhile investment from the royal treasury.
    Maurice remains wide-eyed. “But, Father—if there’s a dragon, aren’t you concerned?”
    I respond with a snort. “Trust me, there’s no dragon, son. If I were a different kind of monarch, I’d have his tongue cut out for trying to scam all of us, but I’m a generous man.”
    I like telling myself that. Truth is, I’ve been in that desperate stranger’s shoes before, and I’m glad no other king saw fit to remove my tongue. Now, I’m paying it forward.
    The young prince shakes his head with growing dismay. “But why did that man say there was a dragon? What is Reeger doing with all those dragon heads in his cabinet? This isn’t like it is in stories.”
    “Because those are just stories , son. The truth is quite different. Let me tell you what really happened, how your father became known as a dragon slayer. In fact, I wasn’t much older than you. . .”
    Reeger brings the boy a glass of sweet cider to replace his untouched ale. Leaning over, he says in a stage whisper, “What he’s about to tell you is true, lad. Just don’t let him exaggerate his own part at the expense of mine or Dalbry’s.”
    I shoo Reeger away, glad that I finally have the prince’s attention. He’s intrigued. “Let me think of a good place to start telling our adventures.” I shift on the bench, and a splinter digs into my buttocks, but I ignore it. I clear my throat and say, “A story begins at the beginning—unless there’s a frame story.”
    “What’s a frame story?” Maurice asks.
    “It’s a literary device. Nothing you need to worry about