Dragon Business, The Read Free Page A

now.”
    I heave a wistful sigh and let my thoughts go back to the good old days. “When I was your age . . .”

A SHTOK’S KINGDOM SEEMED as good a place to start as any.
    The land from sea to sea was a patchwork quilt of kingdoms, principalities, duchies, earldoms, baronies, and assorted ethnic neighborhoods. A person couldn’t throw a stick without going over some border or other. Anybody who could afford a larger-than-normal house called it a castle and crowned himself king.
    It was a land of opportunities and a land of geographical confusion; kingdoms were always in flux, and mapmakers had job security.
    The kingdom ruled by Ashtok was average; the people were average; the economy was average. His castle had crenelated battlements, stone turrets, and a shallow moat that was more of a landscaping conceit than a significant defensive measure.
    On his interior walls, Ashtok displayed oil paintings of stern-looking nobles dressed in clothes from bygone days. The faces in the portraits bore no resemblance to King Ashtok; when questioned about this, he would admit that he had purchased the paintings in a clearance sale from another castle that was being torn down.
    Ashtok was particularly proud of the parquet floor in his throne room, polished strips of wood inlaid in beautiful patterns and waxed every morning so that the entire chamber smelled of lemon oil and beeswax.
    Ashtok was a slender, middle-aged man whose left arm ended in a stump. He had lost his hand, not in any great battle, but from an infected badger bite. The king had reached into a badger hole to retrieve a button that popped loose from his cloak, and the badger took offense at the intrusion. King Ashtok did not often tell that particular story.
    One day while at court, Ashtok sat on his throne, bored. As a hobby, he had decided to work on developing his psychic powers. With his one hand, he would draw a playing card from the deck in his lap and try to guess the number and suit before he turned it over. After an hour with little success, the king decided that his psychic powers were better classified as “post-predictive,” because when he tried to guess the card after he looked at it, he was correct nearly every time.
    The throne room doors were thrown open with a dramatic flourish, and the court herald scurried in ahead of two unexpected visitors. Startled, Ashtok knocked the playing cards from his lap, and when he tried to catch the pile with his left hand, he failed because he no longer had a left hand.
    The herald struggled to announce the visitors, but tripped over his words because he had forgotten to ask their names. “Sire, these two strangers from far-off lands request an audience with you. A knight and his squire.”
    A distinguished knight strode in with perfect posture and confidence. His pointed steel-gray beard was combed and trimmed. His chain mail had obviously seen many years of use but was well mended and maintained. A long sword hung at his hip, and a bright orange sash crossed his chest. A stiff cape of scales hung heavy from his shoulders.
    He was accompanied by a young squire, a loyal, useful, and talented lad named Cullin. The squire moved forward, but his feet skidded on the fine parquet floor, because of the buildup of wax and polish. Catching his balance, he stood before the throne.
    The knight bowed. “I am Sir Dalbry, Majesty, and this is Squire Cullin. I have come in response to the crisis in your kingdom.”
    “Crisis?” Ashtok asked. “What crisis?”
    Dalbry regarded him for a long moment. “Then it is a good thing I am here.”
    The young squire piped up, “Majesty, brave Sir Dalbry is a renowned dragon slayer. Surely you have heard of him? The minstrels sing of him across the land.”
    Ashtok quickly covered his ignorance. “Of course, we’ve heard of him. I know the songs, though I can’t quite remember how the tune goes right now.”
    In fact, there were no songs—not yet—but that was on Cullin’s list