Dragon Business, The Read Free Page B

of things to do. As he bowed before the throne, he saw his reflection on the gleaming floor—his mouse-brown hair, his handsome features, his youthful optimism, and his bright sparkling eyes.

    “It’s strange when you tell the story like that,” says Prince Maurice.
    “Like what?” I ask.
    “I mean, referring to yourself as Cullin. It’s jarring. Ruins my suspension of disbelief.”
    I hope he doesn’t keep interrupting, because then I’ll never finish the tale before last call at the tavern. Since the boy does a lot of reading, I try to explain in terms he’ll understand. “All I did was switch from first person to third person. It’s a perfectly acceptable narrative technique.”
    Maurice finishes his sweet cider. The brownish foam on top of his untouched tankard of ale has congealed to the consistency of meringue. “Still doesn’t make me believe the story really happened. When I hear you talk about how handsome and intelligent you were, it makes you an unreliable narrator.”
    “Not unreliable whatsoever.” I realize I must be sounding defensive, but I can’t deny that the queen would probably agree with him. I wish he had shown some of that skepticism with the traveler selling rainbow-impregnated unicorn horns. “Just pay attention now.”

    Since Dalbry’s and Cullin’s boots were covered with mud, they left tracks on the parquet floor. Servants rushed in behind them with rags to wipe away the dirt, then they restored the shine with elbow grease.
    From his high throne, Ashtok addressed the servants. “When you’re finished there, pick up my playing cards. I need them back on my lap.”
    The servants hurried to do so.
    Sir Dalbry faced the throne with a look of modest nonchalance as young Cullin sang his praises. “See here, Sire—his sash is orange because it reminds him of flames from the throats of all the dragons he has slain.” The squire ran around and held out the edge of the knight’s scaled cape. “And this is a genuine dragon hide, taken from a giant monster that nearly killed my master. He skinned the dragon after he killed it.”
    Sir Dalbry drew his sword and pointed to the polished black gems set into its hilt. “These are made of hardened dragon’s blood, droplets that fell on the ground and petrified as soon as my reptilian nemesis was dead.” He turned the sword so that Ashtok could be suitably impressed.
    Cullin knew the gems were simple obsidian, and the “dragonskin” cape was the hide of an alligator sold to them by a swampland trader from far in the south. But Ashtok seemed convinced, and that was what mattered.
    The one-handed king leaned forward on his throne. “But what does all this talk of dragons have to do with me? And what is this crisis you mentioned? Shall I call for my treasurer? In my experience, a crisis is usually expensive.”
    Cullin certainly hoped that the situation would prove to be expensive, but he and Dalbry had to set up their scheme further.
    “I mention dragons, Sire, in order to establish my credentials.” Dalbry stroked his gray beard. “Your kingdom is currently being attacked by a bloodthirsty dragon. Are you not aware of the devastation the monster has already caused?”
    Ashtok looked disturbed. “I . . . haven’t read today’s newspaper yet.”
    Although some distant lands had invested in the printing press, Ashtok’s kingdom was not yet at the cutting edge of technology. His newspapers were painstakingly transcribed by a group of reporter monks, who took a week to write out the articles by hand and illuminate each edition of the daily newspaper, the Olden Tymes . Thus it was difficult for even a king to keep up with current events.
    That worked in their favor, from Cullin’s point of view.
    Dalbry continued. “Peasant houses burned, livestock carried off. There are strange noises in the night, shadows across the moon.”
    The ladies at court looked up from their embroidery. One young lady pricked her finger with a needle,