The Dragon and The George

by Gordon R. Dickson

  "Course you are."

  "I tell you, I'm not!" said Jim, feeling a preliminary stirring of his dragonly temper. He got it back under control, and spoke reasonably. "In fact, I'll bet you can't guess who I really am."

  The knight did not seem interested in guessing who Jim really was. He stood upright in his stirrups and probed upward with his lance through the branches, but the point came a good four feet short of Jim.

  "Damn!" said the knight, disappointedly. He lowered the lance and appeared to think for a moment. "If I take off my armor," he said, apparently to himself, "I can climb that goddam tree. But then what if he flies down and I have to fight him on the bloody turf, after all?"

  "Look," called Jim, "I'm willing to come down"—the knight looked up eagerly—"provided you're willing to listen with an open mind to what I have to say, first."

  The knight thought it over.

  "All right," he said, at last. He shook the lance at Jim, warningly. "No pleas for mercy, though!"

  "Of course not."

  "Because I shan't grant them, dammit! It's not in my vows. Widows and orphans, men and women of the Church and honorable enemies surrendering on the field of combat. But not dragons!"

  "No," said Jim, "nothing like that. I just want to convince you of who I really am."

  "I don't care who you really are."

  "You will," Jim said. "Because I'm not really a dragon at all. I've been put under an… ensorcellment to make me look like a dragon."

  "A likely story."

  "Really!" Jim was digging his claws into the tree trunk, but the bark was flaking away under his grasp. "I'm as human as you are. Do you know S. Carolinus, the magician?"

  "I've heard of him," grunted the knight. "Who hasn't? I suppose you'll claim he's the one who ensorceled you?"

  "Not at all. He's the one who's going to change me back as soon as I can find the lady I—to whom I'm affianced. A real dragon ran off with her. That's what I'm doing so far from home. Look at me. Do I look like one of your ordinary mere-dragons?"

  The knight considered him.

  "Hmm," he said, rubbing his hooked nose thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, you are a size and half on what I usually run into."

  "Carolinus found my lady had been taken to the Loathly Tower. He sent me out to find some Companions, so I could go and rescue her."

  The knight stared.

  "The Loathly Tower?" he echoed.

  "That's right."

  "Never heard of a dragon—or anyone else in his right mind, for that matter—wanting to go to the Loathly Tower. Shouldn't care to go there myself. By heaven, if you are a dragon, you've got nerve!"

  "But I'm not," said Jim. "That's why I've got—er—nerve. I'm a gentleman like yourself, bent on the rescue of the lady I love."

  "Love?" The knight reached into a saddlebag, produced a piece of white cloth and blew his nose. "I say, that's touching. You love this demoiselle of yours?"

  "Doesn't every knight love his lady?"

  "Well…" The other put his handkerchief away again. "Some do, some don't, politics being what it is these days. But it is a coincidence. You see, I love my lady also."

  "Well, then," said Jim, "that's all the more reason you shouldn't interfere with me in my efforts to rescue mine."

  The knight went into one of his moments of obvious thought.

  "How do I know you're telling the truth?" he said, at last. "Bloody dragons could say anything!"

  Jim had a sudden inspiration.

  "I'll tell you what," he said. "Hold your sword up, point down. I'll swear on the cross of the hilt that what I say is true."

  "But if you're a dragon what good will that do? Dragons don't have souls, dammit!"

  "Of course not," retorted Jim. "But a Christian gentleman does; and as a Christian gentleman, I wouldn't dare forswear myself, now would I?"

  Jim could see the knight visibly struggling with the inverted logic of this for several moments. Finally he gave up.

  "Oh, well," he said, held up his sword by the blade and let Jim swear on it.

  He put the sword back in its sheath. Jim let go the trees and half jumped, half flapped down to ground.

  "It might be…" said the knight, moodily, staring at Jim as Jim stood up on his hind legs to dust the bark and twigs from his foreclaws. "There was a palmer in gray friar's-cloth came to the castle last Michaelmas and spoke a rhyme to me before he left:

  "Betyde thee weale yn any fyght When'ere thou kenst thy cause ys right."

  But I don't see how it applies."

  "Don't you?" said Jim, thinking rapidly. "I'd say it was obvious. Because I'm bent on rescuing my lady, if you tried to kill me, your cause would be wrong. Therefore weale wouldn't have betyded you."

  "By St. John!" said the knight, admiringly. "Of course! And here I thought I was just out after some mere mere-dragon today! What luck! You're sure this cause of yours is right? No doubt about that, I suppose?"

  "Of course not," said Jim, frostily.

  "Well, then, I am in luck. Naturally, I'll have to demand permission of my lady, since there's another demoiselle involved. But I can't see her objecting to an opportunity like this. I suppose we'd better introduce ourselves, since there's no one around to do it for us. I take it you know my arms?"

  He swung his shield around for Jim's inspection. It showed, on a red background, a wide X of silver, like a cross lying over sideways, above a rather fanciful-looking animal in black, which Jim made out to be lying down in the triangular space under the lower legs of the X.

  "The gules, a saltire silver, of course," went on the knight, "are the Neville of Raby arms. My greatgrandfather, as a cadet of the house, differenced with a hart lodged sable—and, of course, I'm in the direct line of descent."

  "Neville-Smythe," said Jim, remembering the name in the song he had just heard and any memories he could dig up on the subject of heraldry. "I bear—in my proper body, that is—"

  "Assuredly, sir," Neville-Smythe agreed.

  "An—gules, typewriter silver on a desk sable. Sir James Eckert, Knight Bachelor." Jim suddenly remembered something Carolinus had mentioned in explaining him to Smrgol and took a chance on gaining a little authority. "Baron of Riveroak. Honored to make your acquaintance, Sir Brian."

  Neville-Smythe lifted off his helm, hung it on the pommel of his saddle and scratched his head puzzledly. He had light brown hair, rather compressed by the helm; and now that his face was out in the sunlight, it could be seen that he was no older than Jim. What had given the impression of a greater maturity in the shadow of the visor was a very deep tan and little sun wrinkles around the outer corners of Neville-Smythe's blue eyes. Also, a white scar seamed his lower right cheek down to the jawline, adding a veteran-like touch to his appearance.

  "Typewriter…" Sir Brian was muttering to himself. "Typewriter…"

  "A—local beast, rather like a griffin," said Jim, hurriedly. "We have a lot of them in Riveroak—That's in America, a land over the sea to the west. You may not have heard of it."

  "Damme if I have," replied Sir Brian, candidly. "Was it there that you were ensorceled?"

  "Well, yes and no," said Jim, cautiously. "I was transported to this land of yours by magic, as was the lady—Angela. Then when I woke, I found myself bedragoned."

  "Were you, now?" Sir Brian had bright-blue eyes, amazingly innocent-looking in comparison to his tanned and scarred face. "Angela, eh? Fair name, that."

  "As she herself is fair," answered Jim, gravely.

  "You don't say, Sir James! Perhaps we ought to have a bit of a go on behalf of our respective ladies while we've got the chance, before we get to know each other too well for it."

  Jim swallowed.

  "On the other hand," he said, quickly, "you were telling me about your lady. What was her name?"

  "The Lady Geronde." Sir Brian began to fumble about his saddlebags. "I've got her favor here, someplace. Wear it on my arm when I expect to run into someone, of course, but when one's out hunting dr
agons—Half a moment. It must be right here under my hand…"

  "Why don't you just tell me what it's like?" Jim suggested.

  "Oh, well." Sir Brian gave up his search. "It's a kerchief, you know. Monogrammed. 'G.d'C The Lady Geronde Isabel de Chaney, presently chatelaine of the Castle Malvern. Her father, Sir Orrin, went off to the wars against the Eastern heathen three years ago Whitsuntide, less five days; and there's been no word of him since. If it weren't for that and the fact that I have to do all this scurrying around the countryside, winning worship and so forth, we'd have been married by this time."

  "Why do you do it, then? Go riding around the countryside, I mean?" Jim asked, curiously.

  "Good Lord, Geronde insists on it! Once we're married, she wants me to come home safe, you know."

  Jim did not follow this argumental development in the conversation. He said so.

  "Why, how do you people manage things, overseas?" demanded Sir Brian. "Once I'm married, with my own lands, I've got to produce my own levy of men if my lord or the King calls on me for service in war. If I don't have a name, I'll be forced to march out with a raggedy-breeched bunch of bumpkins and clodpoles out of my own fields, who'll like as not take to their heels at the first sight of trained men-at-arms, and probably leave me no choice but to die on the spot for honor's sake, if not for other reasons. On the other hand, if I'm known about as a warrior of some worth, I'll have good, experienced men coming and wanting to serve under my banner, because they know, do you see, that I'll take good care of them. And, by the same token, they'll take good care of me."

  "Oh," said Jim.

  "And besides," went on Sir Brian, ruminatively, "this chasing about does keep one in shape. Though I must say the mere-dragons we have around here don't give you much of a workout. That's why I had high hopes of you there for a moment. Doesn't do to practice with the neighbors, you know. Too much chance of a lost temper and a feud resulting."

  "I see," said Jim.

  "However," said Sir Brian, brightening, "all's well that ends well. And this quest of yours to rescue your lady can certainly be worth a dozen mere-dragons to my reputation. Though, as I say, I'll have to get permission from Geronde, first. Happily, Castle Malvern's only a day and a half's ride from here. Long days, though; so hadn't we better be moving?"

  "Moving?"

  "Traveling. Covering distance, Sir James!" Brian squinted up at the sun. "We've only about a half-day's light left to us now, and that means noon or better of the second day before we can see the gates of Castle Malvern. So, shall we?"

  "Hold on a minute," said Jim. "You're talking about both of us going to this Castle Malvern. Why?"

  "My good sir, I explained why," said Sir Brian with a touch of impatience, reining his horse about so that it faced to the east. "The Lady Geronde must give her permission, first. After all, my first duty's to her."

  Jim stared.

  "I still don't follow you," he said, at last. "Permission for what?"

  But Brian was already walking his horse away from the ocean. Jim hurried to catch up with him.

  "Permission for what?" he repeated.

  "Sir James," said Brian, severely, turning his head to look Jim squarely in the eyes—on horseback, his head was just about level with Jim's as Jim walked on all fours. "If this continued questioning is a jest of some sort, it is in sorry taste. What else could I seek my lady's permission for, than to accompany you on your quest and make one of the Companions you told me you were seeking?"

  Chapter Eight

  They went along silently, side by side. Brian stared straight ahead as he rode, looking somewhat stiff-faced and offended. Jim was busy adjusting to the idea of the knight as a Companion.

  He had not really paid that much attention when Carolinus had echoed the watchbeetle in saying that Jim would gather Companions to aid him in rescuing Angie and facing up to the Dark Powers. But as far as he had thought about it, he had assumed he would be selecting those who would join him. He had not really envisioned them thrusting themselves upon him.

  Obviously, Brian was not likely to be a liability as a Companion. Plainly, he had no lack of courage and his appearance testified to some experience in combat. But beyond these things, what did Jim really know about the man? Nothing, in fact, except for the meager facts of his name, arms, and the identity of his lady.

  On the other hand, was it wise to look a gift horse in the mouth? Carolinus had spoken of forces at work and given the impression that inhabitants of this world were about to be divided by them into two camps—that of the Dark Powers and that of those who, like Jim, were in opposition to them. If that was the case, then it ought to be possible to identify the camp to which any particular individual belonged by watching to see who and what he lined up with.

  Brian had lined up with Jim. Therefore, he ought to be in the camp of those opposing the Dark Powers, by definition…

  Jim came up out of his thoughts to realize that the knight was still riding alongside him stiffly, with a very obvious, if invisible, chip on his shoulder. A small apology might be in order.

  "Sir Brian," said Jim, a little awkwardly. "Excuse me for not understanding that you were offering yourself as a Companion. The truth of the matter is, things are different where I come from."

  "Doubtless," said Brian, unsmilingly.

  "Believe me," said Jim, "there was no jest of any kind involved. It was just my own lack of—er—wit, that kept me from understanding what you were talking about."

  "Ah," said Brian.

  "Naturally, I couldn't ask for a better Companion than a gentleman like yourself."

  "Quite."

  "And I'm overjoyed to have you with me."

  "Indeed."

  Jim felt like someone knocking on the door of a house in which the owner was home but obstinately refusing to answer. A touch of annoyance tweaked at him; and on the heels of this came an idea at which he nearly smiled visibly. Ignorance of other people's customs could work both ways.

  "Of course, if only I'd known your Social Security number right from the start," he said. "It would have been different."

  Brian's eyes flickered. They continued to travel on side by side in silence for perhaps another full minute before the knight spoke again.

  "Number, Sir James?"

  "Why, yes," said Jim, raising his eyebrows. "Your Social Security number."

  "What bloody number is that supposed to be?"

  "Don't tell me," said Jim, "you don't have Social Security numbers here?"

  "Blind me if I ever heard of any such thing!" Jim clicked his tongue sympathetically. "No wonder you thought it odd of me, not understanding the offer of your Companionship," he said. "Why, where I come from nothing can happen unless a gentleman's Social Security number is known. Naturally, I thought you were withholding yours for good reasons of your own. That's why it didn't dawn on me that you were offering me Companionship."

  "But I haven't got one to withhold, dammit!" protested Sir Brian.

  "Haven't got one?"

  "By St. Giles, no!"

  Jim clicked his tongue again.

  "That's the trouble with living out in the provinces, here," Sir Brian said in an aggrieved tone. "They've probably been using these what-do-you-call-it numbers for a twelvemonth now at Court; and none of us out here have ever heard of them."

  They went on a little farther in silence.

  "You've got one, I suppose?" Brian said.

  "Why—yes," Jim answered. Hastily, he delved into his memory. "469-69-9921."

  "Damned fine figure."

  "Well…" Jim decided he might as well pick up some credit while the opportunity existed. "I am Baron of Riveroak, after all."

  "Oh, of course."

  They rode on a little farther.

  "I say," said Brian.

  "Yes, Sir Brian?"

  Brian cleared his throat.

  "If I was to have a something-number of my own, what would you venture to say it might be?"

  "Well, I don't know
…"

  "Well, well, I shouldn't ask it, I suppose. Puts me at a disadvantage, though." Brian turned a troubled face to Jim. "Here you tell me your number and I can't reciprocate."

  "Think nothing of it," said Jim.

  "I do think something of it, though."

  "You shouldn't," Jim insisted. He was beginning to feel a little guilty in spite of himself. "I'm sure your number, if you had one, would be a very good one."

  "No, no. Probably quite an ordinary figure. After all, what am I? Just an outlying knight bachelor, no chansons about me for the minstrels to sing, or anything like that."

  "You underestimate yourself," said Jim, uneasily. The ploy was getting out of hand. "Of course, I wouldn't know what the official number would be; but in my country I'd guess you'd be at least a"—he had to think rapidly to count the digits in his own Social Security number—"387-22-777."

  The eyes Sir Brian turned on him were as round as dinner plates.

  "Really? You think so, do you? All that?"

  "At least that."

  "Well, well. What was it again?"

  Jim slowly repeated the number he had given Brian several times over until the knight had it by heart; and they went on cheerfully together, chatting like old friends. Like Companions, in fact, thought Jim.

  Brian, having gotten over his stiffness of manner, turned out to be eager to talk. Specifically, his topic of conversation was the Lady Geronde, who was apparently not only the most beautiful of women, but a collection of all the other talents and virtues as well. Over and above Geronde, however, the knight was a repository of local gossip, both bloody and salacious. Jim had never considered himself to be someone easily shocked, but what he was now hearing was startling.

  He was, in fact, learning fast. His mind had been translating the language and actions of Sir Brian into the fuzzy, quasi-Victorian image of a stage Englishman that most Americans carried around in that part of their mind reserved for stock characters. Now, a closer acquaintance with the knight was destroying that particular image rather thoroughly.

  To begin with, Brian was entirely physical, pragmatic and human. "Earthy" might have been a better word. The taboo areas in his cosmos were restricted to those of religion and a handful of ideals and principles. Curiously, he seemed perfectly capable of highly idealizing something as an abstract idea, and at the same time ruthlessly being honest about it as a specific reality—all without seeing any particular conflict between these attitudes. For example, Jim learned, to Brian his King was at once a majestic figure anointed by God, a ruler by divine right for whom Brian would die without question if the need arose, and at the same time a half-senile old man who was drunk half the time and could not be trusted with the more important decisions of his kingdom. The lady Geronde was somehow both a goddess on a pedestal, above and beyond the touch of gross males, and a thoroughly physical human female with whom Brian's hands were quite familiar.