He pointed one dirty finger at the gnome sitting across from him. "All I'm saying is that proof is proof. I've never seen any proof of your story except a snip of dirty twine. Now folks know when I tell about Malaeragoth, I'm going show them proof of my words. I've got my scale, don't I?"
Bates tapped the iron box sitting beside his plate. The dwarf worked in the local foundry but had once dug gardens and built fountains for the wizard Uvalkhur the Undaunted. When certain rival wizards murdered the old man in his own home, Malaeragoth, the sapphire dragon and sometimes steed of Uvalkhur, suddenly appeared before the thieving wizards ransacking the mansion and revenged his former master. Almost one hundred years had passed since the day that Malaeragoth tore apart the manor to play cat-and-mouse games with the murderers, but the ferocity of his vengeance remained a favorite tale in Sembia. Of all those who'd occupied the manor that day, only Badger Bates had escaped with his life. And from that day to the present, no more had been seen of the sapphire dragon.
"And besides, the last time that you told that story about the black dragon, you said you cast an illusion of one snake crawling across his den," argued Bates. "Now when I talk about Malaeragoth-"
"One snake, ten snakes, what does it matter?" Silver said, cutting off Bates's last sentence. "You're missing the point. What I'm trying to say is that it pays, and pays well if you're hunting someone else's treasure, to know who you're stealing from. Dragons are no different from people. Know their habits, know where they keep their loot, and know how to trick them. That dragon-and I never said that he was the usual sort of black dragon-that dragon had what the wizard called a pho-bee-a. Couldn't abide snakes in any form. And when he saw a snake, or thought he saw one, he ran."
"I am the last person alive to have actually seen Malaeragoth and I can produce my proof anytime I want," Bates persisted, flipping open the lid of his iron box. The shimmering sapphire scale inside shone like an evening star in the tavern's dim light. "Besides, Malaeragoth wasn't one of your commonplace black dragons that any reprobate gnome illusionist could trick," finished Bates in a huff.
"I paid good gold for information about that black dragon," snarled Silver, "and more for a great snake illusion. That's what made it possible for me to defeat that dragon-and a lesser gnome couldn't have done it. You may have been clever enough to pick up that scale, after you crawled out of whatever hole that you hid in, but avoiding Malaeragoth isn't the same as tricking a dragon in his own lair!"
"Humph," said Badger Bates. "Proof is proof, and I still don't see anything on the table."
"I've got the scars from my encounters, and nobody asks me to plop those on the table when I tell my stories," said Wyrmbait Nix. "But scars or no scars, I still believe the gnome. As for putting things down on the table, Silver pays for his fair share of the drinks, which is more than you've ever done, Badger," continued Nix, who made his living capturing baby dragons for wizards' menageries. He spent his winter months in town, offering to show any lady in the tavern his scars, including the terrific bite mark left on his leg by a baby blue dragon. "And neither of you has spent day after day crawling through dark dank holes after those nasty-tempered wyrmlings!"
"Yeah, well, they don't call you Wyrmbait for nothing," said Silver. "But I'd rather steal a treasure and keep a whole skin, than carry around a bag of hissing, wiggling baby dragons nipping at my fingers. Nasty way to make a living, Nix, nasty."
"Baby bites," scoffed Bates. "Why that's nothing compared to the fury of Malaeragoth. He ripped Uvalkhur's roof off with one swipe of his claws. He hunted Uvalkhur's killers through the hallways like one of Guerner's terriers after rats. I saw him, and that's more than either of you have ever seen-a great old dragon like that, fighting with all his strength!"
The ratcatcher Guerner suddenly spoke up. "Well, I've never seen a dragon, and I've never wanted to see one. Catching rats is enough vermin for me. But I like hearing your stories, makes these winter nights pass quicker. I'll stand you a drink all round for your tales. Hey, Varney, draw us four more cups," he said to the tavernkeeper.
Varney smirked at Mrs. Varney. He'd been right and she'd been wrong, it was worth staying open a little longer.
The chink of Guerner's coin dropping into his box sparked Varney's big idea, or "another one of Varney's big ideas" as Mrs. Varney would say in later years to friends and relations. Middle of the tenday, middle of the winter, was such a lonely time for a tavernkeeper's coin box in Sembia. It had been another lousy winter for trade. There'd been talk of odd trouble in odd places, ghosts in the forests and suchlike. In a small town like Halfknot, where Varney ran the Dragon Defeated, people relied on travelers for their extra coin. And when the gods, elves, Zhentarim, and who knew what else kept disrupting trade, well, then, it meant everyone got very nervous and hoarded what gold they had.
But with the Year of Maidens passed and the Year of the Helm begun, Varney wanted to encourage customers to stop saving and start spending at the Dragon Defeated. Advertising Mrs. Varney's meat pies as being made from the best ber-rygobblers hadn't done the trick. In fact, some unkind bard had started a song about "Mrs. Varney's Rat Pies."
As Varney served Guerner's round, a woman blew through the tavern's door with a cold, wet wind and an offer to repaint the Dragon Defeated's sign. Varney just knew that her offer was all that was needed to start his great idea attracting a little cash to his tavern.
Small and fair-haired, the painter's skin held that ruddy brown tinge of a wanderer who spent most of her time outdoors. Spots of color sprayed across her hands, the marks of her trade.
"I was heading east," the painter said, "but the roads are rivers of mud and I'm tired of slipping and falling every third step. So I'm stopping in Halfknot until the roads dry out. I'm painting signs for the baker, the butcher, and the hostler. I'll do yours too in return for a few meals."
Varney promised as many meat pies as the painter could eat.
The next morning, Varney, the painter, and Mrs. Varney discussed a new design for the Dragon Defeated's well-weathered sign. The current placard depicted a group of men attacking a rearing white dragon.
"I noticed your sign when I first came to town," said the painter, standing underneath it, ignoring the rain dripping on her head and down her neck. "That dragon is simply awful. The neck is all wrong, the head's too small, and those wings! They look like a bird's wings, not a dragon's!"
"Can you add a princess, dear?" asked Mrs. Varney, who was a sentimental soul. "You know, one of those girls all dressed in fine silks with a little tiny crown perched on top of her curls, being rescued by the lads? Like in the stories my granny told."
"Well," said the painter. "I don't know as much about princesses as I do about dragons, but I can draw one. What else?"
"Can you make the chaps in the sign look like those three over there?" asked Varney, pointing a thumb at Silver, Bates, and Nix, who were walking down the street. The gnome, the dwarf, and the human were still arguing about who knew more about dragons.
The painter looked them over. "Don't you want something better? I'm not sure that they'll attract the customers."
"I want it to look just like them," said Varney. "I've got an idea about those three."
Once the repainted sign was flapping in the gusts of winter wind, Varney nailed another smaller sign next to his door advertising free beer on the slowest night of the tenday in return for a good dragon story.
Much to the town's surprise, Varney lived up to his promise. Every storyteller got one free beer-small and a bit watered, but free. Also, Varney had every listener and storyteller put a coin or a button or a packet of pins in a cup. At the end of the evening, the best story was awarded the cup, with the tavern's own "dragon defeaters" Silver, Nix, and Bates acting as judges. Of course, food and additional beer were charged at Varney's usual rates, and the winner most often stood the company an extra round, all of which meant that Varney's coin box started to fill up very nicely.
So Varney's idea worked, as
Varney liked to tell friends and relations in later years. More people came to the Dragon Defeated, just to hear a story well told, and after a few ten-days, as the weather improved and travel became easier, the promise of a free beer and the possibility of winning a cup of coins and buttons spread up and down the roads, drawing more out-of-towners and regulars from other taverns. All sorts of strange folk began to appear at the Dragon Defeated to compete with their story.
Silver, Nix, and Bates took to strutting around town because of their positions as "dragon experts." The dwarf even promised to give Malaeragoth's sapphire scale to the first person who managed to astound all three judges.
On the night of the "unfortunate incident," as Varney described it in later years, the Dragon Defeated was packed with a lively, hard-drinking crowd of humans, dwarves, and gnomes. A human fighter with well-oiled leather armor and a really big sword slung across his back finished his tale of hand-to-claw combat with a green dragon with a thump of his fist on his chest. The audience looked between him and the judges, waiting to hear what the trio thought.
"Well," said Nix, cleaning his teeth with an ivory toothpick, "if you'd lunged a bit more and ducked less, you could have finished the fight in half the time. If you're going to go hunting dragons, you can't be afraid of being nipped on the arm or leg. Bites heal. Look at my scars. Besides, we heard something similar from a man from Triel last tenday, didn't we boys?"
"Yup, I don't think that story is worth even a button," said Bates, who was known throughout Halfknot as a dwarf so cheap that he wouldn't give away the time of day for free. There was a running side bet going at the Dragon Defeated that no one would ever get Malaeragoth's sapphire scale from the dwarf. "Besides, I like to see a bit of proof, I do. Anyone can tell a fancy story, but not everyone can produce solid evidence."
"I think the whole thing showed a lack of finesse," Silver said, washing his fingers in a porcelain bowl. "With a little bit of guile," added the gnome, using his embroidered hankie to dry off his fingertips, "he could have had the head off that creature and been out of the forest without even pulling that really big sword out of its scabbard. If he'd studied his dragons before he went, he'd have known how to handle them. Everyone knows that you're most likely to find green dragons there and those type of dragons are cross-eyed and easy to confuse."
"You're wrong," said the sign painter, sitting in the corner nearest the fire and eating one of Mrs. Varney's meat pies. "A green dragon is not that easy to kill and they're never cross-eyed."
A number of heads turned to stare at the woman. She smiled slightly at the three dragon experts and continued to eat her pie with calm, deliberate bites.
"What do you know about greens, missy?" said Nix.
"I've painted a hundred or so, and I've never seen a single crossed eye," she replied, saying more than she'd said in all the previous tendays. Behind her table, her large pack leaned against the wall. The roads outside were dry, she was dressed for traveling, and she'd come for one last meal before leaving town. Being on her way out of Halfknot, she obviously didn't care who she offended that night. Or, at least, that was Mrs. Varney's explanation of the subsequent events.
"What do you mean, madam, that you've painted greens?" said Silver.
"I draw dragons," said the woman. "My name, by the way, is Petra. The dragons sometimes call me Ossalurkarif, but I prefer Petra. I definitely prefer Petra to 'missy' or 'madam.'"
"Lady Petra," said Silver, leaping up on his table so everyone could see him, then making an elaborate bow, "my apologies for these repeated questions, but what do you know about dragons?"
"More than you do." Petra sighed and pushed her pie aside. "I've sat and listened for all these tendays. And your tales are all very pretty and well-told. But not one of you has really looked at the dragons that you say that you've met. You've fought them, you've killed them, you've stolen from them, and once or twice, you've even had a conversation with one. But none of you have ever noticed much more than if a dragon is green, red, or blue."
She reached behind her and pulled a number of long metal and oiled canvas tubes out of her pack.
"I draw dragons," she said again. "Somebody has to. We live in a realm filled with dragons, but what does anyone really know? Your wizards talk of Draco Mystere, but what good is reading the words of others compared to actual field study? Why you won't find in books whether a red adult has one or two phalanges or the color of a bronze hatchling's tongue. But I can show you that! And I can prove greens don't have crossed eyes."
Petra opened one of the tubes and drew out a number of tightly rolled parchments. As she spread them across her table, people stood up to get a better look, causing the gnomes to join Silver on the tabletop so they could see over the heads of the humans. The dwarves just muscled themselves to the front of the crowd. As the sound of "oohs" and "aahs" rose from the crowd, Varney stopped pouring beer and boosted himself up on the bar to see Petra's drawings.
Filling every inch of the vellum were dozens and dozens of drawings of green dragons. There were greens in flight, rearing up to peer over treetops, curled around a clutch of eggs, and resting with chins across crossed claws, looking like tabby cats asleep in the sun.
"Look there," said Petra, pointing at the head of a green dragon with eyes deep-set under a row of hornlets and crest fully extended. "Perfectly normal eyes. Not a sign of crossing."
"Well," said Silver finally. "I guess I got my dragons a little mixed up. It's the whites that have crossed eyes."
"No," said Petra, pulling another tube from her pack and twisting it open. "Whites have beautiful eyes. Much more variation in eye colors than other dragons, in fact, probably because of the white scales. I've seen whites with blue eyes, green eyes, and the most wonderful shade of amber. The one with amber eyes was a very old dragon whose scales had gone a lovely shade of cream, with just a slight tint of azure on the belly. He said that all his brothers had amber eyes, but none of his sisters, who tended to have lavender or violet eyes."
"You talk to dragons?" said Nix, managing to sound both intrigued and disbelieving at the same time. "You've spoken with white dragons?"
"The polite ones," answered Petra with a shrug. "If I'm painting a big portrait. It can take hours sometimes and they do get so bored posing. I guess that's why I like doing the little sketches more, like the ones of the greens. There I'm just drawing them quickly as they go about their lives. It seems less intrusive somehow. Dragons are very sensitive about such things."
"So how many kinds of dragons have you drawn?" challenged Nix. "I've captured more than three different species in my time. I could show the bites on my leg from a blue, and the one on my arm from a green, and the one from a red wyrmling on my-"
"Not in front of the ladies," cried Froedegra, the blacksmith's daughter, who knew very well where the little red dragon had bit Nix and never wanted to see that scar again.
"Thank you, but you don't need to show me anything," said Petra. "I know the bite of one dragon from another. I've drawn copper dragons on the High Moor, red dragons playing in a volcano's fire, gold dragons reading scrolls in labyrinths, white dragons sliding through snow and ice, bronze dragons being ridden by wizards on battlefields, blue dragons burrowing beneath hot sands, and black dragons flying above the salt marshes, where the world is neither sea nor land, but a bit of both. I've walked all the Realms from end to end, just to draw dragons."
As she recited her catalog of dragons, Petra pulled scroll tube after scroll tube from her pack. Dragons crawled, walked, swam, flew, dug, ran, stretched, fought, and slept in the dozens of drawings spread across all the tables of the tavern. More dragons in more colors than anyone had ever seen before. Silver and Nix were silenced.
But Badger Bates was moved to speak, because he knew that if he displayed the awe that the others showed, he'd lose Malaeragoth's sapphire scale. And Bates never gave up anything without a battle.
"There's no sapphire dragon here," he said, surveying the drawings tha
t littered the tavern. "There's one that I've seen that you have not: Malaeragoth in his rage! I saw him that day he ripped up the wizard's killers, and nobody has seen him since."
"Malaeragoth! That dragon is dangerous to draw," said Petra, frowning at the name. "I painted him once and only once, as he paced through his cold caverns, but he caught sight of my painting in his scrying mirror and sent a servant to steal the picture from me."
"Easy to say, hard to prove," answered Bates. "I don't believe you. That old dragon has been gone for a hundred years. There's many here who know that I'm the last alive to see him."
Petra shook her blond head at the dwarf's taunt and began to gather up her pictures, rolling them tightly and packing them back into their protective tubes.
"Malaeragoth served Uvalkhur in Sembia many years ago," continued Bates, "and I was digging a fountain for the wizard's garden when thieves snuck in and murdered the master in his own place. And I can give you proof that I was there that day, for here's Malaeragoth's own scale," said the dwarf, banging his iron box down on the table and flipping open the lid.
"I never said that you were a liar, though you were more than rude to call me one," answered Petra in the same calm voice that she had used to tell Nix and Silver that they knew nothing about green dragons' eyes. "Malaeragoth's scale that may well be. It's off an old dragon, and a sapphire too. The color and the size are evidence of that. But if you've seen Malaeragoth's rage than you know that the sapphire dragon is a dragon best left sleeping. I wouldn't go shouting his name and boasting of my knowledge quite so loud. It's not for nothing that he's taken to calling himself the Unseen Dragon."
"Well," said Silver, determined to regain his status as dragon expert before the crowd, "Badger's not a complete fool. Proof is proof, as he likes to say. You could have drawn your pictures from the stories that you've heard here. You've been listening to us all winter long. How do we know that you've seen these beasts with your own eyes?"
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