Dragons Luck

by Robert Asprin

  “I didn’t kill Slim,” Griffen said.

  “You are the number-one suspect, and you are going in for obstruction and withholding. And I should break your teeth in. You are never getting another favor out of me or any of my boys, McCandles.”

  “Why is this even your case? I thought you were vice.”

  “I know the vic, I know the suspect, and it’s my beat. It may not be my case, but they will understand me wanting to get at you first.”

  “With all the jurisdictional nonsense I hear in this town? I find that very hard to believe,” Griffen said.

  Harrison grunted, and Griffen was hauled back again. A heavy hand pushed him down into a chair, which wrenched his wrists. Idly, Griffen wondered if a dragon claw could pick a lock, if he knew how to control his shape changing that well . . . or knew how to pick a lock.

  Harrison moved into the chair at the opposite end of the table. There were no bright lights in Griffen’s eyes, no two-way mirror along one wall, but he knew an interrogation scene when he saw one. Except Harrison was definitely bad cop, with no good cop in sight.

  “So maybe I called in a favor,” Harrison said. “Just so I could hear it from you, why you lied to me, or why you killed Slim.”

  “I didn’t lie . . . I just decided to wait till a better opportunity to talk to you. And I didn’t—”

  “Kill Slim,” Harrison interrupted. “Yeah, and you know, I almost believe that. So tell me, what is this collection of whack jobs you’ve got going on, and what’s your connection?”

  “Honestly, I didn’t help organize it. I just got asked to come in as a neutral party. Kind of keep the peace. That’s the only reason me and Slim had a problem. He was causing a little trouble, and I had a word with him, it wasn’t any more than that.”

  “Well, that can be an awful lot. And you didn’t tell me who these people are.”

  Griffen looked at him levelly.

  “You really don’t want to know, Detective. Trust me.”

  Harrison looked back.

  “The last thing I am going to do right now is trust you . . . but I might agree with you on that.”

  Harrison stood and walked over to Griffen. A few moments later the handcuffs were back in his pocket.

  “There is no evidence, no sign of you on the body. No murder weapon. And witnesses who talked to me . . . might not be so willing to talk to whoever gets the case. But, McCandles, this is your mess, and you got a group of people, suspects, who are skipping town in a couple of days.”

  Harrison opened the door. The uniforms were gone. Griffen wondered if they had been there just for him.

  “You have till the end of your little convention here to get me some answers I can use. Or I am dragging you, and every last one of them, in on whatever charges I can cook up. And then I find out . . . everything.”

  The door closed behind him, and Griffen sat in the chair, rubbing his wrists and trying to figure out if he was more or less confused than he’d been earlier thas morning. A soft knock came from the door, which opened a crack. Jay poked his head in tentatively.

  “We are ready to start the first meeting, if you are done with the room, Griffen,” he said

  “Sure, sure,” Griffen said absently.

  “Are you busy, or will you be sitting in?” Jay asked.

  “I, uh . . . I’ll sit in.”

  Jay nodded approvingly. He opened the door fully and in walked several of the conclave members. Griffen barely paid attention as they all found their seats, clumped into their cliques and groups.

  The changelings gathered close to him, and after a few more distracted seconds, Griffen realized they were looking at him. Especially Robin and Hobb, their eyes wide and eager.

  “Yes?” Griffen asked.

  “Well, uh, we wanted to know, since you are still leading the meetings,” Robin began, hesitantly.

  “Are we still going to have our pre-Halloween ghost tour?” Hobb asked.

  “Pleeeease,” several of the changelings said at once, eager as puppies.

  Griffen found himself smiling.

  It was all about priorities.

  Forty-eight

  No matter what type of tourist you are, the Quarter has something for you.

  Beautiful scenery for the shutterbugs, endless stores of all ranges of quality for the shopaholics, bars and clubs for the party animals, exotic and local cuisine for the gourmands, museums and galleries for the hoi polloi. Even clowns making balloon animals for the children. Though if you really want to experience the Quarter, it’s always best to leave the kiddies at home.

  For the most part Griffen had sampled all the various facets of the tourist-milking machine that is the French Quarter. He reveled in the low and the high. He even occasionally poked his head in the countless T-shirt shops to see if there was anything clever. Except for the tours. For all his months there, he hadn’t been on a single tour. It just wasn’t something that the locals tended to do, and it wasn’t something that had any particular draw for him.

  That was before he found himself made a moderator. With everything that was going on at the conclave, Griffen felt driven to try to keep things together. He was holding the bag, but that didn’t mean he was going to choose the easy route and drop it.

  One of the activities that had been planned was a group excursion with the Haunted History Tour. Again, Griffen knew very little about the tours themselves though he had seen them around. Groups of fifteen to thirty tourists would gather around a storyteller as he spoke of the Quarter’s sordid past. Most of it was made-up; if one listened to rumor, it was invented on the spot. A really bored tour guide could be the worst, or best, thing that a tourist might encounter.

  One of Estella’s people had offered to give the tour, but Griffen politely declined. Not only did he want the conclave members to have a “normal” Quarter experience, he was hoping that most of them would keep their eccentricities in check with a normal tour guide.

  Hoping, not expecting.

  This was actually the most mingling he had seen among the various groups in the conclave. It was hard to form little cliques when you were all clustering around a single storyteller. Also, it was mostly followers, not leaders. Drake, Robin, and Hobb were there, but not Tink. Several of the voodoo practitioners had attended, but Estella was busy. Even Lowell was absent, though a few of his vampires lurked at the edges.

  The garou were absent entirely, as were the higher shape-shifters. True to his word, Tail had invited the female shifter from the demonstration to dinner. Griffen had suggested the Desire Oyster Bar, and had a discreet word with Amos, one of the waiters there. He had convinced Amos not only to let him pick up the tab, but to be sure not to tell that he had done it. A small miracle in itself. As far as the couple were concerned, it was on the house.

  Of the animal-control people, only Johansson had attended. Griffen gave him an uncomfortable glance when he saw the man approaching the gathering tour group. Johansson saw the look and walked up to Griffen directly.

  “I want you to know,” he said without preamble, “Margie and me, we don’t blame you. This was his town, and he should have known the risks better than anyone.”

  With that he turned away from Griffen and joined the tour group. Griffen let him; after all, what more could be said?

  As the tour actually got started, Griffen more or less tuned out the guide. History really wasn’t his passion. Yet another reason he had avoided the tours in the past. He wasn’t really paying attention till after their first stop, when one of the changelings spoke up.

  “What do you mean we don’t get to go inside?” Drake said.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the tour guide said, “but all the sites on today’s tour are, of course, private residences. We don’t have permission—”

  “You mean we are just going to stand on the sidewalk and listen to you talk?” cut in someone else.

  “Well, one of our stops is Jean Lafayette’s Blacksmith Shop, one of the oldest taverns in the Qua
rter. It is said that many of the pirates who used to run with Lafayette still come back to have one last drink at their old . . . haunt.”

  “A bar . . . go figure.”

  “ ‘Haunt’? Is that the best you can come up with?”

  “A piece of eight says he will use the line ‘dead drunk’ before the night is over.”

  The tour guide’s jaw tightened noticeably, and Griffen almost stepped in. However, he also knew that tourists, any tourists, put the locals through worse. For now, he would just hang in the background, and pay a little bit more attention.

  The tour moved on, and after a few more stops and unimpressive narratives, the guide obviously decided it was time to spice things up a bit. He glanced a bit nervously at the changelings. Probably, Griffen figured, wondering who in the group were their parents.

  “Now, this was the château of a famous marquis in the late eighteenth century. In the tradition of the Marquis De Sade, this perverse nobleman entertained members of the French aristocracy by beating and tormenting servants and local wayfarers. It is said—”

  “Said by who?”

  Griffen stifled a laugh.

  “Tha . . . What?” the guide said.

  “Said by who?”

  “Yes, you keep using that line, but never quote a source.”

  That last was from one of the vampires, who was beginning to sidle up to the guide as he became more and more distraught. Nothing like an easy meal.

  “Not to mention completely glossing over your facts. You didn’t mention the marquis’s name, the actual year, or even what ‘aristocrats’ he was entertaining,” Johansson said.

  “And ‘wayfarers’? Come on, man,” Drake said.

  The tour guide pressed on, showing much admirable determination.

  “It is said that you can still hear the moans of pain from his victims.”

  Then a woman Griffen had not yet seen at the conclave stepped forward.

  “See, now you are way off. The marquis’s château was three blocks from here. This was an old brothel. And believe me, it’s not moans of pain you are hearing.”

  The tour guide threw his hands up.

  “Moving on!” he said as he walked down the street.

  The others all seemed to share a glance before following him. Only Griffen paused, some instinct in him telling him to watch the woman who’d spoken. She turned to him and winked, before turning transparent. The specter walked toward the building in question as she faded away.

  When he caught up to the group, they were standing behind Saint Peter’s Cathedral. He was just in time to hear a line so tired and clichéd, he was shocked that he hadn’t heard it earlier.

  “And if you listen closely, you will hear them,” the guide said to wrap up whatever tale he had been spinning.

  Almost as one, the entire group turned and cocked their heads. Listening.

  They waited, and waited, and the guide started to fidget. “Nnoooo . . .” one said carefully, “can’t hear a thing.”

  “There are going to be ghosts on this ghost tour, right?” Griffen laughed.

  “Maybe if we had a goat.”

  That came from one of the voodoo practitioners. Griffen was almost sure he was kidding.

  “Hey, isn’t Jackson Square on the other side of that church?” Robin asked.

  Again, there was a pause, and almost as one the group surged past the guide, down Pirate Alley, and into the Square. Griffen smiled and, as he passed the befuddled guide, clapped him on the shoulder and tipped him a twenty. It did Griffen much good to see some of the conclave actually unified for a change.

  Now, Griffen wasn’t obligated to keep an eye on everyone, even in his own mind. That night he was more playing host than anything else. Still, most of the ex-tour members were congregating around the various tarot readers. There were over half a dozen tables set up, spaced well apart, and each was promptly filled by one of his attendees. Griffen strolled from table to table listening not too discreetly.

  Some were good.

  “Give me your hand,” a reader said to Johansson.

  “Be gentle,” he said with an easy smile.

  “Hmm . . . very compassionate. A gentle touch . . . especially with children? No, animals. You have much skill with animals. Have you ever thought about show business?”

  Some were bad.

  “The cards say you will marry but never have children. You will excel in business but never own one. You need to learn to communicate more with people.”

  Drake smiled at the reader across from him. His smile did not match his young features.

  “I’ve already had three kids, no wives, and my youngest is about your age. Don’t get me started on the businesses.”

  And some . . . well, “ugly” just didn’t describe it.

  “This . . . this is impossible. No one can have this many life lines . . . and they keep changing! Don’t you ever stay the same?”

  “Well . . . hold on. Let me try.”

  The young shifter looked down at her hand and focused. The reader’s eyes crossed as the lines on her hand truly changed, the many wrinkles merging into one deep line, almost in the exact center of her hand.

  “Is that better?” she asked innocently.

  “That . . . that . . . that’ll be twenty dollars if you please.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Griffen’s attention was drawn to Robin and Hobb. They were actually standing behind one of the vampires, who was getting his cards read. The reader, an elderly man with an exaggerated lisp and a pink cowboy hat, was having some difficulties.

  “Death card . . . again,” the reader said.

  All the cards on the table were death cards. Five of them in all.

  “Is that some kind of trick deck?” the vampire said, scowling.

  “No . . . no . . . someone must be playing a trick on me. The readers are competitive here . . . Let me try another deck.”

  Neither noticed Hobb elbow Robin in her ribs soundly. Griffen could just make out her comment as she giggled and elbowed him back.

  “What? James Bond did it . . . kinda.”

  “Say, that gives me an idea.”

  Hobb leaned closer and whispered in her ear. She giggled.

  “Ah, that’s better,” the reader said as he laid out the cards, “the Lovers.”

  “That woman on the card . . .” said the vampire.

  “Yes?”

  “That’s my mother!”

  Griffen was already hauling the two changelings away by their collars. He could hear the reader try to apologize fifteen feet away.

  He was about to lay into them when again his instincts hit him in the pit of his stomach. He looked around and saw a very sedate shifter sitting at a table Griffen hadn’t noticed before. The woman reading his cards had a shawl over her head, her face hidden. The shifter got up, walked right past Griffen, and left the Square. His face was troubled.

  Griffen, forgetting the changeling couple for a moment, walked toward the now-vacant seat. The reader lifted her head, a faint smile playing across her lips then fading just as quickly.

  “Hello, Rose,” Griffen said.

  “Read your cards, young man?” she said.

  She didn’t acknowledge his greeting, not even with her eyes.

  “Look, I . . .”

  “Sit, I can’t say much right now, but I can read your cards.” Griffen sat.

  Rose nodded and began to shuffle an old battered deck. She blew on it before handing it to him. The cards felt oily and thick, more like fabric than paper. She had him cut the cards, then hand them back.

  She laid out seven cards in a line. Griffen had never had his cards read, but from what he had seen, most readers used an intricate pattern, a cross or a horseshoe or even a star. She merely laid a line.

  “Turn over the first card,” she said.

  The first card was Death.

  Griffen looked up and around suspiciously.

  “No, it isn’t the changelings this time. You k
now what is on your mind, and what is causing you the most grief. This is the card of the now.”

  “Is Slim—”

  “I may only read the cards. Turn over the next two.”

  The Five of Wands, the Seven of Wands, both reversed. “You are conflicted inside, and at the same time spreading yourself too thin. These two cards together are disaster. Continue to try and do everything when you don’t know what you even want, and you will only rip yourself up inside,” Rose said.

  “So what else is new? But how can I—”

  “Flip the next two.”

  Griffen did. They were the Hermit reversed and the Seven of Swords.

  “My, you do like conflicting pairings,” Rose said. “The Hermit reversed, you can’t do everything on your own, you have to accept the help of those who offer it. But the Seven of Swords, you can’t trust many of those around you. They are poised to stab you in the back. You must be very careful to know your true allies.”

  Griffen reached toward the last two cards.

  Rose reached out and rapped his knuckles with something long and hard. He didn’t see what exactly before it disappeared again. It was covered with beads and a few hanging feathers, and it stung.

  “I didn’t tell you to turn over the cards,” she said with a smile.

  “I thought ghosts couldn’t hurt you unless you let them,” Griffen groused.

  “You chose to sit down, didn’t you?” she said, smiling more. “Turn over the cards.”

  The Princess of Swords and the Princess of Cups, both reversed.

  “Women, it always does seem to come down to that. One unbalanced of the mind, one frustrated of the heart. Neither is a solution card, so these are the end of this road, but not a full answer. You will be left wanting.”

  “I repeat, so what else is new?”

  “Nothing,” Rose said, and she stood.

  Griffen took that as a cue and stood as well. She smiled and reached out, as if to brush her fingers over his cheek. Only they passed through with only a bare whisper of sensation. She had seemed perfectly solid before.

  “Good luck, Griffen. I will probably see you before the end of all this. Oh, and would you tell those adorable little changelings something for me?”