Dragons Deal

by Robert Asprin

  At last, Edith opened a door into a glass-walled observatory. It alone was as large as the house he had grown up in. Exotic plants hung from wrought-iron or knotwork hooks. He recognized orchids and miniature roses, but he had no idea what the rest were. The room was divided unofficially in half by a slate-bed pool table that made him more envious than the rest of the display of wealth had. On the far side, a couple of dozen comfortable-looking armchairs were arranged in a rough circle. Small, circular tables about the size of a dinner plate stood at the elbow of each one, no doubt to hold drinks. Griffen approved.

  The twenty or so people already present in the other half of the room turned to look at him. All of them, of white, African-American, and mixed heritage, were men except for one woman in a deep green two-piece dress suit. Griffen had learned a little about clothes in the last few months. Everything they wore was so understated and well fitted that he knew they had top-tier designer labels hidden inside. He was glad he was wearing his best black wool pants and a handsome, long-sleeved Fuji silk shirt in pale blue, but he still felt as if he had been hired for the afternoon instead of invited as a guest.

  Etienne was the only one who was dressed as casually as he was. He spotted Griffen and wormed his way out of the crowd he was talking to. He came up with his hand extended.

  "You here!" he said. His grip was powerful enough to make Griffen wince. "Good! I was just tellin' Mr. Fenway how much you liked the floats. He is in charge of the floats committee. Let me introduce you to everyone, all right?"

  By the time he had dragged Griffen over to the largest group, the most elegant of the men had his own hand out to take Griffen's. His long, almost spidery fingers wrapped around Griffen's hand and shook it firmly.

  "Callum Fenway, Mr. McCandles," he said. "Nice to meet you."

  Callum Fenway's narrow face threw his large, dark brown eyes into relief against his cafe au lait skin. His hair had been straightened into shiny, floppy waves that made him look like a romantic hero or a cocker spaniel.

  "Call me Griffen, Mr. Fenway," Griffen said.

  "Well, thank you, Griffen," Callum said, with the air of a schoolteacher speaking to a first-grader. The attitude made Griffen nervous and annoyed at the same time. "We do hope that you will be joining our exclusive little number." He turned to speak to a woman at his side. "My dear, Griffen McCandles. Griffen, my wife, Lucinda."

  Lucinda Fenway was a surprisingly lovely woman whose face was almost a perfect heart shape. Her long, nearly black eyes boasted sweeping eyelashes like delicate lace fans. Her figure was tiny at the waist but lush above and below. If she hadn't been a dragon, he would have put her at fifty, but he did not dare guess her real age. "How nice of you to come. Will you have a drink?"

  "Irish whisky, if you have it," Griffen said, making it sound as suave as though he were James Bond requesting a vodka martini. "Thank you."

  Lucinda turned her head and raised her eyebrows just a trifle.

  One of the infinite number of young, twentyish women who worked temporary jobs serving at private parties on their days off from the elegant restaurants downtown slipped through the crowd and pressed a cold tumbler into his left hand. Griffen took a grateful swig as Lucinda recited name after name to him. He did his best to retain them, but he had a dozen tricks for getting people to reintroduce themselves to him. He just smiled and shook hands.

  ". . . And Terence Killen, who is in charge of our membership committee. I hope you two will be having a nice little conversation later on," Lucinda concluded, coming to the last person, a plump, ruddy-faced man with a head of executive-class silver hair.

  "Griffen."

  "Mr. Killen," Griffen said formally. He held his temper in check. The krewe should have invited him by the third or fourth introduction to use their first names, too. The longer it went on, the madder he got. It was a power move to deny him the familiarity, but he determined he would not show that it bothered him. Better to make it sound as if using the honorific was what he did to keep his distance. He smiled superciliously at the membership chairman, who squirmed a little, then caught himself. Yes, they knew what they were doing. So did he.

  "Well, let's get started," Callum said. With his glass, he gestured toward the circle of chairs beyond the pool table. Griffen waited for the others to lead the way. To his surprise, they all deferred to Etienne.

  The werewolf-dragon hybrid loped toward a seat set with its back to the center of the white-painted fireplace. The set of brass irons that stood beside it made it look as if Etienne had his choice of scepters to wield. He settled down and put his right ankle on his left knee. The rest of the men followed and took seats in the circle. If there was a system governing who sat where, Griffen had no idea. Callum went to take his place at Etienne's right hand. The chair at his left remained empty. Etienne waved Griffen over.

  "C'mon, man! This is where you belong," he said. Griffen, feeling the eyes of the rest rake him as he went by, sat down where he was directed. Etienne took a battered three-by-five spiral-bound notebook out of his back pocket and flipped to a page. "This is the ninth meeting of the Krewe of Fafnir since its refounding late last year. As you captain, I call for news from my lieutenants on the progress of each of you departments." He grinned sideways at Griffen. "This isn't the whole krewe, of course. We're just the heads of all the committees. We meet from time to time to catch up on what's done and what still needs to be done. There's an encyclopedia of work to get through. Just get up and walk around if you get bored."

  "I won't," Griffen said. He glanced at the circle of men. "Uh, aren't there any women lieutenants?"

  One of the eldest men present, sallow-faced and with pouches under his eyes that made Griffen think of a deflated frog, cleared his throat. "You're out of order, Griffen," he said, in a squeaky voice that would have sounded natural in a pond.

  "Wait," said a young man with shiny dark hair and dark eyes and a pale complexion. "That's going to be a matter for discussion in future years, but it was like this when this krewe last organized a parade. If you join us, you can have a vote. The discrepancy with modern society, uh, has been noted. But that's not what we're here to talk about today if you don't mind."

  Griffen felt he'd been slapped down, but it was none of his business unless he put his money where his mouth was. Mardi Gras krewes didn't get any support from the government, so fairness laws didn't apply. If he wanted to make a change in their structure, he would have to change it from the inside.

  "Okay, then," Etienne said. "Let's go down the list. Treasurer?"

  No surprise that Callum Fenway was in charge of money. He stood up and produced a BlackBerry from his jacket pocket.

  "At present the checking account has eighty-four thousand sixty dollars and twelve cents in it. Got some big upcoming payments, to Nautilus and Blaine Kern, for float rental and construction, to Bourne Range for the den rental, Howson's for fabric and notions for costumes, and Mimi's Masks on a down payment for our parade masks. We won't know exact numbers until about a week before the parade date, so final payment has yet to be determined. This week, I have processed nineteen requests for riders. All their checks have cleared."

  "Okay," Etienne said. "That'll leave it to Terence to make sure there's no problem with other krewes before we accept 'em." Terence Killen nodded and accepted a document from Callum. "Sounds good. How many riders we got so far?"

  "Three forty-five," Terence said. "Counting krewe members who've paid."

  "Oscar?" Etienne asked. "What about the riders?"

  Oscar hitched his big belly over his belt buckle. "I'll get on the float captains. We've got a meeting on Thursday. They are recruiting, but they've got to close the deal and get them to pay up. They're into the concept, though. Real excitement. Could be over eight hundred by parade date."

  "Nice. Well, then, Doug, where y'at on liaison?"

  The dark-haired man stood up. "I was on the phone with our friends in the Krewe of Antaeus, the Krewe of Nautilus, and the Krewe of Aeolus. It
is agreed: We are going to be the fourth to step off on the twenty-fourth of February, at seven o'clock in the evening. They're looking forward to the group meeting on Twelfth Night. Aeolus is hosting it at Antoine's. Should be a mighty fine party."

  "Sounds fine," Etienne said, checking off an entry on a page and flipping to another. One by one, the men got up to report, reading from extensive notes. Every lieutenant had a checklist, a clipboard, a handheld electronic device, or something equivalent on which he could jot down details.

  "Mitchell, how's the tractor situation?"

  "We're gonna have enough," said a chocolate-dark African-American in a charcoal gray sports coat and yellow polo shirt. "Got nine big ones to pull the double-decker floats . . ."

  "Nine?" Griffen echoed, impressed.

  "Really, that's nothin', young man," Mitchell said, with a humorous glance toward him. "Proteus, Rex, Zulu, Bacchus, they'll have dozens of the big floats in between all the smaller ones, and the bands and the other units. We're just getting started. You wait ten years, and we'll be ready to rival them for a really long parade!"

  "Hear, hear!" laughed Terence.

  Mitchell went on. "Sounds like we'll have twenty-four small floats, and I have got enough tractors and drivers to manage them, plus some spares. Fifteen of the smaller floats are still under construction, and not all in the den yet. I've got one in the barn out back of my mother's house. The rest of each committee's got them in various places, in pretty nearly every stage of disarray. It's just too soon to start moving even the finished ones, and we don't want to tip our hand too soon on the theme. They'll start to migrate to the den after Twelfth Night."

  "Our formal ball will introduce you and the parade theme on January 18," Etienne told Griffen.

  "What is the theme?" Griffen asked.

  "Well, that kind of information is not open to the public," Mitchell said flatly. "Until you join Fafnir, you are still the public. We can't count on outsiders keeping our secrets."

  Griffen tried not to scoff. "You make it sound like a big deal."

  Mitchell lowered his brows. "It is a big deal, young man. We have rituals drawn from history, going back centuries. Fafnir has been the guardian of fire in this place, well, since its founding."

  "But what about the people at the ball?"

  "Ah, well, they won't be present for the underlying rituals of our krewe, just the announcement and the party. Your guests will be welcome to come to the ball, too. There are plenty of family members invited who are not part of the krewe, and they don't have to keep secrets."

  Griffen immediately saw a way to keep peace among the three ladies in his life. "And how much are tickets?"

  "We're projecting about three-fifty apiece," Callum said. "That right, Ralph?" A white man with a short brown beard nodded. Griffen swallowed hard. Three for the girls, one for himself, and at least two others added up to over two thousand dollars right off the bat. Callum had undoubtedly seen the apprehension on Griffen's face. "But all that's by the way, unless . . ."

  "Unless what?"

  "Unless you say no." Callum nodded toward Etienne.

  Nine

  The captain nodded around the circle and flipped to the next page in his notebook.

  "Well, now, all old business bein' taken care of, is there any new business?" Etienne asked.

  Terence raised a hand. "I want to know, do we have us a king? Griffen? You've been listening to us beat our jaws for hours. What do you think? Are you in or out?"

  "I'm in," Griffen said, trying not to look as eager as he felt. "I want to do it."

  The others burst into applause. "See, I told you," Etienne said, his thin face alight. "Welcome, Griffen. Well, then, let's get the membership festivities going."

  Griffen felt every eye fix on him again. They looked like lions at feeding time. "What festivities?" he asked.

  "Well, to start with, you need to enter your membership and pay for it, here if possible," Terence Killen said, flipping up papers on his clipboard and detaching one. "I've got the form to fill out right here. It's not too long. I'll take a check or cash. We're not set up with the credit cards yet, just PayPal online."

  "How much?" Griffen asked.

  "The basic membership is four hundred dollars for the first year," Terence said.

  "No problem," Griffen said, reaching for his wallet.

  Terence went on. "But there are higher fees for the officers and honorees of the krewe. We pay a premium for our ranks. As you are the king, and we are a smaller krewe, we ask only twelve thousand dollars."

  Griffen blanched. "Twelve thousand ?"

  Terence nodded. "Yes, sir. That covers your costume for the parade, and an allowance for throws, ball ticket, and some of the cost of striking you into doubloons."

  "What?"

  "Well, one of the throws that we distribute is a doubloon. An aluminum coin. Sometimes plastic, but we prefer the feel of metal. Used to be wood, or bakelite, back in the old days."

  "I know," Griffen said. "I saw some on display at the Presbytery."

  Terence seemed pleased that Griffen knew. "That's right. Rex started it. The parade theme is depicted on one side, and the face of the king is on the other. That's you. It's a great honor. You've got a good profile, and it'll look pretty handsome. We'll make sure to give you a presentation case with at least one of each color for your wall. I know it's a bunch of money all at once. I can take a deposit against the rest. We know you are good for it. At least, that is what Etienne tells us." Killen chuckled, and the others shared the laugh.

  Until he said that, Griffen was going to give them a few hundred, but then he felt stung by pride to show he was a person of consequence. How much could he spare? He did a quick calculation to make sure he would have enough left to cover his taxi fare home and dinner. Dinner! He would have to go to an ATM to withdraw enough to pay for dinner with Harrison the next day and live on savings the rest of the week. But he was able to hand Terence Killen two thousand dollars, a sum that pleased the others.

  "Thank you, sir," Terence said, removing a handsome deerskin billfold from his inner pocket and tucking the money away. He took the application that Griffen had hastily filled out and signed at the bottom and put it back on the clipboard. "Well, now that you have agreed to join us, there is an ordeal to seal the commission."

  "An ordeal?" Griffen scanned the room for a means of quick exit. "I don't like the sound of that," he said.

  "It's not a true ordeal," Callum said. "We've got rituals. Pete? He's Keeper of the Mysteries of Fafnir." He signed to a wiry man with tightly curled brown hair and pale blue eyes, who took a metal box off the floor. From it, he removed a scroll, an actual scroll of yellowing material that crackled when it was unrolled. Griffen hadn't seen anything like it since the last time he had visited a Renaissance fair. Matt stood up. Griffen got to his feet. The man began to read.

  "You wish to join us as a member and king of the Noble Krewe of Fafnir, Griffen McCandles. Do you declare that you are of pure dragon blood?"

  "As far as I know," Griffen said. He suddenly felt that every eye in the room was on him, peering at him as if they were looking into his bones. Even Lucinda Fenway, not included in the circle of lieutenants, was staring at him avidly.

  "Will you manifest your power here and now, to prove without a doubt the truth of your bloodline?"

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Anything you can, son," Callum said, his eyes fixed on Griffen. "You've surely been exercising your abilities by now. Give us a small demonstration. Anything you can."

  "I . . ." Griffen hesitated. The tension that the others displayed drained out of them like the air from inflatable beach toys. Doug groaned.

  Mitchell scoffed. "Etienne, you are full of it," he said, flicking a hand at the captain. "You bring a kid here that you swear you dreamed about as the big, all-powerful one true dragon, and he don't have no more power than a burnt-out lightbulb. Shouldn't have expected no better of a moon-howler who's got about as muc
h dragon in him as a lizard."

  That lit Griffen's temper.

  "Are you calling me a phony?" Griffen asked, dropping his voice to just above a whisper.

  Mitchell looked taken aback at Griffen's tone, but he held his ground. "I am saying that maybe Etienne is mistaken. I have known him since we were together in school, and sometimes he lets his visions get the best of him."

  "That's not what it sounds like to me," Griffen said, meeting the other man's eyes. Mitchell leaned back and folded his arms.

  "You take offense at what I say? Well, then, prove I'm wrong!" he said.

  "Now, don't rush him," Etienne said. "Don't you worry about a thing, Mr. Griffen. Go ahead. Just relax."

  The lieutenants looked skeptical and amused, not unlike a tableful of poker players meeting a rookie at his first game. Sometimes, Griffen would play the innocent until he had figured out just how good his new opponents were, but this time he wanted to prove he knew what he was doing, for his own reputation's sake and that of Etienne, who had brought him there. He decided to give that bunch a taste of a skill that he had learned but seldom used: that of animal control. He didn't have to close his eyes to concentrate. He reached out into the walls and under the floor of the mansion, and sent out an irresistible summons: "Come to me."

  Most people in the South called them palmetto bugs. Griffen didn't doubt that there was a fancy Latin name giving genus and species, but as far as he was concerned, they were hypertrophied cockroaches that lived everywhere in New Orleans unless one sprayed the living hell out of one's apartment to keep them at bay. The Fenways probably had an exterminator come in monthly or even weekly to hold off the arthropodia, but no insect could withstand the call of a dragon's control. Griffen waited. He heard a slithery noise begin at a distance. Some of the other men glanced up. The sound got louder and more complex as more palmetto bugs joined the throng. By the time the first of the three-inch-long cockroaches stuck its antennae under the door of the conservatory, thousands were at its back. They swarmed into the room, filling the floor with a roiling carpet of brown. All of the krewe's lieutenants jumped to their feet. In spite of her tight pencil skirt, Lucinda leaped onto a chair. Griffen stood in an empty ring of floor as his inquisitors stomped, kicked, and brushed at the army of insects. Etienne didn't seem particularly bothered as the giant bugs raced over his shoes, but Mitchell beat at them with his hands and feet. His eyes showed the white all around the irises.