It certainly was good fortune that another find by the roadside had fallen into his lap. The reward for a dragon to the Beastslaying Elite would possibly be sizeable, though no word of coin had ever been mentioned in their dealings. On the contrary, they were oft found passing through towns with claims of their food and board dismissed to the Crown. An invoice that would dare not be sent. The Kingsmen too were oft scrupulous with their affairs, some in the pocket of the Spider’s Legs others partial to minor schemes of their own.
If he were to do this, then a suitable customer would be needed. He was about to finish the last remnants of his tankard when the idea struck him. Summoning the barkeep he requested another, fuel for the formulating plan in his mind.
The same barkeep brought Geron his drink. He knew that he should be more wary with the remnants of his coin, but the current situation warranted the indulgence. All thoughts converged into one singular focus. Finding the dragon again. The anger at his own self had dissipated, quelled by an embarrassment that he were so easily duped. Now the rage turned outward, he had an altogether different reunion in mind for Karvel.
Dusting down his worn tunic, aged by time and dirt alike, did little to appease the personal guardsmen that stood by the gates of the Pentelli Manor. Karvel had caught their side-glances at his appearance and given that this was a business appointment, he was keen not to spoil it through negative first impressions.
A lone figure approached from the grand house. Taking her time, she instead prioritised the pleasantries of the garden rather than her waiting guest. Karvel did not mind however. For being seen by the Lady Pentelli was already a step further than he had anticipated his plan would achieve.
Her unspoken power and influence in Tallagate was second only to Lornus himself, but matters of politics scarcely interested her.
As a people-person she was quite proficient in remembering names and faces, usually both, thus Karvel was fortunate to be recognised as the friendly trader who would stock the kitchen larder once a week, before the firm he was employed within collapsed.
“Karvel from Settler’s Keep wasn't it? My word it has been several years.” Her reputation of a consistent warm graciousness was hardly exaggerated. So too was her deft execution of denying any possibilities of employ. The fortune of the Pentelli family was vast and had endured the harsh Tallagatian climate, but it too had its limits.
“It is not charity I seek Lady Pentelli,” spoke Karvel ceremoniously. “Rather I have an offer for you, and for your son.”
This trader's secretive nature intrigued her, and although she had spent far more time that she would normally allot to an informal meeting, she permitted him passage into the grounds.
The relief was palpable for Karvel. Additionally, the vast lands of the Pentelli estate provided many opportunities for his imminent reveal to occur away from prying eyes.
The guardsmen however, were none too pleased. Expecting to turn away this dishevelled scruff of a man with haste, they now found themselves keeping a close eye on him as they escorted his carriage onto the grounds.
A master of small-talk, the Lady Pentelli led the congregation inside, whilst the guardsmen to the rear watched the vehicle with scrutiny.
“Goodness knows what kind of trinkets or rubbish this scoundrel is peddling,” grumbled one to the other. It seemed to be a growing trend to turn away traders offering magical potions and mystical runes. The inside of the carriage was dark, but the guardsman was certain he could detect movement, Uncertain if the jolting of the wheels upon the gravel pathway was disturbing the contents within, the movements seemed continuous and independent. His concerns were amplified by a deep growling he was convinced he could hear. Curiosity-piquing bursts at first, until at last the noise was continuous and growing more amplified by the second.
Eventually the Lady Pentelli could deny impoliteness no more and brought the transport to a halt.
“My dear Karvel of Settler's Keep, if it is a tamed beast you have back there, I must disappoint you. For my son has already had his share of them.”
Karvel's heart sank momentarily, and his stammered vocalisation told the Lady Pentelli that this was indeed his cause, but before she could graciously begin the polite process of removing him from the grounds, he beckoned her attention.
The clasps for the carriage hood were uncompromisingly tight. Neglected with rust, they unwillingly relented one-by-one with pained groaning clacks, until at last, sweating and with swollen fingers, Karvel asked the guardsmen for assistance in exposing what lay within.
Lacking in theatrical mannerisms, he merely opted for a rather meek “Behold!” as the strips of cloth were pulled back, revealing the bundled dark scales beneath.
Karvel's over-preparedness was rewarded as the intrusion of light and sound agitated the dragon further. The beast pushed against the excessive rope bindings until minute tears began to form. The guardsmen held their breath, drawing their weapons, but sighed with relief when the beast relented and the restraints resumed their slack.
One of Lady Pentelli's social strengths was a closely guarded sense of her emotions. One could never truly tell if they had irritated her in debate nor truly charmed her in conversation. Yet, at that moment, it was plain for all to see that the presence of the mythical beast in her own manor's gardens was a sight that drew a sizeable and genuine wide grin across her face. She emitted a giggle so faint and pitched the likes of which her closest attendants had never heard before.
As the guardsmen, with further summoned help from the Manor staff and kitchen workers, began propositioning tactics to transport the dragon to the stables, the Lady Pentelli invited Karvel to accompany her in a walk through the grounds. The culmination of which would be the presentation of the dragon to her son.
“It was his birthday last month. I had a dagger crafted using stone retrieved from the peak of the Insurmountable. He tossed it at the wall. Made quite the incision, proving its legitimacy, but alas it was not enough to appease him.”
Karvel murmured understandably, but truthfully, he had to restrain an admonishment for such an insufferable attitude. In fact, she had also inadvertently stumbled upon his motivation for seeking out the Pentelli Estate.
“He likes peculiar things you see; his mind is often too easily satiated by the norm. As a result, he has quite an eccentric appetite,” Lady Pentelli explained.
But Karvel already knew this. In his time in their employ he had partaken of the shared stories the staff would indulge upon in stolen moments within the kitchen and stables.
“I heard he collects rocks that look like faces. There are whole trunks of them in one of the loft rooms...”
“And there was the hunting accident-”
“That was no accident!” interrupted another, to which urges of quiet were whispered, but Karvel was intrigued, and inquired further. The worker was all too happy to oblige.
“Well,” they began, with all the heightened importance one could obtain in a hushed whisper. “For the annual Hunting of the Beasts, we noticed that quite a lot of people were brought along to help. And not from the house. There were outsiders, carrying weapons and food. Well, one-by-one, they were brought back to the house and dismissed. Each one had an injury. Some small, like a graze. But others? Impaled with an arrow, or bleeding from a deep slash. And yet each time, they were paid and left the Manor without delay.”
“That's quite a lot of accidents,” Karvel whispered.
“I told you, these were no accidents!” After another round of hushed admonishments amid checking that the coast was still clear, the story continued. “Eventually I intercepted one of the helpers that was leaving. Poor guy took an arrow through his shoulder and told me another one had come close to his leg. He also said that Lord Pentelli was responsible. That the Lord had told him to run. Run and hide. And if he saw him...” The worker drew their thumb slowly across their throat.
“He was hunting these people?” Karvel asked, to which the worker smiled and coyly shrugge
d.
Karvel had seen him later that day, the Lord watching through a window as he departed. He kept his eyes on the road and tried to ignore the icy shudder that stabbed at his stomach.
That same feeling returned, causing Lady Pentelli to repeat her question as to how such a creature came into his possession.
“Well, I was wary,” he said bashfully. “Knocking out the handler took only a couple of petals of Torpor's Kiss. I wasn't sure what the dragon eats so I just stuffed a rabbit carcass full of the entire flower. Managed to get the shackles on and bind the creature down before it came back round, though I had to pay an assistant for that bit. Speaking of which...”
A man of manners, Karvel always knew never to open a conversation with talk of coin, but that time had passed and he was eager to conclude this transaction. The whole operation was risqué but was also, as he was about to find out, most profitable.
Karvel could not hide his pride, so audacious a feat most individuals would dare not attempt, yet here he was, the recipient of a coin payment so large a special satchel had to be fetched to carry it. (Included at no extra cost.) He alone, with the help of an unnamed assistant who even in the dark of the storage halls of Wormtrail knew Karvel was lying about transporting a very large and most irritable horse, had wrangled a dragon across Tallagate undetected and sold it to the most influential family in all the Kingdom.
He could not wait to regale this anecdote; it was worth more to him than the hearty gathering of coin tucked safely away in his carriage.
8
The map, though crudely drawn, was respectfully accurate. Fluttering valiantly betwixt the breeze and the four rocks that pinned it to the ground, the parchment lay prone in the centre of the field as Geron paced in front of it. He had traced a deep X through the towns that bore no results, tearing the paper in marking his last frustrating dead-end to the search.
He contemplated throwing a dart at random to determine his next course of direction. An action with as much chance of legitimate success than his previous endeavours, he mused pessimistically.
But the search, whilst futile so far, was establishing a progressive game of elimination. He did not allow the thought to fester, that the towns he had passed through may have contained his elusive target, and that searching for one man based off a loose description and a name that had already proven duplicate in existence was a gargantuan task that was prone to luck just as much as resilience.
Patience had eroded, and coin was next to follow. The hunt was proving a most expensive endeavour. Information was just as costly as sustenance, and every keen eye was itching to make an easy coin or two at the prospect of whatever sliver they knew about a 'Karvel the Trader.'
The map fluttered suddenly, reminding him that a decision was due. There was but two feasible choices left. Both offering an even chance of success and failure, yet he only had the means to investigate one.
As he lay down on the grass the blades flickering at his face amidst the rushing of the wind through the surrounding bare trees of the valley made him feel momentarily soothed.
Desperate recalls of their fleeting conversations had garnered some leads. Trade routes were designated and enforced by Councils, but after the war had they disintegrated within a philosophy of self-interested greed.
Geron usually had little need nor interest in small talk. But for such a pointless social skill, in his limited interactions with Karvel, it may have revealed much that he could have incorporated into his search. However, if he did indeed know more about Karvel and his doings, would he have been left alive at the trader's mercy that night in the storage hall? Geron could not answer for he felt the gentle pull of slumber blanketing his thoughts. Yet, before that tipping point into unconsciousness, Geron saw himself sat upon Karvel's carriage. The rickety road was distracting him from his travel partner's speech, thoughts more diverted towards the dragon's probable discomfort at the instability. A sentence was heard, one that Geron responded to with an understanding grunt of approval.
Sitting up suddenly, he held his arm out as if to stop the passage of time and hold this memory firm.
Karvel had complained in passing of a delivery upon such a similar road of disrepair that involved a “long trek from Settler's Keep.” Meaning his origin either lay there, or he was referring to a returning journey from the town. Geron could not remember this crucial detail. In either case it was the most promising lead he had. Retrieving the map from its nesting, he crumpled it into his pocket as his mouth crooked in a triumphant grin.
The evening's meal was rather underwhelming considering the tantalising aroma that had encompassed the vast house all evening. Regardless, Karvel stretched and rose from the table, belly full, though senses unfulfilled, and plodded with heavy sweeping footsteps towards the bedroom. The accentuated yawn a warning to the staff to keep noise levels low for the night. He did not want a repeat of the incident last week, where a member of staff had been undertaking their cleaning duties in the midst of night to garner more free time in the day. The obliteration of a freshly polished vase upon the floor had exposed that scheme, the subsequent dismissal exposed his intolerance of slovenly labour.
Leaving a candle lit whilst one slumbered was considered back luck in Tallagatian lore and thus its extinguishing was the final act in Karvel's bedtime ritual. Consequently, some hours later, as his eyes gazed upwards at the illuminated ceiling, he sat up with a pronounced start at the sight of the flickering wick at the foot of the bed. He began to rouse, intending to extinguish the flame and banish the incoming foul fate when he realised that the light was being held aloft by a figure sat on the end of his bed.
The candlestick made its way back towards its designated place, it seemed Karvel had escaped the superstition's wrath, though it appeared his luck was still threatened.
In the dim light, he could only make out the silhouette of the intruder, but the unique shape of the man informed Karvel clearly who had visited.
“Of all the towns I searched, I always went to the Inn first, but not for the reason you might think,” Geron jested, resuming his seat at the end of the bed. “Two things loosen tongues. Alcohol and coin. Where one failed the other usually succeeded. But alas, when I strolled into Settler's Keep, nary as the sun did set this evening. I had neither. However, I left myself open to the fates and out of habit I still went to the Inn. And there I asked but one question.”
“About me,” Karvel said nervously.
“Oh no, not at all. I merely asked whose manor this was. I was under the impression that Settler's Keep was a humble fishing town?”
Karvel nodded, clearing his throat. “It was the Thane's, but a scandal ousted him, collaborating with the Arconans. The town had been using it as makeshift housing until I offered to buy it.”
“Yes, I know. I know because that is exactly what the Innkeeper told me. And when I leaned in to inquire who such a mysterious person of wealth could be?”
“My name,” Karvel said mournfully.
With a solemn nod Geron continued. “Yes, this time you are correct. And I was going to ask her where, in harsh times such as these, a man could acquire the wealth to purchase such a fine house, when I realised, I already had that answer.”
Karvel inched his hands under the blankets, masking his movements with a readjustment of his legs. “Whatever coin I have is yours-” he began, but Geron slowly shushed him. The creeping fingers had by now made their way to the bed-frame's edge. “Then, what is it you want?”
Geron smiled at this. “At first, I was in a most unforgiving mood. But then after a small ponder, I realised that a little extra coin in these trying times can be hard to come by, and the nerve it would take to steal a dragon of all things! You are no mere pickpocket, but a master thief, my friend.”
Karvel in a moment of confusion, thanked him, tracing his fingers delicately once more to the bed-frame's edge.
Geron waved away the gratitude with an ill-fitted humility. “Oh you are most welcome, but unlike sa
y, a brooch that carries mere sentimental value, tracking down a dragon I figured would be a far easier task. But it turns out that no-one had heard sight nor sound of a dragon outside of Tommamare's Creed. And so my forgiving nature grew more tested until at last I utilised the last of my connection's influence and my own coin to try and track you down instead. I figured that should have been my first port of call. Oh well, a lesson for me should this occur on another occasion perhaps. Now, I have wasted enough of your time, so please kindly inform me, where is the dragon?”
Karvel's fingers had completed their journey. Yet they had nothing to grasp but futility. He gasped and swept his legs to the side as Geron plunged the missing dagger into the mattress of the bed, the hilt protruding teasingly.
“Old trick,” Geron chuckled. “It is why I keep a second one under the pillow.”
Karvel reclaimed his breathing and motioned for calm as he began to pour water from the jug at his bedside table, and with trembling hands swallowed the contents whole before letting out a pained gasp.
“I did not harm the dragon. I sold it,” he finally mustered, wiping the trickling water from his lips.
“Oh, I gathered as much,” Geron said as he stood, “you may have a most grand and splendid home here, but it is not one that would be capable of housing a mythical beast.”
With a weary sigh, Karvel informed of his successful and profitable venture with the Lady Pentelli. With certain details omitted, the tale was structured in a manner he hoped would seem endearing and worthy of mercy.
Geron gestured for Karvel to pass him the water cup. Tossing the remnants from within, he instead replaced the contents with a thick red liquid that eased rather unsteadily and reluctantly as it transferred from the flask into the cup.
He swirled the contents and finding it satisfactory, handed it back to Karvel who eyed the viscous liquid with scrutiny.
The Dragon's Custodian Page 11