Dragons deal gm-3

by Robert Asprin

  "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 much 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.

  "Get them off me! Get them off me!" he bellowed.

  "Griffen, get those things out of my house!" Lucinda shrilled from her post.

  "Yes, ma'am!" Griffen said. He let the summoning energy die down and replaced it with an order to retreat. As smoothly as a wave receding, the brown insects turned around and fled the room. Some of them seemed to melt into the crack between wall and floor, but the majority slipped underneath the doors under which they had entered. In seconds, there were no palmetto bugs left except for the few that the flailing feet of Etienne's lieutenants had crushed.

  "Thank you!" Lucinda said. Callum, recovering his dignity, hurried over to offer his wife a hand to climb down from her perch. She brushed invisible dust from the seat and sank into it.

  "That was fun!" Etienne said, laughing heartily at his companions. "No one has ever done that before! You gotta admit, it was original!"

  "No one will ever do that in my house again!" Lucinda insisted.

  "No, ma'am," Etienne said, dampening down his enthusiasm. He winked hard at Griffen, who tried not to grin back. "We'll exclude that from future demonstrations, ma'am."

  "Impressive," Mitchell said at last. His composure had returned. He regarded Griffen with respect. "Pretty comprehensive animal control you've got there. Been workin' on it long?"

  "Not that long," Griffen said, as casually as he could. Mitchell gave him a wry half grin.

  "Top of your class, young man," he said.

  "Animal control! Anyone with a little talent can do that!" Callum said, scornfully. "That's a street-corner trick. That's not a manifestation of real dragonhood!"

  The satisfaction of performing a genuine exercise of power well faded into red-hot anger. "Street-corner trick?" Griffen asked, coldly. "I learned that from a man with more talent and integrity than almost anyone else I know." The fact that Slim had worked on street corners had nothing to do with his skills. He had been a mime statue, surprising tourists for tips.

  "Belongs in a carnival," Callum said, with a dismissive wave. He sat down and folded his arms. "I declare it to be a nonstarter."

  "I disagree," Mitchell said. "That was more than worthy, Callum."

  "Me, too," Etienne said. "It was damned good. Go on to the next part, Pete."

  Griffen raised an eyebrow. The next part? The curly-haired man raised the scroll again as if to ward off Griffen's gaze, and read.

  "Will you manifest your true self here, to prove without a doubt the truth of your bloodline?"

  "This is my true self," Griffen said.

  "Not what you show the outside world," Terence said. "Your dragon soul."

  My dragon soul? Griffen thought. Up until a few months before, he had no idea that he had dragon blood, let alone a soul with scales on. What did that phrase mean to him?

  Did they want him to transform for them? He had hardly ever managed to do it except to defend himself from an attack by the George, a chimeric hunter. Could he bring about the change even though he was not really under threat?

  "Go on, young man," Mitchell encouraged him. "Be the dragon."

  "If he can," Terence said.

  "Yeah, we're gonna find out that he's a weredog or something low down like that," Callum cackled, sitting back in his chair. "No offense, Etienne, but your boy is faking it."

  Faking it! Griffen's temper reached a boiling point. He felt steam curling in his nostrils. This whole ordeal was an attempt by these self-satisfied jerks to make him display himself for their amusement! Not one of them felt as strong as he did! How dare they demand anything from him? He didn't have to put up with abuse, not for the sake of leading a parade!

  The sensation he had felt only a half dozen times in his life surged through him. He felt his tail grow from his lower spine and whip back and forth against the backs of his legs. The claws that were often just barely under the surface of his skin burst out and curved into miniature scythes. His skin took on a green hue as it covered itself with scales. His whole musculature shifted, increasing the strength in his back and shoulder joints and making his entire body more flexible. Griffen's perspective changed as his eyes transformed from ordinary hazel irises into multicolored orbs that could see on wavelengths no human could imagine.

  In his enhanced vision, he saw the cool image of Fenway sitting in his chair, laughing. They had goaded him on purpose! Furious, Griffen leaped for him.

  Fenway's eyes went wide. Griffen was on top of him in a split second, the pointed teeth in his elongated jaw clamping the man's neck. In the next split second, Fenway had transformed, too--but only partway. His skin covered with scales, but his face remained largely human. His claws were only half as long and not as well developed as Griffen's. How dare the
se thin-blooded dragons insult him like that?

  His jaws tightened. He knew he couldn't easily penetrate another dragon's skin, but the pressure was making Fenway's eyes bulge out. Griffen felt hands pounding on his back and shoulders, pulling on his wings. A fanged face intruded into his line of vision, a weird combination of fur and scales.

  "Mr. Griffen, let him up!" the creature shouted in Etienne's voice. "I think he's convinced now!"

  Griffen let himself be pulled up. As swiftly as it had come upon him, the transformation faded. He found himself standing in his shorts on the ruins of his best trousers. His silk shirt was split at the shoulders where his wings had popped through. Luckily, his underwear was made of stretchable cotton. Fenway, much more experienced at transforming, rose to his feet with all of his clothes intact. He clutched his throat. In human form, two lines of bruises showed on either side of his neck.

  "Well done, there, Griffen," Callum said. He stopped to swallow hard. Griffen was grimly pleased that his neck hurt. "We wanted to see if you were a true dragon. I must say we are . . . impressed by your abilities."

  "He is twice the dragon of anyone else here, Callum," Mitchell said, slapping his hands together. "Damn! A pure manifestation. I never thought that I would live to see one that ideal. I can't do that. None of the rest of us can, not that good--or that fast. Wish I'd taken a picture."

  "Do you want to explain to the people at the drugstore counter when you pick up your prints?" Matt asked, scornfully. "Give me a break, Mitch."

  Griffen shook his head. "I know half a dozen shape-shifters who could do the same thing, faster and maybe better."

  "No way, son," Terence said. "We can feel the difference, like a jeweler can tell a cubic zirconia from a diamond. The real thing shines through in a way no fake can copy."