Breaking Ties

by Vaughn R. Demont

  I shake my head. I don’t have a clue. Slartibartfast could probably sniff him out faster than I can. A dragon once found me in a city of millions, just from the scent of a scale in my backpack, but it’s a huge gamble. There’s no way to change back if I let him take the reins. I might forget who I am forever and end up a headcase like Tyras. Hell, I might end up joining him in thinking that eating the new sorcerer is a good idea.

  What’s to say he wouldn’t just take me as a pet and let me think I’m a Snow Dragon for the rest of my life? I mean, that’s the sort of uppity bullshit you can expect from a Golden or a Red. Fucking snooty scales, thinking they’re so much better than us. Well, try breathing underwater or burying Vermont in four feet of snow! Maybe there’s more to helping humans than a fat bank account, you ever think of that? Bunch of money-humping…

  Am I supposed to say something to the dreamblood on my neck?

  And, damn, why am I flying so unsteadily if I’m chasing the Dragon King?

  Okay, I’m chasing the Dragon King. I know I’m angry at him, and for some reason, I’m letting a Dwarf ride around on me. There’s also a pretty sweet-looking vambrace on my foreleg. Did the dreamblood make that for me? Awfully nice of him, considering Snows and dreambloods aren’t the palling-around type.

  Is he talking? Who’s James? Oh right, that’s my human form. But why would I bother with that when we’ve got ground to cover? I must have him pretty well fooled if he thinks I’m a sorcerer. The clan can work magic, sure, because…uh…someone told us we could. It wasn’t the Dragon King, I know that.

  Wait!

  I’m so stupid.

  That must be why I’m angry at the Dragon King, he doesn’t want the Snow Clan working magic! I remember him not being happy about that development, but I’m not about to let him take away the one advantage we’ve got. I can’t remember who said we can work magic. I think it was a nice sorcerer, but I remember doing it when I was going after a mean sorcerer who was taking over my body.

  Anyway, it’s not my fault I decided to get acclimatized to human society while King Tyras was off in the home realm, handing down edicts or sitting on his scaly ass doing nothing of note while we’re out here actually doing the work we were created for. He’s probably so blind to human culture he’d think “Go Your Own Way” was just human noise. At least I’m trying to understand our scaleless and squishy protectorate, even if I can’t get their music right. At least when I start singing the Dwarf seems to calm down.

  A quick sniff of the air is overwhelming, considering I just smelled everything within a five-mile radius. Thankfully my mind is spec’d for that, I think that’s the term. Spec’d is a weird word. I wonder where I picked it up?

  “He’s that way.” I pick up speed, magic flowing through me subtly, but it’s there, like a slight itch under my scales or a song I can’t get out of my head. What’s that band Davinicus likes?

  No, no, focus, Slartibartfast. (Seriously, what were my parents thinking?) The Dragon King is waiting, and he’s going to kill a sorcerer, and you just don’t do that! We’re here to serve and protect them, unless they’re mean, and whoever the new one is hasn’t even done anything worthy of execution yet. If anyone should be punished, it’s His Majesty.

  How awesome would that be, to take down the Dragon King, maybe take the throne, be in charge and get our kind back on track. Maybe Parivian could be my consort and…

  Yeah, right, like the other clans would ever let a Snow sit on the throne. They’d snort and squabble and go through all manner of meetings and stalling tactics while they came up with a reason to justify their bigotry that sounds vaguely like protocol. Seriously, who says a Snow Clan can’t be the king and save our race from ourselves? We’re probably just what dragonkind needs, that’s for sure, and that’ll be clear once I take down Tyras, take the throne for the clan and then maybe…

  No, this is not the time to think about the victory dance. That’s what that Coyote would tell me, and he always gives good pointers. Too bad I don’t have any money to invest with him. He’d probably do pretty well with it. He’d tell me to concentrate on the task at hand, which is finding the new Ra’keth and keeping him or her safe. Just wish it didn’t take me so long to remember that.

  Weird how I’m so absentminded today.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Spencer

  December 20, 8:11 pm

  Only Ricky Jay can save me now.

  Sure, you might think, this humble trickster can flimflam Foxes, deceive Dogs, con Coyotes and even scam sorcerers, but can he defend himself against a dragon?

  Said dragon chasing me might have been on another night the sort of mild-mannered mark I’d fleece to finance a booze cruise down to Rio. But when taking into consideration the prior precedents of dragons attempting to total any motorized conveyance I choose to utilize, the dragon’s presence only serves as a reminder of how difficult life on the road can be.

  When a Coyote finds himself attacked by a dragon, there are three real methods of defense. The first is the stare. And then dive out of the way of a gout of golden flame.

  As you can see, this angers the dragon.

  Next, the bold gesture.

  “Hi!” A card explodes against the dragon’s brow with a similar burst of fire.

  This infuriates the beast.

  Finally, I suggest throwing a lively quartet of queens into the dragon’s open maw. “Hi! Kaze! Tsuchi! Mizu!”

  The explosion of elements in the dragon’s throat sends the beast into a heap, coughing up bits of dirt, ice and mud that crackles with electricity, and serves as a warning to any would-be hecklers.

  Now, you may believe that, since a Coyote can fire cards into a dragon’s maw with relative ease, could he in fact penetrate the thick outer, nigh-pachydermatic layer of draconic scales?

  No! Of course I can’t, that’s just crazy. Who the hell could do that? But given that I find my life on the line, and with the encouragement of approbation provided by the imaginary audience I’d like to think is watching, I attempt the feat.

  I roll to the right and spring up, scaling a seven at the beast, which bounces off the scales to no effect.

  That, um, scares the dragon. Probably.

  I run in a circle around it, as pivoting isn’t a strong suit of dragons, firing random cards which tap lightly against his golden armor and fall to the clawed-up earth and grass below.

  That, uh…wounds the dragon?

  A jack hits cleanly and tumbles down, jarred loose by the dragon’s movement.

  That pisses me off.

  For Dad’s part, he’s mostly providing distraction by way of shooting at it, which for all intents and purposes to the human eye looks like he’s trying to carjack a tour bus. That, or live-action role-play a scene from Grand Theft Auto.

  Yep, video-game references too. I’m just a Renaissance trickster trying to give that imaginary audience its money’s wor—

  Shit!

  Okay, maybe less humorous interior monologue and more dodging and rolling out of the way of a particularly lethal beast. But it’s imperative I don’t take this seriously. Coyotes don’t do serious, even in these situations. So I kind of wish Shiko were here, as serious is definitely a forte of the Kitsune.

  I come out of the roll rather grass-stained and dirty, scaling a card blindly straight ahead, I don’t even know which one. When I get upright, I can see that the Joker is precariously perched on the scaly brow of the Golden behemoth.

  Seriously, the corner of the card is wedged in the tiniest of gaps between the scales of the dragon’s eyebrow, a feat of card-throwing so amazing and awesome I am forced to point it out myself, well, to myself.

  Still, when Fate gives you a piece of pure destiny like that on a silver platter, you take advantage before she changes her mind.

  As I have demonstrated, the suits in a common deck of play
ing cards are thought to have been inspired by Tarot, which assign specific elements to each suit, those elements being the traditional water, earth, wind and fire. But as I took this trick off a Fox of Nipponese descent, there is an element that often gets included, that being the Void, the element of creativity, spiritual energy, thought, and the explanation they use why they can pull off supreme bullshit actions not usually seen outside an anime.

  And despite my Swedish-American heritage and only being able to speak Japanese like a drunk executive who fell asleep listening to Rosetta Stone MP3s, I still stole that Fox’s Tail and can use that trick, call on that element, because thankfully it doesn’t discriminate based on who’s making the call.

  “Sora!”

  And the dragon’s head is quite suddenly thoroughly wrapped in many, many layers of silk bunting that appears to have been tie-dyed by a four-year-old.

  I might have forgotten to mention the considerable amount of mental focus and discipline required to call on that element, since dumb luck will really only carry you so far, and Fate’s not that thrilled about helping anyone with magic. But, hey, silk, especially in that many layers, is really strong, it can even stop a bullet—

  Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!

  “Oh fuck.”

  “Son,” Dad says as he comes up next to me. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not really making a dent here.”

  We’re backing away, again, if you were curious.

  “Oh, I noticed. Ricky Jay can only take you so far, you know? Maybe if I had his erudition and elocution I might have pulled it off but—”

  “But you only got a GED.”

  “Diploma.” I grit my teeth. “I didn’t graduate in June, but I did graduate, damn it. Jesus, you’re just like James.”

  He grins at me. “Really? You graduated? Well, before that thing kills us, you should know I’m proud of you.”

  “Please don’t tell me I’m the first one in our family to finish high school.”

  “On my side, at least.”

  “At least someone’s impressed. James thinks I’m just some walking gland that—”

  I hit the ground, shoved there by Dad, him on top of me, shielding me from a swipe of the dragon’s claws.

  God, what were we thinking, trying to take on a dragon?

  A dragon…

  Oh shit, I am a moron. It’s a dragon.

  “Hey, Goldie.” I worm my way out from under Dad, put myself between him and the beast. “Yeah, you, what the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t do this!”

  Ever had steam snorted in your face? It’s not a pleasant experience, I’ll put that right out there.

  “And why can’t I, hm?” Okay, that’s a voice that could do movie trailers. At least I’ve got it talking.

  So why can’t it? C’mon, Spencer, the answer’s gotta be there, or at least a bright, shiny lie that dragons were put on this earth to fall for. Why can’t a Golden Dragon—

  “Because you’re lawful good!”

  Yeah, awkward silence on all our parts.

  The dragon tilts his head confusedly. “I’m what, now?”

  “Lawful good, so you have the utmost respect for the law, for order, practicing benevolent behavior while combating evil. And uh…you can’t attack good people because it would be a, um…ethos violation. And both of us are totally good people, same with everyone in that diner over there. So you gotta behave or the gods will bring the hammer down on your ass.” I nod quickly.

  The dragon appears lost in thought for a moment, but I hold my ground. “Dad? Promise me that you will never tell James I actually paid attention to his Dungeons & Dragons crap. Or anyone, really. I will totally steal back your car from Shiko for you if you’ll do this.”

  “Dad?”

  I glance over my shoulder. He hasn’t moved.

  “Dad?”

  Blood’s on the grass.

  “Dad?”

  A lot of it. I fully turn around.

  Oh God, he’s not breathing.

  “Dad!” I’m at his side, he’s still warm, but his eyes are open, unblinking, three long gashes are on his back, red and deep. “No. No no no no no. No, it’s a trick, just a cloak, right? You’re faking.”

  I roll him onto his back. He’s limp, his chest still not moving, face expressionless. “You’ve got to be faking, Dad, come on! I’m handling the dragon, you don’t have to do this.” My eyes feel hot.

  “Please, you don’t have to fake it anymore. You can get up, Dad. It’s going to be okay, I’ve got it handled.” My jaw is clenching, fingers are curled, sounds are coming out of me between my words. I’m just trying to sell it, that’s all. Help the con. He’s not…

  “Damn it, it’s not funny anymore!” A choked sound emerges from my throat. “Just get up.”

  Please, please don’t be…

  “Fine. You got me. I buy it, great job, we’ll laugh our asses off about it later, okay? You win, I’m happy you’re back. I need you in my life, okay? You’re a son of a bitch, but you’re my father and I’ll forgive you if you just…just…fucking wake up!”

  I grab his face, stare into his eyes. “The trick’s over. I’m not buying it anymore, you’re not dead.” I collapse, sobbing, my face is wet, my chest is tight, throat hot. “Dad, please don’t be dead. Please, you’re all I’ve got left.”

  “I’ve been considering your words. I find them…lacking.”

  Right, there’s a Golden Dragon behind me. I’m going to take care of that. I get to my feet.

  The dragon is four feet from me, his snout breathing hot, almost steamlike air into my face. I stand unfazed. The card is still affixed to his head, unnoticed by him.

  He speaks again, showing sharp teeth. “I am here to kill a sorcerer, Trickster. And you…whoever you are—”

  “I forgot to introduce myself, didn’t I?” I already know what I’m going to do, what I’m going to say. “Hello. My name is Spencer Jensen Crain. You killed my father. Prepare to—”

  “Die?” He hmphs, blasting me with another snort. “A Coyote believes he can kill me?”

  Dragons will believe practically anything a Coyote tells them. The card wedged into the scales of his head represents the element that pertains to thought, to the mind. I used it to jump into James’s head once, but I don’t need to do that here.

  And no, I’m not going to kill him. He killed my father, who died saving my life. The bastard doesn’t deserve to die.

  He deserves worse.

  “I think I know something you don’t know.” I smile a Coyote smile. “I may not be a sorcerer, but I still know the magic word.”

  He grins with plenty of teeth. “And that would be?”

  “Sora.” The Joker glows fiercely as my Bardic tongue shapes the words. “May your words be ever on the tip of your tongue, your inspiration always just beyond your grasp, your will and wealth an open wound that will never close, your name never clean, and your heart always heavy with what you have wrought, Dragon.” I spit the last word in his face.

  The concern blossoms in him almost immediately, brow furrowing, confusion conquering his gaze as the curse takes hold. Apparently a Bard can take down a dragon, but right now I couldn’t care less.

  I just need to get back to—

  “Dad?”

  He’s standing there, but he’s still on the ground, no longer bleeding. He’s on the ground, but I can see dull shapes moving behind him. His face is locked in a grimace of pain and concern, and yet his face is somehow relieved, smiling.

  “Son, you know what this means.” He steps forward, his form a little more wispy. When I reach out to touch him, my hand passes through him, warmed, like it’d just felt the desert sun. He looks beyond me at the dragon, and when I look as well, the beast is stumbling off along the road, making mumbled sounds, no words. “Really did a
number on that one. Couldn’t kill him? Not even for me?”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I just…”

  “Hey, none of that. You aren’t a killer. I’m glad that’s one way you didn’t take after me.” Dad looks over his shoulder. “Think my ride’s on the way.”

  “So…you’re really…” I shake my head. “No, there’s got to be something I can do. Maybe a way to trick Granny Atropos or if I find James he can—”

  “No,” he says sternly. “I died saving my son’s life. I can’t think of a better way to go.” He smirks. “Well, maybe in a hot tub filled with champagne and satisfying four women at once and dying in the successful attempt.” He shrugs. “Or maybe with your mother, wouldn’t mind hearing that laugh one last time.”

  A few seconds pass, and he looks over his shoulder again. “Okay, before I go, I want you to promise me you’re not going to get all blubbery and swear revenge. We’re Coyotes, son, that’s not our thing. You’re going to go out, get drunk, swindle and hustle a few people in my honor, and maybe make a few bad decisions.” He grins. “And you did promise to steal back my ’Vette.” He points a ghostly finger at me. “Promise me.”

  I sniff back some tears, try a smile, maybe I even manage it. “I promise. I guess this means you really did love me, huh?”

  “Up to you, really. You’re the Bard, it’s your story to tell.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah, son?”

  “I forgive you.”

  He chuckles. “No you don’t. But thanks for saying it anyway.”

  And he vanishes in the blink of an eye. He was right. I don’t forgive him, not really, not yet. Everything doesn’t just wipe away in the space of a moment. But he died to save my life, and that’s a place to start, a place to build from.

  For my father, I’m willing to try.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Slartibartfast