by Eric Flint
He stood up. He got himself a cup of coffee and poured one for her, added cream and sugar without asking. She needed it. Her eyes were pink-red around the irises, the lower lids swollen until he could see the mucous membrane behind the lashes. She took it, zombie-placid.
"I was safe inside the circle," he said. "I was supposed to be the bait. Gina and Katie were unlucky. They were close enough to being what it wanted that it took them, instead. As well. Whatever."
"What did . . . it want?"
"Things feed on death." He withdrew on the excuse of adding more sugar to his coffee. "Some like a certain flavor. It might even . . ."
He couldn't say it. It might even have been trying to lure Matthew out. That would explain why it had left its safe haven at the north end of the island, and gone where Prometheus would notice it. Matthew cringed. If his organization had some wardens in the bad neighborhoods, it might have been taken care of years ago. If Matthew himself had gone into its court unglamoured that first time, it might just have eaten him and left the girls alone.
A long time, staring at the skim of fat on the surface of her coffee. She gulped, then blew through scorched lips, but did not lift her eyes. "Doctor S.— "
"Matthew," he said. He took a breath, and made the worst professional decision of his life. "Go home, Ms. Martinchek. Concentrate on your other classes; as long as you show up for the mid-term and the final in mine, I will keep your current grade for the semester."
Cowardice. Unethical. He didn't want to see her there.
He put his hand on her shoulder. She leaned her cheek against it, and he let her for a moment. Her skin was moist and hot. Her breath was, too.
Before he got away, he felt her whisper, "Why not me?"
"Because you put out," he said, and then wished he'd just cut his tongue out when she jerked, slopping coffee across her knuckles. He retreated behind the desk and his own cup, and settled his elbows on the blotter. Her survivor guilt was his fault, too. "It only wanted virgins," he said, more gently. "Send your boyfriend a thank-you card."
She swallowed, swallowed again. She looked him in the eyes, so she wouldn't have to look past him, at the memory of her friends. Thank God, she didn't ask. But she drank the rest of her too-hot coffee, nerved herself, licked her lips, and said, "But Gina— Gina was . . ."
"People," he replied, as kindly as he could manage with blood on his hands, "are not always what they want you to think. Or always what you think they ought to be."
* * *
When she thanked him and left, he retrieved the flask from his coat pocket and dumped half of it into his half-empty coffee mug. Later, a T.A. told him it was his best lecture ever. He couldn't refute her; he didn't remember.
Melissa Martinchek showed up for his next Monday lecture. She sat in the third row, in the middle of two empty desks. No one sat beside her.
Both Matthew and she survived it, somehow.
* * *
Elizabeth Bear is the author of several novels.
The Littlest Wyrm-Maid
Written by Rebecca Lickiss
Illustrated by Jessica Douglas
The problem, of course, was that humans were such speciesists. Go ahead, ask any human and they'd tell you—trolls are dumb as rocks; elves are all tall, snotty fairies; dwarves are greedy, hairy bastards; and dragons are all untrustworthy, slippery, winged-and-taloned snakes.
Theora watched the three human wizards cower against the rocks as she contemplated this problem. If she tried to pick the wizards up to bring them more to her eye level—something she considered a courtesy—they'd be bound to scream about her talons and scales. If she brought her head down to their level, the tall thin one would surely strike her nose with that silly knobbed stick he was waving about. Her only choice was to try speaking with them. Theora had practiced speaking as humans did for over five years now. She still had some difficulty creating the proper noise from her mouth without crisping the listener.
As she took a deep breath, the chubby one—he looked like he had some good eating on him—began clawing the rock and screaming arcane phrases. Concentrating, Theora managed to say, "Purchase magic spell?"
The tall, thin one stopped mid-gesture and gaped at her. The chubby one turned his tear-stained face to her—his head would be nicely salted now, just the way she liked it. The third, a young fire-haired man, grinned and said, "That this great wyrm may kindly say our duties did her welcome pay."
"It's "king," and stop that!" The tall, thin one looked over his shoulder at Chubby. "We have to do something about that curse." He used the stick to support himself and took a step closer to her. "Do I understand you to say you want to purchase a spell?"
Theora nodded her head, using a human gesture familiar to her. She took another deep breath running up to another bout of speech. "No tricks."
"Of course, of course." The tall, thin one motioned to his colleagues. The other two flanked him; Chubby dashing the tears from his eyes—hands were hardly worth eating, all bone. "Now what sort of spell are we talking about here?"
"Once upon a time," Theora began, settling her head down on the ground at their level, "a beautiful dragon met a handsome prince." She searched her mind for words they'd understand and she could say without charring them. "She wanted to be with him, but needed to transform herself into a human. So she consulted three kind wizards who transformed her. And everyone lived happily ever after."
"I see." The tall, thin one turned to his colleagues. They huddled in conference like sticks leaning together for a fire. Theora politely looked away and didn't listen. When they looked at her again, he said, "Transformation is very time and energy consuming, and therefore expensive. Also, the spell requires an effort on the part of the transformed, in order to make the transformation complete."
Nodding, Theora filled her gullet with air and said, "All my treasure hoard." Their eyes went round and wide. She added, "No tricks. Follow me."
She led them into a cave entrance nearby. After several turns she entered her small treasure hoard chamber. Theora hoped it would be enough. In her twenty-five years she hadn't amassed much treasure, spending most of her time tracking down the storytelling young man who'd spent many summers in the valley nearby.
She looked at the pile of glittering gems and gold objects. Just large enough for her to sleep on and keep her from the cold stone floor, but not enough to wallow in and scrape off old scales. Theora moved off to the side by the entrance so they could get to the hoard.
They passed by her as if in a trance. The young one murmured, "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wealthy this way comes."
"Be still," the tall, thin one growled at him. He turned to Theora. "We'll take this back with us and return with your spell. In, say, three days."
"No." Theora blocked the entrance. "Do here. Now. No tricks. No penalties."
"What do you mean penalties?" the chubby one asked.
The other wizards were cooling off quickly in the cavern, but to her practiced eye this one's flesh remained nicely warm. Theora occasionally liked raw meat, but only when the weather was particularly hot. She pulled her thoughts back to the business at talon. "No penalties. Straight transformation. No pain, no other cost except treasure hoard. If can't complete, straight transformation back. Enough time transformed to complete." She looked at them fiercely and they recoiled. "No tricks. No penalties."
"We understand," the tall, thin one said, nodding nervously.
"Also. No transform here. Make spell in potion to take where transform."
They eyed the treasure, then each other. After another huddled conference they agreed. Theora helped them as much as she could by starting fires and such, but most of their needs were beyond her understanding. She personally had no use for eye of newt and toe of frog. An entire pond of newts and frogs was filling, but tasted like scalded scum-coated bracken. It took two days and all her patience—and hunger endurance, the chubby one looked tastier all the time—before they finally had the potion
ready.
The potion turned out to be a powder, which filled a leather pouch donated by the young one. Theora tried to think how she could take it from one of their soft, tiny, vulnerable hands without taking the entire arm. The tall, thin one tied the pouch firmly and set it on a ledge outside the cave entrance. "It will transform you for three days. In that time you must locate your prince and get him to kiss you. Then the transformation will be complete and permanent. If you fail you'll simply turn back into a dragon. Do you understand?"
Theora nodded.
"Just out of curiosity," the tall, thin one said nervously, "who is the prince you're looking for?"
"Prince Winthorp," she answered, savoring the sounds as she said them.
The tall, thin one smiled weakly.
It took four tries before she managed to hook a loop on a talon. She clutched the pouch to her with her forelimbs and talons covering it completely. She turned back to the weary wizards. "Thank you. No tricks. Treasure is yours." She spread her wings and launched herself skyward.
Theora circled above the cave entrance once before heading east, away from her mountain home to Gilden, the kingdom's capital. Flying freed her mind to think over her plan. Finding out who the young man who told all the fascinating stories was without being discovered had been difficult.
Humans, you never knew what they were going to do. Rather like dragons, now that she thought about it. Her mother had disappeared when Theora and all her siblings were barely out of the egg. They never knew what had happened to her, if she'd died, or just abandoned them. Theora and her siblings had no recourse but to consume each other until they'd grown strong enough to fly and hunt for themselves. Only Theora had made it out of the nest. A nasty experience, but it had made Theora stronger than both of the other, older dragons she'd met. She'd not only been able to defend her territory and small hoard, but had added something of the other dragons' to it.
Still, Theora had been so alone, wanting something, but not knowing what it was. Until the night she'd swam close, her bulk and scent hidden under the river's water, to feast on humans conveniently surrounding a campfire. Before she'd started she'd heard a portion of a story, so she'd paused to listen and ended up not eating at all, merely returning whenever she'd seen the fire, to listen to the stories. Her loneliness disappeared those nights as she was swept up in the tales. Somehow the magic of the stories had taken her beyond anything she'd ever known or considered before. They made her more than she'd been, and she wanted to be even more than she was now.
So, she'd determined to find the young man that everyone listened to so attentively and get more stories. Two autumns ago she'd finally resorted to flying high above the young man's caravan as it traveled back to where he spent the rest of the year. Along the trip she'd made the happy discovery that everyone called him Prince Winthorp. Princes were easy to find. Locating traveling wizards capable of a transformation spell near her lair had been tedious and tasteless. Now, with the powdered potion in her talons and the capital a day's flight away, she knew she would finally get her fill of stories. Prince Winthorp would tell her new stories every day. And, they'd all live happily ever after.
* * *
Zenpfennig nearly collapsed against the rock as the dragon flew away. From beside him Mazigian said, "Double, double toil and trouble, dragon burns the wizard rubble."
"Stop it," Zenpfennig said automatically. Mazigian retreated into the cave, presumably in search of treasure.
"I think we're in trouble," Rueberry wheezed from his seat nearby.
"She meant what she said. I'm sure the treasure is ours," Zenpfennig said. He was certain of it, otherwise he'd never have agreed to make the transformation spell. No cash, no spell. "And we did the spell correctly. It'll transform her with, as she put it, no tricks."
Rueberry groaned as he stood and wobbled over to clutch Zenpfennig's arm. "No. Not the treasure. Not even the spell. How old would you say that dragon was?"
Shrugging Zenpfennig said, "Twenty, twenty-five years."
"So when she transforms she'll look about how old?"
Zenpfennig's eyes widened. "Six, maybe."
"She wants to marry Winthorp." Rueberry sat back on his rock. "How do you think His Majesty, King Winthorp, will react when an arrogant, naked six-year-old girl presents herself for marriage?" When Zenpfennig didn't answer, Rueberry said, "She'll turn back into a dragon. And before she destroys half the kingdom, she'll snack on three wizards."
Mazigian lumbered from the cave entrance, overburdened with jewelry and gem-encrusted gold valuables. "Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again."
"We have to warn King Winthorp," Zenpfennig shouted. "Our very lives depend upon it!"
"I'm too exhausted for a teleportation spell," Rueberry groaned. He slowly slid to lay on the dirt, curled up as for sleep. His ill-used wizard hat did double duty as a pillow. "Let's at least wait until morning."
"'Twould take us three days to recover enough to teleport," Zenpfennig mused. One bony finger tapped his chin. "The spell might take too much time to prepare. We wouldn't arrive in time." His close set eyes narrowed as they contemplated Rueberry. He swooped down like a hawk, fastening his claws on Rueberry's plump arm and dragging Rueberry to his feet. "Up. We must leave now. With luck we can make it to Gilden in two and a half days."
Mazigian watched amazed as Zenpfennig marched past towing Rueberry. "He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear his hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear."
Zenpfennig released Rueberry and turned on Mazigian, waving one thin, weirdly stained hand in arcane twirls, bony fingers tracing their own dance through the air. "I've warned you about talking, more than three times."
Mazigian froze. Zenpfennig caught him before he could fall and dragged his stiff, jewel-bedecked form back into the cave. Returning triumphant, Zenpfennig smiled. "That should hold him. For a few days at least."
"Um, do you really think he'll be safe here by himself?" Rueberry twisted his pointy wizard hat nervously.
"His kind always is," Zenpfennig said.
"Not always. There is the curse."
"Oh that." Zenpfennig waved one hand dismissively. "He's still alive and kicking, and will be long after we're both dead." He paused as if in pleasant thought, then shook himself. "We must be going. Now."
Almost as an afterthought, Zenpfennig snaked out one hand to grab his knobbed staff leaning against the entrance to the cave. "Come on, Rueberry. We've got a long march ahead of us." He stepped out onto the path briskly kicking the hem of his robe. Which only served to redistribute portions of its three-day accumulation of dust and grime into the nearby environment, namely wilting vegetation beside the trail and Rueberry.
"Couldn't we at least have a hearty meal to get us started?" Rueberry wondered aloud. He knew the answer, but asked anyway. "Maybe a brief nap?"
Zenpfennig continued at a military pace. "We'll stop to get one for the road, if we pass a likely inn. Otherwise we've got to get to Winthorp before that dragon does and convince him to marry a naked six-year-old, so that we don't get cooked."
"You mean, we must alert King Winthorp to the danger. In that way we can save the kingdom from the ravages of a ferocious, fire-breathing dragon, and collect a hefty reward in the process." Rueberry huffed and puffed to keep up.
"Exactly right," Zenpfennig answered. "Someone owes us a substantial reward. That's for certain."
* * *
His Majesty King Winthorp pulled one last time at the stiff collar to his latest, most irritating costume and contemplated the rolling hills and distant mountains displayed in all their glory by the light of the rising sun. He wished he could ride off on his fastest horse and escape the coming circus. But . . . Since his father's unexpected death four months ago in the middle of the negotiations with neighboring, hostile Fragaria, Winthorp had given up his reckless, wanton ways and become a firm, dependable king. Surprised everyone, including himself.
Sometime this morning Her Highness, Princess Violet
ta Betony Galiena Mathilda of Fragaria would arrive. Supposedly about mid-morning, but more likely in the middle of, or just after, lunch. At a time calculated to undermine civility and provoke tempers. Winthorp blew out a long breath to calm himself. His father's dying wish was that he finish negotiations with Fragaria, marry the princess and bring some sort of peace to the Kingdom of Dzungary. So he was determined to marry the wench, regardless of size, temperament, or visage. He'd just have to make the best of it, for the good of Dzungary.
As expected the princess arrived after lunch had been set, but before anyone had eaten more than two bites. Winthorp hurried, with his advisors and courtiers, to the main gates of the palace to greet his fianc'e. All of Gilden's residents had turned out for the event. The main road to the palace doors was lined seven deep with rabble, ruffians, and beggars, all craning their necks in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the new queen-to-be.