Chapter One
“What’s the beast mean by living up the hill from a bloody market town?” the merchant groused, pausing to take a deep swig of his ale. “Villages. Dragons terrorize bloody villages, not hubs of commerce. Or they live out in a cave somewhere, sit on a pile of gold and brood, or take some ruined fort or other. They don’t live in modern castles,” and here he thumped his tankard on the table for emphasis, “they don’t sit right by the bloody road staring at innocent passersby all lurking and quiet-like, and they don’t ride in boats!” Thump. Thump.
The merchant’s trio of drinking partners nodded in agreement, letting out discontented grumbles of their own. A shout of laughter from another table, that one occupied by a group of young carpenters celebrating the end of the week’s work, more or less drowned them out. Those fellows were terrorized, obviously.
Deven set down the glass he’d been polishing with a rag and turned away to hide his chuckle. Only here, in prosperous Ridley, would the locals have the leisure to bitch and moan about the presence of a dragon that’d done nothing more ominous than float along the river on a barge on moonlit nights. Dragons didn’t really terrorize anyone nowadays, anyway. They were all rich and comfortable enough that they’d become nothing more than another breed of aristocrats, really.
And the castle’s last noble occupant had been far worse, although he was human as they came. Baron Marlow had been a stingy skinflint old bastard, haggling with the town’s grocers and tailors and candle-makers as if a few farthings here or there would be the ruin of him, and driving his servants to distraction with his petty complaints.
When old Marlow died, the castle stood empty for months. And then, just as the snow had melted and the earliest daffodils poked out of the earth, a caravan of wagons and carts driven by peculiar folk in odd peaked hats rolled through the town and up the hill. The whole town turned out to watch the procession, but none of the wagons stopped, just went straight on to the castle. Smoke rose from the castle chimneys again that evening, and servants with lilting foreign accents came down to town the next morning to order foodstuffs and wine.
Speculation was rife, and everyone in town was all agog. None of the foreigners would say a word about their master, though by the way the servants spent his money, he was rich and generous too. Curiosity, and cautious delight at the influx of gold, ran rampant.
The following week, Nancy Smith came running down the hill as if pursued by a pack of wolves, and gasped out a story no one believed at first: There was a dragon, a real live dragon, all blackish-purplish-blue and scaly, with smoke coming from his massive muzzle, a-sitting under the trees by the gate in the wall around the castle grounds, as if he owned the place!
She couldn’t be calmed or persuaded to retract the outrageous story, so at last a few of the town council went up the hill to investigate. Deven had missed the excitement, to his lasting regret. Not that he’d have been invited to go along, of course, since no one elected the disreputable tomcat nephew of an innkeeper to the town council. Deven didn’t have the patience for long, drawn-out discussions of nothing, in any case. He’d never join a committee. Much better to get things done without interference.
But even if his presence had been desired, he’d been too busy to notice the commotion. The beautiful widow who owned the millinery shop down the road from the inn had a vigorous, healthy appetite for pleasure of all kinds, and Deven hadn’t heard Nancy’s cries or the townspeople’s shouts, what with Angela’s thighs wrapped around his head.
An hour later, the council returned to town, rather more quickly than they’d left. One had lost his hat, exposing the crown of his bald and sunburned head, and the others were as flustered. Their report electrified the townsfolk. There was, indeed, a large and scaly dragon, which had slithered its way up the gravel drive that led to the castle at their approach. It made a dreadful sound! And it was as large as a house! Or a cottage anyway.
And then, as the dragon beat its retreat, one of the castle servants had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and haughtily informed the group that a dragon did, indeed, own the place, and that His Excellency preferred not to be gawked at by peasants.
Peasants! He had the bloody nerve to call Ridley’s most important and responsible citizens peasants! Their indignation over this small detail had seemed to Deven to outweigh any other trauma inflicted by the dragon and his household. That being the case, Deven shrugged and went on with his business. The inn stables needed a new coat of whitewash, and Deven was the only one tall enough to reach the rafters from the top of the inn’s one ladder. Dragons were all well and good, but they didn’t frighten Deven, and he had better things to do than listen to a passel of idiots moan about a servant insulting them in the road.
Three months had gone by since then, and everyone had gotten used to the dragon’s presence, more or less. There were still gasps of shock when he was sighted — most notably, one night when he’d been spotted flying over the hills, silhouetted dramatically by the full moon. Otherwise he was ignored, except by stupid young lads who spoke excitedly of breaking into the castle to find the dragon’s hoard. They were quickly squelched by their elders. Everyone knew trying to steal a dragon’s gold was a recipe for certain death, and anyway, said gold continued to flow into the town coffers in trade, and in large quantities. That was more than enough, and much less dangerous, too.
Deven finished with putting away the last of the clean wine glasses and turned to survey the taproom. Now that summer was upon them, the afternoon sunlight lingered. It gleamed on polished pewter tankards, set the dust motes to shimmering, and illuminated every little scratch and gouge on the floorboards and tables. The merchants leaned their heads together, whispering across their table, two of them casting suspicious sidelong glances at Deven as they did.
Well, that was to be expected, he supposed? Two of the three were on the town council, and Deven was a bit of a thorn in their collective sides. After all, the corpulent one with the red waistcoat who’d thumped his tankard — well, Deven had fucked the man’s son recently. The lad had been more than willing, and not a little experienced, but that didn’t matter to an angry father who thought the fellow who poured his ale wasn’t good enough for a councilman’s heir. And one of the other men…maybe Deven had flirted with his sister. Probably? Deven flirted with everyone. Cast a wide net, pull in enough fish to keep busy on warm summer nights.
No harm came of it, to Deven’s way of thinking, anyway. The occasional wife or husband who gave Deven a tumble, well, he supposed their spouses might have reason to be annoyed. But they really ought to save their anger for the unfaithful parties, and not for Deven, who’d never promised a bloody thing to anyone. And unmarried sons and daughters. Those were free agents. Apothecaries sold draughts to keep any bellies from rounding when they shouldn’t, and there wasn’t any risk of that with the fellows, anyway. So truly, what was the harm?
The merchants’ muttering rose a little in pitch and volume both, and then they seemed to come to some agreement. Nods were exchanged all around. Two of them cast Deven sidelong glances and scurried out together. The last to leave was Barclay, a member of the council who knew Deven’s family. He smirked and waved — odd, because he considered himself too good to acknowledge the likes of Deven, in general.