Dragon's Bluff

by Mary H. Herbert

  The dwarf and the kender soon left to visit the market for Bridget, and Mayor Efrim, looking tired and strained, went home at Saorsha’s insistence, leaving the two women in the sheriff’s office. The half-ogres stood outside as usual, but the visitors had gone and the interior of the building was empty and quiet in the late afternoon. It was, Lucy decided, like the quiet before the storm.

  At sunset Ulin came to accompany the two women to Bridget’s dinner. For a while they walked without talking along the streets of Flotsam, all three lost in their own thoughts.

  “How is your boat progressing?” Lucy asked when they were nearly to the Jetties.

  Ulin chuckled in the twilight. “We’ve had to cobble much of it together on an old boat Notwen has, but we made some improvements in the paddle wheel and the cogs, and the engine is almost ready to be assembled.” He squeezed her and said, “I’m sorry, but it may mean we will have to work all night.”

  “I understand, but when this is over—”

  “When this is over—” and he leaned closed and whispered in her ear.

  They were laughing together when they walked into the inn. A large group had already assembled in the common room, and the people clustered together, drinking the new spring ale and talking intently. They quickly made room for Lucy and her companions. Aylesworthy poured his best white wine into a pair of goblets for the sheriff and her escort, and Lucy and Ulin drank a toast to each other and then to the guests. Everyone took a seat at one of the many tables.

  Kethril came in last. He looked surprisingly hale and energetic, back to his normal self, as if the drunken crack in his facade had never opened. With a flashing grin at the room, he took an empty chair beside Ulin.

  Bridget had outdone herself for the feast with her best recipes and favorite dishes. There were platters of stuffed capons roasted to a golden brown, mountains of fluffy mashed potatoes delicately seasoned with herbs, spring peas fresh from the garden, freshly baked bread filled with pockets of melted cheese, bowls of preserves and candied fruits, and for the sweet, a marzipan cake filled with chopped almonds and a delicate white cake. Lucy and Ulin ate until they were stuffed. When the feast was over, they called Bridget from the kitchen and cheered for her, then everyone drank a toast to Pease. Bridget stood with tears running down her cheeks until the toast was over. Mopping her face with a handkerchief, she fled back to the kitchen.

  Lucy stood and called for everyone’s attention. She looked over the faces she had come to know so well in such a short period of time, and she fervently hoped they could keep their minds open and their wits sharp. The city councilors were there, as well as Lysandros and some of the Vigilance Force. Notwen, Challie, and Cosmo sat close by. The blacksmith and other prominent kender and humans she had befriended were scattered around the room. It was time to get to work.

  Aylesworthy wasted no time. “What about this treasure? Is Kethril going to give us that treasure he found?”

  All eyes turned to the gambler. Under the scrutiny of so many people, Kethril could hardly say no and still remain in good health. He squirmed and looked at the ceiling as if beseeching divine guidance. He rubbed his aching temples. “That is the last time I drink that swill at your place,” he grumbled to Aylesworthy. The owner of the Jetties only glowered at him.

  Kethril slowly climbed to his feet and faced his daughter. When he spoke, he talked directly to her as if there was no one else in the room. “You asked me yesterday why I stole the city’s money, and I told you I needed it for a venture. I did. The biggest heist this side of Sanction.” He pulled a small dagger from his belt, removed his outer robe, and began to cut a careful slit in the quilted front of his inner tunic. From the slit he withdrew a piece of oilcloth carefully wrapped around a piece of coarse paper. He unfolded the cloth and laid the paper out on the table. “This is the work of several years,” he said. “I have been tracking Fyremantle, learning his habits, and looking for his lairs. As far as I know he has three. I have found two of them—one even Malys does not know. The other is well hidden. I was looking for that when Ulin caught me.”

  She looked at him without expression. “So what was the money for?”

  “Spies to track the dragon, new clothes for my disguise, bribes, horses, equipment, and ah, to pay off a few gambling debts that were getting uncomfortable.”

  “What do you propose we do?” Lucy asked.

  He leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. “Steal the treasure from one of Fyremantle’s secret caves. A lot of it’s come from Flotsam anyway. You could pay Malys with that and blackmail Fyremantle into leaving the city alone—at least for a while. I will lead you to the treasure, if the city lets me go.”

  His words hung in the silent room. All eyes turned back to Lucy to wait for her answer.

  She studied her father for an uncomfortably long time, then she nodded. “It’s a deal.”

  All at once she crossed her arms in a copy of her father’s stance, and a brilliant smile transformed her face.

  Kethril looked slightly startled at the change in her features, then he matched her grin for grin.

  Ulin, sitting at the table beside Lucy, recognized the resemblance in an instant. They were almost identical down to the wrinkles in the corners of the eyes—the way the full mouths spread open to reveal even, white teeth, the glint of humor and a light of mischief that burned like lights behind the color of the eyes. To Ulin it was remarkable. There was more of Kethril in his daughter than either one of them knew.

  The entire gathering had sat silent through Kethril’s speech and listened with what Lucy assumed was stunned horror. But they surprised her. As soon as she accepted, a chorus of voices began talking, not to condemn the idea as she feared, but to offer ideas, advice, and suggestions.

  “Where is this treasure you want us to steal?” Ulin asked when Kethril sat down.

  “The closest cache is here”—the older man pointed to a spot on his map—“in the caves of an old volcano just north of Secar’s Point. It’s well camouflaged and only lightly guarded. We will not need many men, In fact, the fewer who know of this part of the plan, the better.” Like many people with no morals, Kethril did have certain standards. His map was detailed, well drawn, and accurate. His plans to infiltrate the lair of the dragon were careful, organized, and efficient.

  Lysandros moved to the table and studied the map. “I have enough men in the Vigilance Force to do this. Their discretion has already been tested.” He shifted over to make space for Notwen, who crowded in beside him.

  “I know this place,” the gnome said excitedly. “We can use the boat to go along the coast to the Point. The new boat is big enough to haul cargo.”

  “But where do we put this treasure?” Mayor Efrim wanted to know. “Is there enough to pay Malys’s taxes?”

  Kethril laughed. “There’s enough to pay Malys for several years and buy this town a decent gaming house. That dragon has been skimming taxes from you and several other places for years. He keeps his ill-gotten gains in this cave and one other so Malys won’t realize what he’s doing.”

  “But where do we put it?” The mayor quavered again. “How do we keep it safe from Fyremantle, or the likes of you?”

  “Hide it.” Kethril’s disarming smile lit his face. “Hide it and don’t tell me about it.”

  Aylesworthy heaved his bulk to his feet and crowded into the group around the table. “Look, this money is all well and good, but Fyremantle will be furious. He’ll burn this town to the ground before we ever get a chance to talk to him.”

  More voices joined his argument.

  “We could kill him,” the blacksmith suggested.

  “Yes, then Malys would kill us and scorch this town to ash.”

  “What if we—”

  Lucy threw up her hands for quiet. On her head, the turban shimmered a brilliant shade of yellow and watched the proceedings with sparkling eyes. The noise slowly simmered down.

  “Actually, Lucy,” Ulin said in the quiet. “Not
wen has invented a trap that just might subdue Fyremantle long enough to convince him to cooperate.”

  She turned to the gnome. “Honestly? Is that what those drawings were?”

  Notwen nodded, pleased that she would take him seriously.

  “Then that’s what we’ll do,” said Lucy. “We’ll lure Fyremantle into the trap and convince him that it would be in his best interest to restore the original tax level and leave Flotsam alone.”

  “And how do we convince him?” someone asked.

  Kethril hooked a finger around his mug of ale and pushed it gently back and forth. “That’s where the blackmail comes in. What would Malys do if she even suspected one of her underlings was stealing money meant for her treasury?”

  “Eat him,” Lysandros answered, “and take his collection.”

  “Exactly—and he knows this. So we tell him we have a messenger on the way to Malys with names and locations and amounts.”

  Aylesworthy shuddered. “Who would be stupid enough to face Malys in her lair?”

  A wicked smile beamed on Lucy’s face. “Someone who does it regularly. The Dark Knights.”

  “Venturin? That harpy?”

  “For a bit of gold, I’ll bet that harpy would sing like a lark,” Mayor Efrim remarked acidly.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Lucy said. “She’s due back any day. I’m sure I can convince her to help the town—for the sake of her iron backside.”

  A smattering of chuckles met her suggestion, and the business of the meeting continued. Before the evening ended, a plan of sorts was put together, and the people agreed it was the best they could do given the circumstances. It was not perfect, and it depended on many things happening at the right time, but with luck and some hard work, it just might work. Lucy thanked everyone for their help and commitment, and she waited until most people had left. At last she could not keep her eyes open another minute. She kissed Ulin goodnight and went upstairs to bed.

  Ulin and Notwen talked to the blacksmith for a while, then all three left to work on the boat. Eventually, only Kethril and Lysandros were left in the common room. The resistance leader rose, stretched, and moved toward the door. He paused and turned back to Kethril. The gambler sat alone at his table staring morosely into his empty flagon. The half-elf picked up a pitcher and poured a stream of golden ale into the man’s cup.

  “Don’t stay up too late, Kethril. You have a treasure to fetch in the morning.” He chuckled softly.

  Kethril glanced up at the half-elf. “So where are you off to? Patrols? A Thieves’ Guild meeting?”

  “To see the sirine. I think she and her people might help Notwen and that boat of his. At least they won’t let him drown.”

  “She’ll leave you, you know. They all do.”

  The captain shrugged. “And I may die tomorrow. But in the meantime I have enjoyed the love of an exquisite woman.”

  It was Kethril’s turn to chuckle. He slapped the half-elf on the arm. “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

  Lysandros started to say something, changed his mind, then said it anyway. “What I don’t understand is how you managed to have a daughter like Lucy. She is incredible.”

  Kethril stared down at his long, supple hands and absently twisted an ornate silver ring on his thumb. “She is, isn’t she?” he replied, his voice distant. “She’s her mother’s own.”

  The boat was ready soon after the sun rose, a red-gold disk in the eastern sky. Ulin, Notwen, the blacksmith, and three dwarves who were friends of Notwen had worked all night to adapt the paddlewheel to an old blunt-sterned fishing boat and fit the steam engine into the hold. They loaded the boat with cords of wood, enough supplies for a few days, shovels, picks, ropes, and this time they brought a rowboat, oars, and an extra sail.

  Kethril offered little help. He stood on the dock, his arms crossed, and watched the loading with a jaundiced eye. Why, in the name of Krynn, had he ever thought to steal from Flotsam, and why did this dump of a town have to have a council with some imagination and dogged determination? And why, after all these years, did his wife still love him enough to send their daughter after him? Numbers, odds, the fall of the cards … these he could understand. Emotions of the heart were incomprehensible to him.

  “Are you ready to go?” Lucy asked behind him.

  “No.” He didn’t move as she came up beside him and stood an arm’s length away. “Why did you come to Flotsam, Lucy?” He hadn’t planned to ask her, but the words blurted out before he could take them back.

  “You know why,” she replied, her words deadpan.

  “You could have said no. Most people would have.”

  “Most people do not have you for a father.” She paused, and a hint of that smile teased her mouth. “Although there are more of your children around than I thought.”

  “I never intended to involve you in any of this. I never thought you’d come to Flotsam.”

  “The council did offer us a quarter of your estate.”

  “Only a quarter? I’d have held out for at least a third.” He tried a smile, but the cold glint in his daughter’s eyes evaporated the expression. “That might have persuaded your mother, but you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you come?”

  She cast an oblique glance in his direction, and for the first time she realized how old he looked. The image she remembered of him from ten years ago was of a vibrant young man with a smooth face, a strong body, and an exuberant, restless energy. This man who stood beside her had aged. His face had darkened and creased from years of travel. His light hair was more gray than blond. His charm was still evident, but the fiery energy of youth had faded to a cooler, more calculating ember. The only thing Lucy remembered about him that hadn’t changed at all was his perception. He still saw himself as the center of the universe.

  Lucy tucked a strand of hair up under the turban and finally answered. “I spent years trying to decide if I loved you or hated you. I guess I came on this journey because I needed to prove to myself that I loved you, that in spite of everything I could travel halfway across Ansalon just to see my father’s body. I wanted to put an end to the debate so I don’t go into my own marriage with a burden of hate.”

  Ulin hailed them at that moment and jumped onto the dock from the boat. He strode toward them, the wind ruffling his chestnut hair, his head thrown back, and his eyes on his beloved.

  Her face lit with an answering joy. She turned to her father and winked. “I guess it worked,” she said, and ran to meet Ulin.

  They had to make a quick farewell so the boat could catch the morning tide. Notwen, the blacksmith, the three dwarves, and five of Lysandros’s most trusted fighters waited for Ulin on the boat, and smoke was already puffing out of the new engine.

  Lucy gripped Ulin’s elbows in her strong hands. “Nothing will go wrong. You have help this time and strong backs to dig or row or whatever you need. And if I’m not mistaken, my blue-skinned sister is waiting at the mouth of the harbor for your boat.” She hugged him tightly and moved back to let him go.

  He nodded once. “You have the instructions Notwen left for you. Good luck.” He kissed her. “Keep that turban on. Come on, Kethril!”

  With a face like a martyr, the gambler climbed into the boat. Dockhands cast off the ropes, and for the second time, Ulin and Notwen churned out of Flotsam harbor and headed for the east coast of Blood Bay.

  That evening in the lingering sultry heat, the Flotsam Vigilance Committee called a town meeting and summoned a full muster of the resistance fighters. Except for a few drunkards, some visitors, and babies, the entire population of the town arrived in the large mess hall of the Dark Knights’ old barracks to find out what was going on. People from Ulin and Lucy’s dinner meeting had spread some chosen bits of the news, but rumors abounded, and meanings were often twisted. Everyone wanted to hear the facts for themselves. Several hundred people crammed into the room and sat on stools, pillows, or rugs they had brought. Those with nothing to sit on lined the
walls three or four deep.

  Aylesworthy, flanked by Saorsha and Mayor Efrim, explained in his calm bass voice what had happened with Kethril Torkay and what the council planned to do. As soon as he finished, an uproar burst the silence in the hall.

  Twenty or thirty people—Lucy couldn’t tell exactly how many in the milling, gesticulating crowd—abruptly left the hall. She guessed they would probably pack their belongings and flee. Not that she blamed them. If she had an ounce of common sense and little less of her father’s blood, she would pack her gear on the bay horse, take Ulin, and show this rat-trap of a town her heels. Yet she couldn’t, and neither could the remaining people who had made this place their home and had stuck with it through fair weather and foul, Dark Knights and dragon attacks, and some of the toughest conditions on Ansalon. The people of Flotsam were tough, and they were about to be asked to prove their mettle again.

  Lucy moved from her place by the empty fireplace and came to stand beside Saorsha. Challie went with her, and the Silver Fox, in his tan pants and tunic, seemed to materialize out of nowhere to join her. She held up her hands. The sight of such a united front gradually stilled the troubled voices, and everyone grew quiet.

  On Lucy’s dark hair, the turban shifted to a shimmering silver like a polished helm. Its diamond eyes glittered in the torchlight.

  “People of Flotsam,” she called, “you have been put in a dangerous situation!” Loud catcalls and shouts interrupted her until she chopped her hand down for silence. “That is hardly new to you.”

  “Yeah, but a trap?” a storekeeper yelled. “And a gnome invention at that! It’ll never work!”

  “Notwen is not like most gnomes,” Lucy responded. “I believe with his idea, our hard work, and some luck, we can succeed.”

  “The festival will have to continue. We’ll want things to look as normal as possible,” Mayor Efrim said.

  “But we should send quite a few of the youngsters, babes, elders, and sick ones into the hills,” Saorsha added. “We shouldn’t trust everyone to the tunnels.”