Dragon Princess

by S. Andrew Swann

  I grabbed the rope that still dangled from the ceiling and hauled myself up. My estimation of the dubious nature of the place was confirmed by the fact that the scoundrel tied up in the princess’s bed had come from a hidden passage designed for just such a purpose. Not only was the passage above roomy enough to accommodate someone three times my current size, but the walls had been padded with several layers of fabric and cork to keep noise to a minimum.

  “‘Proof against any brigands,’ my dainty princess arse,” I whispered.

  I pulled the rope up and closed the entry after myself, and let my eyes adjust to the dark. Light came from several vent holes above, letting in moonlight. Unfortunately, none were large enough to present any opportunity for escape.

  After a short wait, I could see that the passage dead-ended about ten feet from my room. I turned around and ventured back in the direction my would-be assailant had come.

  I passed several hidden peepholes that looked down into other “brigand proof” rooms below.

  Where was this place a year ago? If I had been able to hit travelers’ purses this easily, I might never have ended up attempting the theft of dangerous artifacts from allegedly abandoned temples.

  At the moment, though, that was not at the top of my agenda. I needed a way out, and I hesitated over slipping into even the unoccupied rooms as a means of escape. I’d have to pick a lock to get out, and it would place a hallway, Sir Forsythe, and a common room full of unsavory patrons between me and the exit.

  I was hoping for less drama upon my departure.

  The passage ended in a ladder that descended into what appeared to be a pantry. At this hour, the kitchen would offer a chance to remove myself out the rear of the inn unnoticed.

  I hoped.

  I slowly climbed down the ladder, being cautious with my too-loose boots, and dropped into the pantry. I edged up to the door flanked by shelves bearing baskets of root vegetables, wheels of cheese, and bags of beans and grain.

  As I slowly pushed the door open, I made the mistake of telling myself that my exit seemed a bit too easy.

  I peeked out the door into the kitchen, and I froze.

  The center of the space was dominated by a large block of a table. Between the rust-colored stains, blood gutters, and the knives and cleavers dangling from the edges, it would have been equally at home in the ritual space of the Ziggurat of the Dark Lord Nâtlac as it was in the kitchens of The Headless Earl.

  However, that wasn’t the problem.

  The problem was the five men seated around that altar to butchery, playing cards. None had yet noticed me.

  The one facing most in my direction played a card and asked, “Isn’t Diego going to be slightly pissed when he discovers Lendowyn royalty isn’t in the habit of carting around fabulous jewels and such?”

  The question was apparently directed at the innkeep, who was seated across from him, his back to me. The innkeep chuckled. “Of course. But he paid for a way in, not a guarantee that he’d make back his gold. But I’m sure he’ll make the best of it.”

  The other players laughed appreciatively at the innkeep’s innuendo. It made me feel dirty just for sharing a profession with these goons.

  But, as much as I suddenly wanted to carve some respect for the fairer sex into these guys, I was outnumbered. I decided to slide quietly back and escape out one of the empty rooms upstairs.

  I decided too late. One of the players turned in my direction and said, “Why don’t we ask him?”

  Another stared at me and said, “That ain’t Diego.”

  I slammed the door shut as the quintet shot to their feet, knocking five chairs back to the ground. I cursed. The brief glance into the well-lit kitchen had killed my night vision, and I was left in pitch black, leaning back against the door handle, realizing there was no proper latch to the thing.

  Someone started tugging from the other side, almost yanking the door out of my hands. I braced my foot on the doorframe to give me leverage, but it’d only be moments before the five men on the other side pulled it out of the princess’s less than manly grip.

  Thinking as quickly as I could manage, I pulled a dagger out of a sheath in my appropriated boots and shoved it through the door handle and into the wood of the frame. That held it well enough to give me a free hand. I drew another one of Diego’s daggers, and shoved it into the gap between the door and frame opposite the handle, wedging the thing shut.

  I let go, backing quickly away from the door. I was still nearly blind, stumbling over something in the dark. I only knew it was a barrel of pickles from the sudden vinegar smell sloshing over my boots. I heard wood splintering, and a sliver of light illuminated the pantry.

  Last resort time.

  I screamed.

  “Help! Fraud! Rape! Regicide!” I started pulling down shelves between myself and the door.

  I might have imagined it, but I think I actually heard Sir Forsythe spring to his feet from halfway across the inn.

  More immediately, I watched as one plank of the door was torn free, revealing the innkeep’s snarling face. I wondered for the briefest moment, Why is he angry? He got his money.

  There was now enough light for me to see the shelves again, and I grabbed the nearest cheese wheel and threw it at his face, making him duck out of the way. I screamed, “Murder! Duplicity! Evil!” as I hurled a jar of preserves out the gap in the doorway. It thudded into the forehead of one of men back in the kitchen.

  The door splintered apart as I backed into the ladder. I threw a sack of beans into their advance, causing the lead guy to slip and fall face first into the pile of spilled pickles. A dagger sprouted from a wood timber next to my head and I flattened myself against the wall, using the remaining shelves for cover. “Crime! Deceit! Thuggery!” I called out.

  In response, I heard another door splinter behind the men advancing upon me. I glanced to see the men turning away from me, toward a flash of knightly armor deeper in the kitchen.

  I took my opportunity to scramble back up the ladder.

  • • •

  I dropped into one of the empty rooms upstairs, abandoning any pretense at stealth. Below me, the sounds of an incipient war were more than enough cover for any noise I might have made. I made quick work of the lock and ran over to peek down the stairs into the common room. Using a wall for cover, I poked my head out low, below eye level.

  My caution was superfluous at this point.

  It seemed as if every thief, thug, brigand, and cutpurse in the area, aside from myself, had invaded The Headless Earl to converge on the kitchen. Enough people that I suspected this establishment rated its own Thieves’ Guild to rival the ones in Grünwald. Everyone had some sort of weapon at hand, daggers mostly, but I caught glimpses of a sword or two, a few chairs, and one scary-looking specimen hefting one of the smaller tables.

  I was probably a bad person for leaving Sir Forsythe to this riot, but by Lord Nâtlac’s black twisted soul, he was the genius that chose this place.

  I went downstairs, and as long as I faced the direction everyone was going, and yelled a few hoarse curses here and there, no one paid me any mind as I sidestepped along the rear of the crowd toward the entrance.

  Once outside, I ran around the inn, toward the stables. While I had always been somewhat adept at disguise and mimicry, I was certain that any moment someone else might notice that the petite thief in the loose clothing was just a little too cute to be one of their number.

  Once I made the turn toward the stables I stopped short as I almost tripped over the innkeep and one of his fellow card players. Fortunately for me, they were both unconscious and facedown in the slop behind the stables. As I stood there, staring, a third and fourth body sailed through the remains of the rear door of the kitchens. Inside, I caught a brief glimpse of metal-clad blond fury. I heard Sir Forsythe’s voice cut through the sounds of the mob inside.

  “No petty brigand may stand fast before the righteous annoyance of Sir Forsythe the Good. Tremble before
my aggravation!”

  I guess the guy can take care of himself.

  I still felt somewhat guilty, but now it was more for my fellow tradesmen. However unrefined they might be, at least some of them probably didn’t deserve to be trapped inside with that loon.

  But that didn’t stop me from liberating a horse and getting the hell out of there.

  CHAPTER 8

  Under the stars, an hour’s ride from The Headless Earl, I tied my mount to a tree, climbed up into the branches, and slept much better than I had a right to.

  Slept well. Woke poorly.

  The sun filtered through the forest canopy to warm my face, and in waking I had a few moments of blessed amnesia where I remembered nothing of wizards and dragons and missing man parts. Then I stretched to untie some of the knots that my makeshift bed had tied in my muscles, and I felt my too-loose clothing tug against my body. I gasped in the princess’s voice and grabbed myself in places where I shouldn’t have had places. In my sudden recollection of everything, I lost my balance and started tumbling from my perch. I grabbed the branch as I fell, bark tearing at my ungloved hands. I fell on the princess’s derriere, uttering a stream of profanity that sounded somewhat incongruous coming from her mouth.

  The horse looked at me lazily, unimpressed.

  I looked up and saw one of my ill-fitting boots dangling from a branch above and decided that one of my first priorities, after finding out where I was, was to get some properly fitted clothing for my travels.

  • • •

  I found a good-size town within a few hours’ ride. While I regretted the decision, I set my stolen mount free in some farmer’s pasture as soon as I saw the signs that I was within a mile of a town named Doylen. I’d never heard of the place, but the horse had a rather prominent brand on its hindquarters that, given my luck recently, would spell trouble. Either one of the thieves’ company back at the Earl had stolen the beast from some important family native to this town, or it was marked as property of some gang making its home here.

  Neither option boded well for any stranger riding it into Doylen.

  So the horse joined some farmer’s draft animals to graze and become someone else’s problem—without the less-obviously marked saddlebags and bridle.

  I had never been in Doylen before, but there are some things that are common to all towns of a certain size, as long as you know where to look. In my specific case, after crossing a few unsavory palms with coin courtesy of Diego, I found myself facing a dark storefront. The only sign advertising its purpose were a few wooden posts supporting a saddle, bridle, and a set of leather armor. Given that I had wandered into one of the inadvisable parts of Doylen, the fact that the samples were unmolested strongly suggested that the occupant had the favor of the local Thieves’ Guild.

  In this case, it was exactly what I wanted. A reputable leatherworker might ask questions.

  I walked into the shop, through a narrow aisle hung with all manner of goods, from gauntlets to bullwhips. The air in here was hot, stagnant, and smelled like the inside of a boot. In the rear, where it opened up into a workshop, a bald old man sat on a stool in front of a long heavy table running along the rear wall. The man was weathered enough that he wouldn’t have looked out of place hanging on the wall with the rest of his wares.

  He was working with a wicked sickle-shaped knife, doing violence to some sort of skin, his back to me. The skin was uncomfortably humanoid in outline, and I hoped that it belonged to an ogre or something similar.

  I cleared my throat.

  The knife stopped moving, and his head turned slowly toward me. He was bald on top, but a bushy white beard spilled out over his leather apron. He arched an eyebrow and asked, “Do I know you?”

  “Gray sent me,” I said, naming one of the disreputable characters who had directed me to this place.

  The old man smiled, showing teeth with uncomfortably wide gaps between them. “Well what can I do for you . . .” his eyes widened a bit and his voice took on a syrupy tone that I did not like at all. “Miss?”

  I hefted the saddlebags and dropped them on the floor and threw the bridle down on top. “Selling these,” I said in what should have been an authoritative tone. Unfortunately, adding more husky overtones to the princess’s voice did not make it more intimidating. “And I need to replace these boots, and this—”

  The old man did not allow me to finish. “Yes!” he hissed, all too enthusiastically, slithering out of his seat to invade my personal space. He picked up the dangling end of my doubled-up belt and massaged the material between his fingers. “You need an entire ensemble.” He placed his hands on my hips and pulled the loose ends of Diego’s jacket so one end slipped off of my shoulder. “This will not do at all. Loose here.” His hands traveled up my sides. “Tight here.”

  I backed up a step, leaving his hands clutching a phantom bosom. “Hey—”

  His hands found his own hips, and he cocked his head. “And those breeches.” He made a disgusted noise. “That inseam is all wrong, and where the crotch sits—chafes, doesn’t it?”

  I was mildly uncomfortable agreeing with him, so I just stared.

  “Boots,” he said. “Off with them.”

  “Can you—”

  He clapped his hands sharply. “Please. The sooner we can dispose of this wretched outfit, the sooner we can equip you with something of value.”

  As I removed the boots, I asked, “How much?”

  “Let us not be mercenary for a moment.” He picked up my left boot and regarded it with a wrinkling of his nose. “Ghastly workmanship.” He tossed it over his shoulder. It landed on a pile of leather scraps. My heart sank, since I had been hoping to trade Diego’s outfit for one that actually fit.

  With a deft sleight of hand, he had removed my belt before I understood what he was doing. “Hmm, salvageable,” he muttered, dropping it with the saddlebags and the bridle.

  This was going a bit too far. I renewed my effort at speaking authoritatively. “Before we start—” My words began as royal pronouncement, and ended with an embarrassing squeak as the man took the collar of my jacket and yanked it over my head. Too easy considering how loose it was. With my hands over my head, nothing was left to support the too-large breeches, which fell to my ankles.

  The old man paid little mind to me. He tsked at Diego’s jacket, saving special derision for my makeshift alterations. For a moment I was at a loss for what to do, then I bent and drew Diego’s knife from where it hid inside the boot the old leatherworker had not tossed aside. Then I stepped out of the breeches, which would only be a hindrance at this point.

  He tossed the jacket onto the scrap pile and turned toward me. He smiled in a way that made me very uncomfortable. “Now why don’t you—” His eyes widened a bit as I brandished the knife, but he was looking off to my left.

  “Oh, good,” he said as he bent down to pick up Diego’s breeches. There was a jingle and he rummaged in one leg and withdrew Diego’s purse.

  Oh, damn.

  He hefted it, then tossed it back at me. I almost dropped the knife catching it. “Unless that’s all copper,” he said, “You can afford better than this.” He tossed the breeches on the scrap pile. He walked over to his workbench and pushed the ogre skin aside and pulled out a length of rope with hash marks evenly spaced along its length. “It’s been a long time since I was able to cater to a woman.” He turned around, pulling his rope taut. “Now spread your arms.”

  • • •

  I spent the better part of half an hour being exhaustively measured by the old leatherworker. While his closeness and the placement of his hands made me extremely uncomfortable, I had to admit his attentions—while not precisely innocent—were not quite the violation I had been worried about. He spoke nonstop, telling me of the years when he was the premier supplier for the women not just in Doylen, but for all of Lendowyn.

  For a time I wondered at the thought that there were that many female adventurers in Lendowyn. Except for the occasional
warrior princess, I hadn’t ever heard of much demand for armoring the fairer sex. Then he said that a few items from his “special collection” would fit me without much alteration, and I understood.

  My definition of adventure had just been too limited.

  The outfit the old man produced was designed for a different form of combat than I’d been thinking of.

  “Ah,” I said.

  “Gorgeous, is it not?”

  “Uh—yes—the workmanship is excellent. But I was hoping for a little more protection.”

  He frowned a moment, then rolled his eyes. “Of course, you’re going to wear this outside, aren’t you?” He shook his head and disappeared deeper into his shop to rummage back in his “special collection.”

  In the end he came up with something that offered protection to more than my breasts and crotch, and boots whose heels were a sane height for hiking. I left the premises in an outfit that fit a little too well. I was a bullwhip shy of becoming a dominatrix, but at least I made an old man happy and got a good deal on the ensemble.

  • • •

  The downside of replacing Diego’s armor was the fact that now no one could ignore my current body, including myself. Every downward glance showed me the princess’s curves emphasized in well-tooled black leather. Even if I avoided glancing at my own—no, at the princess’s—body, I could still feel it, every step I took.

  But at least the old man’s outfit finally allowed me to make the princess somewhat intimidating. As I worked my way through the underside of Doylen, I got more than my share of propositions, but I was able to deter the more aggressive ones by drawing my knife and offering free discipline from Mistress Blackthorne.

  Even so, I bought a full cloak at the first opportunity, allowing the princess’s assets to blend into the crowds a little better.

  Unfortunately, the rest of my day, and the rest of Diego’s money, were much less productive. I slid through a number of pubs, inns, and marketplaces ranging from the disreputable to the dangerous, attempting to find any information the rumor mill could give me about a dashing rogue called Frank Blackthorne, a shady wizard named Elhared the Unwise, and anything regarding dragons. I didn’t mention princesses or the Lendowyn court. I was spending half my time dissuading unwanted advances, and questions about the woman whose body I wore seemed to be asking for trouble.