Dragon Thief

by S. Andrew Swann

  Behind me, Grace spoke up again. “What are we waiting—Where’d he come from?”

  A familiar bald man with ancient clouded eyes staggered down the bridge toward us, leaning heavily on his staff and holding out a wooden bowl. “Alms—” he began. Then he stopped short about ten feet away from me. His posture got straighter and his blind expression turned into an annoyed frown. “You again?”

  “Uh, not exactly . . .”

  “And you have the dragon with you.”

  “Again, not exactly.”

  The man gave an exasperated sigh and held out the bowl. I threw in a gold crown for each of us. Behind me, I heard Grace say, “And where did that come from?”

  Once the toll was paid, the bridge became much shorter, and the river itself much wider, as a dagger-shaped island came into existence between the two shorelines. The space where the bridge had been became a broad avenue that cut across the island roughly in the middle. On one side was a forest that was a little too lush, too green, too dense—especially for this time of year.

  On the other side was a walled city that filled that whole half of the island. Towers reached up from within the walls to pierce a sky that felt as wrong as the forest.

  “Come on,” I told everyone as I led my horse up across the bridge.

  Lucille rode up next to me. “This looks so different.”

  “I imagine it does.”

  “Things shouldn’t feel this wrong,” she whispered.

  “Things are wrong,” I said.

  “This is the body I was born in.” Her voice was barely audible. She looked behind us, at the rest of our party, then looked down at me. “How did that man know you?”

  I shook my head. “He may look blind, but I suspect that being gatekeeper for this town requires types of sight most people don’t have.”

  “He could see who you were?”

  “I guess so.”

  “He said you still had the dragon with you.”

  I smiled at her. “I do.”

  She shook her head.

  “I should tell you something.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “When I was waking up from Brock’s herbs, I was still—I—uh—saw something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Auras I think, outlines of your soul or spirit or something.”

  “My soul?”

  “Maybe. But what I saw, it was the shape of a dragon.”

  “It . . . you’re mocking me.”

  “No I’m—”

  “Just stop it! I know how you feel about me. You’re right, but you don’t need to be so cruel about it.”

  “Lucille, I didn’t—” I had to jump back because she spun her horse around and rode away. For a moment I was afraid she was going to abandon us and gallop back into Lendowyn, but she just rode back to the rear of our group, next to Brock.

  What did I say?

  I hate it when I screw up without even knowing what I had done.

  • • •

  We unloaded ourselves into an inn called The Talking Eye. It might have served customers as sketchy as those of The Headless Earl, but at least it was a completely different flavor of sketchy—much more hooded robes and arcane symbols than leather and battle scars. The innkeep didn’t look twice at my party of teenage Amazon warriors, and gladly took our ill-gotten gold for a pair of neighboring rooms.

  Lucille didn’t look at me as I let the girls into their room, though I think I saw her smile weakly as she watched Rabbit run and throw herself on the bed with a joyful grunt. The other girls walked in, looking around the room as if they’d just walked into the elf-king’s palace. There was a small iron stove in the corner, with a fire already burning inside. Laya and Krys walked over and crouched next to it, shedding their gauntlets and rubbing their hands.

  Behind me, Sir Forsythe said, “The young master should stay with us.”

  Everyone turned to face him. “What ‘young master’?” Lucille asked.

  “The young boy by the stove,” he said. “It would be improper for him to stay—why are they laughing?”

  Krys wasn’t laughing. She stood up and appeared a little embarrassed. “I’m afraid I’m a girl too, Sir Knight.”

  “But—”

  I patted Sir Forsythe on the arm and said, “It’s okay. You’ve been with me long enough I can understand how you’d be confused. Let them get settled.”

  He stepped back and said, “Yes, My Liege.”

  At first it seemed unfair that Lucille was wedged into a room with a half-dozen people, but once Brock, Sir Forsythe, and I entered the neighboring room, I envied her. I think just by mass alone, Brock counted as a half-dozen people, and through sheer height and length of limb, Sir Forsythe took up the remaining space.

  The less said about the snoring, the better.

  • • •

  The next day I greased several palms to find someone who was expert in the lore surrounding the Dark Lord Nâtlac.

  The Wizard Crumley resided in one of the least pleasant areas of Fell Green, and that’s saying something. It wasn’t winter here, and apparently never was. It felt too warm and too humid, uncomfortably midsummer. Every flat surface seemed to grow sickly moss, and even in midday the alleys and doorways were cloaked in impenetrable shadow. Just standing on the street gave you a feeling that your skin was in danger of being infected by some damp rot. The small patches of open ground resembled swamp, complete with a menagerie of buzzing insects.

  Crumley resided at the end of a crooked lane that aimed generally toward the city wall, descending as it did so, until I was certain that we had traveled below the level of the Fell River. The door to Crumley’s lair was black oak streaked with green, held together by rusty iron bands. When I used the heavy iron knocker, the sound was muffled by the dampness of the wood.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” Lucille asked me.

  “The dwarf was rather specific.”

  “Before or after you paid him?”

  Behind me, Mary said, “Seems rather soggy for a mage.”

  “Brock’s socks are wet.”

  “I told you,” I said. “This is our best chance for a local expert. Most of the people who study the Dark Lord aren’t very approachable.”

  I reached up and tried the knocker again.

  “Maybe he isn’t home?” I think I heard a hopeful note in Laya’s voice. “Maybe you can come back and try later?”

  Lucille leaned over and whispered to me, “Why don’t you send the girls back to the inn with Brock? Do they need to be here?”

  I shook my head. “They can handle themselves fine, and I don’t want us to split up.”

  “Why not?”

  “What happened the last time we split up in this town?”

  “Oh—”

  She was interrupted by the screech of rusty hinges as the door opened inward into a dim passage.

  “What?” called a raspy voice. It took a moment before I identified the source. I peered into the darkness and a voice called up from somewhere around the level of my belt, “You just going to stand there, or you going to say something?”

  I looked down and saw a stooped old man shorter than Lucille. He had long white hair and beard, both stained with streaks of green. “We’re looking for Wizard Crumley.”

  “Why else would you come down here?” He peered at me through narrow eyes and leaned forward to start sniffing me. The man smelled so strongly of fish and seaweed I had no idea how he could smell anything else. “What do you want?”

  “Advice on an enchantment,” I said. “Help undoing it.”

  The man waddled over to Lucille, leaning on a bone-white cane that seemed made of driftwood. He smelled her as well, causing her to back up a step. He licked his lips and turned toward me. “Enchantment, eh? No help for the lovelor
n?”

  “Huh? No?”

  He shrugged. “You’re dripping with the Goddess’s touch, boy. But your choice.” He leaned forward and said in a fish-scented stage whisper, “But watch out for this one, lots of fire there, if you get my drift.”

  “Are you the wizard?” Lucille interrupted.

  “See?” The old man winked at me. He spun around and bowed at all of us. “Of course, I am Wizard Crumley the Boundless, the Exceptional, the Knowledgeable—”

  “The long-winded,” I heard Mary mutter from behind me.

  “Can you help us with the Dark Lord Nâtlac?” I asked.

  Wizard Crumley sighed and brought his staff down on the stones with a weak crack. “Of course it would be him. Are you sure it isn’t the Goddess? She’s much more fun.”

  “We were told you know about the Dark Lord,” Lucille said.

  “Such knowledge costs, Madam Dragon.”

  “What—” Lucille gaped at him.

  “We brought payment,” I said, hefting our pouch of ill-gotten gold.

  “Of course you did.” He sounded almost disappointed at the prospect. “Come on in then.”

  “Wait,” Lucille said, “why did you say ‘Madam Dragon’?”

  “Really?” Wizard Crumley waved his hand at her dismissively. “You stink of the lizard, almost as badly as the tall one stinks of the Dark Lord himself. You come for my expertise and you think I cannot sense these things? Maybe you should go elsewhere.”

  I hefted my purse. “Now you don’t want our gold?”

  “And be insulted?”

  I leaned forward. “If I hadn’t heard otherwise about your expertise in the lore of the Dark One, I’d almost suspect you’re trying to avoid being hired.”

  “Are you questioning my expertise?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But anyone who had no idea of the vast store of knowledge hoarded by the Wizard Crumley might come to the wrong conclusion, wouldn’t they?”

  “Don’t test me.”

  “Why would I, when I can hire you?” I held out the pouch. “I can hire you, can’t I?”

  He glanced from me, to Lucille, to the rest of our party behind us. He reached up and snatched the purse from my hand and said, “Come in, wipe your feet, and don’t touch anything.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Crumley led us through several corridors piled with threadbare and mildew-spotted carpeting. We passed overfilled bookshelves where volumes seemed to have been shoved to be forgotten as they slowly crumbled away. The air was damp and heavy, and the halls were dark aside from the occasional candelabra. As we walked, Krys reached out to run her fingers along the spine of one of the books. Without turning, Crumley stopped and grumbled.

  “No touching!” he shouted back. Krys yanked her hand away.

  He grabbed a torch from a wall sconce and led us down a narrow stone stair that descended through arched vaults where the walls were thick with white mineral deposits. Parts of the walls glistened from the moisture. The steps themselves were stained green and black from mildew, mold, and algae.

  Someday I was going to find a wizard who enjoyed working in the open air and sunshine.

  Crumley’s workshop was deep underground. So deep that I suspected it was not only beneath the surface level of the Fell River, but possibly beneath the floor of the riverbed—if any of that mattered in a town that was only half in our world at best.

  Crumley’s workshop was a vast space where the torchlight didn’t quite reach the far wall. The immediate area was dominated by several long tables piled high with all manner of artifacts; jars of liquid, powders, dried leaves; large mineral specimens; skulls from various creatures; arcane volumes open to arcane passages describing arcane rituals in arcane languages. One space near the foot of the stairs held a half circle of tall black candles as thick as my forearm. They flickered around one of the few clear spaces on any of the tables. Inside the arc of the candles a ceramic crock steamed above a small brazier filled with glowing coals. Crumley held up a hand as we reached the foot of the stairs. “You interrupted me, now please wait.”

  He hobbled over to the steaming crock, climbed on a small stepstool that stood before it, and strained to lean over it. He inhaled deeply and smiled. “Good. Perfect.”

  He reached over to a glass vial filled with white crystals and carefully poured a small amount into the crock. He grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred the mixture. After a moment he grabbed a small china cup from the mess on the table, squinted to look inside, and shook it out over the floor. He set it down next to the brazier and started pouring the contents of the crock out into it. A small spider jumped out of the cup and scurried over the side and away before it drowned.

  Crumley glanced back at us and asked, “Anyone care for some tea?”

  Several voices behind me said, “No thank you,” simultaneously.

  Crumley took his china cup and took a sip. He smiled and stepped off of the stool. “This is about you and the dragon, isn’t it?”

  I looked over at Lucille and said, “Yes.”

  He picked up his driftwood staff with his free hand and gestured to a couple of chairs deeper in the room. “You two sit over there.”

  He pointed it at the girls, Brock, and Sir Forsythe. “You all stay out of the way.” Then he spoke to me and Lucille. “What are you waiting for? You’re paying for this.”

  We walked over to the chairs and sat as directed. Crumley walked in front of us and stood, staring, as he sipped his tea. After five minutes or so of uncomfortable silence, Grace asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Quiet!” Crumley slammed his staff down on a nearby table without looking around. “No talking!”

  He peered at us for several more minutes, occasionally grunting to himself. Then he finally set down his tea and pulled a pair of spectacles out from the piles on one of the long tables. He perched them on his nose then fished out a bundle of herbs from another table.

  He lit the top of the bundle on fire from one of the black candles. He let it flame for a moment before blowing the fire out. He walked up to us and started weaving the smoking bundle around us in a set of intricate patterns. The smoke wrapped us in a white fog that reminded me a little too much of Brock’s little packages at The Headless Earl. My eyes watered and I started coughing.

  “Well, well, well . . .”

  “What?” I gasped. I was dizzy and light-headed from the smoke. I glanced at Lucille to see how she was doing, and I wasn’t that surprised that the shadow I saw through the dissipating smoke was more dragon-shaped than Lucille-shaped.

  “Both of you have been touched by the Tear of Nâtlac.”

  “We could have told you that,” I said.

  “Oh really,” Crumley said. “You came all the way here just to impress me with your expertise?”

  Lucille punched me in the arm. “Please go on,” she said.

  Crumley paced around. “The Dark Lord’s influence has woven itself into your souls, even before the effect of the artifact, I see. This is not the first time your spirits have been uprooted. In you especially—” He pointed at Lucille.

  “Me?”

  “Clearly your soul was birthed in that body, but it no longer fits, does it?”

  “Uh—”

  Crumley pivoted to me. “And you, it fits too well.”

  I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

  He chuckled. “Just that someone who hates their body doesn’t want clothes that fit too closely.”

  “Snake is nothing like me.”

  Crumley shook his head and held up a finger. “The Tear chooses first the soul’s own birth body.” He pointed to Lucille. “If your spirit is already displaced, the Tear of Nâtlac will send it home even if it wasn’t the Tear that displaced you.”

  He held up two fingers. “But if it can’t do that, it will f
ind the best fit.”

  “My soul doesn’t fit in this bastard!”

  Crumley strode up and placed his face less than an inch from my own. “A life centered on being something you are not. A liar, a thief. An outlaw tied to royalty and to the Dark Lord himself. A disregard for consequences. Dissatisfaction with where you find yourself in your current life. A deep-seated desire to see King Dudley of Grünwald rotating slowly over an open flame—shall I go on?”

  “B-But—” Lucille shook her head, and I think she might have been crying. “I don’t understand.”

  To my relief Crumley and his breath retreated from me. “Understand what?”

  “You said my soul doesn’t fit. This is my body!”

  Crumley shook his head. “Not anymore, my dear. The soul is not static. It grows, changes, and becomes what we are. You’ve moved beyond where you began. Unlike your wife over there.” He gestured at me and chuckled.

  “Enough,” I said. “How do we fix this? Short of waiting a year and a day?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid even that won’t work now.”

  “What?” Lucille and I said simultaneously.

  • • •

  Sir Forsythe had been more or less right about the Tear of Nâtlac and what it did, as far as he went with it. Wearing the jewel swapped the wearer with the inhabitant of closest “compatible” body somewhere, for the jewel’s own measure of compatible, and the soul’s birth body took precedence over other considerations—Lucille’s current discomfort to the contrary. Normally the passage of a year and a day would reverse the effects.

  Unfortunately, “normally” in this instance meant that the souls in question stayed where the jewel had put them. By accident or design—and I leaned toward design—Snake’s maneuver to get Lucille to wear the jewel had mucked everything up. It was bad enough that the Tear of Nâtlac swapped Lucille with someone already affected by the same jewel, but it also swapped her back into her own body.

  The expiration of the effect on me meant my soul would want to return to the body I had vacated—but Snake was no longer there to swap back. Worse, when the second transfer expired, Snake’s soul would “want” to transfer back to Lucille’s body, where it had been. But Lucille was now resident in her own body, and the mere expiration of an enchantment would not have the strength to displace it again. Lucille was not going to move again unless someone invoked a new enchantment.