Dragons Luck

by Robert Asprin

  “Doom, danger, impending peril. The sort of gut reactions that most people pass off.”

  “Ah . . . sometimes. Like you said, most people just pass off such hunches; part of being a dragon is not ignoring one’s instincts. Sometimes, of course, it’s just collywobbles . . .”

  Again, she noticed his hesitation.

  “And other times?” Val said.

  “You said it was gut reactions. Tell me, was it really your gut?” Mose said.

  Val blinked at him.

  “No, my heart.”

  Mose nodded to himself, as if she had confirmed what he had been thinking.

  “Time to talk the stuff of legends again. It is said that, very rarely, a dragon learns to see beyond what is. Well, not see, feel. The old phrase was ‘a heart free from time’ though the translation may have suffered as years have passed,” Mose said.

  “Are you saying I’m sensing the future?”

  “Not really, it’s more picking up on pain that is to come. Pain of the heart, of grief, not of the body. Don’t think you are going to get some ‘spidey-sense’ or any such nonsense,” Mose said.

  “My grief, or others’?”

  “Good question. I haven’t the foggiest. And I don’t really know if any of this is true, or applies to you. Still might just be collywobbles.”

  Val thought, not so much of what he was saying but of what she wanted to say next. Somehow, it just didn’t feel safe, or smart, to bring up the subject of Lizzy.

  Not directly anyway.

  “I want to learn how to fight,” Val said.

  Now it was Mose’s turn to blink at her.

  “What do you mean? I had assumed with all your working out you would have had a decent fill of martial arts.”

  “That’s not quite what I mean. I want to know how to fight . . . as a dragon.”

  “No, you don’t,” Mose said.

  Val reined in her temper and merely gave him a questioning look.

  “Look . . . I mean it. Dragons fighting dragons, if that’s what you mean, just isn’t done. It takes so much effort, or special skills, to seriously hurt each other. Too much collateral damage. Those old legends said two dragons at war would crumble mountains, and I am not sure that was a metaphor.”

  “And what if I don’t have a choice, and find myself without the skill I need?” Val said, and her voice caught ever so slightly.

  Mose slumped back in his chair again and narrowed his eyes.

  “Are you talking theoretically?” he said.

  “I . . .”

  He held up a finger.

  “No games.”

  “No . . . probably not,” Val said.

  Mose turned his gaze from her and stared out his window. His eyes were much too far away for him to simply be looking at the courtyard outside.

  “I have to think on that one, Valerie. I’m . . . not a fighter, haven’t been since I was a kid. Let me think on if I can in good conscience help you find what you are looking for. Much less whether I can give it to you, or find someone who can,” Mose said.

  Valerie started to speak, then thought better of it. She followed Jerome’s course and left without another word.

  She could still see Mose staring out his window as she approached the gate to the street. He didn’t seem to be seeing her.

  Twenty-three

  The Mystic Den was one of the most closely guarded secrets in the Quarter. Many of the people who lived and worked in the Quarter did not even know of its existence.

  It was the lobby bar for the Royal Sonesta Hotel, one of the largest and most expensive hotels in the Quarter. Even though the hotel itself fronted on Bourbon Street, there was no street entrance to the Mystic Den, so it was overlooked by those who prowled and barhopped their way along that famous tourist attraction. You could only get into it by going through the hotel lobby or via a corridor at the back of the Desire Oyster Bar.

  The bar itself was quiet and furnished with deep, comfortable chairs and sofas, a far cry from Griffen’s normal haunt at the Irish pub. That was one of the reasons he had chosen this location for his meeting with Slim. It was getting to a point where too many people knew to look for him at the Irish pub.

  In honor of the occasion, Slim had forsaken his trademark white suit and striped top hat for a pair of loose-fitting slacks and a sports shirt. Without his street entertainer’s costume, he blended right in with the sparse afternoon crowd in the den.

  “I dunno, Griffen,” he was saying. “Seems to me like you’re makin’ too big a thing out of the whole security problem.”

  Courtesy of their meetings over the last several weeks regarding the conclave, Slim had reached a level of comfort where he now addressed Griffen by his first name rather than as “Mr. McCandles.” Unfortunately, this also meant he was comfortable criticizing Griffen’s plans.

  “I always thought extra security was a good thing,” Griffen said. “The only way you know you don’t have enough security is when things start going wrong. I’d rather not see that happen.”

  “Maybe,” Slim said. “But too much obvious security can send a bad message, too. Looks like you’re expecting trouble. Even worse, it looks like you don’t trust the attendees.”

  Griffen grimaced.

  “I am expecting trouble, and I don’t trust the attendees.”

  “Of course,” Slim said. “But you can’t let it show. Man, you’re a dragon. You’re supposed to be confident and in control. You don’t want to look like you’re tryin’ to bully people around.”

  “I thought I had that covered,” Griffen said. “That’s why I was suggesting we go to outside help. If I use any of my own crew, it’d look like I’m having the dragons team up on the rest of the conclave.”

  “Outside help?” Slim said. “TeeBo and Patches and their thugs?”

  “I know,” Griffen said with a sigh. “I’d really just as soon not owe a favor to them or any other drug dealer. I don’t see many other options, though.”

  “I wouldn’t even think of that as an option,” Slim grunted. “Their solution to anything is to shoot it. I really don’t think that’s what you want.”

  “Okay. You’re right,” Griffen said, spreading his hands in surrender. “I didn’t like the thought either. That’s why I haven’t contacted them. It’s just that the conclave is less than a week away, and I still don’t have a clear fix on what I’ll have to deal with.”

  “I’m not sure of that myself,” Slim said. “But I wouldn’t count too much on that week.”

  “Excuse me?” Griffen said.

  “You don’t work as much with regular tourists and conventioneers as I do,” the street entertainer explained. “A lot of folks, if they’re planning on attending a convention or even a football game down here, like to come in a few days early to see the sights and party down. Wouldn’t surprise me none if some of the conclave attendees popped up in town ahead of time.”

  Griffen covered his eyes with one hand as if his head was throbbing.

  “This just gets better,” he said. “How am I supposed to try to keep people out of trouble if I don’t even know who they are? Or should I say, what they are?”

  “Well, first of all, I don’t think you should feel any kind of responsibility for anyone who wanders into town early,” Slim said in a strange voice. “And I don’t think you’ll have that much trouble spotting folks with the conclave even if they aren’t wearing suits or name badges.”

  Griffen glanced at him sharply, but the street entertainer simply nodded toward the bar’s lobby entrance.

  Following Slim’s gaze, Griffen saw a mixed gaggle of what looked like teenagers boiling through the door, followed by one young man who looked to be in his late twenties. It had every appearance of a high-school outing complete with a harried chaperone.

  It would have been, at best, a mildly annoying distraction . . . except the group seemed to be headed directly toward the table where Slim and Griffen were sitting.

  “What on earth . . .
?” Griffen murmured, but didn’t get a chance to finish.

  The crowd lurched to a halt in front of their table, forming up into a rough half circle. On closer examination, there were only about a half dozen of them, but their youthful energy and eager faces made it seem that there were a lot more of them.

  Suddenly nervous and self-conscious, the group began to fidget, glancing back and forth between Griffen and their chaperone.

  “Mr. McCandles?” that individual said, stepping forward.

  Griffen stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

  He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he suddenly felt like a featured stop on a guided tour. To say the least, he wasn’t wild about the sensation.

  “We just wanted to take this chance to meet you before the conclave started and to express our thanks for letting us attend.”

  “And you are . . . ?” Griffen said, deliberately not rising or offering a hand for a handshake.

  “Oh! We’re the fey . . . or the changelings, if you prefer,” the leader said, hastily. “This is our first time to attend one of these things.”

  Strangely enough, Griffen had already figured that one out himself.

  “Actually,” he said with a small smile, “I was fishing for a name.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” The leader was momentarily flustered. “My name is Tink.”

  He started to extend a hand, then withdrew it and bowed stiffly.

  “Tink?” Griffen said, raising an eyebrow.

  The leader flushed slightly.

  “Well, my given name was Archibald, but everyone knows me as ‘Tink.’ ”

  “All right . . . Tink,” Griffen said carefully. “While your thanks are appreciated, I’m afraid they’re misplaced. Even though I’ve agreed to moderate the conclave, I’ve had no say as to who is or is not invited. In fact, of all the groups I’ve been told are attending, I probably know the least about yours.”

  “Are you really a dragon?”

  This came from a coltish, small-breasted young lady in short shorts and a Lord of the Rings T-shirt.

  Griffen stared at her with his best poker deadpan until she dropped her eyes and took a step back.

  “You’ll have to forgive us,” Tink said, interceding. “We’re all excited about the conclave, and, frankly, most of us have never seen, much less met, a dragon. I hope you aren’t offended.”

  “No offense taken,” Griffen lied. “And, for the record, yes, I am a dragon. Now if I might ask a question, how did you find me?”

  “Oh, that’s one of the things we’re good at. Finding things and people,” chimed in a boy with features so smooth he might have been mistaken for a girl. “That and hiding.”

  “I see,” Griffen said. “Any other powers I should know about . . . if you don’t mind my asking?”

  The group exchanged glances.

  “The thing is,” Tink said, “there are various powers we have. Not everyone has the same powers, though. If you’d like, we could give you a demonstration.”

  Griffen suppressed the image that flashed though his mind.

  “That really won’t be necessary,” he said hastily.

  He reached for his drink, more to give himself something to do with his hands with so many people staring at him, then stopped. His usual light amber glass of Irish whiskey was now clear. Tentatively, he raised it to his nose and sniffed.

  “It’s gin,” declared a girl with short black hair and a nose ring. “That’s one of my powers.”

  “Impressive,” Griffen said carefully. “Unfortunately, I only drink Irish whiskey. Would you mind changing it back?”

  The girl suddenly looked uncomfortable.

  “Um . . . I can’t do that,” she said. “I can only change liquids one way. I don’t know how to do reversals.”

  “I see,” Griffen said, successfully suppressing a smile.

  “Let us buy you a fresh drink,” Tink said, frantically signaling the bartender, who had been watching the proceedings with vast amusement.

  The assemblage waited in silence while the bartender brought Griffen’s new drink over and was paid by Tink, who waved off any change.

  “Well, we’ll run along now and quit bothering you,” he said, gathering up his charges with his eyes. “I can see you’re busy. We just wanted to say hello and thanks. Maybe if we get a chance, I can fill you in a little on the fey . . . if you’re interested, that is.”

  The pack moved off, already chattering back and forth among themselves before they reached the door.

  “So what kind of security do you figure you’ll need for them?” Slim asked with a grin.

  “I’ll admit they aren’t what I expected,” Griffen replied. “I didn’t know what to expect, but that wasn’t it. I just wonder if they’ll have any problems getting those kids into any of the bars or clubs.”

  “They’ve probably doctored their IDs,” Slim said, “but don’t let their looks fool you. It’s the fey blood in them. I’ll bet there wasn’t one in that group who’s under fifty.”

  Twenty-four

  Long after the Irish pub had closed for the night, Mai found herself walking by the shuttered doors. Toulouse, two blocks off Bourbon, was absolutely deserted at this hour. Still, she expected company.

  He came around the corner a block away and started to head toward her. She knew he could have appeared at any time; he could have surprised her. Instead, he wanted her to see him coming. It seemed he wanted her to feel safe. Which was unnecessary—if she cared about feeling safe, she wouldn’t have caught his attention.

  He limped ever so slightly, one leg just a bit shorter than the other. His face was unremarkable, his body perhaps a bit under average in size and build. His clothes were cheap, just a bit dirty, and of muted colors. As he stepped up to her, she couldn’t help but smirk. His eyes narrowed as he caught her expression.

  “You think you are clever, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do, George,” Mai said.

  George straightened and before Mai’s eyes he became a different person. Taller, stronger, more handsome. His face had just a touch of Spanish overtones. Even his hair was more styled now.

  “Is this the real you?” Mai asked.

  “Does it matter?” George said.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “How did you find me out?”

  “What, that you were stalking Griffen as a videocrack addict? You are good, one of the best shape-shifters I’ve ever seen. But not the best. You don’t smell like most playing those machines. Your eyes track things a little too closely. And even though they are a different color now—yes, I noticed—they have the same kind of predator glint.”

  George reached into his pocket and pulled out a long Knight of Swords tarot card. Mai had slipped it to him just after the vampires had made their appearance at the pub. She knew that it would be enough to bring him to her.

  “And how many of these did you slip others you suspected were me before you hit pay dirt?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?” she answered with his own words.

  “Yes, too many of these floating around might jeopardize me, as innocuous as they are.”

  Mai seethed a bit inside. Yet if that was what it took to get the ball rolling, she could admit a failure. This once.

  “Fine. Only one. A homeless man. He stared at me blankly, then yelled at me for not giving him money. Still, I thought it might be you not wanting to admit I had caught you,” Mai said.

  “And what put you on guard for me?”

  “Now, do you really expect me to tell all my tricks?” Mai said.

  “What do you want, dragon?!”

  George spat the last word like a curse, and Mai cocked her head slightly. She pursed her lips, tasting her words before she let them out.

  “In the old legends, Saint George the dragon slayer was fighting a European menace. What do you have against a dragon of the East?”

  “A dragon is a dragon. Where it comes from doesn’t matter to me.”


  “How narrow-minded of you,” Mai said.

  “And how like a dragon for you to say so. Grabbing the arrogant high horse and trying to control the conversation, and everything else. If it quacks like a duck . . . I ask you again, who or what tipped you off to my presence? You wouldn’t have found me if you hadn’t been looking.”

  Mai smiled and began to walk toward Bourbon Street. George followed a pace behind. In this form he walked with a bit of a jaunty gait. Looking just a little like a cock rooster, as if he were looking for action.

  “Funny, those vampires showing up tonight,” Mai said.

  “Not as funny as you pretending to stumble so your little friend would not catch you slipping me the card,” George said.

  Mai ignored his grin, and his gibe.

  “Who tipped them off as to where to find their ‘moderator, ’ do you think?” she asked.

  “I figure it had to have been fairly anonymous. Other than a quick tip over the phone, they should have been given at least a description of him, if not a picture,” he said.

  “Very astute of you, but it doesn’t answer my question,” Mai said.

  “And you did not answer mine . . .”

  George trailed off as he saw her smile widen. I can’t believe I’m having to drop him this many tips, she thought. This is the terror of little dragons everywhere? She had to remember his skills leaned toward hunting and toying, not intrigue.

  “Flynn hates vampires,” he said.

  “Sort of puts him above suspicion, doesn’t it? Besides, who else is in town who might have done something to make me watchful for your presence?”

  “Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have left that card.”

  George stopped and folded his arms over his chest. Mai leaned against one of the Quarter’s faux gas lamps. She kept her expression frozen, letting him come to his own conclusions.

  “He really gets up my nose, that one does. Typical dragon, using even someone he hates because he can,” George said.

  “Just because he has said he disliked vampires in the past, you think that means anything? Even if he was being honest, it would be much to his liking to put two enemies against each other,” Mai said.