Dragons Deal

by Robert Asprin

  Griffen felt his eyebrows lift. "Queen?"

  "Yes. Not all krewes have 'em, but if I recall correctly, Fafnir had both a king and queen."

  Griffen frowned. "I don't know anything about that. Won't they ask someone, just like they asked me?"

  "Not necessarily," Fox Lisa said, her eyes shining. "Sometimes the king gets free choice. Did Etienne tell you?"

  "No," Griffen said, though he wasn't a hundred percent certain. The conversation he had had was a faint noise in his memory underneath the sounds of saws, planes, hammering, and shouting. He had been far more interested in the intricate floats.

  "Maybe he just didn't mention it," Val said. "He probably thought you were going to go away and think about it."

  "Wow," Griffen said, sipping his whisky. "Maybe."

  "Who would you choose?" Mai asked. Griffen almost choked on the mouthful. That had not been a casual question. He looked up. The eyes of all three women drilled into him. Griffen, a practiced poker player, concentrated on looking noncommittal.

  "Me?" he asked.

  "Well, they usually choose a local," Fox Lisa said eagerly. "I've lived in New Orleans all my life. I'd do it if you wanted. I'd love it."

  "But they want a highborn dragon for king," Mai said. "That means they would want the same for their queen. I would be an excellent choice."

  "But I'm your sister," Val said. "My bloodline is the same as yours, Griffen. You should tell them I'm interested."

  "The king and queen as brother and sister? That sounds like incest," Mai said, her eyes aglow. "It would be far more logical to ask me."

  "It might not have anything to do with that!" Griffen said. He realized what kind of a minefield that Maestro had led him into, and from the amused glint in the older man's eyes, he had done it on purpose. "Look, it's premature to get into a discussion about it. I hardly know a thing. Why don't we just forget about it for now and talk about it after I've had a chance to ask Etienne."

  "That's right," Fox Lisa said. She ducked under Val's arm and cuddled up against Griffen's shoulder. Her fingers played with the top buttons of Griffen's shirt. She looked up at him coyly. "We were gonna go listen to music, then go home. Why don't we get going?"

  "That's a good idea," Mai said, taking Griffen's other arm. "We'll go and have some fun."

  Val looked disgruntled. Griffen remembered that Mai had come in with her and had been planning to spend the evening with her.

  "We could all go," he offered. "I hear Beth Patterson's on tonight. She said her new CD might be ready by this week."

  "No," Val said, her eyes sparking. "I'm going home. If I can't count on support from my own brother, then I just want to be by myself for a while." The air trembled with tension.

  Griffen had had his fair share of Val's melodrama when they were teenagers, but with the advent of her dragon powers and her pregnancy, the pout took on a more frightening attitude. She had enough control not to grow to giant size right there in the bar, but the resident dogs rose from under Griffen's bar stool and retreated to the corner, whimpering. He had better intercede before the human denizens joined them.

  "Come on," Griffen said, with his most persuasive smile. "I don't have a clue whether I have any say in the decision. I bet they have some society woman with a pedigree dating back to the real Fafnir. Etienne knows all about me. I bet he has something special in mind for you. For all of you," he added, knowing how lame the evasion sounded.

  "Griffen, I have known you for many years, since we were freshmen, and you know me," Mai said, not taking his hint at all. Her small face was as expressionless as a mask, which had always boded trouble for him. "The least you can do is say that you know I would be a wonderful queen."

  "I . . ."

  "What about me?" demanded Fox Lisa. "This is my city! If anyone, you ought to consider me."

  "I'm going home," Val said, standing up suddenly. Her eyes were very bright. The glasses hanging from the frame above the bar began to crack one by one.

  "Val, no . . . !" Griffen said, alarmed. "Come on, calm down. We'll talk about this."

  "What's to talk about? If what's important is being a dragon, I can't believe you wouldn't ask me, your only sister." The glass in front of him let out a snap! A thin crack appeared in its side. A thin drop of whisky and water seeped down the side and onto the bar.

  "But it doesn't have anything to do with that," Griffen protested, mopping up the liquor with a paper napkin. "At least, I don't think so."

  "But you didn't even say you'd nominate me if it was pertinent," Val said. Now a tear had started in each eye. Griffen knew that Val only cried when she was really angry.

  "Or me!" Mai said.

  "How do you think you figure into this?" Fox Lisa demanded, standing up to Mai. She was a couple of inches taller than the Asian woman, but her anger made her seem much bigger. One would think she would be frightened considering what she knew about Mai and the others, but as she had accepted Griffen's dragonhood with little more than a "hey, cool!" she had much the same reaction to Mai's trying to prove she was superior. Griffen admired her easy attitude and her courage. "You barge into this town, like you're some kind of big deal. Who the hell do you think you are?"

  "Uh, guys? Do you think you could keep it down a little?"

  The bartender leaned over the counter toward them. Griffen ducked his head apologetically.

  "Sorry, Fred," Griffen said. "The discussion's just getting a little, uh, emphatic."

  "Look, Griffen, I sympathize, but your ladies are scaring the customers," the bartender said, tilting his head in the direction of the door. The groups that had been seated at those tables were pushing out of the chairs and scrambling in their pockets for money. "I'm real sorry, but I think you ought to take it somewhere else for a while. No offense."

  "None taken," Griffen said, embarrassed. He was suddenly aware how many people were looking at him. A few were strangers in the French Quarter, but most of them were people he knew. Many looked sorry for him. "Mai . . . ?"

  "What?" Mai exploded, turning to him. Her eyes were all but glowing green. Val had grown five inches taller in the last few minutes. Fox Lisa's complexion just about matched her hair.

  "We've got to go," Griffen said, firmly. "Come on."

  Fox Lisa looked annoyed but triumphant.

  "They're kicking her out?" she asked.

  "You, too," Griffen said, taking no prisoners. "And us, Val," he added.

  At once, Val subsided. She looked shocked.

  "I've never been kicked out of a bar in my entire life!" she said. "This is your fault, Griffen!"

  "Yeah, it is," Griffen said. He shot a grim glance at Maestro, who had the grace to look abashed at the results of his mischief-making. Griffen plucked bills out of his wallet and put them on the counter. "Come on." He took Val's arm. She started to yank it away, then let him hold on to her as he marched her firmly out onto Burgundy Street at the corner of Toulouse. The two other women, still arguing, followed in their wake.

  As soon as they were outside, Fox Lisa poked him in the chest with her forefinger.

  "This isn't over," she said. "You're gonna have to figure out what your priorities are, Griffen McCandles." She marched away up Toulouse. Griffen watched her disappear into the evening crowd, feeling dismayed.

  "She's right," Mai said. "And who is really important to you." She sashayed off in the opposite direction. Griffen and Val found themselves standing alone in front of the Irish pub's door.

  "Can I walk you home?" Griffen asked Val.

  "No, thanks," Val said tersely. Her eyes were still shining. "Gris-gris said he and his cousins would be hanging out in the bar at the restaurant. I think I'll join them. No offense, but I don't want to be with you at the moment."

  Griffen slunk toward home by himself, wishing his dragon skills ran toward letting him turn invisible. His big opportunity didn't seem so wonderful anymore, and he hadn't even agreed to it yet. He'd been all set to spend the evening barhopping with one or mor
e of the ladies. Now the best prospect seemed to be microwave popcorn and a couple of DVDs. He had just rented the classic Frankenstein and the original The Mummy. Taking himself out of the here and now felt like a good idea. At least the people in the movies knew they were creating monsters.

  As he turned into Royal Street, a couple of shadows detached themselves from a group near the door of a bar and followed him at a distance of approximately thirty feet. Griffen didn't even notice them.

  Five

  Late Saturday night, two o'clock Sunday morning, really, was an excellent time for a young man to be out and about in the French Quarter. He had a pocketful of money. The hours he had just spent at the poker table in the Marriott on Canal Street had been more than profitable. The bars were still open, and playing live music good enough to shake one's soul and loud enough to be heard all the way over on Royal. And his girlfriend had left a message on his cell phone to tell him she forgave him being a jerk, and to come over as soon as he was free--whenever that was. She didn't care how late. He grinned at the vagaries of good fortune. What a great word that was, he thought, taking a deep breath of the warm, moist air. Louis Armstrong was right. What a wonderful world it was, too.

  He heard a faint click of footsteps on the brick street, maybe ten or twelve yards behind him. He could hardly believe it. There were a couple of guys following him, probably hoping to get ahold of the money he was carrying. Obviously they didn't know who he was. He glanced back, and they sidestepped into a doorway. He shook his head and grinned. Amateurs. They were going to get a surprise, one they did not and could not possibly expect. He flexed his fingers, letting the tips of claws emerge just a tiny bit. He kept walking, heading for a corner he knew was dark at this hour. He undid his black bow tie and stuffed it into the pocket of his black, light wool pants. No sense in letting it get messed up. His white shirt was probably going to suffer, though.

  Jesse Lee had been downright trepidatious at first to work for Griffen McCandles, though all his instincts told him that he was taking advantage of a great opportunity. He had started dealing poker and blackjack at the big casino when he was eighteen but was approached by the elders of the Eastern dragons to shoot cards at private card games around New Orleans almost three years ago. He prided himself on being the fastest and most nimble card handler in the city, probably the whole state of Louisiana. He had tried to get them to start calling him "Jet" Lee, in tribute to the movie star, but it just had not caught on.

  He did tricks before and after games to amuse the paying players, which earned him sizable tips, like the wad that made his wallet bulge, but during the game he was irreproachably precise and neat. The elders as well as his clientele had told him that his skills were appreciated. Still, when Griffen McCandles came to the city a few months before, he had felt irresistibly drawn to the younger man. In spite of warnings from his then-current employers, he had quit working for them and gone to deal for McCandles. He'd shown respect to the elders but had been firm that that was his choice. The Eastern dragons had let him go, but with a warning. Griffen and Jerome knew his situation and never put him into a venue where one of the Eastern dragons' games was going on at the same time as his. Griffen cared about what happened to his people. That pleased Jesse. It was so uncharacteristic of a senior dragon of his rank. Jesse wanted to enjoy the novelty before Griffen came into his full powers and started acting just like the rest of them.

  He cut through Pirate's Alley and went into Jackson Square. The high building around him felt protective, though the wide public area was deserted except for a man in ragged blue jeans and a woven poncho singing to himself on the grass square bordered by the flagstone sidewalks that ran along the four sides. Jesse angled around the central garden, past the iron fence where in daytime artists hung their paintings and drawings for sale. He flattened himself against the far side and glanced back around the bushes at the thugs. Their faces were in shadow. Their bodies were both thick--not fat, but strong. Their legs looked short, but only until he realized that bulk made them look broad in proportion to their length. They looked like hired musclemen, not muggers. Jesse's heart pounded. Who had he pissed off? He didn't owe anyone money. He hadn't insulted anyone that he could remember. It couldn't possibly be one of the players wanting to recoup on the evening's losses; the other players would be the ones to go after, not him!

  Jesse stopped briefly, pretending to look into a window of the one of the closed shops. The two behind him moved toward him purposefully, not minding now that he was watching them. He grinned to himself. Weren't they going to get a surprise?

  He had taken martial-arts training since he was young. The discipline had no name; humans had fragmented the original into several traditions. They weren't capable of understanding the whole. He had other advantages owing to his heritage, including impenetrable skin. It might hurt to get stabbed, but knives and bullets could not kill him. Discovering that would disorient his would-be attackers long enough for him to use disabling moves on them. He hoped he would not have to kill.

  He eased in the direction of Chartres, the northwest exit of the square, keeping close to the wrought-iron fence. The others sped up their pursuit. They were coming for him openly now. Jesse was alarmed by how confident they seemed. One of them wound something around his right hand. That meant they were there to teach him some kind of lesson. But who sent them? As far as he could remember, he had been open and aboveboard with everyone. He had informed the elders to their faces that he was changing jobs. His girlfriend had not been attached to anyone else when he started seeing her. Even his taxes were up-to-date, though the details of his profession were a little in the gray scale as far as the government went. His conscience was clear. His breathing sped up. The moist air was an impediment to getting enough oxygen. Why should he be afraid of two human muggers?

  That was it: He sensed an otherness about them. They weren't a hundred percent human. The way the bigger one moved was too sinuous to be ape-descended. And they just didn't seem in enough of a hurry to hunt him down and deliver their message. Almost as if they were waiting for something.

  Or someone.

  As Jesse reached the corner of Chartres and St. Ann, a figure turned out of the shadows and grabbed for his neck. Jesse gasped. His reactions, which he always prided himself were as fast as lightning, kicked in. He jumped back and dropped into the primary defense stance. Knees bent, he arched his fingers and let his claws grow.

  His assailant slashed at him with an open hand. His fingers were claws, too. Jesse grabbed the passing wrist, stepped backward into the man's path, and dragged the arm all the way down. The man's body fell across Jesse's back. His feet went up, and he landed heavily on his back in the street. Jesse ran.

  Footsteps rang out behind him. The other two men were coming for him. Jesse had been making for his girlfriend's apartment, but he didn't dare lead these thugs to her. He ducked left along St. Ann, making for Bourbon Street. They couldn't follow him into a bar full of people. Maybe they'd back off and go away. He'd deal with the future later.

  His pulse thundered in his ears. The street was dim at this hour. He ran in between the reproduction gaslight lampposts, fearing the shadows. Ahead was a bar with its doors wide open. They wouldn't close until at least four. Zydeco music poured out into the night. Jesse had one pool of darkness to cross to reach it. It was twice as wide as the other voids. A small alley opened to the right between a closed drink stand and a gated apartment complex.

  A dark form whooshed over his head. The third man landed in the shadow, his eyes gleaming green. Jesse turned ninety degrees and zipped across the street. A lone taxi missed him by inches. It honked at him. A gate stood ajar. Jesse ducked inside it and found himself in a passage leading to a courtyard. A dozen men and women sat around a fountain in the center. Two of them played guitars. The others were singing along with the music.

  "Hey!" he cried. None of them looked up. "He--"

  His second cry was cut off. Something had dropped aroun
d his throat and squeezed. Jesse gasped for air. He hooked his claws under the narrow ligature and tried to snap it. The person holding on to the ends was strong. He felt himself being dragged backward. He kicked behind him. His heel connected with a shin. Its owner flinched, but the movement only served to tighten the cincture around his neck. Jesse let go of the wire and flailed with all claws out. He connected with an arm, a leg, a rib cage, but his blows had less and less force. A red ring flared around his vision. It grew smaller and smaller. He was running out of oxygen. He felt his body sagging even as he fought for life. The sound of the music thudded against his eardrums. He reached out a hand to the singers in the courtyard. Why didn't they see him?

  A knee in the back shoved his neck harder against the ligature. Jesse dropped to his knees. All three figures were around him then. He tried to tilt his head back to see them. One bent over and grinned at him. He thought he knew the face, an oval topped by a cockscomb of shining black hair. The man gave a vicious tug to the garotte. Jesse's vision darkened. He felt himself drowning in a sea of red pain. It swallowed him up and closed over his head.

  The guitars finished with a flourish, to the applause of the singers. None of them looked up as the three men slipped out of the darkened passageway and out onto St. Ann Street.

  Six

  Griffen arrived at the New Orleans Forensic Center, a grim concrete structure between a wig warehouse and an old gray house on Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard. The street was a boulevard in the classic sense, in that it was wide and gracious enough to promenade down, with what must once have been handsome gardens dotted with trees running up the center, but the paint on the houses on the opposite side had peeled into a mosaic impression, and the row of garbage cans on the curb in front of the corner restaurant had not been emptied yet.

  Jerome was waiting at the door. Griffen, barely awake, blinked up at him. It looked as if the other man hadn't had much sleep, either. His usually well-styled clothes were rumpled, and his hair was flattened on one side.