A Fate Worse Than Dragons

by Moore, John

  “Right,” said Alison. “And the same thing happened here. All she knows is that you charged into the monster’s cage to rescue her. If Roland and I say that we didn’t arrive until after it was all over, who’s to say any different?”

  “Well, it’s certainly an intriguing idea,” said Terry. “But do you really think she’ll go for it?”

  “Oh sure. She doesn’t really have a choice. Just act confident and tell her how it is going to be.”

  “Some new clothes will help,” said Roland. “You might as well put your best foot forward. I can give you some advice there.”

  “And I’ll help you with your hair,” offered Alison. “A good haircut makes all the difference. But don’t worry. A lot of girls aren’t into looks.”

  “Thank you!” snapped Terry.

  “He looks fine,” said Roland. “Plenty of girls like big, tough-looking guys. Wait. Oh, damn it all. I just remembered something.” Roland pulled up a wooden chair and sat at the kitchen table. “Forget it, Alison. He won’t do it.”

  “Yes, he will.” Alison looked beseechingly at Terry. “Won’t you?”

  “I suppose that, under the circumstances . . .”

  “He’s a knight,” explained Roland. “We can’t expect him to take part in a plan like this, to marry a girl under false pretenses. Not just as a favor to us. It would be dishonorable.”

  “Uh,” said Terry. “Yes, in a sense that is true, but where young love is concerned . . .”

  “This is the king’s daughter, after all. Terry swore an oath of fealty to the king. He’s not going to lie to his sovereign.”

  “Not normally, no. But I could make an exception . . .”

  “He doesn’t have to lie,” Alison told Roland. “We will. All he has to do is keep quiet and go along with it.” She turned to Terry. “Remember, Roland is of the merchant class. They can do anything they want—lie, cheat, steal, bribe, swindle—if someone objects all they have to do is say, ‘It’s just good business.’ ”

  Roland cleared his throat. “That’s . . . that’s not one hundred percent true.”

  “All right then,” Terry said loudly. He strode forward and put a hand on each of their shoulders. “Roland, Alison,” he said, looking from one to the other. “We’ve been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours, and I think we’ve made an excellent team. I’m grateful for all you’ve done. We might not all be here if we hadn’t worked together. If it’s important to you that I marry the Princess Gloria, you can count on me.”

  Alison threw her arms around him and hugged him gratefully. Roland somberly shook his hand. When he had accepted their thanks, Terry said, “I guess I’d better go in and tell her.”

  “No,” said Roland. “Thank you, Terry, but I’ll do the job myself. It’s a poor thing for a gentleman to break his engagement, but if I’m going to do it, I’ll not do it by proxy.” He squared up his shoulders and marched to the drawing room, shutting the kitchen door firmly behind him.

  Alison immediately ran to the door and bent down to the keyhole, but Terry got in front of her and looked at her sternly. She had to pretend she had bent over to pick a piece of straw off the floor. Nonetheless, they both strained their ears, trying to discern words from the barely audible murmurings that came through the wood. Eventually they heard the sound of Roland’s boots returning. Terry opened the door for him, and Alison looked at him questioningly. Roland shrugged. “It’s done,” was all he said. He took Alison’s hand.

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. She cried.”

  “She cried?” asked Terry.

  Roland nodded. “I suppose I should have expected it. She didn’t cry exactly, but there were tears streaming down her face, and she was making those choking noises, like girls do when they’re holding back sobs.”

  “She’ll get over it,” said Alison. “In the long run it’s all for the best.”

  “Right,” said Terry. “Well, the princess and I have a lot to talk about now, and I shouldn’t put it off any longer. I guess I’d better find out how she feels about me.” He went into the drawing room, where Gloria immediately buried her face in his chest.

  “Oh Terry,” she said, trying to smother her laughter in his jacket. “You should have seen his face! He looked so grave. I thought for certain I was going to give it all away. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. My goodness, Terry, what on earth did you say to him?”

  “Nothing much. I just explained the situation to him, and he realized he had no choice in the matter. I thought he took it pretty well.”

  “You’re a born diplomat, darling.” Gloria turned her face up for a long and soulful kiss. Then, with her tongue still in his mouth, walked him backward until he toppled onto the couch. She climbed on top of him, straddled his waist, and slipped her hands inside his shirt. She bent down to nuzzle his neck. “Terry,” she whispered.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Do you remember last year, after the Midsummer Fair, when we slipped away from everyone and climbed up the south tower?”

  “Yes?”

  “We were in that little room, with the soft spring breeze blowing through the windows, and the smell of apple blossoms, and the whole of the city spread out beneath us?”

  “Mm-mmm.” His eyes were closed, as he enjoyed the feeling of her lips against his ear.

  “Remember how romantic it was?”

  “Mm-mmm.” Her breasts were squashed against him.

  “The scented air,” murmured Gloria. “The setting sun, the music coming up from below?”

  “Mm-mmm.”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “Mm-mmm.”

  “Okay, it doesn’t count if it’s only her mouth, right?”

  “Right,” said Terry, eyes suddenly wide open.

  “That’s what you told me.”

  “That’s the way I’ve always heard it. Yes!”

  Gloria put both hands in Terry’s hair and turned his head until the two of them were eyeball-to-eyeball. “So the gryphon just wasn’t hungry, right?”

  “Right! That’s got to be it. It’s the only explanation.”

  The princess relaxed. “Just checking.” She snuggled closed to him and nibbled his earlobe again, transferred her lips from his ear to his mouth. She gave him a long, deep kiss, really getting into it, until she pulled her face away, frowned, sat back up, and said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Terry, your attention was wandering. I could tell. When a girl who looks like me gives a boy the kind of kiss I just gave you, and his mind is somewhere else, something is seriously wrong.”

  “Okay.” Terry sat up. “Something is wrong. Something important. Something I’m missing.” He looked around the room. “But I don’t know what it is.”

  “Something in this room?” Gloria tried to follow his gaze.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” He let his eyes linger on the fireplace again. Suddenly he pointed to it. “Girls! Virgins! Lace!”

  Gloria looked at the hearth, which still held her needles and a few scraps of lace. She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh no,” she whispered. “The Autumn Ball!”

  It was a ride that would become legendary in Medulla. They rode all day and all night, on the fastest horses money could buy, four good riders in hot pursuit of an evil sorcerer and a magic monster. They didn’t rest. They ran the horses until they were exhausted and blowing foam, then they bought more at the next town and rode on. They took unthinkable risks, galloping full tilt over uneven ground, at night, in deep woods and shadows, jumping over streams, hedges, and gates. They didn’t split up, and they didn’t slow down, trusting that if one horse stumbled and fell, or two, or three, at least one of them would make it through to the city and warn the Guard. It was during the periods when Roland was paying for the horses, and the others were changing over the saddles and bridles, that Terry and Gloria had a chance to explain to Alison.

  “The Autumn Ball is lace intensive,” said Terry. “E
ven the men wear some lace, a bit on our cuffs and collars. Of course, girls wear lace at other times, but it’s a tradition of the Autumn Ball to wear a lot of lace. Some girls wear dresses that are nothing but lace. It’s pretty cool,” he added, his thoughts turning inward. “You almost think you can see right through it but they never actually show their . . .”

  Gloria interrupted him. “Girls come from all over Medulla to sell their lace. The dressmakers and seamstresses will be working right up to the last minute, and the girls will be tatting lace right up to the evening of the ball. Medulla is famous for its lace fashions.”

  “But I still don’t see the connection,” puzzled Alison. Her new horse was not cooperating. She waited for it to exhale before tightening the cinch. “There are women everywhere. Why now? Why lace?”

  “Because the finest lace is made by young girls. You need girls who are old enough to have the patience for needlework but have sharp eyes and nimble fingers to make the tiny knots. They work on it in the evenings, after the chores are done. We’ll see hundreds of them coming in from the farms with their year’s work. Just the kind of girls he’s looking for.”

  “It’s their spending money for the year,” added Terry.

  “For one month of the year the city is overflowing with young virgins,” said Roland. He had finished paying for the horses and returned in time to catch the end of the explanation. His pouch of coins had been steadily diminishing. “Every street will be a giant feeding trough for that gryphon if we don’t catch it.”

  “We’ll catch it,” promised Terry. He swung onto a horse and started off. The others followed.

  But they didn’t catch it. The beast seemed tireless. They rode as hard as the horses could stand it, but they didn’t even catch sight of the gryphon. It, and the sorcerer, stayed well ahead of them.

  “Maybe he lied to me,” said Gloria, when they stopped briefly to water the horses. She had to lean on her horse to support herself. Her bottom was sore, and her joints were aching. “The sorcerer told me that this gryphon couldn’t fly yet, but maybe it already flew away.” She bent over the trough and splashed water on her face.

  The boys were as tired as the girls. Terry was in the saddle, holding himself erect with visible effort. He pointed to long scores in the hard dirt. “It didn’t fly,” he said. “It’s leaving tracks that even I can follow. There’s no mistaking those claws. And the trail is getting fresher. We’re gaining on it.”

  “Why hasn’t anyone else seen him?”

  “Sorcerers have ways of not being noticed if they don’t want to be. But I think other people have sounded the alarm. It’s just that we’re riding faster than the news can travel.”

  “Where is he going?” asked Alison. “To the Autumn Ball? It’s not for days.”

  “Probably one of the other parties, I expect,” said Roland.

  “The Autumn Ball is the big party,” explained Gloria. “The nobility will gather in the palace ballroom. But most of the girls will party in town. There are all sorts of other events going on the whole week leading up to the ball.” She added, with just a trace of pride, “Even people from Occipital come to Sulcus for the parties.”

  “The streets will be full of girls,” Terry continued for her. “They go wild in town. All the money they get for their lace doesn’t go home with them. Ha! You can bet a lot fewer virgins leave Sulcus each year than come in.” He saw Gloria giving him a stern look. “Um, so I’ve heard,” he added hastily. “Let’s ride.”

  They were still some threescore miles from the city when they finally sighted the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains. They caught but a glimpse of him the first time, disappearing around a bend, but it was enough to make them spur their horses to greater speed. To no avail—the gryphon kept its lead. Throughout the day they sighted it again and again, vanishing over a hill or around a corner. It was almost an even match. The horses were faster, but the gryphon never seemed to stop. Slowly, slowly, they narrowed the gap, but the giant beast with the scraggly feathers and the balding man on its back stayed obstinately ahead. By the time they reached the outskirts of the city, it was only a few hundred feet ahead of them.

  But that was lead enough. Dusk was falling as the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains raced through the city gates. In part that was a good thing, for most of the young girls were gone. In a short time they would be spilling into the streets, chatting and laughing in groups, on their way to the dinners that preceded each night of dancing and music, but just then they were indoors preparing for the evening’s parties. A few older lacemakers remained on the sidewalks, trying to make a few more pennies, working under streetlamps to save the price of candles. The downside of dusk was that it became hard to see, especially in the shadows of the buildings. Several times Terry, who knew the city as well as anyone, lost the Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains as he dodged among the narrow streets. The sorcerer seemed to know where he was going. But by luck and inspired guesswork Terry found him again as the gryphon charged up the front stairs of a long, classically styled stone building. It was a double block of apartments that ran alongside the royal palace. The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains leaped off the animal’s back and ran into the eastern wing of the building. The gryphon, now riderless, bounded into the west wing.

  Terry arrived only moments behind them. He bounced to the ground and grabbed the ax from behind the saddle. “Get the sorcerer,” he shouted, as the others rode up. “I’ll get the gryphon.” He disappeared into the apartment block. Roland and Alison left their horses untethered and ran into the other wing. Gloria, unsure where to go, looked from one door to the other, then followed Terry.

  Behind them the air filled with the smell of cooking and woodsmoke. Storefronts shuttered their windows, and their shopgirls ran excitedly into the streets. In a nearby courtyard, a quintet of musicians started a lively tune. The evening’s round of parties had begun.

  “No,” said Jennifer firmly, pushing George’s hands away. She began to button her blouse back up. Then she saw George’s disappointed look and changed her voice to a more gentle tone. “It’s been a wonderful day, Georgy. Let’s not spoil it.”

  “It doesn’t spoil it,” said George. “It makes it better.” It was the oldest and lamest reply a man could make to a statement like that. No man in the entire history of courtship has ever had a lick of success with it, and George didn’t expect that he would either. But he felt that he had to say it anyway. When you lived in a conservative country like Medulla, and especially if you were dating a princess, you knew you weren’t going to get anywhere with her without at least an engagement ring. But still you had to make a pass at the girl, even though she would pretend to be offended. If you didn’t try out some moves, she might start to wonder if there was something wrong with you, or if you thought there was something wrong with her.

  They were in an apartment that George had started renting a few months ago. It was a small studio, a single room close to the palace, insignificant compared to George’s real home in the city, the lavish mansion near Marlington Park where he stayed when he was not at his estate. He got it so he and Jennifer could meet in comfort, and more importantly, in private. Even his valet didn’t know about the studio. George told the landlord he was an artist and needed a private, quiet place to sketch. To augment the deception that he was in an artistic profession, he left unpaid bills scattered about and kept the place well stocked with booze. He had a bulging liquor cabinet, an assortment of mismatched glassware, and a rack filled with bottles of cheap wine, along with a couple of good ones that they actually planned to drink. Aside from that there was little in the way of furniture, merely a vanity, a few end tables with lamps scattered about, and the most luxurious love seat he could get his hands on without stimulating undue gossip.

  A love seat is designed to hold two people. The man’s side is the side with the back. The woman’s side has no back, in the hope that the woman will eventually tire of sitting up straight and be forced to lean against the man for
support. George relaxed against the backrest while Jennifer went to the mirror and restored her hair and makeup.

  “It’s not that I’m uptight or a prude, Georgie,” she said, over her shoulder. She ran a hairbrush through her light brown hair, which somehow had managed to become disheveled in the course of the afternoon. “You know that. And I’m not a slave to old-fashioned notions of morality. I can decide these things for myself.”

  “Right,” said George.

  “I want to do it with you, Georgie, I really do. I’m burning with desire for you.” She turned to look at him. “Georgie,” she said earnestly, “You know how much I love you.”

  “I love you, too, baby.”

  “But I don’t want it to be casual, darling. When the time is right for us, we’ll know it. I want the first time to be special, don’t you? I want . . .” She paused to take a deep breath.

  You want it to mean something, thought George.

  “I want it to mean something,” said Jennifer.

  Right, George almost said, but caught himself just in time. It was important not to agree when girls said things like this. Because once you agreed that the two of you weren’t going to do it, you were stuck. Later on you might get lucky—she might get drunk or something and give you a chance with her—and you couldn’t go back on your word. So you had to say something agreeable without actually agreeing.

  “I understand how you feel,” he said.

  Satisfied with the answer, Jennifer blew him a kiss. She turned back to the mirror. “Now I have to go,” she said, slurring a little because she was applying lip gloss from a little pot. George watched appreciatively. He understood full well that women didn’t wear makeup to look better for men. They wore it to look better to other women. Even so, glossy red lipstick was always a turn-on. “No, don’t come with me, Georgie. We’ve spent too much time together today, and people might talk. We need to leave separately. I’ll see you at the party tonight?”