by Diane Duane
And then came the long afternoon in which the Queen interviewed three thieves, one after the other. The first two came and went, and sweated; and the third came, and spoke with her, and went again. And afterward, by Don Escalonzo’s count, there were found missing from the long hall a crystal cup footed in curiously wrought gold; two opal-encrusted daggers of ancient lineage; a fair unset turquoise the size of a bustard’s egg, carved with strange signs of the Old People; and a small iron horse on wheels with a string in front to pull it, all set with smoke-colored diamonds. And on hearing this report the Queen put her hand to her orange silk bodice, below the great cream-colored ruff, and found that the Most Noble Order of Santa Catalina, in the shape of a winged lion cast in red gold and inlaid with amber, was missing from around her neck, along with its chain of yellow topazes.
“Bring me that man,” said the Queen. And after a brief interval, during which there ensued a hard-run race involving the thief in question and several members of the Queen’s Own Horse, the man was brought before her; dusty, windblown, and (finally) sweating.
“You, sir,” the Queen said, coming down from her throne in a rustle of orange silk, “are the man I’m looking for.” And she led him away by the hand, to her chambers; and the members of the Queen’s Own Horse shrugged their shoulders, and went away to get drunk with the heroes.
*
That was how Churro de las Resedas came to receive a commission from the Queen.
She sat across a green onyx table from him, and told him in some detail of how, earlier in the year, his noble highness the young Prince of Los Encinos had ridden out from his palace north of the mountains, seeking a test of courage to whet his princely valor. And after several bears and lions boldly slain, and several crofters’ daughters wooed and won, and a small earthquake survived, he passed out of men’s knowledge for some days. After a time he returned to the palace at Los Encinos of the Oaks, bearing with him a strange cup or chalice of gold, figured all over with strange devices of winged serpents—manifestly a piece of the legendary Treasure of the Old People, and proof of a mighty hero’s deed on his part, for which all the princes in those parts sent their congratulations.
Churro de las Resedas drank the Queen’s bright wine and began to sweat again. Broad-shouldered, big-handed, stocky and fair, he looked less like a thief than seemed possible. At the moment, he felt less like a thief than seemed possible. “Does your serene Highness mean to suggest,” he said, “that I go find the lost Treasure of the Old People?”
The Queen bent her head gravely to him.
“But madam,” he said, swallowing, “as I read the signs, such action has already angered the dragon that has been guarding the hoard. To steal from it again—”
“No, no!” the Queen said. “Haven’t enough of my people’s houses been burnt about their ears? I want you to go to Los Encinos and steal the Cup from the Prince—and put it back.”
*
So Churro went and stole the cup.
This was not as difficult as it might have seemed. Since Churro possessed almost none of the traditional attributes of thieves—as smallness, swiftness, litheness, and the like—he had long since learned to make do with wit, and a talent for being quiet. This last alone got him as far as the room outside the room in which the Cup’s guards stayed. When the servant came with their evening’s ration of wine, Churro had time to slip out and pour into it the cactus-and-mushroom powder that a hill-magician friend of the Old Blood had given him; so that within an hour or so, the six guards were sitting around in the guardroom having visions of a religious and mystical nature, and were in no condition to do anything about the tall blocky man who walked quietly in among them. And then there was the room beyond them, where the Cup was kept, and that room was full of hungry rattlesnakes. But Churro had brought along a bag of live mice, which he turned loose in the room; and shortly the snakes left off their hissing and rattling, and became otherwise occupied. Churro put the Cup in the bag the mice had come in, commended their souls to God, and went out of the Palace again to the oak where his horse was tethered. The horse, shod thickly in rags, went quietly away with its rider in the predawn hours, climbing up the pass that lies just to the east of Mont’ de San Vicente.
The rest was not so easy.
When day came, it was no mastery finding the dragon’s den. Churro stood at the top of the pass, looking down the twists and turns of Mandevillia Canyon, and saw a trail of charred manzanita, oak and pine, the brittle skeletons of brush, dead grass turned to charcoal velvet. Here and there, things smoked. His horse stamped, and raised a little cloud of ash, and sneezed from it. Churro rode quietly down the canyon, frequently (though silently) invoking the Virgin and the blessed Saints in Heaven, especially San Jorge and the holy Margareda, who had experience in these matters. No portents made themselves apparent in the sky, however. Only a curl of dismal smoke, black and smelling of sulfur, came weaving out of a cave nearly hidden in a fold of Cumbre del Vicente; and Churro’s horse shied and rolled its eyes a hundred paces from it, and would go no nearer.
“O Heaven,” Churro said, dismounting and tethering the horse, a sable Cahuenga mare borrowed from the royal stables. The mare stood spraddle-legged, tossing her head unhappily and attempting to spit out her bit, and generally letting Churro know in every way possible that she was greatly displeased with the neighborhood. He patted her sweating flank—poor consolation—took the Cup in its bag down from her panniers, and very gently stole into the entrance of the cave, trying not to breathe more than necessary.
Dragon-smell—sulfur fumes and a hard hot scent like scorched steel—hung heavy in the cave’s air. The yellow-brown sulfur-smoke rose to curl and boil against the low ceiling of the cave as Churro crept in, somewhat bent over. This was no stone cave, but all earth, with here and there a random root sticking out of the walls as the way trended downward. Churro prayed the Virgin to keep the earth still for the time being; even a little shake, he reckoned, would bring the whole crumbly place down on him. Meanwhile, the dimensions of the tunnel itself were enough to make him nervous. It was low, but very wide. Churro thought of the country saying, that a snake’s den is no wider than the snake is, and shuddered as he went softly along.
The passage wound, and there were side tunnels. Nothing moved in them but the smoke sliding along their ceilings; though some of them had chimney-holes, and Churro could see indefinite shapes gleaming golden in the downfalling light. He sweated as he had not in the Queen’s halls. Not entirely from fear: the heat grew more and more stifling as he went along, and the brimstone reek sanded his nose raw till he thought he would have to sneeze or die. Churro didn’t sneeze, feeling that death would be certain in that case. Once he started horribly as something brushed his foot in the dark; but it was just a rat, running out the way he had come. He wiped his forehead and set his face once more toward the depths and the heart of the smothering dark, feeling his way along the earthen wall....
Shortly Churro raised his head and found, from the feel of the darkness, that the place had widened around him. And it was not so dim. From tiny cracks in the high ceiling, light filtered down through the smoke seeping out. It fell on more things that gleamed—gold, or silver, it was hard to tell, the light was so pale. It also fell on something huge and long and vaguely patterned, that lay on the great scattered pile of gleaming stuff. Churro squinted at it, wondering what it was—until it moved. And then he shrank back very quietly against the wall, thinking that even good Santa Margareda, who had walked right up to a firebreather, soused it in the face with a bucket of holy water, and then led it around town by her garters, would have taken a look at this thing and hurriedly gone back to her prayers.
The dragon rumbled, a sound like many small reports of cannon one after another. Things piled loosely on one another in the hoard clanked and rang against each other, like knives on a pounded table. The dragon lifted its head, opened its mouth, made a few munching motions. Drops of fiery venom fell onto the hoard, bubbling a
nd smoking; fires rose up from them as they began to melt what they lay on. By the dull red light, Churro could see better. He wished he couldn’t. Twenty yards long, the dragon must have been, from the blunt nose to the end of the thick tail. Small clawed feet struggled to push the creature along the hoard a little ways; then it thumped down on its belly again. The thing was banded and splotched in orange and black—a gaudy hide that looked like the beadwork the Old People did. Little, dim, red eyes glanced in the dragon’s flat head as it peered nearsightedly about. It munched and mumbled and drooled poison-fire for a moment more.
Then, “Dammit all straight to Hell,” the dragon muttered, “but I wish I could get a drink!”
Churro winced at the blasphemy, and crossed himself. Instantly that head swung around, and the tiny red eyes stared straight at Churro. “You again?”
It was no use trying to hide. “No, sir—”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘SIR’?!”
The roar shook dirt down from the ceiling, and the whole hoard banged and jangled like a load of dropped bells. Churro hung onto his wall, going clammy all over, until the shaking stopped. “Uh, uh, uh, your gracious pardon please, senora la Horrida,” he said, desperately hoping that courtesy, or complimenting her on her monstrousness, would do something or other. He had heard that dragons, having so little refinement of their own, cultivated it above all other virtues (with varying degrees of success).
“Better,” the dragon said. Churro swallowed hard, thinking that it was going to be difficult to remember that something with a voice so like a twenty-pounder was female. “And what are you doing here?” Churro opened his mouth, but the dragon gave him no chance to answer. “I swear to everything, the world is going to hell. It’s not like the old days. People walk in without so much as a by-your-leave. And you can’t go anywhere without putting a stone in front of the door. I can remember when I could go out for weeks at a time and come back, and not even a rat had been in here. But now I can’t even go out for a drink without the place being rifled. I’m sitting here dry as a desert, and then you come in and—”
Dry? “But senora la Horrida,” Churro said, pointing across the cave and hoping the dragon could see the gesture, “why should you be thirsty? Over there behind those shields I see four barrels of wine.” Stolen from the last caravan of which nothing was ever found but the horses, Churro thought.
“Wine?” The blunt head swung toward the barrels in question, which were twenty-gallon short tuns. “Is that what those are? I just, mmmnngh, just found them; I didn’t know. Come here, man.” There was interest in that voice. “Show me how to get one of these open. I want a taste.”
Churro was alert for trickery. But he stepped away from his wall and went cautiously down toward where the dragon lay. If she could have breathed fire at me, she would have. It must be true what they say, that the southern breed has to actually bite what they want to burn; they can’t spit the venom—But he still circled the dragon’s head at a respectful distance, aware of the big triangular teeth as he made his way over to the tuns of wine.
“Ah, a fine vintage, senora la Horrida,” Churro said as he got a closer look at the markings on the barrels. “A noble red—”—if you’re used to drinking vinegar—”—and lifetimes old.”—as a fly reckons time! It was a cheap Diego red, best suited to removing tarnish from metalwork. “Let me find the bunghole. Ah. And is there a hammer hereabouts? No? Then perhaps the senora will indulge me while I use this swordhilt. But before I start; your near neighbor her gracious and serene majesty Queen Teresa Elisabetta Maria Cecilia de San Vicente y Santa Monica sends you her royal greeting, along with this cup which she understands you recently unfortunately lost, and which it is her delight to restore to you—”
Churro put the cup hurriedly on top of one of the barrels, which was as well, for one of those huge taloned feet instantly swept out and snatched it away, scoring the barrel in the process. “What a nice lady,” was all Churro could make of the ensuing mumbles. He busied himself with the bunghole of one of the barrels, which (since he had no tap for it) immediately began spraying wine all over the floor. “If the charming senora will allow me to fill her cup for her—”
La Horrida nosed it back toward him. Churro examined it carefully for venom, found none, and filled it. It was a large cup, holding a quart at least. he put it down for her and watched her drink, wondering philosophically how much of its flavor wine retained when brought so rapidly to a boil.
“More,” said La Horrida, tipping over the cup with her big blunt black tongue in an attempt to get at the last drops.
So Churro poured out for her again. And again, and again, until the wine was no longer spraying out of the barrel, and Churro had to tip it over to pour; and again, and again, until in good-natured impatience La Horrida bit the top off the barrel, pushed as much of her huge head into it as she could manage, and drained it to the lees. After that, the drinking went a little faster. Churro himself was persuaded to take a little wine (“It izhn’t proper for a llllllady to dhrink by herzhelf, izh it? Drink up, man!”). He began using the Cup at that point (having surreptitiously and carefully wiped it out), while La Horrida took the top off another barrel, and matched him draft for draft. The third barrel went the same way.
By the end of the third barrel, La Horrida allowed as how she wasn’t thirsty any more. She was lying on her side on the hoard, hardly smoking at all anymore, but drooling a good deal: the golden objects under her head got pretty well melted down. And Churro, who was sitting beside her head at this point (well away from the drooling) and no longer very steady himself, began wondering what else he might be able to get away with. Just to find out, he started talking. Before he was done, Churro (as suddenly self-appointed Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary from the Queen to La Horrida de San Vicente, Gatherer of Riches, Terror of Green Things, Ruler of All She Surveyed) had negotiated a Treaty of Peace between the Queen and the dragon. This was concluded about four hours past noon. And about five hours past, as the shadows were beginning to get long, Churro finished his elaborate, flowery and excessively refined farewells to La Horrida, and stumbled back out through the cave into the open air, with the dragon’s snores rumbling in the tunnels behind him.
Unfortunately the black Cahuenga mare was not waiting for him. She had broken the charred branch to which her bridle had been tied, and had left, no doubt gratefully, for her own stable. “Ay!” Churro said, rubbing his aching head, and started to walk back to the Queen’s house.
*
It took him till late evening. When he came there he found the household in a most lamentable state. For when the black Cahuenga mare had come home without her rider, the heroes had all feared the worst: they met at dinner to eulogize Churro, and had already spent some hours composing elegant and sorrowful poetry on his valiant death, and planning the mock battle they would stage the next day, in preparation for their attack on the vile dragon. Churro’s entrance into the hall somewhat interrupted this business. The heroes raised a great shout of surprise and acclamation: and the Queen, sitting quiet and pensive-looking in her great chair at the high table, was seen to smile. She beckoned Churro forward, and he came up to the high table and whispered a word or two in her ear.
She smiled more sweetly yet, stood up, took him by the hand, and led him off to her chambers.
The heroes shrugged, and went back to their eating and drinking. At least they could still have the mock battle.
*
So it came to pass that the dragon of San Vicente was made harmless, and the Queen’s realm came through the summer with no more brushfires than were normal. The Prince of Los Encinos, after a day’s annoyance, resigned himself to the loss of his Cup; especially considering the tale of the six guardsmen, who explained that they had all seen the Blessed Virgin, looking very tall and fair (and a bit heavy, though they didn’t mention that), walk into their guardroom, right through the solid door and into the room where the Cup was, and bear it out again, while angels and
other mystical creatures surrounded her, singing in small (actually, rather squeaky) voices. His Excellency the Bishop of Los Encinos proclaimed a miracle, and celebrated a high mass to honor Our Lady of the Sacred Vessel of the Last Supper, and rang all the bells in the cathedral. The people took this for a festival, and made very merry. The Prince said the bells made his head hurt, and he went off into the hills to console himself with adventure in the form of lions and bears and crofters’ daughters.
Churro de las Resedas was ennobled by the Queen, and created Friend of the Throne and Adviser to the Queen’s Majesty, and was given land about Mandevillia Canyon (which soon got green again). He and his heirs hold that land in perpetuity, bringing in tribute to the Crown each year four peppercorns, and a bunch of grapes, and a small iron horse on wheels with a string fastened to the front to pull by, all set with smoke-colored diamonds. The Crown always gives back the horse.
And once a month a small caravan of wagons, bearing tuns of a wine whose parentage will not stand too close an inspection, rolls up to a cave high in Mandevillia Canyon, and leaves the tuns outside: this being in accord with the treaty between La Horrida de San Vicente and Teresa Elisabetta Maria Cecelia de San Vicente y Santa Monica, by the grace of God and the Holy Virgin, Lady of the Lands South of San Vicente, and Queen of Los Angeles.
And things are quiet in the hills.
It stunned me to discover some years back that Janis Ian is a big fan of my writing, the Young Wizards books in particular. And it charmed me when she asked if I would contribute something to the anthology of stories based on her songs. Typically, the most famous ones were snagged first—Heaven only knows what I might have done to, or with, “Seventeen.” But the one that I found myself wanting to write about was “Hopper Painting”, and it left me free to investigate the vexed question of what the characters inside a work of art might have to say about what the creator spirit does to them… The painting in question is Hopper’s famous frozen moment, “Nighthawks.”
