Dragon's Bluff

20

Kethril was still sitting in the common room when Ulin and Lucy came down the next morning. He sat in his chair, his upper body sprawled over the table, his head buried in his arms.

Aylesworthy jerked a thumb in his direction. “He’s been there all night.”

Lucy laughed. She felt infused with joy from the delights of her night, and she was not going to let anything, not her father or elders or dragons, ruin her happiness. “At least he didn’t run.”

A long, low groan issued from the man at the table. “Be quiet, I beg you. Leave the mortally afflicted in peace.”

“Oh, Father, don’t exaggerate so,” Lucy said sweetly. She took a mug of cider from the innkeeper and with an evil glint in her eye, she slammed it down on the table beside Kethril’s head. “Have something to drink, Father. You don’t look well.”

He flinched, moaning in misery. “Wicked child,” he mumbled. “Go away. There’s someone trying to die here.”

“No, going away is your action of choice. I stay and finish the job. Something I learned from my mother. Innkeeper, call the elders.”

Aylesworthy lifted his chin at her request. He gestured to a serving girl he had working in the kitchen that morning. “Run and fetch Saorsha and Mayor Efrim,” he ordered quietly. As soon as she left, he set about preparing a large breakfast of turnovers, fruit, fried ham, and eggs, and for Lucy, kefre, hot and black. When he brought the tray into the common room, Lucy and Ulin were sitting at Kethril’s table grinning at each other like a pair of mischievous children. Kethril was not in sight, but the sound of someone being noisily sick by the front door explained his whereabouts.

Aylesworthy set down the tray and stood back to watch. It had been a long while since he had seen two people so totally happy and so appreciative of his food. They ate ravenously and asked for seconds. As he walked back to the kitchen, Kethril staggered back in.

Ulin studied his father-in-law then snapped his fingers. “Of course! Tika’s remedy, just the thing!” He hurried into the kitchen. Under Aylesworthy’s amused and interested observation, he mixed together his grandmother’s well-known remedy for hangovers: Warm milk to coat the stomach, feverfew for headache, anise and cinnamon for nausea, and a dose of nux vomica for whatever those didn’t relieve. He sniffed it once and grimaced. He liked the smell of anise about as much as he liked chicken and dumpling soup. Carrying it out at arm’s length, he put it down in front of Kethril. “Hold your nose and drink it down,” he ordered.

The gambler slumped in his chair and glared at the younger man through bloodshot eyes. “If you weren’t engaged to my daughter, I’d knife you where you stand.”

To their amazement tears gathered in Kethril’s eyes and slowly trickled down his stubbled cheeks. He sniffed loudly.

“He’s still drunk,” Lucy observed. The kefre pot had some black at the bottom, so she dumped the dregs into Ulin’s remedy. The results did not look or smell as bad as she thought it would. In fact, it smelled almost drinkable. She pushed the mug toward Kethril and said in a gentler voice, “Drink this, Father, it really will help.”

He ignored it. “Gods, I should never drink that blasted dwarven swill. It always make me feel maudlin.”

“You’re not maudlin, Father. You’re nauseated. You were never maudlin.”

“I know when I’m maudlin,” he stated formally. Unfortunately the effect was lost in a series of hiccups. “It’s when I think about your mother and you girls, and Mauvrin, and the sirines, and Gwendolin, and Janira with her oracle glass, and—”

“We get the point, Father,” Lucy said sharply.

“Beautiful women, all of them.” He stared off into the distance and heaved a grand sigh—whether one of contentment or regret, Lucy could not tell. “I just never could stay with one for long.” Oblivious to what he was doing, he reached for the mug and took a deep swallow of the tonic. The warm liquid slid down his throat and settled peaceably into his rebellious stomach. “Hmmm, that’s not bad,” he mumbled. “Didn’t know I liked this stuff.”

“Ulin, I want your recipe,” Aylesworthy requested. He could make money on a good hangover remedy. He brought his tray over to their table and refilled their plates. Kethril looked at the food and buried his face in the mug.

The innkeeper’s timing was excellent, for just as he slid three more empty plates onto a nearby table, Saorsha, Notwen, and Mayor Efrim came in through the front door.

“Aylesworthy, you might want to send someone out front to clean up your walk,” Saorsha suggested.

“Ah, the city council has arrived,” Lucy announced.

“Give ’em some kefre,” Kethril roared, waving his mug. “Drink to the health of my ladies fair.”

A tight smile lifted Saorsha’s mouth. “He’s drunk.”

Ulin corrected her. “No, he’s just maudlin.”

Mayor Efrim sat at the table with the plates, put one in front of him, and said, “We understand you’ve decided to stay.”

Kethril leaned forward, buried his head in his arms, and began to cry. “Oh, gods, Lucy, I’m sorry!” He sobbed. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a terrible father. It’s not because of you. It was never because of you or your sisters, or even your nagging mother. I loved you all. I’ll make it up to you.”

Everyone watched him in amazement. Ulin, who had seen his own father break down, felt his heart twist. The confession might have been spurred by the aftereffects of too much drink, but the emotions were real.

Lucy did not know what to feel. For years she had harbored the very fear he mentioned, that he had left their family because of her. She was not beautiful like her mother or talented like her sisters or anything a father could be proud of. As a little girl she agonized that she must have done something wrong or been inadequate for his love. It wasn’t until she came to the Academy and met Ulin and his family that she realized the fault was not hers. Now she looked at her father’s heaving shoulders and came to the conclusion that there really was no fault involved. Kethril Torkay was a rogue and a wanderer and no one was going to change that. It was probably those very characteristics and the hint of danger and adventure about him that had drawn Lucy’s passionate mother to him in the first place.

She patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “It’s all right, Father.”

He raised a rumpled, wet face. “No. No, it’s not. This forsaken town can’t raise the tribute, and you’re going to have to face that blasted dragon.”

“True,” Lucy prompted, hoping to ease her father into a more useful state of mind. “You said you had an idea that could help.”

“Yes! Help!” Kethril said loudly. He drained the contents of his cup and set it on the table. “A plan. We need a plan.”

Lucy looked skeptical. “Such as?”

“I know something you don’t.” He leaned forward until he was looking blearily into his daughter’s face. “Fyremantle is stealing from Malys. Has been for years. He raised your taxes so he could skim some for himself.”

A stunned silence fell over the people in the room. The thought of anyone, even another red dragon, stealing from the merciless overlord was almost inconceivable. Almost.

“Why that nasty, greedy …” Saorsha said indignantly.

Mayor Efrim drew a deep breath and let it out noisily. “That’s it. We could tell Malys what he is doing! She would kill him!”

“And probably put a worse dragon in his place—if she even believed you in the first place,” Notwen pointed out. “Fyremantle may be greedy and cruel, but he is predictable and fairly stupid. We know this dragon.”

Aylesworthy shifted impatiently in his chair. “So what about this idea, Kethril? How is this knowledge going to help us?”

“Ah, his treasure. I found it,” Kethril informed them. He patted the front of his robes, the robes he had carefully retrieved from the ghagglers’ cave and worn ever since. “I know where some of it is. I have a map.”

The others looked at each other, thoughts and ideas running through their minds.

“Yes, and what do you plan to do with it?” Lucy prompted again.

Kethril was still under the strong influence of the dwarven spirits, but he was not so drunk that he could not think. “Oh, we could steal it. Like a game of Dragon’s Bluff.” He paused to hiccup again. “Lots of treasure.” He rested his head on his arm, closed his eyes, and his features slowly relaxed. “We could blackmail the brute,” he murmured before his breathing eased and his body sagged into sleep.

At Lucy’s insistence, they let Kethril sleep off his hangover in a back room of the inn. As she pointed out, they needed him lucid and coherent in order to explain more about the treasure. Until he woke and could tell them where it was and how much was in it, there wasn’t much they could do to finalize their plans.

While he slept, Lucy donned her “uniform” and the turban and, taking the council members with her, went to the city hall. If the news of Kethril’s capture had spread through the town, she thought there would probably be people coming in asking for answers and information, and she felt the city council needed to be there to explain.

People were lined up at the door when Lucy and her small group arrived, and while the citizens did want their questions asked and their fears calmed, Lucy was surprised to learn that most of them came to be assured that she was still acting sheriff.

“Wouldn’t blame you at all for leaving,” a fisherman told her, “but we’re glad you’re sticking with us.”

His words, if nothing else, convinced Lucy she had made the right decision to stay.

Notwen appeared at the city hall a little before noon, carrying a large portfolio with him. He looked worn and tired but pleased with himself, and he happily showed the portfolio to Lucy.

She laughed when she saw it. It was stuffed with technical equations and drawings that meant nothing to her. “Show it to Ulin,” she said, giving the gnome a quick hug. “He’s out in the stable with the horse.”

Notwen’s face turned red as a strawberry from her hug, and he trotted out, muttering to himself about the ability of females to make him feel so silly. He found Ulin currying the bay gelding in the shade of the stable. With the portfolio tucked under his arm, he stood well clear of the horse and asked, “Before you go home would you be willing to help me with a new engine?”

“We’re not leaving yet,” Ulin told him from behind the big bay’s flank. “We’ve decided to stay past Visiting Day.”

Happiness and worry crowded into the gnome’s small face. His blue eyes shone brighter than ever, but a frown turned down his mouth. “But if you stay, you might …” He couldn’t finish.

“I hope not. I plan to have a long and happy life with Lucy. We just have to deal with this dragon first.” Ulin’s thoughts returned to the conversation that morning, and he told Notwen about a new idea that had occurred to him.

The gnome quickly caught Ulin’s line of thinking. “We found him upriver of Dead Pirate’s Cove, yet he had not been seen in the settlement for some time. So it is possible Fyremantle’s treasure is somewhere near there, which means …”

“To retrieve the treasure in time to bring it back here, we need a new steam boat, probably a bigger one,” Ulin finished for him. He moved around the horse and saw the portfolio under Notwen’s arm. “What do you have there?” he asked as he put away the brushes.

For once the gnome looked embarrassed about one of his inventions, and he shuffled his feet a minute before he carried the drawings over to a stone wall and spread them out for Ulin to see.

The man studied the calculations and drawings for what seemed a very long time to Notwen. “What is it?” Ulin asked.

“It’s a plan for a dragon trap.”

Ulin could scarcely believe his ears. “A trap? For dragons? Why?”

The gnome gently touched the papers of his work. “It’s just something I’ve worked on over the years—a conundrum I guess you’d call it. Something I designed but never intended to use. Do you think it might work?”

“For Fyremantle?” As much as the thought scared him, it caught his imagination, too. Capture a dragon … the idea had possibilities. He gathered up the plans and walked through the city hall, Notwen close on his heels.

“We’re going to the laboratory to build a boat,” Ulin called to Lucy as they hurried past the sheriff’s office. “Call me if Kethril wakes up.”

“Did that make sense to you?” Saorsha asked Lucy, watching the tall man and the short gnome trot out the door and down the road toward the docks.

Lucy thought for a moment and said, “Actually, I think it does. They want to have a boat ready to fetch the treasure—if it exists. At least it gives them something to do.”

The older woman put her hand on Lucy’s arm. “I just hope Kethril remembers his offer when he wakes up.”

“So do I.” Lucy sighed. “So do I.”

Later that afternoon, Challie and Cosmo came walking down the road together. Bridget was better, they reported. She was subdued and still fighting her disbelief, but since she had missed the wake the night before, she insisted on rising and fixing a meal—a feast from the length of the shopping list—of Pease’s favorite dishes. The work, Challie told Lucy, would do Bridget good.

“We’re helping her,” Cosmo said. “We have to go to the market.”

“Your father is still asleep,” Challie said, her disdain plain to hear.

“Good,” Lucy replied. “Ask Aylesworthy to invite the usual crowd. We’re going to work out a plan, even if I have to hang Kethril up by his thumbs to get some answers.”

The dwarf and the kender soon left to visit the market for Bridget, and Mayor Efrim, looking tired and strained, went home at Saorsha’s insistence, leaving the two women in the sheriff’s office. The half-ogres stood outside as usual, but the visitors had gone and the interior of the building was empty and quiet in the late afternoon. It was, Lucy decided, like the quiet before the storm.