Rumor said the new Dungeon Master, a young man named Ander, did not want the appointment. The guards whispered that he was the third or fourth son of a wealthy royal with the king’s ear. His father insisted that at the age of thirty, it was time for Ander to earn his expensive tastes in clothing, food and women.
Raymer had listened to every rumor about him for weeks and now watched the Dungeon Master watch him, knowing Quint would be doing the same. Any change in routine was fodder for the imagination, and the second appearance of the young man drew his attention.
The new Dungeon Master glared at Raymer. He wore a perpetual imitation of a snarl, his teeth were white, and his face gave the impression he spent countless hours in front of hand mirrors, getting every detail of his appearance, perfect. His skin was sallow and nearly transparent as if it had never seen the sun. The guards hustled about in their duties like never before, trying to impress their new master.
Quint’s voice broke the silence. “Raymer, do you see what I see?”
“Yes. His clothes probably cost more than all the guards are paid in a full lunar.”
“There’s peacocks not as pretty as him.”
The Dungeon Master tilted his head and squinted in their direction before taking a confident step closer. “Are you by chance discussing me?”
“We are,” Quint answered in a friendly, mocking tone that made it sound as if he was an equal. “You came all the way down here to take a good look at us. We’re doing the same to you, no disrespect intended, good sir.”
To their surprise, the young Dungeon Master smiled with genuine humor. He put his hands on his hips and strode three steps closer, which placed him only ten paces away. “It seems that the three of us are forced to spend a considerable amount of unwilling time together. A lifetime, if you will.”
Quint said, “If you don’t like that idea, you can always let us out of these cells. We promise we’ll be gone from your sight and give you no more problems. Do that and there’s no reason for you to ever have to come back down here in the dungeons.”
Raymer chipped in with his support. “Yes, what’s good for us would also be good for you.”
The Dungeon Master chuckled. “Your irreverent attitudes are probably a good part of why you will both die in those cells.”
Quint, his voice still soft and friendly, replied, “I have no intention of dying in here, sir. Sorry if that’s in your plans, but I have some serious drinking and wenching to catch up on.”
“Only two prisoners serve lifetime sentences in this stinking hole at present, but I was ordered to acquaint myself with both of you. Now I have a question. Are you either of you aware of the ungodly stench of this place?”
Quint said, “Yes sir, now that you mention it, we are. If you’d be so kind as to instruct the guards to open this door, I assure you I’ll begin cleaning the stink of death from down here. Your predecessor left some of those poor unfortunates who died in their cells until their bodies rotted and the meat fell off their bones. Of course, the torture at that table near you left all sorts of unspeakable things that smell bad. This place had taken on an unpleasantness that is certainly offending. A good scrubbing by myself will help.”
Raymer held back his laughter as he waited for the Dungeon Master to respond with anger that didn’t arrive. He seemed pleased instead of angry, but the smile might be forced, and he might wish to punish them.
The Dungeon Master could withhold food and water, or leave the chamber pots to overfill again, but his options ended with those primitive punishments. The old Dungeon Master had often withheld food and water as punishment for their impertinence.
However, the new Dungeon Master just smiled and nodded, as if somehow pleased. He adopted the same amiable tone of voice as Quint’s. “It is good to finally hear someone in the palace speak with truth and wisdom. I have enjoyed this conversation more than you know.”
“So you’ll let us out? Quint asked, pretending to sound hopeful.
The Dungeon Master turned to the next guard who hurried past. “Send the officer of the day to me at once.”
“I am the officer of the day, sir.”
“Very well. When I return to speak to my two favorite prisoners, I will not gag on this awful stench again. Assign your people to wash every stone on every wall and floor. Remove anything that retains the smell or that reeks.”
The guard backed off a step. “But sir. This has been a dungeon for over four hundred years.”
“Then it is high time for a good cleaning. See to it or face my wrath.”
“But the odors have soaked into everything, sir. The wood. Cracks in the stone. The very air.”
“I do not expect the task to be completed in a single day. However, if cleaning this sty is beyond your meager abilities, I will replace you with another who is more eager to please.” He spun and departed at a brisk walk, looking as if he headed for an important meeting.
The officer of the day gave Quint a murderous look before rushing off. The Dungeon Master paused at the stairs, turned and nodded his farewell to the prisoners, and then strode up the stairs.
When they were alone again, Quint said, “I think he likes me.”
“That was a very strange conversation, and his reaction was completely unexpected.”
“Not entirely. I think he was simply reacting favorably to my engaging personality and good humor.”
“Do you really think he’ll be coming back to talk to us again?”
“Talk to me, you mean. You didn’t say squat. In the future, you need to be more engaging with our guests.”
Raymer felt buoyed by the visit. The endless days in the cell were without change or mental stimulation. Anything new would be thought about for days, and discussed in every detail, even if he had only himself to converse with. He pulled himself up and placed his chin on the window ledge while holding onto the bars as he watched outside and hoped to see the skinny, dirty legs of the apple boy again.
Outside, the sun hid behind dense clouds that threatened rain. The window was set so low into the wall that water often flooded and ran down the inside wall in storms, water far better than was placed in their dirty bowls. The wind kicked up, and dust blew across the market. Pennants and tents rippled in the breeze while merchants fought to hold down their goods from blowing away.
Two guards arrived, each carrying a bucket of water and rags. Both cast angry looks their way. Quint said, “Be sure to use lots of soap or you’ll be doing it again.”
A minute tingle on his back alerted Raymer. A dragon was getting closer.
Looking up, he finally found the creature flying nearer and nearer. The change of direction last time could have been a coincidence, and he needed to test his abilities to communicate and understand the limits of what he might do. He’d been thinking about a mental command that would ensure he could speak to the dragon.
Turn around and fly back in the direction you came from. The order was the last thing he could expect a dragon to do on its own, which made it perfect for his test. The dragon tossed his head back and forth as if confused. It had been flying in a continuous straight direction, head pointed ahead. Now it turned its head and peered behind, but continued in the same direction. He gave the command again.
Raymer had almost given up hope when the dragon suddenly veered from its course. It continued to flap its wings and turned until it faced the precise direction it had flown from. His heart beat wildly, and he felt like cheering. The beast had actually done what he directed. The earlier task had not been a fluke, and this test provided proof he could make the dragon react. It was a necessary step for his escape.