Heaving another sigh, he began to sing in that high-pitched quavery voice of his that goes right through your head. Just like before, the dragon jerked his head up, and stared at the old man. The creature’s eyes glazed over and pretty soon he was swaying in time to the music. Suddenly, the dragon’s eyes popped open wide and he stared at the old man in shock.
“Sir!” the creature thundered. “What are you doing out on the front lawn in your nighty? Have you no shame?”
The dragon’s head snaked across the lawn and loomed over poor Papa, who was huddled underneath the chaise lounge. The townspeople, seeing the creature distracted, began raising their weapons and creeping up on it.
“Forgive me. Master Quindiniar,” said the dragon in a deep, booming voice.
“This is my fault entirely. I was not able to catch him before he left this morning.” The dragon’s head swiveled around to the old man. “Sir, I had laid out the mauve morning coat with the pin-striped pants and the yellow weskit—”
“Mauve morning coat?” screeched the old man. “Did you ever see Merlin strolling around Camelot, casting spells in a mauve morning coat? No, by hoppy toads, you didn’t! And you won’t catch me in one—”
I missed the rest of the conversation because I had to convince the townsfolk to go home. Not that I would have minded so much getting rid of the dragon, but it was perfectly obvious to me that their puny weapons couldn’t do it any serious harm and might only break the spell, it was shortly after this, by the way, around luncheon, that the mayor arrived with the petition. Something seemed to snap inside Callie after that, Pait. Now she completely ignores the wizard and his dragon. She simply behaves as if they aren’t there. She won’t look at the old man; she won’t speak to him. She spends all her time either at the factory or locked up in her office. She’ll barely speak to poor Papa. Not that he notices. He’s too busy with his rockets.
Well, Fait, the barrage has ceased for the moment. I must close and go to bed. I’m taking tea with the dowager tomorrow. I believe I’ll switch cups with her, just in case she’s slipped a little poison in mine.
Oh, I almost forgot. Callie says to tell you that business has really picked up. Something about rumors of trouble coming out of the norinth. Sorry I wasn’t paying more attention, but you know how talking about business bores me. I guess it means more money, but, like the old man says, what does that matter?
Hurry home, Pait, and save me from this madhouse!
12
Involved in his sister’s letter, Paithan was aware of footsteps entering the tavern, but he didn’t pay any attention until the chair he was using for a footstool was kicked violently out from underneath his legs.
“About time!” said a voice, speaking human.
Faithan looked up. A human male stood staring down at him. The man was tall, muscular, well built, with long blond hair that he wore tied with a leather thong at the back of his head. His skin was deeply tanned, except where his clothes covered it, and then Paithan could see that it was white and fair as any elf’s. The blue eyes were frank and friendly, his lips curved in an ingratiating smile. He was dressed in the fringed leather breeches and sleeveless leather tunic popular among humans.
“Quincejar?” said the human, thrusting out a hand. “I’m Roland. Roland Redleaf. Pleased to meet you.”
Paithan glanced at the chair, which had been knocked over and kicked halfway across the common room. Barbarians. Still, it didn’t do any good to get angry. Standing up, he stretched out his hand, clasping the human’s in the odd custom that both elves and dwarves found so ridiculous.
“The name’s Quindiniar. And please join me,” said Paithan, retrieving his chair. “What will you have to drink?”
“You speak our language pretty good, without that silly Ksp you hear with most elves.” Roland yanked over another chair and sat down. “What are you drinking?” Grabbing Paithan’s almost full mug, he sniffed at it. “Stuff any good? Usually the ale around here tastes like monkey piss. Hey, bar keep! Bring us another round!
“Here’s to the toys,” Roland said, lifting his mug. Paithan took a swallow. The human downed his at one gulp. Blinking, wiping his eyes, he said moistly, “Not bad. You going to finish yours? No? I’ll take care of it for you. Can’t let it go to waste.” He drained the other mugful, slamming it down upon the table when he was finished.
“What were we drinking to? Ah, I remember. The toys. ’Bout time, as I said.” Roland leaned across the table, breathing beer fumes into Paithan’s face. “The children were getting impatient! It was all I could do to placate the little darlings … if you know what I mean?”
“I’m not certain that I do,” said Paithan mildly. “Will you have another?”
“Sure. Barkeep! Two more.”
“It’s on me,” said the elf, noting the proprietor’s frown. Roland lowered his voice. “The children—the buyers, the dwarves. They’re getting real impatient. Old Blackbeard like to took my head off when I told him the shipment was going to be late.”
“You’re selling the … er … toys to dwarves?”
“Yeah, you got a problem with that, Quinpar?”
“Quindiniar. No, it’s just that now I understand how you were able to pay top price.”
“Between you and me, the bastards would’ve paid double . that to get these. They’re all worked up over some kid’s fairy tale about giant humans. But you’ll see for yourself.” Roland took a long pull at the ale.
“Me?” said Paithan, smiling and shaking his head. “You must be mistaken. Once you’ve paid me the money, the ‘toys’ are yours. I’ve got to return home. This is a busy time for us, now.”
“And how are we supposed to transport these babies?” Roland brushed his arm across his mouth. “Carry them on our heads? I saw your tyros in the stables. Everything’s packed up neat. We’ll make the trip and be back in no time.”
“I’m sorry, Redleaf, but that wasn’t part of the deal. Pay me the money and—”
“But don’t you think you’d find the dwarven kingdom fascinating?” The voice was a woman’s, and it came from behind Paithan.
“Quincetart,” said Roland, gesturing with his mug. “Meet my wife.” The elf, rising politely to his feet, turned around to face a human female.
“My name’s Quindiniar.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m Rega.”
She was short, dark haired and dark eyed. Her well-muscled body was scantily clad, like Roland’s, in fringed leather, leaving little of her figure to the imagination. Her brown eyes, shadowed by long black lashes, seemed filled with mystery. Her full lips kept back untold secrets. She extended her hand. Paithan took it in his. Instead of shaking it, as the woman apparently expected, he carried the hand to his lips and kissed it.
The woman’s cheeks flushed. She allowed her hand to linger a moment in Paithan’s. “Look here. Husband. You never treat me like this!”
“You’re my wife,” said Roland, shrugging, as if that settled the matter. “Have a seat, Rega. What’ll you have to drink? The usual?”
“A glass of wine for the lady,” ordered Paithan. Crossing the common room, he brought a chair back to the table, holding it for Rega to sit down. She slid into it with animallike grace, her movements clean, quick, decisive.
“Wine. Yeah, why not?” Rega smiled at the elf, her head tilting slightly, her dark, shining hair falling over a bare shoulder.
“Talk Quinspar here into coming with us, Rega.”
The woman kept her eyes and her smile fixed on the elf. “Don’t you have somewhere to go, Roland?”
“You’re right. Damn beer runs right through me.” Rising to his feet, Roland sauntered out of the common room, heading for the tavern’s backyard.