Deven and the Dragon - Eliot Grayson Page 0,1
that His Excellency preferred not to be gawked at by peasants.
Peasants! He had the bloody nerve to call Ridley’s most important and responsible citizens peasants! Their indignation over this small detail had seemed to Deven to outweigh any other trauma inflicted by the dragon and his household. That being the case, Deven shrugged and went on with his business. The inn stables needed a new coat of whitewash, and Deven was the only one tall enough to reach the rafters from the top of the inn’s one ladder. Dragons were all well and good, but they didn’t frighten Deven, and he had better things to do than listen to a passel of idiots moan about a servant insulting them in the road.
Three months had gone by since then, and everyone had gotten used to the dragon’s presence, more or less. There were still gasps of shock when he was sighted — most notably, one night when he’d been spotted flying over the hills, silhouetted dramatically by the full moon. Otherwise he was ignored, except by stupid young lads who spoke excitedly of breaking into the castle to find the dragon’s hoard. They were quickly squelched by their elders. Everyone knew trying to steal a dragon’s gold was a recipe for certain death, and anyway, said gold continued to flow into the town coffers in trade, and in large quantities. That was more than enough, and much less dangerous, too.
Deven finished with putting away the last of the clean wine glasses and turned to survey the taproom. Now that summer was upon them, the afternoon sunlight lingered. It gleamed on polished pewter tankards, set the dust motes to shimmering, and illuminated every little scratch and gouge on the floorboards and tables. The merchants leaned their heads together, whispering across their table, two of them casting suspicious sidelong glances at Deven as they did.
Well, that was to be expected, he supposed? Two of the three were on the town council, and Deven was a bit of a thorn in their collective sides. After all, the corpulent one with the red waistcoat who’d thumped his tankard — well, Deven had fucked the man’s son recently. The lad had been more than willing, and not a little experienced, but that didn’t matter to an angry father who thought the fellow who poured his ale wasn’t good enough for a councilman’s heir. And one of the other men…maybe Deven had flirted with his sister. Probably? Deven flirted with everyone. Cast a wide net, pull in enough fish to keep busy on warm summer nights.
No harm came of it, to Deven’s way of thinking, anyway. The occasional wife or husband who gave Deven a tumble, well, he supposed their spouses might have reason to be annoyed. But they really ought to save their anger for the unfaithful parties, and not for Deven, who’d never promised a bloody thing to anyone. And unmarried sons and daughters. Those were free agents. Apothecaries sold draughts to keep any bellies from rounding when they shouldn’t, and there wasn’t any risk of that with the fellows, anyway. So truly, what was the harm?
The merchants’ muttering rose a little in pitch and volume both, and then they seemed to come to some agreement. Nods were exchanged all around. Two of them cast Deven sidelong glances and scurried out together. The last to leave was Barclay, a member of the council who knew Deven’s family. He smirked and waved — odd, because he considered himself too good to acknowledge the likes of Deven, in general.
Odd. Very, very odd. How had their conversation progressed from the dragon to him?
Slowly, Deven returned to his work, but a bit more thoughtfully than before.
Fiora closed his eyes and leaned his elbows on the stone parapet, wishing he could simply take flight and soar into the wind that whipped past, tangling the streamers of his hair around his face and shoulders. The setting sun glinted from the river, turning it into a ribbon of gold and orange with ripples of slate — like fire, flaming its way through soft green hills. The view from the turret was lovely, but it would be lovelier still from a thousand feet in the air, beating his wings through air currents brought from distant lands…perhaps he’d even catch a breath of his distant home. But this evening, he had to be earthbound. Too many tasks to accomplish that depended on fitting into a chair behind a desk and using opposable thumbs.
What a