Deven and the Dragon - Eliot Grayson Page 0,6
of age and filled with enthusiasm, and that was good enough for him, as he’d told several angry husbands. “Or at least leave the families of the council off-limits, for fuck’s sake. Plenty of other fish in the sea.”
“Right,” Deven muttered. Unfamiliar guilt simmered in his chest. If the council really had summoned him for some kind of official chastisement, it wouldn’t matter much to him. No one’s opinions mattered much to him, one of the reasons the council disapproved of him so much. But George and Phina’s livelihood was their inn, the council could regulate local businesses, and Deven’s behavior reflected on his family, whether he liked it or not. Deven promised himself that he’d try to make nice, for their sake.
They walked the rest of the way in blessed silence. Despite his preoccupation, the bustle of the cobblestoned streets, the fresh scent of the river wafting over the rooftops, and the sunshine lifted Deven’s spirits. Carts rolled by, filled with heaps of vegetables from the farms around Ridley, or with casks of ale, or with silk and spices imported from distant lands and brought down the river from Knightsbridge, the nearest port city to the south. From Ridley, all of it would disperse farther north, either along the river by barge or in caravans of wagons.
Shouts and greetings and snatches of song filled the air, competing with the rattle of wheels and the stamping of horses. Deven took deep breaths and did his best to enjoy it all. Screw the bloody council, anyway. He hadn’t broken any laws. If they wanted to bitch and moan about his loose morals, he and George would both tell them where to jump off — nicely, of course.
The Druckers’ residence stood proudly at the head of a small swath of park dedicated to Mrs. Drucker’s grandfather. It made up for its wooden frame and plain windows with an impressively gaudy coat of rust-orange paint and a great many crossed timbers and bits of scrollwork. At George’s knock, the door was opened by a prim fellow who eyed them over his prim spectacles.
“May I have your names and business?” he asked.
“Oh, don’t be an ass, Sam,” George said. “Your cousin Phina sends her reluctant regards. Susan asked us to come, so are you going to let us in or not?”
“It’s my duty as Mrs. Drucker’s secretary to establish the identity of her callers,” Sam said with a sniff. But he conducted them down the hall and opened one of the doors, announcing, “Mr. George Clifton and Mr. Deven Clifton.”
George pushed past him with a grumble, Deven following in his wake. Susan Drucker, an elderly lady of great poise, a magnificent bosom, and a terrifyingly sharp gaze, sat in state in a grand damask-upholstered chair at the end of a low table laid for tea. She was flanked by two others: Councilor Barclay and Councilor Holling. Barclay smirked at Deven in much the same way he had the day before, while Holling simply stared into his cup as if it held some necessary secret. He dyed his hair black, although it’d never been that color even when he was young, and that day it looked more stark than usual against the yellowish tint to his skin. Was he ill? Well, he was old enough, anyway, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow, as they said. Holling had always been a sour, miserly old bastard, and was rumored to have all but killed his wife with his unkindness.
Only one more chair was set across from their hostess, and Sam had to scurry back and forth to retrieve another. Deven and George took their seats as everyone muttered an insincere chorus of good-mornings and how-do-you-dos. Deven fought the urge to run a finger under his collar. Good God, this was even more awkward and awful than he’d expected.
“Well?” George helped himself to a biscuit without bothering with a plate — or an invitation. “We’ve ale to sell and travelers to house, so get to the point, if you would. None of the usual hemming and hawing. If this takes more than ten minutes, I’m leaving.”
“No one sent for you in the first place, George,” Mrs. Drucker said. “The lack of a chair or a cup ought to have been something of a hint.”
“Don’t care for hints,” George said, in a puff of crumbs. Deven rolled his eyes and bit back a sigh. For once he agreed with Mrs. Drucker. He loved his uncle, but the