Page 8 of A Matter of Dragons

“Oh! Yes, thank you,” I said.

I pushed the shop’s door open and hurried to my desk. I always kept a box of updates and various bric-a-brac my father would want to see because I never knew exactly when his associates would stop by. Or how long they’d have to chit-chat before their various pursuers caught up to them.

“One other thing,” I said as I handed the box, along with several gold pieces, to Graystone. “Tell him my mother stopped by. She asked about him first, as always.”

Both of Graystone’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah! And how is the Lady Dragon?”

The dwarves had held my mother in exceedingly high regard for centuries. Apparently, she’d cleared up some unpleasantness for them in the years before I was born. And, just like the saying goes, a dwarf might forgive, but he never forgets.

“She’s fine,” I said, with a shrug.

Graystone’s eyes sparkled. “She’s off foiling some evil plan, then?”

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “More or less.”

Graystone tucked the little box for my father into some hidden pocket, then reached out and slapped me on the arm. “You know, it must be exhausting for you, being the only proper dragon in your family.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your father’s a pirate. Your mother’s off manipulating diplomats and forging alliances. And here you are,” Graystone said, waving his lit pipe around the interior of my dusty shop in a way that made me nervous. “Snug in your cave with your treasure!”

He laughed again. This time I found it significantly less entertaining.

“Oh, come on now,” I said. “I’ve helped you plenty of times.”

“And all from the comforts of your little cave,” Graystone snorted as he walked back to the door and began to haul himself down the stairs.

“Well, someone’s got to watch after things.” I locked the door behind me and followed him down the steps. “Besides, I found those fragments of the map of Morrow Glen, didn’t I?”

Graystone reached the street, turned, and fixed me with a serious expression. “Aye. That you did, and I’m forever in my debt. There’s nothing wrong with being a dragon, now. It’s just—”

His gaze drifted upward, as though the sparkling summer constellations had pulled his attention away from our conversation.

“Your father thinks you should have a little more fun,” he said. “Live a little. And, Doshir, I don’t think he’s wrong.”

“I am having fun!” I declared.

I turned to face the darkened windows of Geredan’s Antiquities as though I expected the store to back me up here. In response, Graystone pulled a stained leather pouch from one of his many pockets, took a pinch of whatever dark stuff it was he smoked, and re-filled the bowl of his pipe. His match flared in the shadows between us before Graystone held it to his pipe and then dropped it to the cobblestones at our feet.

“Well, I’m off,” the dwarf said between pale puffs of piquant smoke. “May the ground be solid beneath your feet, Doshir.”

“And may the wind stay at your back, Graystone,” I answered.

My stomach growled again as I watched the dwarf turn down an alley toward the harbor. I began to follow him, heading north toward the row of elegant restaurants nestled along the cliffs. The Duck and Goose would have a cozy booth ready for me; I wouldn’t even need to order. Philmont the maître d' knew I’d be having ale and vegetable stew, just like every night.

My step faltered. Graystone’s words echoed through my head. But I was having fun. I was having fun, and I could give a damn what Graystone and my father thought about it. I was living. Managing the antiquities store was living, damn it.

But perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to have dinner somewhere else. Just for tonight.

With that thought in mind, I spun on my heels and headed in the opposite direction, toward the city gates. Down the same street the woman in the blue dress had taken.

CHAPTER FOUR

Rayne

I tried to keep my gait ladylike as I dragged myself back to the respectable inn where Eadberh and I were staying. The evening hadn’t been a complete waste, but it hadn’t exactly been an unmitigated victory either. I rubbed my left sleeve, tugging it as far down over my wrist as the fabric would stretch. The sleeve had dried, but the skin underneath still felt strange, raw and uneasy, as if submerging it in the Spirit Wood spring had brought some ancient pain to the surface.

Or had it happened when I’d touched that strange man at the antiquities store? At first, I’d thought he’d used some sort of magical weapon against me. But no, the painful jolt that had seared up my arm when he’d caught me by the elbow must have been a shock of static, the kind that dances blue through the dark if you shuffle barefoot over a woolen rug.