Mary Herbert - Dragon's Bluff

Aylesworthy wasted no time. “What about this treasure? Is Kethril going to give us that treasure he found?”

All eyes turned to the gambler. Under the scrutiny of so many people, Kethril could hardly say no and still remain in good health. He squirmed and looked at the ceiling as if beseeching divine guidance. He rubbed his aching temples. “That is the last time I drink that swill at your place,” he grumbled to Aylesworthy. The owner of the Jetties only glowered at him.

Kethril slowly climbed to his feet and faced his daughter. When he spoke, he talked directly to her as if there was no one else in the room. “You asked me yesterday why I stole the city’s money, and I told you I needed it for a venture. I did. The biggest heist this side of Sanction.” He pulled a small dagger from his belt, removed his outer robe, and began to cut a careful slit in the quilted front of his inner tunic. From the slit he withdrew a piece of oilcloth carefully wrapped around a piece of coarse paper. He unfolded the cloth and laid the paper out on the table. “This is the work of several years,” he said. “I have been tracking Fyremantle, learning his habits, and looking for his lairs. As far as I know he has three. I have found two of them—one even Malys does not know. The other is well hidden. I was looking for that when Ulin caught me.”

She looked at him without expression. “So what was the money for?”

“Spies to track the dragon, new clothes for my disguise, bribes, horses, equipment, and ah, to pay off a few gambling debts that were getting uncomfortable.”

“What do you propose we do?” Lucy asked.

He leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. “Steal the treasure from one of Fyremantle’s secret caves. A lot of it’s come from Flotsam anyway. You could pay Malys with that and blackmail Fyremantle into leaving the city alone—at least for a while. I will lead you to the treasure, if the city lets me go.”

His words hung in the silent room. All eyes turned back to Lucy to wait for her answer.

She studied her father for an uncomfortably long time, then she nodded. “It’s a deal.”

All at once she crossed her arms in a copy of her father’s stance, and a brilliant smile transformed her face.

Kethril looked slightly startled at the change in her features, then he matched her grin for grin.

Ulin, sitting at the table beside Lucy, recognized the resemblance in an instant. They were almost identical down to the wrinkles in the corners of the eyes—the way the full mouths spread open to reveal even, white teeth, the glint of humor and a light of mischief that burned like lights behind the color of the eyes. To Ulin it was remarkable. There was more of Kethril in his daughter than either one of them knew.

The entire gathering had sat silent through Kethril’s speech and listened with what Lucy assumed was stunned horror. But they surprised her. As soon as she accepted, a chorus of voices began talking, not to condemn the idea as she feared, but to offer ideas, advice, and suggestions.

“Where is this treasure you want us to steal?” Ulin asked when Kethril sat down.

“The closest cache is here”—the older man pointed to a spot on his map—“in the caves of an old volcano just north of Secar’s Point. It’s well camouflaged and only lightly guarded. We will not need many men, In fact, the fewer who know of this part of the plan, the better.” Like many people with no morals, Kethril did have certain standards. His map was detailed, well drawn, and accurate. His plans to infiltrate the lair of the dragon were careful, organized, and efficient.

Lysandros moved to the table and studied the map. “I have enough men in the Vigilance Force to do this. Their discretion has already been tested.” He shifted over to make space for Notwen, who crowded in beside him.

“I know this place,” the gnome said excitedly. “We can use the boat to go along the coast to the Point. The new boat is big enough to haul cargo.”

“But where do we put this treasure?” Mayor Efrim wanted to know. “Is there enough to pay Malys’s taxes?”

Kethril laughed. “There’s enough to pay Malys for several years and buy this town a decent gaming house. That dragon has been skimming taxes from you and several other places for years. He keeps his ill-gotten gains in this cave and one other so Malys won’t realize what he’s doing.”

“But where do we put it?” The mayor quavered again. “How do we keep it safe from Fyremantle, or the likes of you?”

“Hide it.” Kethril’s disarming smile lit his face. “Hide it and don’t tell me about it.”

Aylesworthy heaved his bulk to his feet and crowded into the group around the table. “Look, this money is all well and good, but Fyremantle will be furious. He’ll burn this town to the ground before we ever get a chance to talk to him.”

More voices joined his argument.

“We could kill him,” the blacksmith suggested.

“Yes, then Malys would kill us and scorch this town to ash.”

“What if we—”

Lucy threw up her hands for quiet. On her head, the turban shimmered a brilliant shade of yellow and watched the proceedings with sparkling eyes. The noise slowly simmered down.

“Actually, Lucy,” Ulin said in the quiet. “Notwen has invented a trap that just might subdue Fyremantle long enough to convince him to cooperate.”

She turned to the gnome. “Honestly? Is that what those drawings were?”

Notwen nodded, pleased that she would take him seriously.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” said Lucy. “We’ll lure Fyremantle into the trap and convince him that it would be in his best interest to restore the original tax level and leave Flotsam alone.”

“And how do we convince him?” someone asked.

Kethril hooked a finger around his mug of ale and pushed it gently back and forth. “That’s where the blackmail comes in. What would Malys do if she even suspected one of her underlings was stealing money meant for her treasury?”

“Eat him,” Lysandros answered, “and take his collection.”

“Exactly—and he knows this. So we tell him we have a messenger on the way to Malys with names and locations and amounts.”

Aylesworthy shuddered. “Who would be stupid enough to face Malys in her lair?”

A wicked smile beamed on Lucy’s face. “Someone who does it regularly. The Dark Knights.”

“Venturin? That harpy?”

“For a bit of gold, I’ll bet that harpy would sing like a lark,” Mayor Efrim remarked acidly.

“I’ll talk to her,” Lucy said. “She’s due back any day. I’m sure I can convince her to help the town—for the sake of her iron backside.”

A smattering of chuckles met her suggestion, and the business of the meeting continued. Before the evening ended, a plan of sorts was put together, and the people agreed it was the best they could do given the circumstances. It was not perfect, and it depended on many things happening at the right time, but with luck and some hard work, it just might work. Lucy thanked everyone for their help and commitment, and she waited until most people had left. At last she could not keep her eyes open another minute. She kissed Ulin goodnight and went upstairs to bed.

Ulin and Notwen talked to the blacksmith for a while, then all three left to work on the boat. Eventually, only Kethril and Lysandros were left in the common room. The resistance leader rose, stretched, and moved toward the door. He paused and turned back to Kethril. The gambler sat alone at his table staring morosely into his empty flagon. The half-elf picked up a pitcher and poured a stream of golden ale into the man’s cup.

“Don’t stay up too late, Kethril. You have a treasure to fetch in the morning.” He chuckled softly.