Robert Asprin: Dragons deal

A couple of dogs, mismatched as to size, who more or less lived in the bar, came over to sniff his hand in hopes of pieces of sandwich or bar snacks. The small dog belonged to the bar owner, a big, burly man named Ed. The bigger dog, a rangy hound mix, used to run with a man named Slim, who had power over animals that he rarely used, or had to use. Animals, especially dogs, loved and trusted him. Griffen, too, had the power to control animals, but had been working hard not to use it unnecessarily, since Slim had taught him how easily it could be misused. Slim had been killed by a ruthless monster that had been trying to cause trouble for Griffen. Griffen still felt responsible for his death. He and the dogs missed Slim. The dogs would not lack for homes, since the denizens of the Quarter took care of their own, whether with two legs or four legs, but he gave them special attention when he saw them. As it was for Griffen, the bar had become their permanent hangout.

Griffen held up one end of the bar on the "family side," nursing an Irish whisky with a little water on the side, listening to Maestro, the fencing master who taught students on the upper floor of the Yo Mama's Bar and Grill, debating with a pale, thin woman with blond hair, round blue eyes behind thick glasses, and a blunt nose about which was the more authentic American music, blues or jazz. Griffen liked both types of music and had an extensive collection of CDs. He, like the rest of the patrons hanging out on the family side of the bar, listened with interest, throwing in a comment here and there to help fuel the fire. They had heard Maestro, a slim man in his middle years with a deep bronze complexion, silvering black beard and mustache, wavy hair held back in a ponytail, and wire-rimmed glasses on his nose, arguing both sides of the debate on different occasions. Like Griffen, Maestro was from Ann Arbor, Michigan, but had settled down in the French Quarter as if he had been born there. He, too, had a little dragon blood but didn't know it. Maestro shouted over the jukebox and the crowd who were watching a hockey game broadcast live from Calgary.

"There's no doubt that the blues tradition came from the Southern slaves," he bellowed, "but their songs were based on the ones they brought with them from Africa. Jazz arose from that, on this continent."

"Blues is original American, too!" the blond woman argued. "Based on American rhythms, not songs direct from Africa."

"They can trace melodies to their native countries," said Maestro. "Not all of them, but many."

"What about the ones they can't trace?" the woman countered. "That proves my point!"

For one who had been raised in Ann Arbor, Michigan, coming to live in New Orleans had been an adjustment. Griffen loved almost everything about the city except for the never-changing climate. By now, the trees in his former home would be bare, the sky would be iron gray, with heavy, bulging clouds that looked like they were going to come down on you like a waffle iron closing, and there'd be tons of snow to shovel. He actually missed it a little. Instead, it was sweltering in the bar. The miasma of cigarette smoke was mixed lazily with the smells of beer, sweat, plaster, and mildew by the ceiling fans, which did little to cool the place down. Music blared as a counterpoint to human voices and the unmistakable pock of pool balls being knocked around the tables. Griffen had seldom been so happy.

He had spent the afternoon at the Presbytery, one of the majestic white buildings on Jackson Square, going through its permanent collection of Mardi Gras memorabilia. He had never dreamed that there was so much work involved in putting together a yearly spectacle. If you added up all the hours that it would take to build the floats, sew the costumes, organize the parties, create all the souvenirs and all the thousands of other details, it would come to more than there were in a year, no matter how many people were working on it. Still, it happened, and the parades ran on time, to the delight of the thousands who came to New Orleans to see them. Etienne was right: It was like magic.

Films ran on a continuous loop throughout the museum displays, showing parades in progress. The floats, even in the daytime, were lit up with strings of Christmas lights, neon and strobes. The costumes, with all their glitter and sequins, were dazzling. The Presbytery's docents, most of them middle-aged women who had lived in New Orleans all their lives, on hearing that he had been asked to be a king, were thrilled for him. They told him stories of Mardi Gras celebrations going back into the middle of the nineteenth century, heavy on the glamour and intrigue. They handed him leaflets and gave him Web site information about other krewes and directions to the famous maker of the best floats in New Orleans. Their enthusiasm excited his, so by the time Griffen left, he was ready to call Etienne and agree to anything just so he could accept that honor few people ever got, step up onto that float, and ride through the streets. But, a hundred steps out the door, back in the New Orleans that he knew, hard reality took hold.

The financial investment sounded like it would be substantial. He would have to sit down with Etienne and the rest of the committee to see what it would cost him to participate. The range for kingship seemed to run between ten thousand and a hundred thousand dollars. Even though his bank balance had been depleted severely over the last few months paying for the damage to the conclave hotel ballroom and some ill-considered bets on pool with another dragon named Flynn, he might be able to swing the lesser end of the scale. The greater end was beyond his means and out of the question, no matter how great an honor or how long Etienne had been dreaming about it. Still, he was intrigued with the idea of being part of Mardi Gras.

"Where y'at?" a feminine voice asked, interrupting his thoughts. Griffen jumped. He had been miles away. He put away the mental strings of beads and gathered up the small redheaded woman for a kiss. Fox Lisa kissed him back with interest, then leaned over to bestow a solid smooch on Maestro's cheek. Griffen thought of her as a protegee of the older man, but he never asked. If the relationship went deeper than that, it was none of Griffen's business. He wasn't seeing her exclusively, either. Maestro pecked Lisa back without losing the flow of his argument with his visitor and held up his empty glass to the bartender.

"You looked like you had something on your mind," Lisa said. A frame suspended rows of wineglasses upside down by their bases over their heads. Fox Lisa put an elbow against one of the wooden pillars that held it up. "Anything I can help with?"

He glanced around. "I have some news, but Val isn't here yet. I want to tell her, too."

"Sure," Fox Lisa said, making herself comfortable on the stool at his side. Griffen ordered her a drink. "Is it something bad?"

"No, I think it might be great . . . but can I wait?"

"Sure, no problem," Fox Lisa said. A native of New Orleans, she embodied the easygoing mood of the city. "Want to go to the clubs?" she asked. "I've been thinking all day about some live music." She gave him a wicked look from under long eyelashes. "Got me in a good enough mood to share."

Griffen grinned. "Sounds great," he said.

"What does?" Mai asked, at his elbow. Griffen watched cautiously to see how Fox Lisa would react to Mai. The two of them were Griffen's lovers, even joining him in the same bed at times, but both had let him know they liked their private time with him. He felt fortunate that they were on such good terms, but he did not like to push it. Even considering bloodlines, no man wanted to stand between two strong-willed women.

Fox Lisa tossed her head. "We're gonna go out and listen to some music in a while. You can come, too, if you like." So her good mood extended to others that evening. Griffen relaxed. No matter how it ended, it should be enjoyable.