DW01 Dragonspawn (3 page)

Neither she nor Bagsby had long to wait. As Bagsby sipped his mulled wine, he saw the youth he’d spotted earlier walk despondently into the hall. He gave polite nods to several tables and seemed about to join some companions at a card game, when Bagsby made his move.

The little man sprang from his seat and came up behind the young stranger, suddenly all shyness, with his face cast down toward the floor. He walked slowly forward in this posture until he literally bumped into the young man.

“What? Who’s that? What are you doing?” the youth snapped at Bagsby.

“Oh, my!” Bagsby exclaimed, feigning shock, surprise, and embarrassment. “Oh my, I do beg your pardon, good sir. I assure you, I meant no offense.”

“Well, then, watch where you’re going,” the young man said curtly.

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” Bagsby mumbled. “I’m sorry. It’s just so hard, being a stranger in this city, having the problems I have, not knowing anyone of, well, better birth, if you know what I mean, a person I can trust.”

At her table in the dark corner, Shulana reached into the recesses of her cloak and withdrew a tiny vial of fine, dark gray powder, almost like ash. She sprinkled a tiny amount in the palm of her left hand, raised her hand to her lips, and softly blew the powder in the general direction of Bagsby. Then she quickly and softly muttered a brief chant and lowered her head again. She could now hear clearly every word of Bagsby’s conversation.

“What are you going on about?” the young man demanded. “This has been an irritating evening for me, and you’re certainly not making it any better.”

“Come on, Reynaldo,” called one of the youth’s friends. “We’re delaying the next hand for you.”

“I apologize, good sir,” Bagsby said, shaking his head in despair. “I cannot burden you with my problems. Oh, but if you stood to lose the profits I could reap this very night, you too would be despondent and distracted. Indeed, sir, I am quite beside myself.”

“A moment, Bertrand,” the youth called back to his friend. The young man’s eyebrows moved closer together, and his eyes narrowed as he studied the person before him more carefully. He was a short man with close-cropped dark brown hair with just the slightest hint of gray near the temples. He was pudgy. His clothes were tasteful but not rich or fancy. His hands—Reynaldo’s gaze focused on the man’s hands. By some strange coincidence, the man was alternately wringing his hands and then opening them, making it easy to take them in at a glance. The fingers were fat and soft looking, almost sensitive, while the palms were callused, like those of a laborer. Probably, Reynaldo thought, a gentleman who had fallen on hard times and who may now have a way to recover a part of his fortune.

“I cannot be responsible for your business problems,” Reynaldo said haughtily. “But I am curious. What business are you in, and what profit could you reap?”

“No, no, I’ve detained you too long,” Bagsby insisted. “Please, go on with your game with your friends. I must have drunk too much. I really should not discuss this kind of lucrative business with someone I don’t know at all, even a fine young gentleman like yourself. Ah me. There’s no one I can trust. And a profit of two thousand gold crowns gone to waste.”

“Shhh,” Reynaldo cautioned. “You’re right about one thing—you shouldn’t be discussing this kind of thing here in the open. Come, let’s sit.”

Bagsby’s face lit up with joy. “Oh, my! You mean, you’d join me for a bit? I would like that. It’s so difficult, being a stranger, having no companions with whom to share even a mug of wine. Here, I have a table right here.” Bagsby practically pranced his way back to his table.

“I understand your problem,” Reynaldo said, taking the seat indicated by the suddenly bouncy Bagsby. “It is tough being a stranger, particularly when you’re in business.” Reynaldo leaned forward and stared hard into Bagsby’s eyes. “Now, what is the nature of your business?” he asked.

Perfect, Bagsby secretly thought. He’s hooked. The only question is for how much. Young men like this always need more money to finance their expensive romances and the extravagant clothes they wore. They also often had access to family funds that they wouldn’t dare spend on themselves but might invest on the sly in a sure, fast, profit-making venture.

“Well,” Bagsby said, leaning forward himself and looking around carefully to make sure no one was listening, “I’m in the... Wait a minute. I don’t even know you.”

“I am Reynaldo Pendargon, son of Alfonso Pendargon, the richest wine merchant in Clairton,” Reynaldo said. “Both my father and I are well known, and our characters are unimpeachable. Ask anyone. And you, sir?”

“I am Leonardo Rondini, a dealer in rare specialty items who has fallen into the worst of luck,” Bagsby said, sighing. “Thieved and swindled, that’s what I’ve been.”

“Oh,” Reynaldo said, his interest growing cold.

“And yet,” Bagsby quickly added, lowering his voice to a whisper and shoving his own face up close to Reynaldo’s, “a mere four hundred crowns could net me a profit of over two thousand tonight.”

“How is that possible?” Reynaldo asked, skepticism in his voice.

“You know that cabal of thieves that operates not far from this very place, down that narrow filthy street just across this square?” Bagsby asked. “Oh, of course you do. Anyone in business here in Clairton is certainly onto them.”

“Well, of course we know about them,” Reynaldo said uncertainly.

“They bribed my guards!” Bagsby lamented. “I was transporting a priceless piece of rare jewelry from the far north to a customer here in Clairton. The wretches bribed my guards, who delivered the piece to them along with all my operating cash. My customer expected delivery tonight and is waiting to pay me four thousand crowns for the piece. My expenses are only two thousand, so the profit is two thousand clear.”

Reynaldo leaned forward again, his eyes involuntarily growing a little wide. “But how would four hundred crowns help? Why not just go to the magistrate, whom I know personally, I might add, and—”

“No, no, that’s no good,” Bagsby interrupted. “It would take too long. The thieves intend to sell the piece tonight. By the time the magistrate takes action, the piece will be long since gone. Besides, I want my profit, not revenge on these thieves, no matter how sweet that would be. The thing is, you see, they don’t know what they’ve really got. They’re willing to sell it back to me for only four hundred crowns. Of course, that would cut my profit down to sixteen hundred, but sixteen hundred crowns is better than nothing. It would still make the trip worthwhile.”

“Reynaldo! Come on! We need your money in the game!” Bertrand called.

Reynaldo hastily looked around the crowded hall, irritation on his face. “A moment, friends. I have important business.” He turned back to Bagsby and began to whisper. “You mean to say, if you had four hundred crowns, you could retrieve this piece, then collect four thousand for it this very night?”

“Why, yes,” Bagsby replied innocently.

“And your profit would then be sixteen hundred crowns?”

“Yes, yes, that’s right. Why? What difference could it possibly make now?”

“Well,” Reynaldo said, drawing himself upright in his chair. “I will tell you, sir. I will lend you the four hundred crowns in exchange for eight hundred after the transaction is completed.”

Bagsby let his mouth drop open. He hoped his pupils widened to register genuine shock. “You would lend me the funds?”

“In exchange for eight hundred, tonight, when the deal is done,” Reynaldo affirmed, his head bobbing up and down eagerly.

“Well,” Bagsby said thoughtfully, “I don’t know. I am not in the habit of borrowing from men I hardly know. And the cut in my profits is most severe.”

“A profit of eight hundred crowns is better than no profit at all. And I am not in the habit of lending to men I hardly know. The high return is fair, considering the risk I’m taking.”

“Yes, yes,” Bagsby quickly agreed. Anything to get the mark’s mind off his risk. “But I need to think about this. And there is time to consider. You surely don’t have such funds on your person.”

“I will meet you within the hour in that alley, and we shall confront this band of thieves together,” Reynaldo said eagerly.

“No, no, no!” Bagsby stood up in alarm. He glanced quickly around the room, catching himself, then sat down again and leaned to whisper to Reynaldo. “You cannot take such risk to your person. These thieves know they already have all that is mine; there is no profit for them in harming or holding me. But you, sir, that is another matter. Surely you don’t want to risk being kidnapped.”

“Gad, that is thoughtful of you,” Reynaldo said, sudden revelation and relief showing on his eager young face. “You’re right. I’ll bring the money here, and you will return here when the transaction is done.”

“Well...” Bagsby shook his head.

“Sir,” Reynaldo said, standing and extending his hand, “I insist. It is the least the business community of Clairton can do to extend its welcome to a fellow businessman and to show solidarity against these scoundrels who would rob us all blind.”

Bagsby reluctantly stood. He pursed his lips, looked at the floor, then swung his concerned gaze around the room. Finally he let his eyes meet Reynaldo’s and stared into them intently for several seconds. “All right,” he finally said, taking Reynaldo’s extended hand. “I guess I can trust you.”

“You won’t regret this,” Reynaldo said, stepping eagerly away toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll be back shortly.” The youth practically ran from the gambling house into the night, visions of a four-hundred-crown profit dancing in his head, his mind’s eye already picturing the new clothes that would surely win the heart of his beloved.

In the far dark corner of the hall, Shulana nodded her head. The council must have been right. For all his faults, this Bagsby would steal from anyone and could charm even the undead with his acting ability and his tongue. Her choice was finally made.

Shulana stood in the dark street outside the palatial city dwelling of the Viscount Marco D’ Alonzo. It was well past the middle of the night; the sun would dawn over the city in less than four hours, by human reckoning. The elf pondered her next move. The question was how to approach Bagsby.

Inside the mansion, Bagsby was sleeping soundly, having been befriended by the viscount after managing to carefully lose one hundred crowns to him in a dice game at one of the more exclusive gambling halls in Clairton. The Pendargon family would not think of contacting the viscount about a minor matter of swindling—the embarrassment would be too great. Nor were they of sufficient social standing to be guests at his splendid home. Bagsby, on the other hand, as the recently robbed son of the Count of Nordingham in the kingdom of Pantania, many hundreds of leagues distant, was more than welcome to spend the night. The Pendargons were wasting the time of their own retainers trying vainly to find the so-called Leonardo.

Shulana thought deeply on her problem. She could not tell Bagsby the truth; he would merely take her information and then use it for his own profit and the advantage of her enemy. She glanced up at the great mansion, where torchlight lit up the carefully sculpted front gardens by night, and where armed men patrolled the grounds at irregular intervals to foil the plans of thieves. What weakness did this Bagsby have that she could play on?

Greed, she thought: greed, a fondness for what the humans considered high living, and a total lack of any values other than the satisfaction of his own desires. Bagsby would do what she wanted as long as he thought he was serving himself. He would respond to the promise of wealth, if the promise were credible, or to the threat of losing what he had—which was very little, other than his wits and his life. And there was his vanity. She had learned that it was a mistake to underestimate the power of human vanity.

Shulana drew her cloak tightly around her and raised its cowl over her head. She resolved upon her course of action. Touching her cloak, she made a hasty gesture, muttering the words of an elven spell. Had anyone been watching, they would have seen her virtually disappear, as her cloak took on the coloration of its immediate background.

Thus protected, Shulana walked boldly into the street and approached the front gardens of the mansion. A convenient fig tree extended its branches upward toward the second-story balcony; the climb was easy. From there, she opened the great glass doors onto the hall leading to the guest rooms. Even in the dark, her elven vision enabled her to quickly spot Bagsby’s chamber; it was the only one in use, and its door handle glowed with the recent heat of contact with a living being. The door was unlocked; the wealthy trusted their hirelings to protect them. She turned the knob and slipped inside quietly.

The room was quite large—fully thirty feet across and almost square. A fine oak wardrobe, a marble washstand, a small, polished oak table and chair, a great mahogany bookcase filled with hand-copied and carefully bound volumes of works currently in vogue with humans, a great tapestry depicting one of the countless battles from the human-elven wars, and three fine paintings, presumably of relatives of the viscount, adorned the chamber. In the center stood the great canopied bed. The frame was made of solid polished cherry wood; the canopy was satin to match the bedclothes, and the whole enclosed with fine lace curtains. Fresh-cut flowers trembled in a finely turned clay vase next to the head of the bed.

Bagsby lay in the center of the bed on his back, his head raised by several soft pillows, snoring loudly. The satin sheets and a fine woolen blanket were pulled up tightly under his chin.

Shulana stood silently, surveying the scene, drinking in every detail. Only when she was satisfied that no weapons were visible and that therefore her only danger came from Bagsby himself, did she make her next move.

First, with a gesture and a touch to her cloak, she removed the chameleon spell from it. She did not want Bagsby to awaken, only to see what looked like a disembodied elven face looming over him! Then, once again her hand went to the pouch on her belt, and once again she removed a tiny vial. In the vial was pure melted snow. She opened the stopper, stuck in her little finger, and obtained one drop of the fluid. Then, softly whispering a magical incantation, she walked swiftly but silently to Bagsby’s bed, drew back the curtains, and touched the drop to his lips.