The three thugs pulled themselves erect and sorted themselves out facing Wiz. They were all about the color of the cement in the tub and Wiz didn’t think they were shivering because they were cold.
“I ought to turn you all into frogs,” he said sternly. The tall one blanched and the short one whimpered more loudly.
One of these days I’ve got to write a spell to do that, he thought.
However, just now the threat was enough.
He pointed at the trough. “What’s this stuff?”
“Cement, My Lord. It’s a little thin because . . .”
Wiz cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Okay, you’re going to take this cement and you’re going to paint a coat of it onto Pieter here. All over, so he’s thoroughly covered. Then, when it’s dry, you’re going to load him into the wagon, take him back to town and set him up in the square in front of the town hall. Got that?”
“The wagon’s broke,” Larry said sullenly.
“Then carry him,” Wiz said and turned away into the night. He took two steps and then turned back to them. “But if he’s not standing in the square by noon, you’re all going to be pigeon roosts by evening.”
He took two more steps and turned back again.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
The three quailed before him.
“Which way is it to town?”
God what an evening, Wiz thought as he trudged down the dusty road toward town. The moon gave enough light to keep him on the road and out of potholes, but not enough to see every rock and tree root. As a result he had stubbed his toes and bruised his heels a half dozen times before he had gone as much as a mile.
The only good thing is, it’s too late for anything else to happen to me tonight.
Just then a shadow passed over the moon. Wiz looked up to see a dragon settling down on a hillock beside the road. The moon was behind the creature so it loomed nightmarishly large and black before him.
“Starting a new fashion, Wizard?” Wurm’s “voice” rang in his head.
“Right now I’m trying to get back to town.”
“Still, this is opportune. I have been meaning to speak to you at a time and place which would not upset your, ah, clients.”
Wiz had a sudden premonition the night’s events so far had just been a warm-up. “What do you want?” he asked wearily.
“An opportunity to discuss your progress, and perhaps your future actions. I understand for example that you personally convinced one dragon to give up his prey. That in itself is a notable accomplishment.”
“Ah, to tell you the truth it wasn’t that difficult. Not with that particular dragon.”
Wurm nodded his enormous head. “Griswold is a moron. Even for a hatchling.”
“Well, at least my run-in with him helped get me in solid with the council.”
“Oh, you have accomplished more than that,” Wurm said, amused. “In two days there will be a dragonmote to decide what to do about you.”
“Dragonmote?”
“A meeting of dragons, or of all who choose to attend.” He cocked his enormous scaly head. “Quite an honor actually. The first dragonmote in several hundred years. Dragons dislike gatherings and prefer single combat to the constant clumping and bickering of humans. Besides, dragons seldom feel the need to take concerted action.”
Suddenly it got even colder under the horse blanket. “Concerted action?”
Wurm nodded again. “I believe the currently favored solution is incinerating the town and you with it.”
“Is this where I came in?” Then he thought furiously. “Look, can you get me in to that meeting? To speak to them I mean.”
Wurm cocked his enormous head. “I think it can be arranged.” The way he said it left Wiz no doubt that had been his plan all along.
Twenty-three: Dragonmote
The number of screw-ups in a presentation is directly proportional to the importance of the audience and inversely proportional to their belief in what you’re selling.
The Consultants’ Handbook
Never meddle in the affairs of dragons, for they are subtle and see right through bullshit.