The Dragon's Son by Margaret Weis Page B

festivities due a royal
child, and if there was news of young Prince Marcus, for good or for ill,
Draconas was sure to hear it at this time.
    He entered the prosperous city of Ramsgate-upon-the-Aston through the main
gate, his thoughts going back to another time he’d entered that gate,
proclaiming himself a “dragon hunter.” Now he told people he was a traveling
merchant, newly come from the Fairfield faire, breaking up the tedium of his
journey by seeing the wonders of the capital city. Draconas strolled the
streets, eyes and ears open. What he saw disturbed him. Or rather, what he didn’t
see.
    No garlands put up in doorways to honor the birth of the prince. No bunting
in the royal colors draped over balconies. He wondered if he’d got the date
wrong—dragons have very little sense of the passage of time-—-and he stopped
into an apothecary’s shop to check the date. He was right. This month was the
natal month of Prince Marcus, youngest son of King Edward and Queen Ermintrude,
or, at least, youngest son of King Edward. Gossip chewed hungrily on the
subject of the boy’s mother.
    Troubled, Draconas forewent visiting his usual haunts, instead going
straight to an alehouse whose proximity to the castle made it popular with
off-duty guardsmen. No matter what his dress, Draconas could, by a change in
speech, air, and manner, become any sort of human he wanted. He could speak
knowledgeably of war implements with a soldier, trade sea stories with a
sailor, or converse with a seamstress on the best way to sew a feathered hem
stitch.
    He paid for his ale, then carried his mug to an out-of-the-way table in a
corner and sat down alone. From the way he walked and his manner of speech, the
patrons of the tavern took him for a former military man of the common sort. He
was like themselves, wounded perhaps, unable to return to duty, pensioned off.
They liked the fact that he did not try to butt in on their conversation and they
rewarded him with nods before turning back to their talk.
    One man, bored with his companions, picked up his mug and sauntered over to
the table. “What parts do you hale from, friend?”
    “Bramfell,” Draconas answered, naming a town to the north. He answered a few
polite questions regarding his home, but the soldier wasn’t really interested,
and Draconas was able to end that topic and glide with ease onto the next.
    “I came to Ramsgate on family business and to see the festivities for the
young prince’s birthday. But I must have mistaken the month, for I see no signs
of a celebration.”
    The guardsman took a pull at his ale. The men standing at the bar ceased
their talk and exchanged glances. One said he must return to duty and took his
departure. Picking up their mugs, two others walked over to join Draconas.
    “You do not have the date wrong,” one said.
    “It is the lad’s birth month, but there will be no celebration,” added his
comrade.
    “Not dead, is he?” asked Draconas, sipping at his ale.
    “Maybe. Who knows?” said the first, with a shrug. “Naught’s been seen or
heard of the boy for nigh on six months now.”
    “Here, now, Robert, you know well that he was sent to visit his grandfather,
the King of Weinmauer, and that the boy’s living a fine life in the royal court
there,” argued his friend.
    Robert grunted, watched the foam settle on his ale.
    “So the boy’s with his grandfather,” Draconas remarked.
    “Maybe,” said Robert. “Maybe not.”
    “Watch your tongue, Robert Hale,” warned his comrade.
    “Now I’m curious. What is wrong?” asked Draconas. “Has there been murder
done then? What?”
    “Not murder,” said Robert, taking a pull at his ale.
    “You don’t know anything,” his friend told him.
    “I know that servants talk,” returned Robert in an ominous tone.
    “And that’s all it is. Talk. I’m leaving.” His friend stood up. Taking his
ale mug, he walked over to join another crowd of soldiers standing at the far
end of the