CLH Words

I first wrote this piece in the spring of 2021 after reading Terry Prachet’ts “Guards! Guards!” and being rather sad that the dragons were the bad guys of the story. While there is a lot different I would do if I wrote the piece today–my voice as a writer has grown a lot and become much more my own–I still stand by this and find it a fun read. I submitted it to a few magazines for publication, but not enough for it to find the right home. So I give it to y’all here, where I hope it finds the love it deserves.

Marktwau Vinnece got up after the fifth set of knocks on the door below his bedchamber window. While most of his customers were perfectly respectable, there were a certain number of them who were a tad more… eccentric. It came with the art business. Normally, Marktwau Vinnece thought as he groggily pulled a robe over himself, he could just ignore it until the client got the hint and came back in the morning. But five sets of knocks shows determination. Easier to just get it over with. 

Had it been five? He thought as he fumbled with the tinder box to light a lantern–better to have light to do business with, see the colors better that way. Well, the first set of knocking had sounded a bit odd, now that he thought about it. More like big booms of rolling thunder than actual knocks. 

And the second pair too. He recalled as he opened his bedchamber’s door and started down the stairs to the paintshop below. Had been more of a crash, like something hitting the cobblestone street outside. But the other three. Now those had been the loud knocks of some sleep deprived artist needing paints and to insure that Marktwau Vinnece was as sleep deprived as they were.

A sixth, or forth depending on the count, set of knocks rattled the door, as he crossed the shop towards it. 

“Stop all that now!” Marktwau Vinnece shouted in the tone warranted by the amount of sleep he had already lost to this incessant customer, “by gods! Don’t you know what time it is?” he continued, throwing open the door, “it’s bloody–” he paused, as he saw what was outside his door.

“I’m not quite sure what time it is,” a voice like a smiths fire answered him, burning off Marktwau Vinnece’s whiskers on his chin. “Is that important?” 

“No–No. I don’t think it is,” Marktwau Vinnece whispered to the large scaly head that was peering into the door. 

“Oh, good.” the dragon hissed, “Because I am in desperate need of your goods.”

This took a second to register in Marktwau Vinnece’s mind. Once his mind had done the summersults needed to wrap itself firmly around what had just been said, he replied slowly, both in fear and out of not knowing what was going on, “goods? I don’t have much gold, if any…that would be in the bank down the way…this is a paint shop after all.”

“Yes, ‘Vinnece’s paints’,” the dragon read from the sign hanging above the door. Then added,  “gold sculpting is a tad cliche, don’t you think? I prefer sketching and the like.”

“Er, sculpting?” Marktwau Vinnece managed, his brain apparently either having never left his bedchamber or, more likely, having fled back upstairs to hide under the bed the moment it saw what was behind the door. 

“Yes. I never understood the appeal. Gold is such a tedious medium to work with. I was never one to join in on a fad. I always preferred charcoal drawing. Made it myself,” the dragon edged it head back a little to show one of its talons to the poor man. Marktwau Vinnece failed to notice the tip of the claw was charred black as the dragon intended for him, instead getting caught on the fact that it was as large as he was but much sharper and deadlier. 

“Ah, yes,” he squeaked.

“Yes, but there is only so much you can do with it before you get bored, you know,” the dragon explained, unaware of anything upsetting Marktwau Vinnece, “a few hundred years and it loses its appeal. That’s why I thought I would give paint a go.”

“Give paint a go. Yes. I sell paint,” Marktwau Vinnece managed to recall his profession, a rather remarkable feat, considering the circumstances.

“Oh of course. Of course. You’d be wanting money. I knew that. Us dragons may be a bit out of touch with the ways of you humans but we aren’t that out of it. I have some right here.” The dragon shifted again and this time brought its left foreleg in front of the door. It opened the massive paw like a shark opening its mouth and something fell to the doorstep.

Marktwau Vinnece looked at it and made a sound that can only be described as “meep”. It was a leather coin pouch, attached to a leather belt, attached to the torso of a poor soul, attached to nothing. 

“I hope that’ll get me at least a basic paint set?”

“Er, yes. A basic set. Certainly. Let me just go get it.” Marktwau Vinnece turned around stiffly, walked into his shop and managed to gather the paints by the autopilot of a skilled salesman. He returned to the doorway and held the supplies out in front of him as if he were a child wanting for his mother to lift him off the ground. 

The dragon carefully maneuvered its hand and scooped up the kit. “These shall do ever so nicely. Thank you. Maybe in a few hundred years when I get the hang of paints, I will come back and you can put on a show of my work,” the dragon let out what seemed to be a series of small explosions, but might have actually been chuckles.

“Yes, do come back now for all your paint needs,” Marktwau Vinnece said his voice cracking ever so slightly.

With a leap, the dragon was in the air, its wings thundering as it pushed higher and higher. Marktwau Vinnece turned on his heels and returned to bed.