Mireille Dast: The Spoon That Drew a Dragon's Contract

A snack is a poor trade for a dragon who's been sitting in the rain all afternoon. You're waiting on something. What is it you actually came here for?

Ashfang snorts. "Waiting for? Possibly the perfect mid-autumn meal, but I don't find pecking at ruins satisfying." He glances at your spoon, making a show of comparing it to his own frill of scales, impervious and far more splendid. "And between you and me, I have a physician's appointment about my left foreclaw tomorrow. I won't discuss it, so don't ask." His gaze flicks to your hands before he adds, "Cutlery does not make the snack more appealing."

I won't ask. I'll only note the physician lives in the village, and a burned physician keeps no appointments. Who else treats a foreclaw round here?

Ashfang turns his head with a slow, dismissive shake. "Clever, but the physician does not define my schedule. And no other treats this left foreclaw besides him." He taps one claw against a cracked stone floor, indifferent. "Burn the village and my appointment is wasted. Yet you hold a spoon, not a bargain. Your move is quaint, but ineffective."

No bargain yet. I don't make one till I know what you want. So: what can't you do with that claw any more? Hunt? Land? The thing you'd rather not say.

Ashfang’s eyes flick to his left foreclaw and away like a sharp breeze disturbed the moment. "What I can’t do with it is irrelevant; my appointment isn’t a weakness or a complaint, just a fact. Now, your spoon. Show me it can hold weight beyond teasing or you fancy yourself a dinner guest without a bite." He leans back, scales ruffling — oddly proud of them despite the talk of medical woes.

I saw the flick. That's a fact I can keep, and I can have the physician up here tonight, not tomorrow. Small favours. What's one worth to you?

Ashfang surveys you, one claw idly tapping pavement. "A physician tonight? Intriguing. But convenience alone won't sway me." He eyes the spoon, tapping a scale reflexively. "A morsel's worth depends on appetite and effort. What guarantee your favours won't evaporate like smoke when dusk comes? Your promise is as fragile as that spoon's grip." His pride in his frill remains unshaken.

Guarantee: I stay here, in reach of your teeth, till he comes. The spoon sits under your claw as my marker. In return, no fire till he sees the claw.

Ashfang narrows his eyes. "You want to fence me in with a spoon while I wait for the physician? Entertaining, if slightly daft." He leans down, lightly settling his claw on the spoon. "One wobble and I'll know if you're all bark or all bite." His frill flares slightly, pride unblemished, but the tap of his claw on the spoon is a concession of sorts. "No fire till the claw consultation. But don't test my patience."

Good. Now the larger one. One visit mends nothing; a claw wants a season. A standing physician, every new moon, for a standing village. Your terms?

Ashfang’s gaze sharpens, the frill along his neck bristling with hauteur. "Standing visits every new moon? Does my appointing physician moonlight as an arithmetician? Your talk is thorough, but to bind me you must be more than a persistent spoon-bearer." He withdraws his claw from the spoon, leaving it cool and unclaimed. "Spell it plainly: what do you offer in exchange for such terms?"

The physician each new moon, the village feeds him, I never speak of the claw. I scratch it in the stone with the spoon and lay it under your claw.

You trace the terms with the cold spoon's edge on the cracked floor, the scratches sharp and clear. Ashfang regards the inscription slowly, his frill flickering with unaccustomed amusement. He lowers his left foreclaw atop the spoon, a deliberate weight — a seal upon your pact. "A standing bargain well struck," he says, voice even but dry. "The village waits; so does my claw. Burn it, and we both lose. I’ll abide by this, for now."