Wren Tallow: A Spoon for a Stay of Execution

Good line. You've been saving that one, sitting in this leak of a hall. Go on, tell me what they did. Nobody swears to burn a place for nothing.

Ashfang yawns once, a smoky puff that curls languidly away. "They burned a silver gravy boat," he grumbles. "One of mine. That's enough reason, isn't it?" His tone is tired, as if asking for sympathy from a rock. "I'm done here soon. No time for fuss if you're not offering the boat back."

Reason enough. Silver doesn't burn, though; it melts. So somebody has the lump. I move silver for a living. Tell me the weight and the maker's mark.

Ashfang snorts, a flare of embers licking the edges of a tooth. "The lump, a blob of half-melted silver, weighs roughly two kilograms. Maker? Some old human smith with a mark that looks like a caved-in star. I doubt you can verify it here, or that it would help much." He glances toward the village, impatience settling back in. "Time ticks, and your silver channels won't stop a burning village."

Two kilos, star mark. I know every river fence who'd buy it. Burn the village and the lump burns too, or it's downriver and you burn the wrong folk.

Ashfang's eyelids flutter. "You think I care for river fences? The lump's gone, whether downriver or up a chimney. You fancy a trade threat with a spoon like that? I could swallow you whole and flick you into the next county before dusk." He flexes a claw, eyes on you. "This is exhaustion talking, not mercy. Why should I not torch the village for the missing gravy boat?"

You're right, it's exhaustion. Torch it and you're still owed, still tired, only wetter. Rest here. I'll go down and have the debt weighed in silver.

Ashfang narrows his eyes, considering. "Weigh silver? Fine. Then wait while I watch you gambol down there like a miser chasing pennies." He shifts his tail, slumping slightly. "I don't want a soggy pyre, but don't expect me to nap until this is settled. Hurry up." His gaze lands on the spoon. "A spoon won't pay my debt, but make it quick or I roast the ruins too."

Hold this while I'm gone. Steel, and mine; you know I come back for it. I tuck the spoon under your claw and run for the village before dark.

Ashfang eyeing the spoon as if it were a live frog. "Fine, a steel spoon. Hardly my treasure, but I do recall that it's mine." He curls a claw gently around it, a promise dangling in his tired grip. "Run along, then. Foolish little human, don't lose my spoon or the village fries anyway." His voice trails as he settles back, the dusk inching closer.

I bang on every door with a candlestick behind it and say one thing: two kilos of silver on the hill by dusk, or nobody keeps anything. Empty them.

Ashfang's voice cuts through the hall's decay: "Doors? This ruin's memory's better than yours. No candlesticks, no bells. An empty threat served cold, unlike the fire you want to douse." He stands, tail scraping the stones. "Shouldering a spoon doesn't make you a smith or a robber." He yawns again, "Last chance before I burn the guest list."

I put my hand flat on the claw that holds my spoon and swear it: two kilos, star mark, by new moon, my name on the debt. Owed is worth more than ash.

Ashfang's claw still tight on the spoon, he lets your words hang. "A promise sealed by a spoon, signed by a human? Not exactly what dragon administration requires, but I'll take your oath as a stay of flame." He stretches, gaze drifting to the village. "I'll wait till new moon for the star-marked silver to appear. Meanwhile, the village stands. Don't lose my spoon, or next time I won't be so accommodating."