Dragons Luck by Robert Asprin

Street, and even if one had a map and was looking for it, its frontage was nondescript enough that it was easy to overlook.
    Most of the Quarter locals at least knew of its existence. If nothing else, it was only a half block from the Clover Grill, a favorite twenty-four-hour greasy spoon that people migrated toward when they needed a break from gumbo and red beans and rice, and felt the need for a plain old hamburger or maybe some waffles.
    Griffen had passed the place dozens of times but had never ventured in. Now, pausing at the doorway, he found himself wishing he had yielded to his curiosity at least once. As it was, he knew little to nothing about voodoo, and so felt woefully unprepared for the upcoming meeting. Still, it seemed there was no avoiding it.
    Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the door.
    The room he entered looked to be a small living room and was sparsely decorated with a few paintings and a wooden rack holding various flyers and promotions for swamp tours. A young black man was sitting behind a wooden table reading a book and glanced up as Griffen entered.
    “Are you here to make an appointment or just to view the exhibit?” he said, reaching for the cigar box that apparently served as his cash register.
    “I was told that Estella wanted to see me,” Griffen said.
    “Ah, yes.” The man nodded. “You would be Mr. McCandles. Go right back. Estella is expecting you.”
    He indicated a curtained archway to his right, then rose and locked the main entrance, flipping over the CLOSED sign as he did so. He saw Griffen’s concerned look and smiled.
    “Merely for privacy, I assure you,” he said.
    Griffen was not completely assured but ducked through the curtained archway.
    He found himself in a series of small rooms, again suggesting what was originally a residence rather than designed for commercial use. There were several glass cases scattered about, displaying what he guessed were magical items, and one corner seemed to be set up as some sort of altar.
    “Back here, Mr. McCandles.”
    He followed the voice and found himself in a small study. There were several chairs arranged in a half circle in front of a crudely carved wooden table covered by a colorful cloth, behind which sat a tall, slim woman.
    “It was good of you to come, Mr. McCandles,” the woman said, rising and extending a hand. “My name is Estella. I wanted a chance to speak with you privately before the conclave.”
    “Thank you for inviting me,” Griffen said, formally. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
    He took one of the chairs facing her, which was surprisingly comfortable. In fact, the entire room was quite cozy, and Griffen found himself relaxing despite his earlier misgivings.
    “I understand there have been some complaints that my group is not doing its part in preparing for the conclave,” Estella said, watching him closely.
    “I’ve heard a few comments to that effect myself,” Griffen said, “though I heard it expressed more as disappointment than as complaints.”
    “So it’s other people making those comments, not you,” Estella pressed.
    “I can assure you, it’s not coming from me.” Griffen smiled.
    “If nothing else, I don’t know enough about what should or shouldn’t be done to prepare for the conclave to try to complain or criticize anyone.”
    Estella blinked at this easy admission of his ignorance.
    “I guess that brings me to my next question,” she said.
    “What makes you feel you’re qualified to moderate the conclave?”
    “That’s even easier.” Griffen smiled. “I don’t. Think I’m qualified, that is. As a matter of fact, one of the things I wanted to tell you was that if you or your group object to my sitting in as moderator, I’ll gladly step down.”
    Estella frowned.
    “You make it sound like you don’t want the job.”
    “Not only do I not want it,” Griffen said with a grimace, “I can’t imagine why anyone would want it. There’s too much that