The Dragon Book by Gardner Dozois, Jack Dann Page B

throwing netting over the cart’s top to fasten everything down.
    “I’ve got it figured out,” said Smith, who had wandered over to watch the dragons once Crankhandle was safely on the roof. “He sells the little bastards to the umbrella-makers, doesn’t he?”
    Arvin shot him a pained look. “N-n-n-n-n-no!” he said reproachfully. “He l-lets them g-go. G-goes inland a l-long way and r-releases them. G-gone for w-weeks sometimes.”
    “Aha,” said Smith. “Yes, of course.”

     
    CRANKHANDLE was up on the roof a long while, scraping and clunking and hammering. Mrs. Smith came out to see what was going on, and, on learning, was very pleased indeed with Smith, so much so that she went back indoors to prepare his favorite fried eel for dinner.
    Having repaired the leads, removed the nests, and dug dragon shit out of all the rain gutters, Crankhandle came back down the ladder at last, looking smug.
    “Very nice haul,” he said, slinging the basket down and pulling a tank with a spraying rig from under the cart. Smith got up and looked in the basket. He glimpsed something bright glinting among the ruin of nests and flat, sun-dried dragon corpses.
    “There’s something gold in here—” Smith reached for it, but Crankhandle whirled around with the tank in his hands.
    “Ah-ah-ah! That’s my perquisite, sir. ‘Contents of said nests or caches,’ I said, didn’t I? Anything I found up there’s mine , see? Or I can just let the little dears loose again, and I shouldn’t think you’d want that, not with the spiteful mood they’re in.”
    “All right, all right,” said Smith, but he brushed aside the rubbish for a better look anyway. His jaw dropped. In the bottom of the basket was a clutch of gold crown-pieces, a gold anklet, a silver bracelet set with moon-stones, a length of gold chain, three gold signet rings, the brass mouthpiece from a trumpet, assorted earrings …
    “Wait a minute.” Smith grabbed out a gold stickpin, a skull with ruby eyes. “This is mine! Went missing from my washstand!”
    “Mine now, mate,” said Crankhandle, shaking his head. “Those were my terms. Wyrmin steal bright metal; everybody knows that. Anyplace they nest, there’s going to be a hoard. Now you know how I can afford to do this free of charge.”
    “Well yes, but …” Smith turned the stickpin in his fingers. “Come on. This was a gift. A gift from a demon-lord, if you want to know, and I wouldn’t want to offend him by losing it. Can’t I keep just this pin? Trade you for it.”
    “Such as what?” Crankhandle was busy fastening the tank’s harness on his back.
    “Lady of the house is a gourmet cook. Seriously, the Grandview’s restaurant rated five cups in the city guide. Exclusive, understand? All the lords and ladies are regulars here, so you can imagine the wine cellar’s stocked with nothing but the best. We’ll give you the finest table and serve you the finest meal you’ll ever eat in your life, eh? And whatever you like to drink, as much as you can hold!”
    “Really?” Crankhandle’s eye gleamed. “Right, then; you get the table ready. I’m just going up to finish the job. I warn you, I’ve got a good appetite.”

     
    HE wasn’t joking. Crankhandle set his elbows on the table and worked his way through a whole moor-fowl stuffed with rice and groundpeas, a crown roast of venison with a blackberry red wine reduction sauce, golden-fried saffron crab cakes, two glasses of apricot liqueur, and a quart and a half of porter. Smith played the companionable host and took his dinner of fried eel at the table with his guest, watching in awe as the man ate and drank. He took it on himself to have some fried eel sent out to Arvin as well, marooned in the garden keeping watch over the cages.
    Refilling Crankhandle’s glass, Smith inquired: “How did you get into this line of business, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    “Ha-ha!” Crankhandle belched, grinned, and placed a slightly unsteady