Half the day went by, with Fiona going over the store setup, rules, and the items in inventory. Doug, of course, needed no list. But she also knew there would be no objections from him, now that she’d weeded out the items that mattered the most to him.

It did occur to her that she hadn’t asked where he was staying. And she had to pay him a living wage, which Greg had quietly taken care of and told her they had no issues with bringing him on board in terms of payroll. She’d checked the numbers. They were whittling down this debt.

She was waiting for the shoe to drop. It always did, right before things could work out wonderfully. She went over the list of discrepancies Doug had written up in fluid strokes of cursive. She frowned. “Seriously, you write in cursive?”

“Old habit, from a time when everyone used to use it. Before they invented pens, I’m sure that it is an import from Earth,” he shrugged. She raised an eyebrow and a pointy ear in response. “What’s with that look? You’re not the only one summoned.”

“Yeah, but I might have been the last, if our world didn’t get its act together. You know it’s gotten a little easier to talk about this, now that I know I’m not…ya know, a freak case. I mean I am, but not for the reasons you think,” she added hastily. “So you know what your role is?”

“I can guess. I can make an excellent sales pitch, considering these items all belong to me,” he growled. She tapped her foot impatiently, and he took note. “Will belong to me, again. Eventually. I also see some new items in here–how on Cepalune did you get dwarven armor in here?” he asked, looking fascinated. “They never share. Or not in significant quantities. I know, because I never got one, despite offering some dwarven finds of considerable historical worth.”

“Silver tongue, buddy. I thought dragons were good at talking with people too, when they aren’t eating them,” she added, while Doug scowled.

“We don’t eat people.”

“My ex-boyfriend would disagree with you, there,” she countered, eyes narrowed.

“Hah. Someone’s lying to you. We’re not big enough to eat a whole person. You remember how big I was, right?” he asked with a huff. “Sounds like ex-boyfriend realized the girlfriend was a little–”

“Do be careful what you say, to your current employer,” she warned him, teeth ground tightly. “Choose wisely.”

“All I’m saying is, we can’t hinge our jaws open like we’re some giant snake who can eat things bigger than our head,” he added with a smug look. “Besides, you all taste terrible. Blech. I can taste with my tongue–well, scents, I suppose–and that cinnamon is overpowering.”

“I don’t taste terrible–” she didn’t catch the statement in time, and narrowed her eyes at Doug, wearing a smug look now. “Round one goes to you, pint-sized. Now let’s move on to business.”

“Right. My evaluation is, someone was corruptly influencing the numbers on the taxes. And it’s worse than Mister Lockheed determined." He showed her the numbers on the arcanist pad–neatly written showing good penmanship, and she traced a finger over the pace, in utter focus.

“Forty percent? This is criminal.”

“I think we call that ‘fraud’ in most places, yes. He overvalued several items even more than that. Some, even double their worth. But he also screwed up in our favor.” Doug waved to a smaller list. “These big ticket items? I know the statue’s worth double what he appraised it at. The assessor was an idiot. Or, perhaps going with a big brain move and laying out a trap to see if you noticed.”

“Probably the former of those two.” She walked with him, hearing soft claw clicks across the well-maintained wood floor, and echoing in the open space of the shop. “So, I know a guy who assessed some stuff of mine. But I don’t know who assessed your…collection.”

Doug grunted. “An idiot, or a schemer. Possibly both. The level of incompetence on these numbers…it makes my scales itch,” he added with a small plume of flame emerging from his nostrils.

“Hey, hey, don’t set the place on fire. I have enough issues on my plate, as it were.”

“I’m upset, is what I am. I told Rikkard, to his face, ‘Your kid is rotten to the core, and he is trouble.’ You don’t defraud a dragon, if you want to continue breathing, and I made myself clear to him that this behavior would not stand.” He tapped the pen against the page before scribbling more detailed numbers down. "Then he puts that idiot on the throne. I wonder if Barry has something on him."

"What, blackmail?" Fiona hadn't actually considered it. She'd been convinced that Glados was the viper that needed to be yanked out, but, was there another factor? "That would be...well, disturbing, if he told Rikkard to go retire, and he just did it. But, I thought you were convinced Rikkard just sold out and gave up."

"A theory that doesn't hold water, the more I think about it," he frowned. "Rikkard has a reputation for being stalwart, and competent. Something else must have given out if that were the case. One of the dragons who runs a business by the hills near where I was set up, told me he got a report the local mines were drying up. I never investigated, because you can practically trip over gold in Fiefdala."

“Seriously, did someone throw Barry down a well or something? Because the level of incompetence I’ve seen is pretty disturbing. Rikkard would have been better served by forcing Lucy to grow up. Ah damn it, she hates the throne, and the idea of being a leader,” Fiona sighed while they continued to walk along. Fiona occasionally had to ward off a customer or point them to the right aisle–as if they weren’t already labeled, and she leered at them as they departed.

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“That deadly glare is more useful when they’re facing you,” Doug commented in a dry tone.

“Working retail is tough, Doug, let me tell you. It’s worse when you run the place, because if it fails, it means you screwed up somewhere.”

“So, you ran a business before? I take it that it didn’t go well, and when you got a second shot at life from a mysterious benefactor–which I find pretty sus–you took to all sorts of wonderful pastimes! Like temple raiding, smashing slimes into next week’s healing potions, turning monsters into pelts…and making me your punching bag. Great career turn,” he added with a slow clap.

“H-hey, that treasure was just sitting there! It belonged in a museum! I mean I think some of it made its way there, Greg usually handled that stuff.” She thrust her hands in her pockets, and she shot a smoldering look at him. “You should be one to talk. You’re a dragon. The archetypal bad guy.”

“I resent that. Though my brother isn’t doing any favors to shed our species of that rather awful stereotype.” He rubbed at the silver ring he’d put on one claw, and shook his head almost imperceptibly. “You know who the worst monsters are? People who choose to be one. Karlin has cheated, stolen, bullied, and probably roasted a number of his problems, and tried to pin it on me, whenever he can.”

“C’mon, don’t they have scrying magic? Or does this world follow weird logic bullshit?” she pressed.

“He’s…cunning. He’s like me, but he uses his intelligence maliciously. Not to say I haven’t roasted someone who tried to stick a spear in me first, but I chose to be a part of the community, rather than ransacking it,” he added with a rumble.

“Your dragon-fu was pretty weak, candidly speaking.” He glared at her furiously, and she returned the expression with a smirk. “Did you never do any fighting?”

“I’m a dragon. Anyone who manfights a dragon either has suicidal bravery, is dumb, or has a well-prepared plan. Besides, my kin has a regular community up north,” he snapped, looking incensed at her casual responses. “You should go visit. We’re as sophisticated up there as we are in Fiefdala.”

“Let’s say I believe you, and that I’ll put it on a list of places to visit at some point.” Another thought came up. “Dumb question. Did Karlin get the same mark as you, since he’s a twin?”

“Nope. I don’t actually know what his mark is, believe it or not,” he added with a scoff. “Not everyone shares that, you know. Unlike you.”

“Only to my friends, and adversaries I keep close.” She glanced at the display and fixed an arrangement of potions to be arrayed with the correct labeling, then took a note on her arcanist pad of the remaining ones. “Anyway, getting back on track, retail is rough. It’s long hours. Sometimes your margins are razor-thin. You go from buying lobster, to peanut butter sandwiches when times get tough. Then, you get the problem customers.”

“Problem customers?”

“Oh, I had names for all of them. The window shoppers, the scammers, the revolving door customers, the weird ones that ask inane questions like if your food products are wheat, egg, gluten, or dairy free! Even though it’s on the label.” She let out a puff of air to push her hair back into place. “There’s one right there,” she added as she narrowed her eyes, and gestured for him to follow her gaze.

“What, the elf at the display case?” he queried.

“She’s been sitting at that display case for an hour. Asking Greg to show her each of the rings. She puts it on, takes it off, puts it on again, haggles on the price, then asks to see another one! Then she’ll go through the whole case, looking for that one purchase! Then, she’ll ask if there are any more options in the back.”

“I don’t think she’s done that yet–”

Fiona put a finger up in the air, and pressed close to the kobold. “Wait for it,” she uttered in a low tone. He went wide-eyed and gently shied away.

“You have an intimidating presence, has anyone told you? You’re like the apex predator in the room, and choosing what your next meal is.”

“It takes one to know one,” she smiled. She observed Greg wearing that press-lipped look, determined to not let his annoyance through at the brown-haired elf with far too much makeup, and she heard her distantly ask if there was anything in the back. Greg’s brow twitched, but he did say that they had a few more choices in the back. But, they would need to be accessed and there would be a short wait.

“Okay, that’s spooky. You have been doing this for far too long,” Doug stated, sounding mildly impressed.

“Oh, it gets better! There’s the complainer customer. The one talking to Bonnie,” she added while pointing and talking in a hushed voice. Bonnie’s ears were all flattened. Her customer was a lizardkin with sleek green scales, saying that the runes weren’t the ones he ordered, and were incompatible with the metal of his armor. Fiona pointed it out, and whispered, “Betcha she says ‘I needed to know the base material to make a compatible rune, and you gave me the wrong information'.”

Ten seconds later, she said just that, and Doug nodded. “Are customers always this predictable?”

“You can see the problem ones coming a mile away. But not all of them are copper pinchers. Some actually spend a lot of money. But your patience will be strained to the bleeding limit when you do so,” she explained.

“Oh? I know history, but you know people. That one, by the armor stand? The one worn by Cedric Legolin? What can you tell me about him?” Doug asked, as if this was a challenge, now.”

Fiona shrugged as they walked through the aisles, and she rearranged a few items that had been moved around by customers–that was a personal peeve of her, as her eye twitched. Buying the wrong potion or wrong alchemical solution could result in an inconvenience, or seriously hurt someone. “Okay, that guy? Regular customer. He works in the adventurer’s guild, mid-range mission risks. He buys frequently and buys for the job he needs. He's one of our best customers. He utilizes the payment plans and never missed a payment. He paid some stuff off early.”

“Okay. And her?” Doug pointed almost randomly at a woman by the far side, looking at the paintings.

“She’s an enthusiast for paintings. She loves pictures of the seaside, and forest cottages. I mean, we have what we have, but I do plan on rotating local artistic talents once inventory is low.”

“Vair La’teur is a famous artist. She gravitates to that one painting,” Doug pointed out. “The artist's family was killed by bandits from the Minthure hills, but she survived with a maimed hand. Yet, her works are some of the finest paintings I’ve seen on this side of the continent. I think you should make that sale.”

“She's just browsing,” Fiona shrugged. “She just likes hanging out at the coffee booth, tips Darla generously, and is quite pleasant to talk to, for the past few days. Taking notes, actually."

Doug shook his head. “But she wants it. It’s important to her. See if you can make a deal.”

“I find it strange that you’re not as attached to this stuff, the vast majority of which, came from your hoard.”

“Collection,” he corrected with a snort that left a wisp of smoke coming from his nostrils. He scrunched his face, looking embarrassed. “It’s a collection. But, let me ask you this…you ever get little hints from your mark, like you should do something, even if you don’t know why right away?”

Flap. Wingding answered that question for her before she did. “...You know something, Doug? Let’s give it a try.”