Free The Outsorcerer's Apprentice by Tom Holt

in a natural firebreather—
    He heard something else; the whinny of a horse, the clank of metal. What on earth? A horse-drawn plough? An old-fashioned rag-and-bone man? Or–what was it she’d said, just before he so impressively ran away? A knight.
    A deafening roaring noise blotted all thought from his mind. It seemed to go on for ever, and then it stopped. Silence; then a man’s voice saying, “Sorry. Nothing personal.”
    Florizel realised he’d stopped breathing. Damn silly thing to do. He put that right with a deep, ragged gasp.
    “Learn your destiny,” said a voice that spoke ordinary words but definitely wasn’t human. “You must ride to the forest of Evinardar—”
    “Actually,” said the man, “would it be all right if I stopped you there, because in actual fact I have no intention whatsoever of going to bloody Evinardar, it’s a godawful place, the food’s lousy, the women smell and the gross national product is less than the cost of the two sets of horseshoes I’d wear out getting there. So, if it’s all the same to you—”
    “Suit yourself,” croaked the other voice; and then there was a ground-shaking thump, as though something very heavy had fallen over. About a minute later, Florizel heard the sound of a saw, and some out-of-tune whistling.
    “Excuse me,” he called out. “Hello?”
    Pause. Then an upside-down face appeared just below the jutting ledge, “Hello,” said the face. “You all right down there?”
    “Is it dead?”
    The face grinned. “As a doornail,” it said. “You’ll be the prince, then.”
    In spite of everything, Florizel couldn’t help wondering–“How’d you know?”
    “Come on.” A mail-clad arm extended towards him. “Let’s get you out of there, and then we can talk.”
    While he’d been under the ledge both of Florizel’s feet had gone to sleep, a fact he only became aware of when he tried to stand on them. So he sat down instead, with his back to the rock. “I’m Prince Florizel,” he said weakly. “How can I ever—?”
    There was a slightly glazed look on the young man’s face. “Oh, let’s not bother with all that now,” he said. “I’m Sir Turquine, by the way. Look, is there any chance of a cart and a dozen men?”
    “Of course,” Florizel said. “Anything else?”
    “Rope,” said Sir Turquine. “About two hundred square yards of muslin would be nice. And if you could possibly come up with half a ton of ice—”
    Florizel nodded eagerly. “There’s a sort of cave thing out in the back of the palace, full of the stuff. They use it for making sherbet, whatever that is. Help yourself.”
    The knight gave him a beautiful smile. “Look,” he said, “about your daughter—”
    “I haven’t got a daughter.”
    “Sorry, silly me, your sister—”
    “I’m an only child.”
    “You are? That’s splendid.” Sir Turquine looked genuinely pleased. “That’s that sorted, then. Look, how far away are the ropes and the cart and stuff? Only, time’s getting on and it’s a warm day.”
    As best he could, Florizel gave him directions to the palace. “Ask for the Grand Steward,” he said, “say I sent you. And if he gives you any trouble—”
    He must have said something amusing, because the knight laughed. “He won’t, trust me. Well, thanks ever so, and it was a pleasure doing business with you.”
    “No, thank
you
.”
    “Whatever. And if you get any more dragons, remember, Turquine’s the name. Fast, efficient service, no supernatural monster too large or too small. Cheerio for now.”
    Turquine vaulted onto his horse, which sagged slightly; then he trotted away, making a sound like a panel-beating contest. When he was out of sight, Florizel slowly turned round and looked at the dragon.
    For obvious reasons, it didn’t look back at him. Its eyes were open, and there was dust on its eyeballs; its yard-long jaws were slightly open, and Florizel could see teeth as long and yellow as bananas, and a cushion-sized