Free Dragon Princess by S. Andrew Swann

front of a long heavy table running along the rear wall. The man was weathered enough that he wouldn’t have looked out of place hanging on the wall with the rest of his wares.
    He was working with a wicked sickle-shaped knife, doing violence to some sort of skin, his back to me. The skin was uncomfortably humanoid in outline, and I hoped that it belonged to an ogre or something similar.
    I cleared my throat.
    The knife stopped moving, and his head turned slowly toward me. He was bald on top, but a bushy white beard spilled out over his leather apron. He arched an eyebrow and asked, “Do I know you?”
    “Gray sent me,” I said, naming one of the disreputable characters who had directed me to this place.
    The old man smiled, showing teeth with uncomfortably wide gaps between them. “Well what can I do for you . . .” his eyes widened a bit and his voice took on a syrupy tone that I did not like at all. “Miss?”
    I hefted the saddlebags and dropped them on the floor and threw the bridle down on top. “Selling these,” I said in what should have been an authoritative tone. Unfortunately, adding more husky overtones to the princess’s voice did not make it more intimidating. “And I need to replace these boots, and this—”
    The old man did not allow me to finish. “Yes!” he hissed, all too enthusiastically, slithering out of his seat to invade my personal space. He picked up the dangling end of my doubled-up belt and massaged the material between his fingers. “You need an entire ensemble.” He placed his hands on my hips and pulled the loose ends of Diego’s jacket so one end slipped off of my shoulder. “This will not do at all. Loose here.” His hands traveled up my sides. “Tight here.”
    I backed up a step, leaving his hands clutching a phantom bosom. “Hey—”
    His hands found his own hips, and he cocked his head. “And those breeches.” He made a disgusted noise. “That inseam is all wrong, and where the crotch sits—chafes, doesn’t it?”
    I was mildly uncomfortable agreeing with him, so I just stared.
    “Boots,” he said. “Off with them.”
    “Can you—”
    He clapped his hands sharply. “Please. The sooner we can dispose of this wretched outfit, the sooner we can equip you with something of value.”
    As I removed the boots, I asked, “How much?”
    “Let us not be mercenary for a moment.” He picked up my left boot and regarded it with a wrinkling of his nose. “Ghastly workmanship.” He tossed it over his shoulder. It landed on a pile of leather scraps. My heart sank, since I had been hoping to trade Diego’s outfit for one that actually fit.
    With a deft sleight of hand, he had removed my belt before I understood what he was doing. “Hmm, salvageable,” he muttered, dropping it with the saddlebags and the bridle.
    This was going a bit too far. I renewed my effort at speaking authoritatively. “Before we start—” My words began as royal pronouncement, and ended with an embarrassing squeak as the man took the collar of my jacket and yanked it over my head. Too easy considering how loose it was. With my hands over my head, nothing was left to support the too-large breeches, which fell to my ankles.
    The old man paid little mind to me. He tsked at Diego’s jacket, saving special derision for my makeshift alterations. For a moment I was at a loss for what to do, then I bent and drew Diego’s knife from where it hid inside the boot the old leatherworker had not tossed aside. Then I stepped out of the breeches, which would only be a hindrance at this point.
    He tossed the jacket onto the scrap pile and turned toward me. He smiled in a way that made me very uncomfortable. “Now why don’t you—” His eyes widened a bit as I brandished the knife, but he was looking off to my left.
    “Oh, good,” he said as he bent down to pick up Diego’s breeches. There was a jingle and he rummaged in one leg and withdrew Diego’s purse.
    Oh, damn.
    He hefted it, then tossed