I arrived back at the camp like a triumphant caravanserai of one.
Two bulging sacks slung over my shoulders, jingling with promise. Silk scarves flapping behind me like gaudy battle standards. Anklets tinkling. Perfumed to the gods and just shy of tripping over my own extravagance. I'd barely made it down the ridge without turning into a glamorous landslide.
He looked up from his rock with the air of someone who'd just smelled a bad decision.
"You were supposed to buy supplies," he said. "Food. Rope. Climbing gear. Water flasks. You know—essentials."
"I did," I said cheerfully, dropping the sacks with a ceremonial thump. "Macaroons are food."
He blinked. "Macaroons?"
I held up the ornate tin. It was already half empty. "I got hungry lugging this lot. These are rosewater and pistachio. Also there's a peach brandy cream one that might actually qualify as a religious experience."
The dragon groaned, long and theatrical. "You were meant to buy rations. Not dessert. And what is all this?"
I began the unveiling.
One silk robe. Sheer. Gold thread. Beads. Slits.
Two pairs of anklets, one with bells, one with tiny dangling charms that clinked like flirtatious windchimes.
Four veils in various opacities, none of them remotely practical for hiking.
A pouch of powdered kohl. A set of enamelled hairpins shaped like crescent moons. A scandalously small brassiere composed mostly of hope and string.
"Oh!" I added, "And this." I pulled out a crystal vial no bigger than my thumb. "Essence of dream orchid. Supposed to attract lovers and confuse bees."
He squinted at it like it owed him money. "We need rope."
"I bought a braided belt! It's versatile."
"Not for rappelling off cliffs!"
"Fine," I said. "Next village, I'll get your precious rope. This time I had priorities."
He muttered something that sounded like "materialistic hellspawn" and poked one of the silk robes with a claw.
"It's lovely," I said. "Hand-dyed. Probably by virgins."
"Do you know what's not lovely? Starving to death in the wilderness wearing perfume."
I shrugged. "If I'm going to die, I want to smell better than everyone else."
He sighed so hard a small pebble rolled away in despair.
"You are impossible."
"And yet," I smiled, sliding a toe ring into place with delicate ceremony, "here I am. With macaroons."
He stared at the tin. Then at me. Then back at the tin.
"…Are there any left?"
I slid it toward him.
He took one. Slowly. Grudgingly. Then popped it into his mouth and closed his eyes like he didn't want to admit how good it was.
"Next time," he said between chews, "we get climbing gear."
"Next time," I said, "I get shoes with actual soles."
"Next time," he muttered, "I leave you in the town."
I patted his claw. "You say that every time."
He didn't respond.
Which meant I was winning.
For the record, the last scam had gone mostly to plan.
It was a smallish village, all plump sheep and pudgy priests. They didn't have much coin but did have an ancient suit of ceremonial armor buried in the shrine and enough superstition to choke a cleric. I'd sobbed about the fire. He swooped in. The villagers swooned. And when some brawny, sanctimonious do-gooder showed up with a sword and a hero complex the size of Seebulba… well.
Let's just say he never finished his dramatic monologue.
Bit crispy by the end. Smelled like justice and ham.
But the armor? Barely scratched. A bit of soot, some scorched feather plumes, but otherwise intact. Bronze inlay. Gilded edges. Polished like an insecure noble's conscience.
Next town over was rich. Trade hub. Brothel-friendly. Artisanal everything.
And Saya?
Saya made bank.
"I assume," the Dragon said now, eyeing me like a suspicious treasurer, "you sold the armor."
"I did," I said proudly, brushing imaginary dust off my shoulder. "Highest bid. Got into a bit of a bidding war, actually. One collector, one warlord, and a man with a monocle who kept saying 'provenance' like it was a threat."
"And how much," he asked, slow and dangerous, "did you get for it?"
I puffed out my chest. "Five hundred silvers."
He raised an eyebrow ridge. "Where's the rest?"
I blinked. "The rest of what?"
"The money, Saya."
"Oh," I said, twirling a scarf through my fingers. "Well, I tipped the barmaids."
His head drooped like a dying fern.
"They were very enthusiastic," I added helpfully. "With their tongue work."
He groaned.
"I like to support local talent," I said. "I'm basically a patron of the arts."
He turned away, muttering something about ulcers and the decline of fiscal responsibility.
I sniffed. "Besides, we're in the hospitality industry too, technically. We terrorize communities. They serve drinks. It's all part of the same ecosystem."
He didn't reply.
Possibly because he was trying not to scream.
I popped another macaroon into my mouth and offered him the tin again.
"Investment," I said, mouth full. "Think of it as goodwill. That town will remember me."
He looked back. "You wore four veils and a toe ring to a bar."
"I was the entertainment."
"You are the reason I have indigestion."
"Wrong," I said sweetly. "That's the mint and charcoal stew from last week."
He gave me a long, smoky glare.
I winked. "You're welcome."
I raised a finger triumphantly. "I did buy a tent."
He paused. Squinted. "…You what?"
"A tent," I repeated. "Proper lodging. We've been sleeping under sticks and existential dread for weeks."
He narrowed one golden eye. "What kind of tent?"
"A fancy one," I said, beaming. "Fit for a sultan."
Now that got his attention.
"Where is it?"
I gestured vaguely back toward the path. "Ox cart. Down at the bend. It was a bit… heavy."
He stared at me.
Then turned slowly, with the expression of a man bracing for disaster, and began lumbering down the slope.
I trailed behind, jingling with every step.
The cart was still there, barely. The errand boy spotted the approaching dragon, yelped something incoherent, and abandoned his post in a blur of sandals and panic. The oxen made a soft choking noise and fainted. One dropped to its knees like it had seen its own tax bill.
And there it was.
The tent.
A monstrosity of silk, brocade, tassels, and absurd ambition. Rolled and packed into what looked like four full-sized bales, complete with gilded trim and decorative tie-ons. It shimmered in the sunlight like a mirage created by someone with no impulse control.
He stared.
"…This is a tent?"
"Isn't it divine?" I clapped. "Imported. Hand-stitched. Stain resistant. I haggled for hours."
"It has embroidery."
"Yes," I said proudly. "And five inner chambers. One is scented. For moods."
"It's not windproof."
"I'll weigh it down with rocks."
"It's purple."
"Royal purple."
"It's taller than a cottage."
"You can stand inside without stooping."
He closed his eyes like he was doing the mental math of all his past lives' mistakes.
"Who," he said slowly, "is going to carry it?"
I grinned. "Well… I don't have a cart anymore."
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
He opened his mouth.
I waggled my eyebrows.
"I have arthritis," he said, voice cracking slightly.
"So don't carry it with your wrists," I chirped. "Use your back. Or your magic. Or… your ancient draconic muscles."
He exhaled smoke like a man contemplating murder.
"A tent," he said. "A decorative, six-paneled, scented, veiled tent the size of a temple."
"Sultan adjacent," I corrected.
He turned away. Muttered something about karma and indulgent whores.
I patted the nearest bale lovingly. "Wait until you see the curtains."
"I'm not carrying it."
"I believe in you."
"I will torch it."
"Only if the mood lighting doesn't work first."
He stomped off in the direction of the oxen, probably to whisper motivational things at their lifeless bodies or consider joining them.
I sighed, hand on my hip, toe ring catching the sun just right.
Home sweet home.