"Pssst. Hey, mate. How much?"

"What's that?" Frowning in concentration, Sir Crispin looked up from the camp table he'd erected under a convenient streetlight, its surface strewn with rulers, compasses, pencils and bits of paper covered with hastily drawn sketches of the stable and its surrounds. The removal of his helm had revealed the face of a rather young, rosy-cheeked man, topped with a head of tousled blond hair. He took in the group of people standing before him, with more steadily drifting out from the pub to join them, and the grizzled fellow in an apron at their head. He gave him a winning smile.

 "What did you say, my good man?"

The bristled features broke into an ingratiating grin. "Yon beastie," said the man, gesturing beyond the knight. "How much you want for it?"

Without turning, Sir Crispin reached up to the feathered neck of the creature seated behind him, towering at least half-again as high as his own six-foot-two, and gave it an affectionate rub.

"Oh, I couldn't sell dear old Tally. For starters, she's not really mine, you see. More of a partner-type situation, you might say. I also rather need her, don't you know. Once my quest here is complete, I'll have to be getting home, and that must be a blessed long way away by now, I should think. Much too far to leg it, old boy. Plus, of course, as a knight I've quite sworn off from all that nasty palaver about money and profits and what have you. So, you see, I'm afraid it must be no deal. Terribly sorry."

The grin, if anything, only became more ingratiating. To anyone who knew the man (and as the principal barman and part-owner of The Double G for the past twenty years or so, that included pretty much the entire staff, students and alumni of the university) it was evident the only two words of Sir Crispin's reply he'd either heard or paid attention to (or understood) were 'no deal'. And equally evident that as far as he was concerned, rather than putting an end to the matter, the knight had just made the first move in what was likely to be a lengthy and no doubt thoroughly enjoyable negotiating process.

"It's just," said the barman (known to one and all as Ol' Kraff), "that's a gryphon." Clearly feeling this to be a strong counter-move, one which may in fact have carried the day, he turned and gave a nod to the onlooking pub patrons, who murmured in suitable appreciation.

Sir Crispin beamed at him. "So it is, good sir. Well spotted, indeed. You are an aficionado of fantastic beasts, I find. Quite clearly a man of rare perception. Sadly, however, she's still not for sale."

Just a hint of impatience crept into Ol' Kraff's expression. "But this is The Gryphon's Giblets." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Like, as in"—he slowed his words, in order to cater to the hard-of-thinking— "that's the name of the pub."

"Indeed? My, my, what a coincidence, quite remarkable. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be getting back to my strategising." And with a flash of white teeth, the knight returned to his plans.

Ol' Kraff considered. He wasn't usually much of a one for consideration, but then he also wasn't usually confronted with the sudden appearance outside his pub of the very same mythical creature that had adorned the sign hanging above its front door for the past hundred years or more. A creature he'd assumed was made-up, until this very evening. And while the phrases 'marketing opportunity' and 'brand recognition' were not ever likely to form in his pre-frontal cortex, 'ker-ching!', on the other hand, was one he was entirely familiar with. And if The Gryphon's Giblets acquiring a real, live gryphon (complete, he assumed, with giblets) didn't have ker-ching! written all over it, he didn't know what did.

"I got gold," he blurted, taking the radical step of forgoing the haggle. Desperate times, and all that. This young'un and his beast had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and he didn't want 'em disappearing back into it. At least, not until the deal was done. "Name your price."

With a sigh, Sir Crispin once again raised his head, his smile now no more than civil. "While I appreciate your persistence, good sir, I'm afraid it's wasted in this case. Tally is not now, nor will she ever be for sale. Kindly consider the matter finalised and allow me to return to my plans. This dragon will not slay itself, after all."

"I got ale, too." Growing just a little desperate, Ol' Kraff was struggling to maintain his grin. "Much as you want. And I got whiskey and gin and, um...whiskey. And—"

"A dragon?" This came from a young woman, standing in the front row of the onlookers.

Ol' Kraff frowned. "No, I ain't got no dragon," he snapped. "Although..."—he went on, his expression growing crafty—"I knows a lass what'll dress up as one for you, if'n it'll sweeten the deal."

"No, he said he's got to slay a dragon," insisted the young woman. "What dragon does he mean?"

"Why, the one in the stable, of course," replied Sir Crispin.

"What stable?" asked Ol' Kraff.

The knight pointed. "That stable."

"But that's my stable."

"Is it?"

"Yes, it bloody is!"

"Well, never mind, old boy. Don't you worry, we'll have it sorted, toot suite. While one doesn't like to blow one's own trumpet, dragon-slaying is rather my bag, you might say. There's just a slight complication, in that the cunning beast rather appears to have acquired a hostage, but once I've come up with a suitable plan to rescue the abject fellow, I'll have your stable dragon-free again in no time. After all"—with a broad wink to the crowd, he reached up and patted one of the saddlebags hanging on Tally's side—"we have the thaumaturgy."