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"--slave!"

"Listen, you . . . going to take more . . . up, stupid!"

Nace faded reluctantly back to reality. He was tired, his eyes and body ached, and above all else he did not wish to wake to find what might be waiting for him. But sleep could be no refuge in the midst of such noise--

"If you don't . . . I'll . . . for you!"

"Go ahead and try it . . . nothing but . . . glorified piece of shit!"

"For the last time, shut UP!"

The yellow-green resigned himself to his growing awareness with a helpless little sigh.

"Come on, you--Awrk!"

He opened his eyes just in time to see a dark dragon with a red collar and a bloodied muzzle kick Ardo's legs out from under him with a single sweep of his claws. The Pythian hit the ground hard, with a click of clashing teeth. "Come on," the slave said, grinning. "Do it again. Coward. Ape. Get up and do it again!"

Ardo clambored upright, drawing on the bars of one cage. He wiped blood from his lips. "Bathhtard!" His claws were out, his hands drawn up to strike, but that left his face and throat unguarded.

The larger dragon cuffed him, almost playfully. "Boo, Pythian. You're dead."

Ardo snarled, both fear and affront. He latched on to the red-collar's shoulders and drove him backwards into a cage. With the door slammed secure between them, the 'prentice guard gave full vent to his rage. He shook the bars and howled.

The red-collar was but momentaily unbalanced. He angled his head at the cell door and flexed his claws. "Watch it, boyo. I can get you yet." Incredibly, he was grinning still, a somehow jolly expression from a mouth like a steel trap.

"You wouldn't dare," Ardo spat. Nevertheless, he backed a pace or two away.

"If you were your master, I would," the slave replied. "Get a little older and I will. If you live that long."

"I imagine he'll make it," another voice replied. Velen appeared, walking sedately through a forest of dark bars. As he drew nearer, his outline grew more evident, and the other cells did not interfere so much with Nace's line of view. "Though he may need a few more lessons like that," the guard admitted. "Come along, Ardo. You should be grateful to him. Most red-collars don't care who they kill."

"I'll see you die," the 'prentice hissed, all his focus on the dragon in the cell. "I'll watch you die. Slaves die." He licked his teeth, relishing this. "We all die, but slaves go real slow." At last he consented to turn and leave.

The dark dragon waved cheerfully. "Pleasant good day to you, too, you numb fuck. I hope he beats the living shit out of you."

Ardo snarled something, an incoherent noise that might have been "Cocksucker!" but by that time, Velen had him by the arm, and would not let him go to mince more words. Ardo gave no sign of seeing where or who Nace was. The young dragon was just another slave.

"Well," the red-collar said with a nod. "That was interesting." He laid out his blanket and settled on it. "So, you're awake," he said to Nace. "That's nice. Was it a good show?"

The yellow-green stared at him, blinking, through only a single line of bars. Ardo had placed this dragon just next door. In such proximity, he could discern that the dragon's dark scales were a deep, inky shade of blue, the color of moonlit night. His wings shaded to an even darker black, as did his feathered crest and the little tuft of pinions on the tip of his tail. In contrast, his eyes were a shocking, lemon yellow. Nace could almost smell citrus to look at them.

"Pretty," he managed dizzily.

The red-collar crept a little closer, peering at him. "You aren't half screwed up, are you?" he said.

Nace nodded, and then shook his head, not entirely sure what was required.

"You going to be sick again?"

Nace shook his head. "Uh-uh. Just . . . so thirsty."

"Yes, I imagine you would be. There's a tap, at the back," the dark blue pointed over the yellow-green's shoulder. "Are you going to be all right to get to it?"

"Think so," Nace said, gazing into the distance behind him. The rusted pipe seemed an awfully long way up, and so far away, at the back wall of the cell, but his throat was so dry he'd risk anything for a sip of water. He crept back to his feet, wobbling but unwilling to crawl, and managed a few steps toward the back--

"Oh! Mind the trench!" the dark blue cried out as Nace nearly planted a foot in it. The yellow-green shifted backwards and sat down hard. A moment later he lay down as well, resting his aching head against the cool stone of the floor, watching the ceiling make endless circles above him.

"You're not going to make it," the blue dragon told him. Nace whined a brief affirmative. "All right. Well . . . Hang on. Just lie still for a moment." He stood and turned on his own tap. The sound of running water made Nace want to drool, or cry, but he didn't have the liquid for it.

"All right, now sit up. Try to sit up. I can't help you. Hang on the bars, there. That's it." Smiling easily, as if he did this sort of thing all the time at home, he slipped his cupped hands through the bars and brought a few sips of water to the yellow-green's muzzle.

Nace was too thirsty to show any decorum. He pushed his nose into the dragon's palms and sucked the sweet liquid away.

"More?" the blue asked him.

Nace nodded immediately.

The blue dragon laughed a little. "All right." he said, rising and returning to the tap. "You just tell me when you've had enough." He made several more trips to the running tap and back, bearing blessedly cool water each time. In a grateful daze, Nace thought he could've kissed the dragon. Once he even stated as much, and the dark blue merely laughed at him again, "Maybe when you're a bit cleaner, all right?"

Nace smiled, eyes beginning to lid themselves, sleep already drawing its veil over his mind. He took one last, lovely sip, and then could take no more. He sank against the bars and slid down them, back to the cold comfort of the stone floor. He was asleep before his muzzle touched the ground.

---

"Sst! Hey, kid!"

Nace groaned and batted a hand at the noise. He didn't want to wake up. If he woke he'd be cold, and sticky, plastered in his own ejecta. There would be a million little details of reality to deal with, and one large, inevitable doom that he did not want to remember. Asleep, all was darkness, nothing. Peace. It seemed so much the better option.

"Come on. I know you're tired, but if they take it away you'll be tired and hungry. Come on, kiddo!"

The yellow-green gave a tiny whine. His eyes flinched open in the glare of the cold, white light. He stared painfully at the dark blue. "What? What do you want?"

"I want you to eat your breakfast," the dragon told him.

"You can have it," Nace said, covering his eyes.. The blue dragon snatched his hand down and pulled it away.

"No," he said. "I want you to eat your breakfast."

"Not hungry," Nace said. He tried to take his hand back and get the light out of his eyes, but the larger dragon wouldn't let him. In fact, he reached another hand through the bars and began to haul the yellow-green bodily upright.

Nace groaned again, dangling there, but the weight of his entire body was no impediment to the dark blue. Sleep trickled out of his mind with the reluctance of cold molasses. "No!" the yellow-green protested, to the method as well as the result, but there was no getting back to sleep like this. "I'm not hungry!" he cried, and was almost really crying.

The blue dragon set him down again, gently. "Go on and try to eat a bit, anyway," he said, nodding towards the front of the cell. A dish of whitish gruel sat beneath the cell door, congealing. It looked like the half-and-half mixture of bone meal and cereal they got for morning meal. That stuff was barely tolerable hot. This was cold.

The dark blue nudged him towards it. "Go on. You need to eat."

Acquiesence, it seemed, was the only way out of this. After he choked some food down, maybe the male would let him go back to sleep. That was all he wanted. Darkness. Peace. Nace crawled to the cell door and hooked the dish with a clawtip, dragging it to him. It was cold, lumpy, the consistency of paste, and mercifully tasteless. He bit it, held it a moment in his mouth without chewing, then swallowed it down.

"Oh, God!" he cried in sudden agony, and he almost drooled as he said it. Saliva flooded his mouth. His stomach twisted in a pang of need. More! I WANT it!

Nace nodded abject obedience, hands clutched against his middle. Pain gnawed him like a rat sewed into his belly. Yes! I'll do anything! Just don't kill me. Don't kill me. Don't kill me . . .

He shut his eyes on welling tears. "Oh, God, it hurts . . . it hurts so much . . ."

"Be careful!" the blue dragon warned him. "If you eat too fast you'll sick it up and there's no more food until noontime. You've been three days passed out on the floor here, and the Goddess only knows when you ate before then. Take it slow! Do you hear me?"

Nace nodded again, though it was an effort to make sense of the words. Slowly . . . Slowly . . . But his stomach overwhelmed his mind. He took another bite, a bigger bite, and wolfed it. Then he lifted the bowl and filled his mouth again.

"Stop right there!" the dark blue commanded.

And Nace did, not even daring to swallow. Obeisance was deeply ingrained in his psyche, especially to somebody so much bigger and stronger and louder than him. It was enough even to override the demands of his body. "Nn?" he asked, mouth politely shut. If he opened it, he was liable to spit food in his lap.

"Wait," the blue said. "Count to ten."

Nace cast his eyes to one side, faintly embarrassed. "Nn. Dnn. Hnee . . ."

"Oh, my good Goddess!" said the blue, eyes rolled heavenward. "You can count in your head, can't you? You know, in your head?"

Nace nodded.

"All right. Anyway, it's been long enough by now. Swallow."

Nace did so, audibly. "Sorry."

"You're a strange one, you are," the blue muttered. He looked back up at Nace. "Will you slow down, now? Can you manage that?"

Nace gazed into the metal dish, which his efforts had already left half-empty. It no longer looked like paste. Or, if it did, he had reverted to his early childhood belief that paste was a valid meal choice. And delicious. It was supposed to be good for you, too. Well, not paste, but this stuff. The nurses were always after you to finish it, and then drink your milk. He would've drunk a gallon of milk now, if he could get some. Half a plate of porridge didn't seem like nearly meal enough.

Well, that was all the more reason to go slowly with it.

"Yes," he said. "I think so." He took smaller bites, and tried to count ten between them. He even chewed a little. Proceeding in this manner he had the dish licked clean in about three minutes. It wasn't much, but it killed the pain in his belly, and it brought the strength flowing back into his limbs. He was still a little shaky, and he feared to fall, but nevertheless he stood and navigated to the faucet on foot. The tap was grimed with dark rust and green patina. It turned with a squeal and spat a few drops of blackish muck into the trench. Nace flinched away from the hiss and force of it.

"Just give it a minute," the blue said, much amused at the young dragon's guilty look. "It's not your fault."

After some deep and disconcerting noises, the pipe shuddered and the flow of water cleared and strengthened. Nace cupped his hands and filled his stomach drumhead tight with the surprisingly cool liquid.

Hunger quiet, the yellow-green began to notice the rest of himself. First, a somewhat sticky feeling, and then the smell . . .

"Oh, no," he said, half-embarrassment, half-disgust. He brushed at the awful, dirty sensation, but he could not get it away from him. It had dried on the plates of his belly like a crust. He brushed harder, eyes squeezed shut and muzzle flinched away. It did nothing but he couldn't stop. He didn't dare stop. "A bath," he said. "I need a bath . . . I need a bath!"

"The tap is running . . ." the dark blue said, but he trailed away. It didn't seem that was what the yellow-green wanted, though he had no idea why not.

Nace looked up at the cold, dim fluid with abject incomprehension. It was dirty. It looked dirty. It tasted dirty--Oh, dear God, he could still taste it! The dust and the damp and the thick, stale air. The floor and the walls. There was dirt and muck and mold. There was . . . filth. His own, on him and around him.

He gave his muzzle a skittish shake, denying all. "No . . . No! I need a bath!"

"Listen to me," the blue said. "Calm down! You have plenty of water, it's all going to wash off, if you just calm down and clean yourself--"

"It's dirty!" Nace shrieked, calling forth a chorus of low moans and cries from the surrounding cells.

"Calm down!" the red-collar demanded. "You're going to get them all started! I . . . I don't need to hear that again . . ."

Nace groaned sickly, in almost total incoherence. "NO!"

The dark blue fidgeted a moment, twining fingers together, staring wide-eyed at the echoing answers from the cells. With sudden decision, his hand shot through the bars and wrapped around the yellow-green's throat. He yanked the dragon against the wall, under the cold flow of the tap, and held him there. "Damn it, now calm DOWN!"

Nace gasped, choked, spat and fought. Then he moaned, long and loud, and he began to cry. He choked again as his frantic sobs drew more of the swampy water into his lungs, could not stop crying and choked some more. His breath grew ragged, painful, and at last he could not cry anymore, because he could not breathe anymore. When he was quiet, the blue finally let him go.

The yellow-green slumped bonelessly to the floor, coughing and sniffling. He gazed up at the blue dragon with reddened eyes.

"I'm sorry," the dark blue said.

Nace managed a tiny nod. He croaked a single word, in miserable hope, "Soap . . . ?"

The dragon shook his head.

Nace sighed. Tears welled in his eyes and closed his throat. Crushed, silent and still (but for the tears), he wept mutely into the dust on the cold, stone floor.

---

His existence had ceased to be a nightmare, or even just a dream. The tears had flushed that possibility down the gutter, along with the less-reputable substances that followed when he washed. The idea that this cold, hard and sunless existence was to be his new reality took longer to sink in.

For a brief while (it could not have been more than an hour) his consciousness and life were as little to him as dreamless sleep. The yellow-green did not remain inactive during this between time. Indeed, to have done so would have invited the truth of the matter to settle into his mind, and he was not yet ready for that. No, with raw, red hands and water alone, he scrubbed his floor. He groomed, rinsed and picked at the rough stone until, if it had any inclination, it would have shone.

As long as he worked, he did not have to think. He did not have to consider that this task, with this little section of floor, would be his and his alone (alone!) for the remainder of his days. That this cell, this tap, and that little scrap of blanket would encompass all his worldly possessions from now until the day he died. And from now until the day, which crept ever closer, when he would be used as a slave. No, he would have none of that. He had only to clean. He did not even notice who came to collect his empty dish. Complications like time, place and other creatures meant nothing to him. As such, he had little idea how long he worked, but it could not have been more than an hour.

But when the floor was spotless, and the awful smell naught but a memory, it was time to wake up and let reality in again. To do anything less would invite insanity, and Nace was not prepared to take comfort in that. Not just now. Things were not as bad as that just now.

He woke to realize that he was shivering, almost shuddering. His teeth clattered in his head. It was cold here. It was terribly, terribly cold.

"Oh, ye guh--ye gods!"

The yellow-green scrabbled blindly for his threadbare blanket and bundled beneath it. The bright, chemical lights gave no heat at all, and the cells were many meters below ground, made of bare metal and stone. They were icily cold, and he had made no improvement by dampening the area around him.

"Well, welcome back to the land of the living," a voice obseved acidly.

Nace jumped and jerked his head up to find the dark blue male, the red-collar, watching him from behind the bars, mere inches away.

"So glad you could join us," the male went on, drumming fingers on the floor. "D'you like the place? We've just had it done."

"Oh, I," Nace said. "I . . . I-I-I'm sorry . . ." There seemed no way to explain himself. He had just shut off there for a while. Wetting the floor had undoubtedly made things less comfortable for the blue dragon, too. "I-I just . . ."

"No, I don't care," the dragon said. "I probably even understand a little, but I don't care. I just want you to stop shaking like that. Good Goddess!" He snatched his blanket off the floor and forced it through the bars between them. "Take it--Take it! You can give it back when you're warmer."

Nace breathed out incoherent gratitude. He hugged his knees against his chest and tucked the extra blanket beneath his toes. It was no thicker than his own, but twice the blanket was twice the warmth and incalculable mercy against the cold. He curled closer to the iron bars and the kind dragon behind them.

The dark blue dipped his muzzle to one side, embarrassed at such obvious affection. "Anyway, why don't you tell me your name," he said quickly. He shut his mouth and drew back a little, looking pained. ". . . if they haven't treated you so badly you've forgotten."

"Oh," the yellow-green said, blinking. "No. It's Nace."

The blue male blinked too. "Simple enough, I guess. Mine's Cymraeg Gwaednerth aran Trahaearn fan Brynmor." All this in one breath, with hardly a pause.

Nace sat staring, mouth working mutely.

"Er." The dragon flushed slightly redder in his ears and muzzle. "That's the family name, the trade name and the place name, if you follow me."

"No," said Nace.

"Really?" said the blue. "Oh. Um. Well, my first name . . ." He considered this, and the poleaxed dragon before him. "How about just Cym? Can you manage that?"

"Cym," Nace repeated, nodding. "Yes. Yes. Cym."

"Sorry," Cym said, much chagrined. "Bit much. Everyone speaks common now, but I guess the names still run a bit different. Gwydyr is the tribe, which makes me a Gwydydd. From the White Lands . . . Well, from the Red Hill of the White Lands. The trade is . . . I work iron. Well, the family does. A whaddyacallit, blacksmith. Doesn't really matter now. My current occupation is pissing people off."

The yellow-green smiled faintly. "I saw."

The blue smiled back, a wicked little smile. He dropped a wink. "Helps to do something, doesn't it? I'd love to have you in to clean sometime."

Nace colored deeply. "Oh," he managed.

Cym waved off the young dragon's embarrassment. "Anyway, you know all about me now. Where do you come from?"

The intent was obviously to get the subject on to something easier, but Nace was just as flummoxed by Cym's question as his name. He didn't know where he came from, not anymore. He had been a Pythian until yesterday . . . Or the day before? It had been forever, but it still hadn't been enough time to think about it. He hadn't wanted to think about it.

"I-I don't know," he stammered, and was shocked to find tears creeping into his voice again. He wiped his eyes reflexively and sniffled. "I don't know anymore . . . I used to, but . . . It's all gone. My people, my friends . . . I barely know who I am anymore . . ."

"Oh," Cym said, suddenly quiet. He tried to smile again, but it was as stiff and unnatural as a starched handkerchief. "That's all right. You have your name, at least. I'm sure the rest will come back to you . . . You know, you're really doing quite well, for all they've put you through. The last dragon they threw in here didn't wake up at all . . ."

"Oh, no," Nace broke in, realizing. "It's not like that . . . It's not what they did to me . . ." But, it was what they had done to him. He tried a different tack, "I know who I am, I just . . ." He didn't know who he was. He breathed a wavering sigh, buried his face in his hands and wept.

"That's all right," Cym told him. He patted the younger dragon's shoulder with a hesitant touch. "It doesn't really matter anymore, not here, not now. Everything's different here, it's all new rules. We're both the same, you and me. I've just been here a bit longer, that's all. I'll help you out as best I can."

Nace nodded. He came out from behind his hands and swiped one across his muzzle to dry it. "I-I'd like that."

"'Course you would," Cym said. "Don't wipe that snot on my blanket, kiddo. I'm gonna want it back later."

Nace laughed.

---

Cym was careful with him. Nace never would have known it if the dragon hadn't outright called him strange before, and teased him about scrubbing his cell. There was no more of that now. The blue was quieter, too. He seemed to take any weird behavior on Nace's part as evidence of damage, and was at pains not to cause any more. Nace wanted to correct him, really he did, but he had no idea where to begin. He wasn't even certain he'd be believed. (In fact, after the screaming fit over the tapwater and the obsessive floor-washing, he was almost sure he wouldn't be.)

The blue had taken it upon himself to fill Nace in on everything, even some things the yellow-green already knew. Mealtimes, wash days, the collar-coding system. Nace couldn't figure how Cym had found that last one out for himself.

"There was another red-collar here when I came in," the dragon explained. "Between the two of us, it wasn't much to figure out what that meant. The others here are blue." He flung a gesture behind him. Cym had the corner cell, laid out on the diagonal, so there was no impediment to him seeing into the previous section. The cells were five on each side of a straight corridor, with sharp turns at each end for some semblance of privacy. Nace couldn't see much, but he knew the others had to be broken. They didn't speak, and when he had screamed, they had screamed, but made no words.

"That was no trouble to work out," Cym said. "And I'd guess green means young. That's what you are, and that dragon before, the one that didn't wake up, he had a green one. He was just a little slip of a thing. If it doesn't mean young, it's something like young."

"Weak," Nace said softly.

"Well, maybe," Cym offered, though he preferred his own theory.

"What happened to the other red-collar?"

"Dead," Cym answered. "He took a guard out with him. It was only a 'prentice, but he seemed satisfied with it." The dark blue shrugged. "That was better for him. He couldn't manage it here. I can. I have, since then."

"How?" Nace asked with honest wonder.

"Well, you kind of have to think of it like a game . . ."

"A game?" The yellow-green goggled at his surroundings. "This?"

"Y'ever play Mercy?"

"Uh-uh."

"Gimmie your hands." Cym reached through the bars and took them. "All right. Say 'Mercy'." He squeezed.

"Mercy!" Nace yelped, almost immediately.

"Sorry," the blue said. "But, you have to see what I'm saying. It's not a nice game, the goal is to hurt . . . But there are rules, for me and you. I can't drop your hands and kick you in the teeth, and when you cry off, I have to let go right away. Of course, you're not supposed to cry off."

"What if I want to?" Nace murmured, sucking his fingers.

"You don't anyway," Cym said. "Or you're a pussy. Also, you lose. And there's another rule for you," he added with a grin. "I didn't tell you this one. You can squeeze back."

"What good would that do? You're stronger than me."

"It doesn't hurt so much when you squeeze back." Cym offered his hands. "Go on and try it."

Nace did so, reluctantly. Cym applied no pressure until the yellow-green did first, but then he squeezed just as hard as before. With muscles tensed, Nace was able to stand it some moments longer, before he could stand no more.

"Mercy!"

The blue released him. "See?"

Nace nodded. "But I still lose."

"Oh, no, of course you can't win," Cym said. "But you can still play." He indicated the bars around them. "You have to play. And as long as you're playing, you're not losing. And there are rules, for them and for us."

"I thought they could do whatever they wanted with us," Nace said.

"Nuh-uh." Cym considered for a moment, then shrugged. "I guess they could if they didn't mind being punished for it, but they do mind, and the punishments are pretty harsh. And a Pythian who doesn't behave himself gets banned, so we don't have to worry about the really awful ones."

"But they can hurt us . . ."

"Well, that's the game. But they're not allowed to kill us. And they're not allowed to do anything to us if they don't have a key. That keeps out the young ones and the crazy ones right there."

"But, is that it?" Nace asked him. "Is that all?" It seemed so little protection, even less than the slip of blanket around him. It took a lot to kill a dragon, an awful, awful lot.

"Those are their rules," Cym said. He lifted his chin, an arrogant look. "I have rules. They don't do anything to me that I don't let them do."

The yellow-green just shook his head, wide-eyed. "I'm not strong like you, I couldn't fight . . ."

"You don't have to. There are other ways to stop them from hurting you . . . You'll find some that work for you. Fighting isn't so good, anyway," the blue admitted, head canted to one side. "Sometimes it just makes them want to hurt you more."

Looking at Cym, with the blood still drying on his muzzle from where Ardo struck him, Nace made his first rule, and he made it out of fear: Don't Fight. But he made it uncertainly, as words writ in chalk. He didn't know if it was a good rule, or if he would be able to keep it. He didn't mention it.

"It's better to let them do some things," Cym went on. "The things you can stand. Pick Your Battles, that's one of mine."

Nace nodded. That sounded like something Cym could do. He'd have his pick of any number of battles, certainly. Nace would much rather have none at all, and no pain . . .

A thought occurred, an echo of memory from when he had been under the Draught. It was wreathed in pure pleasure, no fear, not even shame: They won't hurt me if I'm good.

Nace made his second rule, and he was more certain about this one: Be Good. Yes, he knew he could do that. The thought even made him smile.

Cym called him on that, "Ahh, look at you. You have some ideas already. I can see the wheels turning."

"Maybe," Nace said. He poked self-conscious fingers in one side of his muzzle. "You might think they were funny."

"Doesn't matter what I think. They're your rules. Keep them if they work for you. Keep them to yourself, if you like that better." Cym dipped his muzzle and offered a grin. "I'll tell you a funny one, if you want."

The young dragon nodded. If nothing else, it might help him feel a little less ridiculous.

"All right," Cym said. He drew upright and said it grandly, "Assholes . . . Are For Shit."

Nace choked out startled laughter.

Cym ignored it and went on, "Which is obvious, but needs more explaination. I don't care what they do under my tail, Assholes Are For Shit, and that just where these Pythians belong. I'll use my hands, too, I don't mind that, but nothing," he was suddenly serious, and his teeth showed around the word, "goes in my mouth. If they try it, I'll bite. I tell them that right out."

"But they'd kill you for that!" Nace cried out, disbelieving. "I don't know about punishments and rules, but if you bit them there . . ."

"You know what would happen if they killed me?" Cym said, snickering. "I tell them that, too, if they don't realize on their own. Everything locks down in a dead body, everything. Takes hours for the muscles to loosen up again. You get what I'm saying?"

Nace laughed again and covered his mouth. His eyes were wide and horrified, but he couldn't help laughing. "Oh my God, that's terrible."

"That's the rule," Cym replied with a shrug. "If they don't like it, just let them try to force me. Nobody's managed that yet."

"Would you really bite them?" Nace asked. "Really?"

"Sure! Even if they hurt me after, or I got punished. Doing what you want, doing what you need, no matter if they hurt you for it, that's called getting your own back. It's the best thing here, really the only good thing. It's my favorite thing."

"You're my favorite thing," Nace answered, with amazement verging on worship.

Cym reached out, put a hand on the yellow-green's muzzle and gently shoved him backwards. "Get on, you. You talk like a drunkard. Get some sleep, you've had an awful time."

"I feel like I've been sleeping," Nace said. "I feel like I've slept forever."

"Well, you won't sleep through lunch. I'll see to that."

Nace nodded. Thus assured, and with the clean floor nearly dry beneath him, he curled up in the blankets and shut his eyes.

---

There was a lot of sleeping, the first few days. Cym encouraged him, and the dark blue often slept himself. There was little to do but talking, and talking was tiring. Cym usually carried the conversation, and told funny stories. Nace tried to put in a few of his own, but the dragon looked at him oddly when he did. Being raised as a Pythian was much different than Cym's life before the cells. It showed, even though Nace tried not to indicate he had grown up here. The blue grew particularly upset during a story about school, and actually shouted at him and demanded that he stop. He clearly assumed the Pythians had driven Nace to madness, at least of a kind. And he didn't like to hear about it, so Nace never said much.

It was better and easier to sleep. Nace still felt weak and shaky (and often afraid, though Cym did his best to help with that) and though he had to be getting something like eighteen hours a day, he was always drowsy, and could nod off at little provocation. His dreams were vivid, and not often bad. What was bad was waking, and realizing he was not safe, and not home. That things were not all right, and never would be.

He missed his old life, as crazy as it had evidently been. He had been used to it. He missed his friends. They were too young to be allowed into the cells, though Oraz looked a bit older just because of his size. He worried for them, as they undoubtedly worried for him. Sidro had been so hurt, so badly hurt, trying to save him. And Oraz . . . Oraz had always needed him so. With no one to rely on, with Nace and Sidro both away and no one to comfort him, he would tear himself to pieces.

If not for Cym, Nace would have done likewise.

Even though no one had come down the hallway except to feed them, and they were fed three times a day at regular intervals, Nace had a minor fit of hysteria whenever he heard someone coming. Cym at last grew tired of this and decided to teach the young dragon how to tell time.

"Here, Nace. Come over here and put your ear to the wall, right were the tap is."

Nace did so obediently.

"You hear the pipes?"

He nodded. It was a soft and steady woosh, more like air than water.

"All right. Wait for it."

Within moments, the soft sound of water increased to a heavy hiss, one he could even hear without his ear to the wall, now that he was listening for it. "What is that?" Nace asked curiously.

"Five o'clock rush hour," Cym answered, grinning. "They're on shifts here, six hours a piece. Day shift ends at five. Now is the time to take a shit, or take a bath. You're hearing the water pipes and the sewer. It goes on like that a while. Now, when you here some one coming after that," the blue said, lifting a finger for attention, "not during, but a little bit after, that is almost certainly food. There's one in the morning, too, and in the afternoon. One in the middle of the night, too, but that doesn't mean anything. Now," he smiled gently, "do you think you can be very clever, and listen for that, and not get so scared?"

"Uh-huh."

Nace spent the next twenty-four hours with his ear glued to the wall. You could sort of hear without doing that, but he wanted to be absolutely sure.There were some other little fluctuations, too, and he wondered what they meant. He supposed he would figure them out eventually. It was fascinating, like taking the pulse of the fortress. It also made him feel just a little bit grandiose. Thaat's right. You want some water? Well, you gonna have to go through me!

It was stupid, but he laughed. Cym never looked at him funny for laughing, though sometimes he would ask what the joke was. It was good to laugh here, like a flash of sunlight in a very dark place, and Cym liked to hear him.

Though he was less nervous, after that, at last there came a day when he heard somebody coming, when no one had any reason to come at all. Or, no reason but one.

"Steady, kiddo," Cym warned. "We're at the end of the line, here. They might stop before they get this far . . ."

Nace was up and pacing, wringing his hands. "But if they don't stop, they'll take one of us. They'll have to take one of us . . . I don't want them to take one of us!"

"Nace, if it's me, it's not you--"

"I don't care!"

"--and I'll be all right. If it's you, at least it will be over. And you'll come back here, and I'll be here, and that will be all right, too."

"It's not right," Nace whispered tearfully.

"It will be," Cym assured.

But when the footsteps came around the corner, and Nace saw, he knew this dragon had another reason, not food nor sex, but something finer.

"Hie!" Cym cried out. "You're too young to be in here! What the devil do you think you're doing?"

"I-I just . . . I just . . . I . . ."

"Sidro!" Nace cried. "Oh, my God, Sidro!"

The silver-blue stumbled and caught himself with one hand around an iron bar. "Nace . . ." he said. He began to weep.

Nace went to him, reached through the bars and held both his hands. "Sidro, oh . . . Oh, no . . ."

"I couldn't walk," he said, head bowed in shame. "I wanted to come, but I couldn't walk, and they took me back . . ."

"Are you even supposed to be out of there now?" Nace cried. The Pythian was all linen and sticking plaster, most of it applied to his wing, which stuck out at an awkward angle, half-folded, and swathed in white. It looked like fine china. It looked like an open invitation for someone to break it all over again.

Sidro shook his muzzle.

"Sit down!" Nace demanded, but then he realized, and took it back. "Can you sit down?"

"No," the silver-blue admitted. "Hurts." He touched his wing with careful fingers.

"Sidro, you have to go back to the infirmary." It hurt him to say it, he wanted Sidro so badly, but there was nothing else to say. "Don't call for the guard, just go back. They'll take care of you."

"No, no, no, no, no!" the Pythian insisted, clutched against the bars. He shook his muzzle wildly, back and forth. "No, I don't want to leave you. I want you to come home."

"Sidro . . . Honey. I can't."

He had never really stopped crying, but now he continued with new vigor. Nace was crying, too.

"Can you lie down?" the yellow-green offered. He got down on all fours and carefully lowered his belly to the ground. "Like this? Can you do that?"

"Try," Sidro said. "Help me."

They ended up muzzle to muzzle, through the bars, hands clasped together. Nace nosed at Sidro's face, trying to dry his tears. "Shh, now. It's not so bad. It's not so bad. I'm all right. They haven't hurt me, not a bit."

"It's my fault!"

"No. No, it isn't. Not a bit."

Sidro shook his head, but made no protest. He said nothing at all, for a time, merely curled close and shut his eyes.

Nace held it back as long as he could, afraid of the answer, afraid to hurt Sidro, but in the end, he had to ask, "Had Oraz been with you? Is he all right?"

Sidro shook his head. "He . . . He hates me. He blames me. I hate myself!"

"No. No . . ." It was as he feared. He would ask no more. He petted the dragon, offering nothing but soft comfort, trying to undo the harm he'd done.

"I wasn't fast enough," Sidro whispered. He sounded half-hypnotized, half-asleep. This train of thought was a well-worn path, and he needed no conscious care to walk it. "He told me 'go,' because he knew he'd never make it. I was faster. I wasn't fast enough."

"No. No, Sidro, don't do this. It's not your fault. It's not anybody's fault."

"It's somebody's fault!" the Pythian shrieked.

Nace drew back from him in shock. "It's the council's fault," he offered at last. "Okay? Not yours, and not his. You two are friends. You have to help each other." God had to let them help each other, not allow this to drive a wedge between them. That was too cruel. They were all they had.

Sidro closed his eyes in pain. "He hasn't been to see me."

Nace nodded, he had expected as much. If one would wait for Oraz to make the first move, one would wait forever. He was too uncertain, too withdrawn. "Then you go to him. When you can. Right now I want you to heal and get better. Don't do anything until you heal and get better."

"I don't wanna go," Sidro murmured, sounding much younger than his few years.

"You can stay a little," Nace breathed, his throat narrowed to a painful straw. "I'd like it if you stayed a little."

They lay beside each other, quiet, holding hands. Sometimes crying. Sidro slept. Perhaps Nace slept, too.

Cym couldn't take it anymore. He spoke, not knowing if anyone was awake to hear him, "How do you know him?" The words were thick, as if his tongue was numb.

"We grew up together," Nace answered softly. "Here. I tried to tell you, but I didn't know how."

"You're not crazy," Cym said. He repeated it to himself, twice over, because it wouldn't stick. He finally reached up and closed his mouth with a hand.

"No," Nace agreed.

"They raised you here? You were one of them?"

"They raised me. I was never one of them. It was a mistake." He shut his eyes. "This is how they fixed it. Now all the books balance." It didn't matter, he thought bitterly, who they hurt, or how many lives they ruined, as long as the books balanced. That was the important thing, right?

"That's sick!" Cym cried, voice high enough to shatter glass. "Do you have any idea how sick that is?"

Nace didn't answer, but Sidro nodded. He opened reddened eyes. "I didn't used to, but now I know. It's sick, that's exactly what it is." He gasped a sobbing breath. "I am so sorry."

"It's not your fault!" Nace insisted. He didn't have the strength to go through that again, Sidro had to understand!

"I'm sorry for all of us," Sidro said. He sighed. His words were dull, exhausted, "Somebody has to say it. No one else will."

"All right," Nace allowed. He drew Sidro near and hugged him carefully. "Now you don't ever have to say it again. I don't want you to."

"Okay," Sidro said.

"Okay," Nace echoed.

"Nace, don't let him go to sleep again," Cym warned, "If you don't want the guard to find him, you have to get him out of here. They'll be coming with lunch, soon."

Nace hadn't even heard the pipes.

"Besides, lying like that must be bloody murder on his wing."

The yellow-green straightened upright with a wince. Yes, it had to be, and if it was almost noon meal, it had to have been hours. "Sidro . . . Honey. Let's get up, now. You have to go."

"No. No." The silver-blue resisted all effort to haul him upright. He sagged bonelessly, like a bag of wet laundry. "Stay with you."

"No!" Nace insisted. He planted a hand one either side of the Pythian's muzzle and lifted him by the face. "Sidro, they will hurt you if you stay. I'll have to watch them hurt you. I don't want that!"

The sharpness of this last seemed to rouse him a bit. His eyes came back open, and with Nace's help, he stood. He stood, focused on the yellow-green but wandering dizzily, first a little to one side, and then back the other way.

Ye gods, I hope he remembers he came here, Nace thought. I hope he remembers not to come back.

"Sidro, you have to go back to the infirmary," he said. "That's where you go. And I want you to stay there until you're better."

Sidro just blinked at him. Maybe that was a little much.

"Infirmary?" Nace said, pointing back down the hall. Sidro nodded to that. "Get better," Nace added.

"Okay," Sidro said. He stumbled a little in the direction Nace had indicated, and this time made no movement to come back. "You too," he added, still looking at the yellow-green.

Nace ignored the fact that this made no sense and tried to appreciate the sentiment. "Go to the infirmary."

Sidro went.

It didn't really matter where he ended up, as long as he got out of the cells. It was an uphill path, but a gentle grade. Nace was confident the silver-blue could make it out, before the confusion of tunnels that came afterwards paralyzed any functioning brain cells. That would make no matter. Someone would find him and it would be obvious where they should put him.

"That is the sorriest Pythian I have ever seen," Cym pronounced, with perhaps an air of amazement.

"There might be another," Nace whispered. "But he won't come here."

The blue let that pass unremarked. "Your school here," he said. "The teachers . . . They're allowed to hurt you . . . to, to use you, anytime they want?"

"Oh, no, I never said that," Nace said. "You have you get something wrong. I mean, it's punishment. Grown-ups have to do the same, if they're too stupid or too low-status to get chits or money. They have to live on favors. So it's, you know, to help us . . ."

"The whole race is mad," Cym spoke wonderingly to himself. "Mad, the whole lot of them."

"Sidro isn't," Nace said stiffly.

Cym blinked at him, then smiled. "No, perhaps not. Though he must be half-crazy to come down here like that. He's a good friend. You did right by him."

"He's done right by me," Nace said. "You know, I hurt my throat once, and he showed up one night with five gallons of strawberry ice cream. That was in summer."

"Really?" Cym said. "That must've been terribly difficult."

"Oh, no it was easy," Nace answered with a grin. "They offered it to him. Of course, it wasn't until we'd eaten it that we figured out why . . ."

He had simply days of stories to catch up on. Cym settled in to listen.