FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I am going to a crazy-house, the red-gold dragon reminded himself. Everything there is weird, or wrong, or upside-down and backwards.

He was flying now, but he wouldn't be for much longer. When he reached the city limits he would have to land. There were too many dragons, too close together. He wasn't out in the savage places anymore. In town, you needed a permit to fly.

It was all right. He was about ready to start walking again anyway. He hadn't been hurt in the wings, or anywhere near the wings, but he got tired easy, and he was lugging his bedroll and his pack. It was a long trip, he couldn't hitch rides all the way, and he'd had to sleep out a couple of nights. Last night had been in a barn, on a farm. They'd even given him some extra blankets. He still looked sick, he guessed, and there was that scar.

His mother was going to have kittens.

He sighed. He wrote to her, she had asked that he write to her, and he did. But he'd been laid up, wounded, recuperating and unable to write for six months. So long a silence was not inexplicable, there was no established post in the far places, letters often got lost, or they would collect in one place for months at a time and then arrive all in one parcel. But he had produced no letters at all, and he was faced with the prospect of sitting down with a pen and making up six months worth of consistent, plausible lies, or sending one letter with the unvarnished truth.

He was too tired to even attempt the first, and too worried to manage the second. So he was doing this, going back there, to meet her at the door of the shop and explain everything, and smilingly assure her that he was fine.

He should not have to do this. He should not have any female, any slave that he called 'mother.' He was Pythian. He should not have a home and a family. Pythians did not do that. The eggs went to the hatchery, the hatchlings went to nurses and the children went to school. You grew up and you made your way on from there, even in the towns.

But, he was going to a crazy-house.

He had never seen his mother make a single demand, not one. She knew her place and she kept it. She was grateful. In her own tribe, among her own people, she had been a trash-dragon, lower than dirt. Her mate had died young and could not provide for her, and she had produced nothing but empty eggs. To be kept as a slave was an improvement, or so she always claimed. She accepted everything without complaint. If she didn't like it, she would drop her eyes and bow her head and do it anyway. Somehow, in this quiet way of ultimate submission, she got everything she ever wanted.

Not everything, he guessed. He had seen his father refuse her small things, little things that just made her a little sad, and he imposed rules that she abided. But the big things, the important things? The things that made her genuinely miserable when she couldn't have them? She got them. Every time.

Up to and including her sons.

It was kind of like having a cow in the house. Well, maybe not a cow, nothing so useful. More like a peacock; an expensive, decorative, delicate thing. If you wanted to keep it in the house you had to make concessions. And after you had done all that--straw on the floor, indoor water trough, special peacock food, whatever it needed--if your peacock started to fail, and it needed something more, didn't it seem easier to add that single, extra thing, instead of having a dead peacock and all this useless peacock stuff? The peacock needs an indoor heater for winters? Okay, not too expensive. The peacock needs a bed of fresh grass and fragrant lavender to lay on at night? Easier done than said. The peacock wants to raise its own children and love them and keep them, contrary to all the rules of civilized society? Well, all right. If that's what it takes to make it happy, all right. And one day you look around and suddenly realize you're living like a guest on Happy Peacock Farm and you have no idea how you got there.

Ana often thought his father had a slightly dazed look about him, when he was out of the shop and trying to exist peacefully at home, upstairs, her domain.

She called him "Master," but she ruled there.

He had reached the edges of the town, with roads leading in. He landed there, with plenty of buffer before he got into trouble for being in the air, and walked the rest of the way. There were carts going in, carts going out, dragons walking. The dirt roads were grooved, mudded and churned, and he was well-covered from his feet to his knees by the time he made it to the cobblestones. There was a public pump on one of the corners and he rinsed himself, trying to lose that "just in from the country" look.

The place made him nervous, though. What he was about to do made him nervous, and he couldn't hide that. Nobody stopped him or spoke to him. Town dragons always seemed to have business, to be going somewhere. Carrying satchels. Looking at watches. Toting goods and wares.

The shops and the houses over them loomed large on both sides of the street, thatched roofs and terraces blocking the sun. Property was allotted at ground level, and you were not permitted to block the public way, but when you built up you could build over, and dragons did, as high up and as far out as mortared construction would allow them. Buildings often knitted together entirely overhead, making haphazard bridges over the street.

A dragon was leaning out of a window and emptying a bucket of rotten vegetable scraps into the gutter below. Ana supposed he should be glad it wasn't a bucket of shit. You weren't supposed to dump into the gutters, you were supposed to get out of the house and lug your bucket to one of the sewers, but dragons rarely did that.

The smell here was not good. Almost worse than the cells. You could get used to shit and urine, after a while. The stinking things in a city were too thick and too varied. Rotten meat, rotten greens, congealed blood, dyes, papers, God only knew what chemicals, and the animals. There was a dead cat rotting in the gutter. Ana swerved to the opposite side of the street, so he wouldn't have to get too good a look at it.

"Hey, soldier!" a harsh voice called. "Wanna buy some flowers for yer fella?"

The red-gold put his head down, instinctively avoiding eye contact. They only pitched harder if you looked at them. He did not have a fella and he did not want to buy flowers. He had been scrubbed from the roster, on extended leave while he mended and he waited for the rest of the 4th to come home, but it was unpaid leave. He had only a few coins and they were all small ones. Favors were not accepted as payment in cities.

Still . . . He stopped in the middle of the street and irritated dragons made their way around him. A bunch of flowers. He could hold that in his hand, against his side. Then she wouldn't see the scar, at least not right away. Not before she saw he was all right.

He turned and went back to the vendor. "Cheap ones," he said.

"I got roses. Young soldier'd just_melt_ for a dozen roses, huh?" The dragon grinned at him.

Yes, Ana thought, one hand to his brow. Yes, all of us soldiers are screamingly gay and filled with burning, unrequited passion for each other. It's so fuckin' tragic. I've just come_from a fortress, you jackass, if I wanted to get laid I'd've done it_there_._ "Cheap ones," he reiterated. "What're those?"

"Fern leaves and baby's breath, soldier. Those are filler."

"Then they're cheap," Ana said. "Give me two big handfuls of filler and one of those." They were white and scraggly-looking, they had to be cheap, too.

"Daisy," the vendor said, frowning as he gathered the bunch. "I'll take two coppers off ya."

"Two coppers? That thing is half-dead already!"

"One, then." He knew he wasn't going to get much off of this deal and he just wanted to get it over with. If Ana had been willing to stand there a while longer he might've got it for a half, or for free, but he wanted to get home and get that over with. He handed over a copper and took off with his bunch of mostly-filler. It was enough. If he arranged it carefully and held it just so, he would look incredibly stupid--but not hurt.

The town had grown up a lot since he'd been there. He had written, he had dutifully written, but he hadn't been home since he had left as a child. There were a lot of freedragons about. Not collared slaves and not Pythians, and you couldn't rightly call them savages anymore. You had a town that was doing quite well for itself if you were attracting traders and workers from the tribes. Cultural relations were much more relaxed in cities. Conquest came via production of resources, and trade. Some of these freedragons dealt in slaves. Ana's mother had been traded thus.

The streets were pretty much the same, if a little darker and a little busier. The printer's shop was tucked away on dead-ended side street, as it always had been. And, yes, it was still separate from the stationer's across the way. His father had a long-standing feud with the dragon who ran that place, something about bulk paper prices, or bulk paper orders, or maybe both or maybe neither. Whatever it was, they hated each other like poison, and it kept a little sliver of sky free, right in the middle of the street. Ana paused a moment to look up at it, one last relic of vague normalcy, then he took a deep breath and strode up to the door.

Closed. Back at . . .

There was a pasteboard clock with hands.

Four-thirty? Ana didn't tote a watch. Watches were expensive, and usually someone would _tell_you when your shift was up. He hadn't a clue what time it was. He pulled the cord and rang the bell.

There came the sound of feet on stairs. She was speaking before she was even at the door, "I'm sorry. My Master will be back soon." She drew back the bolt. "You may wait in the sh--"

She was bright, bright red, with dark green eyes. He had her eyes.

She still favored gold bangles, and the bracelets on her arms tinkled softly in the silence between them.

Her collar was yellow. Yellow for a willing slave.

"Anatole?" she said.

He opened his mouth and said nothing. The words wouldn't come. He looked down and saw that he had some flowers and he shoved them out in front of him like a shield. They did no good.

"Anatole!" She shrieked and embraced him. "You're here! You came home!" She planted both hands on his chest and shoved him back. "Why didn't you write_me? Oh, God, I'm a mess! What's the _matter with you?" She pushed him again. "Why didn't you tell me? What are you_doing_ here? Oh, Anji . . ." And she hugged him again. This time her arms went around his waist, and she felt the scar. Her eyes went wide. "Anji? What's this, here? Let me see it! What happened to you? What did you do to yourself?" Her hand came up and she smacked him on the flat of his muzzle, hard. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

Ana managed a squeak. He was still holding out the flowers.

She hugged him again, tighter this time, rested her cheek against his chest and began to cry on him. "Oh, my baby, my poor little boy. It's all right now. It's all right. You're home. I'll take care of you. It's going to be fine."

"Hi, Mom," Ana said.

---

Rial was sitting there with his head down and his hands clasped together between his knees. He looked so tired and so sad.

Ree? Ana said. At least, that was what he wanted to say. His throat was dry and painful and the sound that came out of him was little more than the whisper of a rusted hinge: "'Ee?"

It was enough. The silver looked up and smiled at him. "Ana, hi. How is it? You want some water? You want some more water?"

Water. Yes. He nodded. He wanted water, had never wanted anything more in his life. There was a table here, a cup and a clear glass vase. The vase was half-empty, but the cup was full. Rial brought it to him, held his head and helped him to drink from it. He wanted the water, it felt so good and cold in his mouth, and going down his throat, but his stomach didn't like it so much and the taste was bad. Bloody. Wrong. He could only drink a little. Ree put the cup back and filled it again. Hearing the water made him want it again, but he knew he couldn't take any more right now and he didn't ask for it. Instead he tried, "Where are we?" That was a little better. His voice was a little better.

"Oh," said Ree. "The infirmary. Home. We're safe now."

Infirmary? Home? But, they had been_leaving_ home . . . "Day is it?" he said.

"Age's Day."

Ana thought about that as best he was able. His head ached and everything came slowly to him. "'S been a week?"

"No, Ana. Two weeks."

"Two weeks," Ana repeated. How could it possibly have been two weeks? How could he have lost track of two weeks? Where had he been? "'M I sick?"

"No, honey, hurt. There was a fight . . ." The silver turned suddenly and called over the cloth divider, "Bela, come see! Ana's awake and he's talking!"

"Yeah, but is he making any sense?" a distant voice answered.

"Yes!" said Rial.

In the next moment Bela was leaning on the other side of the bed and looking down at him. He had dark, bruised half-moons under each eye, and a large knot on one side of his head with a jagged line of stitches running through the middle. His upper lip had split in two places, the lower one in three. There were some cuts and bandages on the rest of him, but whoever he'd got into it with had obviously gone for the face.

"Look awful," Ana said, staring.

Bela laughed. "You haven't see you. I'm all right. Don't even wander off anymore."

"They would've let him out days ago," Ree said. "But we told him to act up so they'd let him stay here and keep an eye on you."

"I punched a nurse," the blue-gold said.

To Ana this all made very little sense, but he nodded.

"Are you really with us, Ana?" Bela asked him, leaning closer.

"Think so," Ana said. "Kinda hurts."

"Yeah," said Bela. "'Course it does. Don't move much, now. Give it some time to mend."

Ana nodded. He didn't think he could move much even if he wanted. Everything was aching and heavy. It was hard to breathe and he wanted to cough. But he also knew, with a certainty that was almost memory, that he very much did not_want to cough. _Ever. He tried clearing his throat and he swallowed. That was a little bit better but it made him want water again. He knew he couldn't get he cup on his own. "Little water, you guys?"

"Yeah, Ana. Sure." Bela helped him this time.

"Bela," said Ree, "I'm gonna go get the others. Keep him with us. Talk to him. Don't let him go back to sleep."

"Right," the blue-gold said.

Ana later found out that Rial had a sprained (or broken? Anyway, there was something wrong with it) ankle and Bela should not have let him do that, but the blue-gold was not entirely sensible, and they were both very worried about him. When he found the others, Dulio and Ciero snagged him under the arms and_carried_ him back, and Ree let them.

Ana didn't know that right then, though. He didn't know much of anything right then.

"Hey, Ana," Bela said, "so how is it? You remember any of it?"

"No," the red-gold said. He remembered pain.

"Yeah. I don't remember a lot, but they told me some stuff. We're okay. The six of us, I mean. Not dead. Some of the others are dead."

"Our squad?" Ana said.

"Golly Jee," said Bela, "and Merced."

"Merced?" He could see Jee dying, or Cam or Fio, but the older bronze had seemed eternal. They were short a C. O.

He wanted to cough again.

"Ana?" said Bela. "You need to cough again?"

He shook his muzzle, holding it back.

"Uh-uh. I know that look. C'mon, now. You have to clear it. Ana? They said you have to. C'mon, Ana. Cough or die!"

Cough or DIE?

He coughed. Oh, it hurt. He felt like he was melting. Everything got very dim.

--Okay, Ana. Okay. I know. I know. Ana, don't go out on me now--"

Bela. Talking.

He saw . . . White . . . Red . . . A cloth. Bela was wiping his muzzle. He tasted blood, and worse things. It was awful. "Oh, God, I hate you," he managed thickly.

The blue-gold smiled at him. He looked so genuinely, childishly happy, that Ana found it hard to stay angry with him. The pain was fading, and his thoughts were descending back into general sludge. It was hard to stay anything. "Bela, I don't feel good."

"I know, Ana. You're messed up pretty bad. But you're coming out of it, aren't ya? Talking and everything."

"Yes . . . Everything." Everything was so hard, and dizzy. Everything hurt. "Bela, I . . . I'm just gonna close my eyes a minute . . ."

"Oh, no, Ana, please don't!" This, with such anguish that Ana blinked open and focused again. "Ree'll be so mad at me if you go back to sleep. You've been out such a long time. I'm sure he'll be here soon, just a couple minutes. The others aren't far."

"Won't sleep. You just talk to me, okay? Voice hurts."

"Oh, yeah," Bela said. He looked down at the cloth, then up again. "'Course it does. All right, Ana, but please don't leave us."

Ana nodded. He closed his eyes. Bela talked to him. If Bela stopped talking he would nod a little, then Bela would start talking again and not be upset or try to wake him. He had said he wouldn't sleep, but he was pretty much out again by the time the others came. Bela hadn't noticed but Rial called him on it from across the room.

"Bela! I told you not to let him!"

Ana stirred and moaned. "No, I'm 'wake . . . I'm awake. I'm listening."

"Hey, Ana."

"Hi, Ana, how is it?"

"How's it goin'?"

"You look better. Doesn't he look better, guys?"

So many dragons. So many talking to him. Oh, fuck, did Ree bring everybody?

Ree had brought approximately everybody, yes. Dulio and Ciero and Nai. And all of them wanted to talk to him and touch him and ask him how he was doing, and tell him he looked better. He loved them and they were so kind and so happy to see him, but he wanted them to go away and leave him to sleep. He tried to smile at them, but it hurt. They made him talk and when he didn't want to cough they said he had to and they made him do that, too. They didn't want him to sleep. He tried not to, he tried for them, but by the end of it he didn't know where he was or who they were or what the hell he was saying.

---

They brought Nace to see him, he remembered that. They had been pretty sure he was going to die, even then, so they brought Nace. He didn't remember much about that. He thought he had gone back to sleep, or maybe passed out, because he couldn't remember Nace leaving, or anybody leaving, and when he woke up again there were only two of them and he could handle that a little better.

He had scared the hell out of them. He had scared the hell out of himself. And now, months later, he had scared the hell out of his mother.

She had dragged him upstairs, commanded him to sit down, and gone right for the kitchen. She sorted the flowers and put them in a glass with some water, where they looked absolutely pathetic. Then she stoked the fire in the belly of the stove and got some water going for tea. Then she looked in the pantry and said they didn't have anywhere near enough food. Then she got out her marketing basket and put it on the counter. Then she told him she couldn't go out to market yet and she wouldn't leave him without feeding him and he looked much, much too thin, and hadn't he been eating and didn't they feed him in that awful place? Then the kettle blew and she stated making tea and she wanted to know how he took his tea and if he liked it any different now, but she did his cup with two sugars anyway, even as she was asking him about it.

He watched her striding back and forth and bouncing off the counters and cabinets with a smile that was both bemused and nostalgic, thinking private thoughts. He knew better than to try to help her. She'd only hit him again.

"Anji," she asked him. She refilled his tea, and, boom, there went two sugars again. He didn't take it quite so sweet now, he'd even add lemon if there was a fresh one, but he didn't have the heart to tell her. "What will you have for evening meal? It's market today, I can get you anything you like. We have three market days a week, now!" He opened his mouth to say something, maybe Wow, three days a week? but she overrode him, "I know! Cold fried chicken and mashed potatoes! Do you still like that?"

He did, he did still like that and he never got it anymore, but that was because it was leftovers. You couldn't have it the first day. In the fortress, if it was food from the dining hall it got reheated or made into soup the second day. If you had food from the commissary, if it was something like_chicken_, you had to have it all at once because there was nowhere to keep it.

But the fact remained that, even at home, you couldn't have it the first day.

"Ma, you can't just produce_cold fried chicken. You have to have _regular fried chicken, first. Do you even have ice?"

"Yes!" she cried. "Look! We have it delivered!" She opened a low cabinet and showed a prodigious chunk of ice inside, melting slowly into a pan. "It's an ice box! Your father bought it for me! Look!" She flipped that door closed and opened the one above it. "Milk, eggs, butter . . . And here's a pot roast! And some sausages . . . We can keep things for days now--leftovers, too!"

"Okay!" he said, holding up his hands. "Okay! But, we can't have that tonight, Mom, even with ice . . ."

She considered this, tapping fingers on her muzzle. "We'll have it tomorrow, then. Anji, how long are you staying?"

He made a strangled sound that meant nothing. He had intended just to stay the night. Tell Mom I'm okay, get a good night's sleep, head back to the fortress in the morning--but he couldn't say that now.

He was on extended leave. He could stay as long as he wanted, so long as he got back before the snow flew. He could have a month, if he wanted it.

He did not want a month. Not in the crazy-house. Not with his mother.

"A week. Is that okay? Can you put me up for a week?"

"Oh? Just a week?" She wilted, but she accepted it. "Oh, no. I don't know where we're going to put you. Your brother has your bed, now."

Oh, that was right, he had a brother. He had two brothers, actually. This was the second one. The first one had fled as soon as he was old enough to take a transfer, just like Ana himself.

More craziness. Pythians didn't have_brothers_.

"It's all right, Mom, I'll sleep in the shop. I've got my bedroll."

"No, Anji! Not on the floor!"

"It's a bedroll . . ." Ana said. That wasn't the floor.

Nope. The peacock will allow you to get away with staying a week, but it will sicken and die should you attempt to spend one night_on your bedroll._

"Where do you want me to sleep?" he asked her.

She thought about this for a moment, then she clicked her fingers and pointed at him. "The shop. We have a couch in the shop, for waiting. It's very nice. It's not very soft . . . Oh, but I'll put pillows and blankets! That's much better! I'll do it now!"

"Ma! The shop is still open, isn't it? I mean, Inker is going to open it when he gets back? From wherever?"

"He's getting your brother," she said. "School is done."

"Oh. Right." Naturally his brother was coming home from school. He wouldn't be allowed to stay there like normal people.

She came up to him and put her hands on the table before him. Her bracelets slid down and went 'tink.' "Anji, what would you like to eat now? I'm standing here going on about evening meal and I haven't given you anything now. Do you want something? Even just some biscuits? You're so thin."

"Well . . ." He knew what he wanted, he knew just what he wanted, but he wasn't sure it was nice to ask it of her.

Still, it wasn't much, and she already said she had eggs. "Do you think you could do me a runny egg on some toast?"

"Oh, Anji!" She leaned forward and laid the back of her hand across his brow. Always the back, never the front, as if it were more accurate that way. "Are you sure you're all right?"

He smiled and brushed her away. "Yeah, Mom, it's not that. I just sorta wanted one when I wasn't." He dipped his muzzle and shrugged. His friends had tried to do one for him, and he appreciated the effort, but it just wasn't the same. "You're the only one who knows how to do it right."

"Of course I am," she answered. "I'm your mother."

Out came bread and butter, eggs, frying pan and toaster. Bread in the toaster, butter in the frying pan, both on the stove. When the butter melted, in went the egg. When the toast was lightly done on one side she turned it and did the other. She flipped the egg with confidence and expert precision. The yolk remained wobbly and intact. When the toast came out she buttered one side and sliced it crosswise into little diamonds--never squares, just a little bit offset to make diamonds. The egg went on top. Salt, pepper, fork. All right, Anji, here's your egg. She laid the plate in front of him with obvious pride.

It was perfect. He broke the yolk, made an absolute mess of his precise toast and demolished it. It was glorious. Almost a religious experience. Better than sex. He had to restrain himself from licking the plate.

"Oh, God, Mom." He rested his head in his hands, looking down at the table. He couldn't even look up at her. "I hate myself for asking, but could you do me another?"

As if he had offered her rubies and gold: "I would love to do that for you!"

He made done with the second and was wanting a third when his father came in downstairs.

"Kanya?" came his voice with mild concern. She always met him at the door.

"That's your father," she said. She got up and she was gone. She had left him alone with his dirty, filthy, egg-yolk and butter drenched plate. He considered for only a bare instant before he dropped his muzzle and licked it.

"Master!" she cried. Always so loud. So happy and so loud, but it did so grate his ear to hear her calling him that. "Hurry and come see! You'll never guess who it is!"

Uh-oh. Better hurry.

Lick-lick-lick-lick . . .

Heavy feet on the stairs. He wiped his mouth and stood quickly to meet his brother and father.

Adaz Inker was a yellow-gold with faint yellow eyes that were just this side of white. His fingertips were dark, though, black, and his claws were filed to useless nubs and grimed with the substance of his trade. Ana had grown up ashamed of those filed claws. His father was a trade-dragon, nothing more. Skilled, in his way, but soft. If it came down to home defense, the best he could do would be hang out the window and yell real loud for the police. He stared at this strange child of his that he had somehow been wheedled into keeping with a resigned confusion that said, What have I done to deserve this?

"H'lo, sir," Ana said. He never thought of his father as 'Father.' In his head, it was 'Inker.' On his tongue, as he had been taught as a child, it was 'sir.' He only said 'my father' in letters to his mom.

The dragon's pale eyes flicked down. He saw the scar. His confusion resolved itself and he nodded. "Can you still set type?"

"I-I'm sorry?" Ana said.

"Can you still set type? I know you can hand letter, but nobody wants that anymore, unless it's invitations or something. I s'pose I can use you in the shop, but I can't pay much."

"No. No, I don't want a job."

"Why've you come here, then?" No hostility, just honest bewilderment.

Why have_I come here?_ Ana thought crazily. I don't know! I think maybe I wanted an egg on some toast . . .

"Uh . . . Well . . . You know. I mean . . . Mom." He indicated her with one hand. She was standing there, grinning, drinking up this tender family moment with eager eyes.

Inker let out a sigh and deflated with relief. "Yeah. S'pose she would've worried, wouldn't she?"

"Yeah. I couldn't just write."

"Anatole! Come meet your brother!" She was already dragging him out from behind Inker. He came with wide eyes and ashamed reluctance. Oh, no. Not a brother_. Not_ another weird thing. Oh, no. Oh, no . . .

My God_that child is orange,_ Ana thought, helplessly staring. Was I_ever that orange? That_ bright_?_

Well, they had called him 'Oranges,' for a while, but he thought they meant the tinned kind.

Evidently, when you mixed a yellow-gold and a bright red you got orange children every time. This one had his father's eyes, though.

Good, thought Ana. He liked his own eyes--his dark green eyes, his savage green eyes--and he liked being the only dragon around who had them.

"This is Ansel. Ansel, say 'hello' to your brother Anatole!" She pushed him forward. He leaned back and away. "H'lo," he said.

"H'lo," Ana said.

"Mom, I have slatework," Ansel said desperately.

"Oh! Do you want me to help you?"

"No, I want to do it in my room--!" He ran and slammed the door.

"Not so loud, Goddammit," Inker said.

"Sorry, sir!" faintly, from behind the door.

Duty tended, the yellow-gold turned and bailed as well, "Well, I've got to get the press going again. Police News goes out in the morning. It's cheap pulp but it pays."

She caught him before he could get down the stairs, "Master, I must go to the market. We need more food for the evening meal. Is that all right? Do you need me for anything?"

"No, go on, it's all right, I'll mind the shop." He waved her away and made good his escape.

"Anji, will you come to market with me?" she asked him.

He nodded immediately. He almost saluted. "Yes. I'd love to do that with you."

---

Anji, will you come to market with me?

In his memory, he was always whining.No, Ma. Why? Do I have to? I'm tired. I have a headache. I have slatework. Inker wants me to help in the shop. Can't you go by yourself?

No, she could not go by herself. Perhaps she could have, but she would not.

There had been a brief, golden time when he thought she wanted him to go with her because she _liked_him. She liked his company. He was a good helper and well-behaved. She was proud of him and showed him off to people. He had liked marketing, then. All the sights, smells and textures. The bright colors. Dragons shouting at them from every corner and willing to bend over backwards to get some attention, sometimes literally. Some of them sang songs.

But his mother did not like the market, and it had not taken him so very long to realize that, even as a child.

She was afraid.

All the color and noise took on entirely new meaning

Anji, carry the basket so you look like you're with me. Anji, stay close to me, don't wander off. Hold my hand. Stand in front of me. Let me carry you! This last even when he was much too big, and it was humiliating and actually painful to let her do that, and on the day when he put his foot down and told her she couldn't do that anymore, she cried.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do. He knew he was supposed to protect her but he never worked out how. Why did she cling to him so hard when scary-big dragons came near? Why did she set him in front of her and nod too much and laugh too loud when somebody tried to speak to her, even if they were being nice to her? Especially if they were being nice to her.

He knew now he had never been expected to do anything. He was little more than a prop. I have a child. See? I have a child. Please don't hurt me, I have a child.

---

It wasn't fair that she had done that, and it made him a little angry even now, but it made him feel guilty, too--especially about all the whining he had done, and the few times he had outright refused and made her go alone, go terrified.

It also filled him with surprising hostility towards his father. Fine. You stay in the shop. You set type with your useless, fucked-up claws. I'll go with her. I'll protect her. I can really do it this time.

He carried the basket. He walked beside her with his hand around her arm, and he talked to her the whole time. None of the other dragons even got a chance.

---

"I thought we were having pot roast," Inker said. He was looking down at his plate and poking a piece of chicken with a fork. He had that dazed look again. Maybe it wasn't supposed to be pot roast? Maybe it _was_pot roast and he was mistaken about what pot roast looked like?

"I'm so sorry, Master. There just wasn't time. Anatole came so late, and we needed more food quickly. Chicken isn't too expensive, and in pieces it cooks fast. I've bought another small roast and we'll cook it with the other, so we have enough for everyone. We'll have it on Sun's Day, they'll keep long enough for that. The ice box works so well, Master!"

"Sun's Day?" Inker said. He looked up from his plate. "What happened to Sky's Day?"

"We're having cold_fried chicken tomorrow. There's so _much of it," she said, beaming. There was so much of it because she made extra on purpose. "It's a fast meal and I'll be able to do the laundry and help you in the shop. I know you'll want extra hands with the Almanack. All that little type, and so many columns."

"Oh. Right." He dropped his muzzle and went back to looking at his plate.

You have no idea, do you?_Ana thought, feeling frustration, feeling pity, but not any real surprise. He had known this since long ago. He had only been reminded of it. _You work here, you eat here, you sleep here--and I'm assuming you have sex here, because I keep getting little brothers and I know most of Mom's eggs don't make it--but that's all. She could have told him they were having roast unicorn in strawberry sauce tomorrow because when she got up this morning it was raining frogs, and he would've accepted that, too. Ana didn't know if that was because he loved her and trusted her or because he was lazy and he didn't care. Maybe she had just worn him down, like water wears away a stone.

Inker ate quietly, without looking up or looking around. Ana ate quietly and nodded to his mother's conversation. She made all the conversation. She picked up the subject of the ice box, then the market, then the printing business, but she wasn't really talking about any of that. She was talking about him. Oh, he was so clever. So good with money. So kind. So attentive to detail. Such a good printer. And she was so grateful.

It was kind of awful having to listen to all that. Ana wondered what it felt like having to say it, but she really seemed happy. She really seemed to mean it.

_Crazy-house,_he reminded himself. At least the food was good.

Ansel bolted his meal and pleaded on bended knee to be released from the company of his weird brother and his hysterical mother. Actually, he asked if Inker would like him to get started on putting the Police News to bed, but the intent was the same.

Inker opened his mouth and maybe was about to say yes, but she intercepted this affirmative answer with a look of incredible disappointment.

Ma, thought Ana, shaking his muzzle in amazement, what could you possibly be getting out of this experience that makes you want to prolong_it?_

Ansel said never mind and could he please have another piece of chicken? He nibbled it slowly, now also plumbing the depths of his plate. The poor kid was too young to really resent her for getting sad like that; he didn't look angry, just guilty. It would be a while yet before this one got it into his head to leave. Before he realized that maybe there was someplace in that wide world out there where you could just eat your chicken in peace.

By the end of it, all three of them were staring at their plates. They weren't even eating anymore. They were just listening to her go on and thinking, She's going to get tired of this soon, right? Right?

Ana was the one who finally risked saying something. He didn't live here anymore, maybe that made him a little less crazy than the rest of them, or a little more brave. "Mom, I'm awfully tired. Do you think we could make that couch up? I just get tired so easily, and my side still hurts a little . . ."

I'm tired, Ma. I'm hurt, Ma. Don't you want to take care of me?

She did. Oh, boy, did she. "Oh, Anatole! Of course! How stupid of me! And after you've come all this way! Let's go downstairs and do that right now!"

"Ansel, come and help me get the Police News sorted," Inker said, rising.

"Right, sir." The two of them fled.

---

It hurt. Sometimes it hurt so badly he thought it would end him, but he didn't want to die.

Sometimes it was sharp and sudden, if he coughed or if he moved wrong. That pain had a beginning, and if he_stopped doing that_ it would go away. Not all of it, never all of it, but enough that he could think and breathe again. And if he needed he could ask for help.

But sometimes there was just pain, with no beginning and no end in sight. Sometimes it just was, and he didn't know how it had happened and he couldn't make it stop. He would lie there, stiff and straight with his hands clenched at his sides. His eyes might be open and staring up at the plastered ceiling, or they might be closed. Either way, he left them as they were and saw nothing.

He knew someone was there, that was the hell of it. Whether it was one of his friends, watching over him, or a nurse stationed farther away, but not too far. He knew someone was there and if he cried out they would come help him.

But it would hurt to cry out. It would hurt more to cry out. The pain was so bad and he didn't want to hurt more, even if it meant someone would come. So he would lie there--utterly blind, utterly still--breathing shallow, panicked breaths and pleading with himself. I have to. I can't. I have to. I can't. And all the time it hurt, it hurt forever and always, and he didn't want to die.

Sometimes he did cry out, after what felt like hours of torment and wanting to. Sometimes he couldn't, and they would only come help him when they saw his trickling tears.

---

He woke in the darkness and froze, with his hands clenched at his sides. He could move, there was no pain, but he thought there would be pain, and he was afraid. He remembered it, he remember how it had been, and the memory was so strong he thought it was that way again.

I have to. I can't. I have to. I can't.

-No.

He sat up. He forced himself. He brought both hands to his muzzle, holding in a cry.

He was shaking, his eyes were wet and watering. He was terrified, but there was no pain. His hand crept to his side. No bandage, no stitches, only the scar. And no pain.

"All right, now stop this. Damn it," he hissed to himself. "You're fine." He rolled to his feet and strode away from the couch, blaming it for the return of the dreams. He had not intended to sleep. He had intended to get up again, offer his assistance in the shop and run himself ragged, so he would pass right out and sleep through. His mother had insisted upon his lying down before she left him, and she had adjusted the pillows for utmost comfort, and she had tucked him in. And he had liked that and he had thought to himself, Well, maybe I am_tired_, but he hadn't been tired enough. God damn it.

He was halfway out the door before he realized he had no idea where he was going.

Yeah, Ana. Brilliant. Let's go for a walk outside in the middle of the night in a city_. If you're_ lucky_, they'll think you're a prostitute._

Walking around without something to sell? Then you were looking to steal, or you were selling yourself. Walking around without something to sell and no bag or even a coin purse for the spoils? Then you were selling yourself for bread.

He closed the door, locked it, and went back into the shop. There used to be a sink in the workroom and when he checked it was still there.

The basin was metal and when he turned the tap it was loud. "Shit." He turned it off quickly and looked up the stairs. His parents slept on the second floor; surely it hadn't been that loud. His brother was on the first, but he would never come down. His mother might, and if she did she'd be worried.

He didn't want her fussing over him. It would make him feel sick again.

I'm all right. I'm fine. I can get up and walk around. I'm doing it, aren't I? He paced the floor.Right. Okay. Right. So I'm fine. He went looking for a cup. Cups and dishes and things were kept upstairs, but dragons had to drink water down here sometimes. They wouldn't suck it right out of the faucet.

There was one on a desk. It was holding the pens and brushes used for hand-lettering. He dumped all of them on to the blotter, as if he were preparing to print the mother of all invitations, and went back to the sink with the cup.

That was quieter. Better. He drank water, then he went out the back door and pissed in the alley.

He didn't want to go back to the couch and lie down. It was too quiet, too dark, too much like being in the infirmary, and he wasn't tired enough to sleep. If he wanted to sleep he would have to lie there and wait for it.

No, fuck that.

There was some light from the glazed windows, but not enough to do anything. He went looking for a lamp, then he went looking for matches, familiarizing himself with the shop along the way. There had been small changes. More shelves here, fewer there. The file boxes had a different look to them and had probably been updated and replaced. The couch was new, of course. When Ana lived here, there had only been wooden chairs. A third desk had been added. Business was good, then. Inker had taken another 'prentice. 'Prentices were particularly expensive for Inker because he couldn't board them, not with a slave and a child to put up with. He either had to pay them enough to feed themselves and lodge in a doss house or let them work half days so they could seek more money elsewhere. Usually he did a little bit of both, and the slave and the child were expected to put a hand in when they could.

Ana had started to learn hand lettering before he knew how to read.

He had likewise been taught to set type, but he had never showed quite as much talent for that. The printing press was large, loud and smelly, and he had always been a little afraid it was going to eat him. That, and he didn't want to file his claws.

He pulled out the drawers and had a look at all the lead type. The smell of it brought him right back. Ink, wood, and metal.

Don't mix my punctuation, Anatole. It isn't all the same. That's an italic comma! What the hell do you think you're doing?

He had a brief, sadistic impulse to put both hands in and mix everything.

He didn't do it. He didn't like the smell of ink and lead on his hands, and he didn't like the feel of it. It was . . . Sticky. Grimy. There was a nailbrush in the sink and a cake of green soap so strong it would take your scales_off, but it did no good against the ink. After you set a few pages of type, it _dyed you.

He pointed a claw at the press as he made his way past it, I always hated you and I always will.

The machine regarded him with cold, hulking indifference.

There were three large bundles of papers, done up with twine. Police News, his father had said. He was curious about them, but they were wrapped in brown paper and he couldn't read them. It would be most unwise to cut the twine. He would have to sort them and bind them up again, and he might not be able to get that done before they were due to be picked up. Papers usually went out before dawn.

He sat down at the desk and began to pop the pens and brushes back into the cup, one at a time. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. When he'd put them all back he dumped them out and started putting them back again, this time in order from smallest to largest. Plunk. Plunk . . .

This wouldn't do. He wasn't tired and he didn't know how long it was until morning.

He had a look in the desk drawers. One was locked. One had pencils and blotting paper. One had sealing wax, a letter opener, a half-eaten sack of ginger nuts and a bottle of liquor. He took the liquor. The last drawer had a ream of smooth, white paper and he took some of this, too. Nice paper, very high quality, bleached and processed. It had a lovely, thick sound. He selected a pen and a vial of black ink.

First he did the alphabet in black script--all caps, ridiculously ornate--then he went back and outlined the whole thing in scrollwork. Then he did red highlights. He liked that so he did the same thing in lowercase. That wasn't as impressive so he went back to all caps. Then he did "JACKDAWS LOVE MY BIG SPHINX OF QUARTZ," and "PACK MY BOX WITH FIVE DOZEN LIQUOR JUGS." He added red highlights to these as well. Eventually, working with his head resting on one arm and his muzzle inches from the paper, he fell asleep.

His father snatched up the bottle of ink and that woke him. "That is my ivory black, Anatole," he said, holding it before his muzzle and staring at it. "You've used eleven sheets of my best cardstock and half of my Goddamned ivory black on 'Jackdaws love my big sphinx of quartz!'"

"Sorry, sir," Ana said. He had ink on his hands and he suspected he had ink on his face. He licked fingers and rubbed them across his muzzle.

Yep.

"That's true black, Anatole!"

"I know!" said Ana. "I know what ivory black is! I'm sorry! I didn't notice!"

Inker gazed down at the papers and moved them with his hands. "'Sphinx of black quartz, judge my vow,' is shorter," he said.

"I know," said Ana, looking down. "I didn't want a short one."

"So are you crazy now, or what?"

"I'm not crazy," Ana muttered. "I couldn't sleep and I just wanted to do something. I found the paper."

"You found my best cardstock."

"Yes."

"And my ivory black."

The red-gold hid his eyes in a hand. "Yes!"

"Did you at least use both sides?" Inker said finally.

"Yeah," Ana said. "Except the last one," he added, turning it.

"All right, well, come and help me haul these damned papers outside. That's the least you can do for me, isn't it?"

Outside it was cold, with a low, brown darkness that lanterns only lightened in vague patches. The fog was thick, yellow and stinking, with a little tang of salt from the sea. Their breath showed, white and curling before them. Ana wanted to cough but he stifled it. They stood, bundling in their wings and blowing on their hands, waiting for a cart to come and pick up the order. Inker had a jacket and he buttoned it. Ana hadn't thought to bring any of his winter things. He could have wrapped up in his bedroll, but that would have made him feel stupid.

"So I s'pose it was a fight," said Inker, pointing.

"Yeah," said Ana.

"Get any slaves out of it?"

"No. Ambush."

"Oh. Yeah, you're gonna get those."

Like you'd know, Ana thought. "The worst part is going from A to B. I mean, when you're attacking somewhere, you're ready." Why am I telling you this? Ana thought. It not as if you care. It's not as if I_care._

"I have a friend who got shot in the ass," he said.

Inker snorted a little laugh.

"Not this time, a while before. It was pretty funny." And now, in attempting to tell it, he had no idea why. He couldn't think of any detail that would make it_more_ funny, either. "Yeah, that's about it."

Silence, for a time.

"That was some pretty good script you turned out, there."

"Thanks."

"Liked the red bits."

"Yeah?"

"But not the ivory black."

"I did say I was sorry about that," Ana replied.

"Mm," said Inker.

"Always were good at hand lettering," said Inker.

"Mm," said Ana.

"Cold, innit?"

"Yeah. Cold."

It was God's own mercy when the cart finally showed. One dragon was driving, the other got out and helped load the papers. "Mornin', Inker. Who's this, then?"

The yellow-gold stared at Anatole for a long, uncomfortable moment before answering, "Son."

"Wow. You've got two of 'em, huh?"

"Three," said Inker.

"Really? Where's the other one?"

"Dunno."

"Huh." He nodded. "Well, cheers for the papers! I'll see you War's Day with the woodcuts for the next edition."

"Right."

Inker didn't even hold the door for him when they went back inside.

Morning meal was already on the table upstairs. Inker preferred salted porridge and brown bread with butter and honey. Ansel looked to be another porridge-eater, but he was spooning sugar on top, and there was a lake of hot milk around the edges.

Ana's mother was making busy in the kitchen, buttering a thick slice of bread. Three pieces of cold fried chicken were laid neatly on a checked handkerchief, and beside them sat a tin pail.

Ana gave an involuntary gasp of recognition. Bucket lunch!

Young Anatole had always been home for morning meal, and home for evening meal, but noon meal was to be eaten at school, and there was no avoiding that. Unless you sent your child with food from home, in a bucket--just like big dragons who worked real jobs!

That had been weird, yes, but many things in his childhood had been weird, and bucket lunches had been_good_ weird. Bucket lunches made him feel grown-up, and cool, and better than the other kids, instead of just bizarre. Bucket lunches often had pie--or cake!

Bucket lunches had begat his mad passion for cold fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

That, on the counter, was Ansel's bucket lunch in the making.

Aw, that's not fair, Ana thought. I want one of those!

"Good morning, Master!" she said. "Good morning, Anatole!"

Inker said, "Mornin'," and sat down to eat.

Ansel said, "Mornin', sir," then stared at Ana for a while before returning to his porridge.

"Anatole," his mother said, "just porridge or egg and soldiers?"

Egg and soldiers!

"Egg and soldiers would be amazing, Mom. Thanks."

---

She was wearing the bracelet. He hadn't noticed at first--so enchanted was he with bucket lunch and egg and soldiers--but when she cleared the table to do the dishes he noticed her scratching, and then he saw it.

He sat forward and put his face in his hands. Oh, God, Ma. Why?

He didn't say it, he didn't have to say it. He knew why. He knew why she had kept the fucking thing, too.

"Sir, I'd like to get my mother something for Solstice."

"Yes. And . . . ?" And why are you telling me this, smaller, stupider dragon who for some reason lives with me?

"Well . . . Could I do something and make some money?"

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Shop stuff."

"You already do shop stuff."

"Extra_shop stuff!"_

Inker had eventually realized he wasn't going to get out of this without making some kind of concession, so he said, Okay, if you help in the shop instead of having your bedtime story every day from now until Solstice, I will pay you one copper a week. He had said this, Ana now realized, because it was completely unreasonable and he didn't think the child would be able to do it. Ana loved his bedtime story. So he would say no or fail, and either way this unwanted interaction would be quickly over. Except, no, he had underestimated the damn kid, and Anatole had managed to go bedtime story-less every day for three whole weeks. So he found himself ushering the child around to shops on Solstice Eve, looking for some manner of present three coppers would buy.

It had not been a gold bracelet. Gold bracelets did not go for three-and-a-half coppers. (He'd had to beg for the half one, and Inker had given it just to get this thing over with.) But it had a great big piece of tacky green glass set right in the center and Ana had immediately fallen in love with it. "That one! That one! That one!" He should not have had that one. He should not have attempted jewelry of any kind with three-and-a-half coppers.

She had been absolutely thrilled to have it and she had put it on right away and worn it religiously. It had started to gray her wrist by the third day. He had noticed that and he had asked about it and she said, "Oh, it's all right. It's just because of the metal." It was because of the metal but it was not all right because she never took it off. The gray area spread to wherever the bracelet was able to slide during the course of her daily activities, and it bothered her. It itched. He had watched with mounting horror as the scales went from gray to green and finally pink and raw and cracking, while she insisted that it was all right, and it was such a nice bracelet, and she just loved it. Three months in, he had at last become unable to bear it a moment longer, and he had stood and announced in the middle of morning meal, "Mommy, please don't wear the bracelet anymore, it makes me sad!" then burst into tears.

She had stopped wearing the bracelet, Ana felt sure, not because it was painful or bothersome but because he had finally convinced her that he really, really, _really_didn't want her to wear it anymore. He had noticed it in the jewelry box as he was growing up and he should have figured she still had it. She didn't wear it because he begged her not to, but she still loved it because he had given it to her.

And now that he was home again, boom, like the two spoons of sugar in his tea. The bracelet.

Look, Anji! I love you! I remembered this!

Yeah, that's great, Ma. Could you maybe not?

It had been hand-lettered cards for every Solstice from then on--even now, he sent those. He supposed she had kept all of them, too, and the only reason he wasn't seeing them now was because if she pressed them to her body they wouldn't stick.

When Ansel and Inker had gone down to the shop, he touched her arm and said softly, "Ma, you really don't have to wear that. I know you like it, but . . . I don't know what the hell it's made out of, but it's not for wearing."

"I wanted you to know I had it," she said, turning it. "I know it's not for wearing, but I'd like to have it while you're here."

He said . . . something. He made a noise, anyway. He couldn't argue with her; suddenly he had no strength for it. "Promise it's only for the week."

"It is." She smiled at him. "I think it would break if I wore it all the time. I've had it so long, now; I just want to keep it." She pointed to the setting. "Ansel got into my jewelry when he was very little. He dropped this on the floor and the glass fell out. Your father had it re-set for me."

Ansel, you little shit, Ana thought. He didn't want her to wear it, but he guessed he didn't want it broken, either. And if she liked it and she didn't wear it there was nothing wrong with her having it, he guessed. "Mom, I think you could've had ten more of these for the cost of re-setting it."

"Oh, probably," she said, laughing. "But I like this one. Anji, will you help me with the dishes?"

The choice was as it had always been: House stuff upstairs or shop stuff downstairs. Out of pity for his younger brother, he kept upstairs until Ansel had been delivered to school, bucket lunch in hand. This was enough time to do dishes, finish assembling said lunch, and put most of the work into making an apple pie. He was no good at baking, but he could follow directions, and his apple-peeling technique was much improved. Kitchen duty often meant peeling something, and he could do apples, carrots, and potatoes with equal aplomb. Onions were a different matter, but thankfully this was not that type of pie.

He excused himself when he heard the 'prentices come in downstairs. He was here for a week, he was going to meet these dragons eventually; it was going to be awkward as hell and there was no point in putting it off. Besides, his mother was getting started on the laundry and scrubbing his father's dirty linen was not a job he wanted a hand in.

There were three of them, he had known that from the desks. There was a red-gold, a silver-green and . . . a freedragon. He had not known that. His mother wrote of the printing business in the abstract. Business is good. Business is bad. Your father is happy. Your father is stressed over too much work. Your father is stressed over too little_work._ He did not pay much attention to this because he did not care. She might have mentioned a third apprentice. He was certain she had not mentioned a freedragon. He would have remembered that.

Maybe it didn't make any difference in a city. If a dragon showed an aptitude for setting type and he wanted to learn, maybe that was all that mattered.

But, coming from a fortress, seeing an uncollared savage dragon walking around just doing stuff was bizarre to say the least. Nobody else was paying any mind, they were opening drawers and setting the chases and getting the press ready; Ana tried not to stare. He leaned in through the doorway, lifted a hand in greeting and went, "Hi."

"Here to help?" Inker said.

"If you've a place for me," Ana said.

"Help Camelio get the press ready," Inker said. "You can cut, fold and sort when we've got the first printing done. Stay away from the type."

Ana approached the red-gold. "I've a friend named Camelio. Do you go by Cam?"

"No," said Camelio.

"That's Terez. That's Hui-Lim." Inker pointed to each in turn. "And that's Anatole."

"H'lo," Anatole said, waving again. He got a "Hi," a "Hn," and a nod.

"All right, boys," said Inker, "let's get this fucker set."

It was easy to fall back into old patterns, even with strange dragons helping him. By all rights the military training should've worn them away, but he guessed it was hard to lose the things you picked up as a kid, even if they were utterly useless and you never did them anymore. The press was a finicky thing and needed constant care and adjustment; you never knew which bit at which time, but he had done all the bits at one time or another. He was taller now, that was all. Beyond that, papers and tools needed prepping and shuffling around, and he put a hand in where it was needed. Inker had always called this "waking the shop." Ansel had done a little before heading to school, and a couple pages were already set, but the place didn't really wake up until the 'prentices arrived and you had a lot of dragons moving and everything going at once.

He got to know the others a little. Cam--Camelio--didn't talk much, except to say what needed doing. Their longest exchange took place while they were still adjusting the press.

"You moved my scotch," Camelio said.

For a moment, Ana was bewildered, and he wondered if 'scotch' mightn't be slang for some metal part he had nudged out of place. "Oh. Last night," he said, finally. "Yeah. Sorry. I didn't drink any."

"Don't touch my things," Camelio said, and that was the end of that.

The other two were a bit more talkative, Terez especially. He struck up a conversation without prompting: "So, you're one of his, I guess?"

"Yeah," said Ana.

"Figured. You've got her eyes. You working here now?"

"Huh? Oh, no. Visiting. But, you know, I thought I'd help out."

"Visiting?" Terez stopped what he was doing and stared.

"Oh, well, you know . . ." No, it was entirely possible this dragon did not know, and Ana did not want to explain it all. "Just visiting. My mother--Kanya--she likes that."

"Oh. Huh." The silver-green went back to inking the plate. "So, why're you supposed to stay away from the type?"

"It's just setting it," Ana said. He shrugged. "I'm slow. I don't file my claws."

"Really?" Terez said. He had a look and Ana flexed them obligingly. "Not a printer?"

"No. A soldier."

The silver-green's eyes flicked down to the scar.

"Yeah," said Ana, "I got hurt. It was a while ago."

"How'd it happen?"

Ana supposed that question was natural enough, polite enough, but he really didn't want to answer it. "Rather not talk about it," he said.

Terez said, "Oh," and that quieted him for a while. Eventually they spoke of other things.

When it came to Hui-Lim, Ana spoke first. Despite his best intentions, he asked the obvious question, "Sooo . . . Not a slave?"

"No," said the dragon. He was a dark blue-green, like deep water, with golden eyes. He had a single horn in the middle of his brow that branched like an antler; this was the same pale green as a willow leaf.

Savage dragons always look so different, Ana thought. "Never been a slave?" he asked. That was tactless and stupid but he couldn't help wondering.

"No."

"Wow," said Ana. "You speak Common very well."

"My tribe speaks Common," the blue-green said. "Old tongues are for old dragons."

"Ah. Yes. We say that, too."

"I've heard it said," Hui-Lim replied.

"Live here long?"

"Born here."

"In the city?" Ana said, wide-eyed. "Why . . . How . . . But you still have a tribe?"

"You live in a city," the blue-green said. "You still have a tribe?"

"I, uh, don't live in a city. I live in a fortress. I'm just here for the week."

"You fold papers very well," Hui-Lim replied.

"Heh," said Ana. He ducked his muzzle. Message received. "I, uh, I think I'll just stop talking for a while."

"Perhaps that would be wise," Hui-Lim said.

He was still feeling a little chagrin when he took his stack of papers to be piled with the others. He saw three more folios fanned on the table and he almost swept them into the pile. But these were not Almanacks (which, he had discovered, were not really Almanacks, either, but terse humor and political satire mixed in with weather reports) with their rows of close printing and illustrations confined to the back page. These were . . .

These were wonderful.

Six Stabbed in Bloody Protest Over Tax Increase!! the headlines shrieked. Dismembered Body Found in South Street Canal! Another Gang-Related Killing?! Violent Separatist Cult Dies in Hail of Arrows! Not Even the Children Spared!!!

And there were pictures. On each cover a different picture, large, rough woodcuts of screaming dragons, contorted bodies, blood and gore.

"Inker . . ." Ana said, hush with amazement. "Inker, what are these?"

The yellow-gold looked over. "Illustrated Police News. Damn it, I told Ansel to put those away. Anatole, put them back in the file. It's on the shelf, there. It's labeled."

"Can I," Ana said. "Can I have these?"

"What do you mean, have?" Inker inquired of him with dull disdain.

"Buy them, I mean?" Ana said desperately. "With money?"

"No, not those. Those are back copies. I need them for formatting."

Ah, yes, thought Ana.Formatting. Because God forbid we should caption a picture with a ten-point font when last edition was a nine-point font. People will save these and check, right? Everyone saves cheap pulp magazines and makes notes on all the formatting, right? Just like you?

Formatting was stupid! What dragon besides Inker gave two lit farts in a foundry about_formatting_?

"Can I just read them?" he begged.

"You can read 'em later if you put 'em back when you're done. Keep 'em in order; they're dated, see?"

Ana nodded. Yes, he saw.

You know I'm going to steal these, right, Inker? he thought. He continued to nod, nod to himself, and he began to smile. You know I'm gonna cram as many of these into my pack as I fucking well can and walk right off with them, right, Inker? The whooole back file. Just tell me if you don't want me to steal them. I'll give you ten whole seconds. Ten . . . Nine . . . Eight . . .

"Put 'em back, Anatole," Inker said.

That doesn't count, Ana thought, with a twisted little frown that wanted to be a grin. He tapped the papers even, took down the file and put 'em back. Ooo, there were lots in here. There was a year's worth in here. At least a year's. Murders. Maimings. Mad-dragons.

I would've licked tailhole for these back at the fortress, he thought. I would've volunteered_._

---

"Hey, soldier, you wanna book?"

"A book?" Ana said, rousing. He was halfway to getting out of bed to search his trunk for some coin when he remembered he wasn't in the bunkroom, and he had no trunk and no coin. His hands went down, he felt pain and he stopped. "Haven't any money," he said.

"Nah," said the dragon, a silver-blue. "'S free."

"Free?" said Ana. "How many can I have?"

"One," said the dragon. "And not, like, to keep it. It's just for the week. It's something to do, innit?"

Ohh, thought Ana. He glanced around him at the cloth dividers, the white walls, the plastered ceiling. Yeah, it was kinda boring in here, when he wasn't asleep. His friends hadn't been back in . . . In a while. He was pretty sure they said something about being back on duty. Or something.

He stared at the dragon and the low cart with all the books on it. There were double rows on three shelves with haphazard spaces like missing teeth. They leaned this way and that way and piled on top of each other. Free books for bored dragons. Mercy books.

The silver-blue gave a little snort and started to push the cart away.

"No, no. I want one!" Ana cried.

"Okay. Pick one."

"Umm . . ." He picked a red one, cloth binding. It stood out; most of the others were brown. The dragon handed it to him and he guessed went away. He was absorbed in his book and he didn't see it happen.

He wasn't reading it or anything. He was just holding it in his hands and liking that he had it. That was enough. He just liked the weight, the smell, the squish of paper pages between hard covers, the mere physical existence of the thing. He was over the moon about it. He wasn't certain he _ever_considered reading it, that first one. He would just pick it up sometimes and be glad that he had it, then he would put it next to his pillow or under his pillow or he'd fall asleep holding it and wake up with the weight of it on his chest.

When they tried to get it away from him he didn't understand and he cried. It took two nurses and multiple assurances that, "No, you can have another one. You just can't have this one. You can have this one next week. No, it isn't yours. You have to pick another one!" before he allowed its release. For a little while he was miserable and he didn't like his new book, especially since they didn't let him pick this time and they just handed him one.

The first book he had the coherency to open up and read was (he was pretty sure) the third one. It was a green one, and that was the only criteria that had gone into his decision. Still, he was happy he had been allowed to choose and when he flipped past the printer stuff, the index, and the title there was a full-page woodcut of a fantastical scene so all signs were good for an exciting read.

It was utterly incomprehensible.

All the words were too long; there were some of them he didn't even know, and he couldn't figure them from context because he didn't have any context because all the words were too long. The sentences were too long; by the time he got to the end he felt like he had been through ten or fifteen commas and a parenthetical aside and he couldn't remember the subject. When he turned around and went back through the thing, sometimes he could find the subject, but then he couldn't find/remember the verb. He flipped backwards and forwards with increasing desperation, often losing his place in the process. There was a picture heading each chapter, all of which were very detailed and made it look like many important things were happening, but even when he just looked at_those_ he couldn't put a coherent narrative together. Characters came and went. Sometimes it was a forest, sometimes it was a city, sometimes he didn't know where in the hell it was supposed to be. He went back and read the opening again and again, and it seemed different every time.

Once upon a time, in the land of Verlbolggianatalhiriamotalopolis . . .

(What? What?)

Once upon a time, in the land of Verlbolggianandahammelchemapanelous . . .

Once upon a time, in the land of Verlbolggianamelcamahipapicklepuss . . .

. . . there lived a dragon called . . .

. . . there lived a dragon called Quazelandrofana--Oh, FUCK this!

He remembered Dulio asking him, after he had failed to negotiate some simple task for the third or fourth time, "Hey, Ana, did you brain your damage?"

All the others jumped on him and said that wasn't funny anymore, and it hadn't even been funny the first_time, and Ana obviously didn't understand it and it upset him so why wouldn't he just quit _doing it?

Ana thought he understood it (He had switched the words, right? Like, I drunk better when I'm fly,_right?) but he could only remember Dulio doing that _the one time, and he had gone all quiet and wondered, Maybe I DID brain my damage.

After a week of trying to read the green book (The title was something like Quazailamnatantalaz, The Most Tragical Tale Ever Told) he didn't wonder that any more; he was certain of it.

Well, that's it, he thought. I'm stupid now. I can't have books anymore. I'll be just like the rest of them.

It felt like the death of a friend.

There had always been books, from his very earliest memories, and the time when symbols on a page meant nothing to him was so dim and distant that it might never have happened at all. Letters were words, words were stories, and he liked stories very much.

His mother had read to him. She would read anything to him. If it was on the shelf she would pick it up and read it to him. If it came off the press, she would take a copy and read it to him. A sign, a letter, a paper bag, chalk graffiti on a red brick wall. He would say, "What's this?" and she would read it to him, following under the letters with a claw or pointing out each with a finger as she did so. In such a manner he learned how to read, fast and well and happily.

Later he found out that this had been the result of another one of Inker's "reasonable" compromises. At the ripe old age of two--when Anatole was able climb stairs, stick a spoonful of porridge in his mouth with ninety-percent accuracy, and dig in his claws and say "No!" when he didn't like something--Inker had declared that the child was ready for school. Naturally, he would have to go live there. In school they would teach him to read. He did have to learn how to read. She didn't want him to grow up stunted, did she?

There was an argument, such as his parents were capable of having, with every suggestion agreed to in resigned misery, and further suggestions begat by Inker's increasing discomfort. It was at last decided that if she didn't want him to go and live at the school, then she had to teach him to read.

She did not know how to read herself.

She had learned, and she had taught him. She had learned most of it while she taught him, the two of them progressing with equal difficulty and wonder, sound by sound and letter by letter. She had gone slowly, he guessed, and maybe that made it easier for him to pick it up. When she could go faster, he was also ready to go faster. He had only lost patience with her when he realized he could get twice as much bedtime story in the time allotted if he read quietly to himself. He had lost the warmth of her lap and the closeness of her arms around him, but the act of reading words on a page never quite lost that feeling of warmth and love.

. . . Except for that cold, terrified week he spent trying to read the green book, and at that point it had gone so utterly that he thought he would never get it back.

He had traded it out with weak reluctance and asked for a thinner one. (He had been too embarrassed to ask for an easier one.) He got a slender volume of complied journal entries from an aspiring naturalist who had explored the southern river basin as a young soldier. That one was comprehensible, if a little technical in places, with labeled illustrations of exotic birds and flowers. His favorite was Green parakeet w/ passion flower, fig. 2. It wasn't a color plate, but the colors were listed and indicated and he imagined it was a very pretty bird. According to the text it whistled, screamed, and cooed.

It also traveled in large numbers and sometimes picked entire farms clean of every flower, seed, and fruit. There was mention of a dragon who had gone mad and begun firing indiscriminate arrows into a flock of them while they decimated his crops, destroyed his livelihood and ate the green shingles off his roof. He read that part so many times that the book fell open to it whenever he set it down.

Still, there wasn't much to it and he was more than ready for another book when the dragon came 'round with the cart again. He chose a midsize one, a novel, and he ended up reading it three times over. That got old fast, so his next choice was a big, thick one. That was a huge mistake. The title was_Principia Mathematica_ and he didn't know what a principia mathematica was but it had lots of complicated figures and no stories at all and it was so boring it made his eyes bleed.

And he read it twice anyway. There was nothing else to do! Well, he could itch, or cough, or eat soup, but he had been doing all of those things for a dreadfully long time and he was sick of them.

When it came time for a new book he was whining and shaking like a morphia addict and he begged of the dragon, "Look, you've got to let me have more than one. I can finish one in two days and I'm still on drugs and sleeping half the time. It's just going to get worse. Please let me have two. Three! I'll pay you for the extra ones!"

The idea of payment had, at last, gotten results. The dragon had grudgingly offered two extra books at the promise of one copper each and return at the end of the week with the other, no tears, no stains and no dog-eared pages. Ana was overjoyed. He eagerly selected three, based on thickness and titles. He liked two of them, but the third was slow and he regretted having paid for it. So when the dragon came back, he issued a further request, "I want murders. I want stories with murders in them. I'll pay you double for murders, okay? If you can find me one with_multiple_ murders I'll give you a copper for every dead dragon. How's that?"

That was, upon return of three books in impeccable condition, just fine.

---

He had eventually taken out that fucking green book again, just to try and figure out what the hell had been wrong with him. Not nearly as much as he'd thought, as it turned out. The damned thing was a satire, making fun of the so-called "romantic" trend in literature. It included, among other plot points, a silly dragon attempting to write and publish a three-part novel. It contained "the longest and most beautiful sentence in the world" which began "He had written one particular sentence of a terrible, elegant beauty; it was the longest, most beautiful sentence in the world . . ." It went on for three whole pages without a single period, absolutely nothing occurred over the entire course of it, and it ended, at last, with " . . . and it was the longest, most beautiful sentence in the world."

The name of the place kept changing. The name of the dragon kept changing. The name of the dragon's love interest kept changing. The setting kept changing. Ha, ha,_said the author. _What's all this business about love and emotion and all these long, ponderous descriptions and why should a dragon care what the clouds look like? Let's all write sensibly, shall we?

Ana's dearest wish had been to return this book in pieces, but that would have jeopardized his access to further books, so he read it and returned it and that was the end of it.

"Fuck him, I like knowing what the clouds look like," Ana muttered to himself, turning the page. The Illustrated Police News did not often mention what the clouds looked like, but it did mention what the blood looked like and that was even better.

. . . large clot and some blood-colored serum, so the time of death was estimated . . .

Now that he had a comfortable place to sit, a cup for his water and something interesting to do, he had pretty much given up on sleeping nights. He would get a couple of hours here and there, and he tended to doze off at odd times during the day--usually at the kitchen table--but he was hopelessly devoted to the back file. It was better to sleep during the day, anyway. There were no dreams, and it got him a break from his mother. He rather badly needed those breaks. He was three days into this and sometimes the end of the week seemed to be receding from his grasp, the time he would have to spend here getting somehow longer and more embarrassing. Better to rest with his head in one hand and say, "Uh-huh," than to sit there and listen consciously to how happy she was with the ice box for the twentieth time. Other recent developments were that his brother was a genius and the stationer across the street was a wicked dragon who sold ink at ridiculous prices.

"You'd think he was selling melted gold, for what he charges! We don't buy from him when we can help it, we buy in bulk from the market, but sometimes your father needs a particular color and he's the only one that has it. I don't know where he gets his ink. There's no excuse for such prices. It's criminal!"

No, no. Criminal was the wanton murder of multiple prostitutes, who kept turning up in dark alleyways and gutters with their throats slashed and their dicks cut off. This was the third one in as many months and he was only midway through the summer.

. . . contradicted by the police constable's testimony, which said he had been through Sion Street at three o'clock and had seen no sign of . . .

Oh, they are never gonna catch this guy, Ana thought. They haven't got a clue. He huddled up under his blanket and sat closer to the lamp, feeling the darkness, feeling the danger of the city around him. Not that the fortress wasn't dangerous--he had an enormous scar that proved that much--but for pure, unadulterated craziness like a dick-murderer, you'd best try your luck in a city.

He's collecting them, Ana thought, yawning. He's got 'em all in back files, like Inker. Or maybe he's got an ice box . . . It wasn't his last thought, but it was the last he remembered. He fell asleep with the pages open in his lap, dreamed nothing, and woke in time to sort the papers, order them, and get them back in the box before his father got up.