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Moon's Day was another market day, and he accompanied his mother--not without a certain reluctance, but happily enough. Making their way past a cloth vendor, who laid out a bolt of purple-printed calico and rolled a yard of it over his arm to tempt them, his mother gave a sudden cry, latched on to his hand and dragged him over to the fruit stand. "Bananas!" she said. "Oh, your brother just loves these!"

"What, now?" said Ana. There were red and yellow apples, small oranges, great big black bunches of grapes. There were green melons and spiky pineapples and delicate golden pears wrapped in cloth. There were dates and figs and pomegranates, and lots of other things that he didn't know what hell they were. He assumed she meant one of those.

She selected and held up a large, dangling clot of these long yellow things that reminded him vaguely of his evening spent wondering if they were going to catch the dick-murderer.

"Bananas!" she told him. "How much?" She approached the vendor and negotiated the sale. Still standing there, with him holding the basket out to her, she pulled one off the bunch, pinched the blunt end and pulled down the yellow part in three thick tongues. The exposed substance was white and sort of fluffy-looking. "Here! Taste!"

Ana took a small, curious bite and almost spit it back out into the palm of his hand. "It'th thoft!" he cried, fingers pressed to the tip of his muzzle. He chewed and swallowed. It was sweet, too. Not unpleasant, just surprising. "This is fruit?" he said, snatching it from her. He turned it this way and that and the peel spun around his hand like a skirt.

"Mm-hm!"

"Where're the seeds?"

She laughed and shrugged. "Aren't any, I guess."

The fruit seller broke in, nodding and smiling at them. "Yes. Amazing. Go away." There was a bit of a line forming behind them. His mother bowed and smiled and made many apologies with her hands up and they backed away from the stall.

"It'th like ice cream," Ana said, hazarding another bite. "But it's warm. Oh. You want some?"

"Mm-mm. I don't like them so much. The taste is all right, but they make my teeth feel funny."

Ana contemplatively licked his teeth. "Hmm."

"Your father can't stand them, I think it's the texture. Your brother is absolutely devoted to them, though. He'd have them three meals a day if he could. I can't put them in his lunches, they bruise like crazy! They'll be all gone before next market, you wait and see . . ."

They were almost all gone by the end of the day. Ana himself ate two more, partly because he wanted to remember the taste and the experience to tell his friends, mostly because it annoyed his little brother. Ansel seemed to believe all bananas were his personal property and it bothered him having to watch another dragon sitting at the kitchen table and eating his things. Not enough to say anything about it, but he got a miserable, frustrated expression on his face that Anatole somehow enjoyed. It got worse when he made happy noises and complimented Ansel's taste in fruit and thanked him so very much for sharing.

"I think you're vicious," the young dragon finally said, when their mother had her back turned and was minding a cake in the oven.

"I'm your brother," Anatole replied. "Oh, Ansel," he said, much louder, "are you certain_you don't mind if I have another? Oh, _thank you! So _very_much!"

On Age's Day, after the 'prentices had been dismissed and Ansel had come home from school, a dragon came in with an order for three dozen hand-lettered invitations. Inker held up the ticket when he had gone, looked over at Anatole and said, "Well?"

Ana had a look at the ticket. A private slave auction. Script. Centered. Blue caps. Pale blue scrollwork around the edges. Nice invitations, not too ostentatious. No gold leaf. He could already see the design. "Yeah, all right," he said.

He set up on Terez's desk, recalling that Camelio had said not to touch his things, with three different colors of ink and a few, select pens and brushes.

Inker had called Ansel down, and when Ana had made ready to start, the yellow-gold lifted his youngest child on to the edge of the desk. "Watch him, now," he said. "This is one thing your brother is good at."

Ana framed the paper in both hands, plotting what went where and how much of a margin he needed for decoration. The dragon had, alas, not requested the best cardstock, but a medium-weight paper that was fairly nice, just not _that_nice. The size was A6--which would fit nicely into an envelope without folding, but did not leave a lot of room for messing about. Slave auction. Young females included. Cordially invited. Place. Date. Time. He began to write.

"Doesn't he put guidelines?" Ansel said.

"Don't need 'em," Ana replied absently. He reached the end of the line and began another, slightly offset because it was longer. Cordially invited, he thought, mentally rolling his eyes. Why did they always put cordially invited? He could practically do that one with his eyes closed, in three different kinds of script, formal to casual, and copperplate. What did cordially invited even mean? He finished the black text and went back to put the caps in blue.

"He left spaces," Ansel marveled.

"It's faster," Ana said. Faster still was to do all one color on multiple invitations before going back over them, but that gave him a mechanized feeling that he did not enjoy. He used to do that sometimes if it was a big order, but he always completed the first one first, just so make certain it came out on the paper like it did in his head. Inker would smack his hand with a ruler for ugly invitations. He circled the text with two long ribbons of pale blue, not so much drawn as etched, using a slanted metal pen tip that scratched like the blade of a knife.

Your better-quality paper didn't draw or feather the ink so much, and he noted a few shiny bits that were still drying, so he pressed a bit of blotting paper on top and peeled it back carefully to seal the results.

Ansel said, "Ooh," and bent his muzzle closer, afraid to touch. Inker picked up the sheet with his dark, blunted claws and set it aside. "Wait'll he gets the second one done," the yellow-gold said.

That wasn't too long, not now that he knew what he was doing and had settled back into the routine of it.

"It's the same!" cried Ansel, when the blotting paper was peeled away.

"No," said Inker. He put the two sheets beside each other and indicted with a claw. "Look back and forth very fast and you'll see the differences. It looks like the lines move."

Ansel did so, pale eyes flicking rapidly from one to the other, almost without focusing. "But it's so close!" he said.

"That's why they pay extra for hand lettering," Inker said. "Only they don't know it. They just think it looks expensive. If it really was the same, it'd look like it came out of the press. You want it close, as close as a dragon can get it, but not perfect. Skill, not technology. You only get that look with skill."

Ana, who was midway through his third invitation, paused and glanced over. Was that a compliment?

He shrugged it off and kept lettering. Maybe it was one, but not one directed at him. Just at the idea of skilled dragons who practiced something until they got good at it. Given that Inker and his Goddamned ruler had been at the center of all that practice and resulting skill, perhaps the yellow-gold was complimenting himself.

He finished his first ten before dinner, with Ansel ignoring his slatework to watch him and ask an occasional question ("How do you do that curve like that? The thickness?" "It's just how you turn the pen. Look."), and did another dozen before retiring to read the Police News and sleep. That left enough for him to perform a second demonstration for the 'prentices in the morning.

Camelio said, "Bull_shit_," and walked out of the room with his hands up. He came back later, though.

Terez asked questions of a more technical nature. Why this pen and not that one? Did he prefer oil-based or water-based inks? What about on parchment?

He said that he didn't much care for parchment, but that was mostly because he had learned on paper and parchment felt odd to him. He also expressed a burning distaste for rough reed paper, which was the cheapest and most easily-had, especially in the fortress.

Hui-Lim wanted to know if he had ever used an ink stone.

Ana said, "A what, now?"

Hui-Lim retreated to his desk, brought back a flat gray stone with a shallow cavity and a short, dark stick of some substance and proceeded to make ink, right there, on the table.

"I, uh, no," said Ana. "I have never seen that. I wouldn't know how to go about it." He sampled some of the ink with his pen and was about to make an experimental mark on the invitation, but a sharp glance from Inker convinced him to try the stuff on the blotting paper instead. It made a bold, dark mark, which was rather badly feathered, due to the paper quality. He made a few more marks and then did a large "A" in script.

"The quality is much different," Hui-Lim said. His pitying expression said, The quality is much_better._

"Uh, yes," said Ana. "I suppose it is." He really would have liked to try it out on better paper, but the tone was darker than what he was using on the invitations and Inker wasn't about to let him have more card stock. "Could you show me how you . . . ?"

Inker leaned in and said, "No, dammit. You want to trade lessons, do it on your own time. I'm not running a fucking school."

Hui-Lim made an apologetic smile and took the ink stone away.

"Finish those invites and then do something useful," Inker said.

Oh, thought Ana. Now I'm not doing anything useful? Aren't we getting paid for this, Inker?

He made a low grumble and went back to lettering. He supposed he wasn't getting paid for it.

Maybe because of this, maybe because he was still irritated at not getting to learn how to use an ink stone, when the work was done at the half-day, he lined up with the 'prentices at the front desk. Camelio put out his hand and got coins. Terez put out his hand and got coins. Hui-Lim put out his hand and got coins. Anatole put out his hand and got . . .

"What?"

"Where's my doss money?" Ana said. "I did the half day. I did more than the half day."

"Where's mine?" Inker replied. He reached into the box and counted a few coins on the desk top. "Let's see. Love's Day, Sky's Day, Sun's Day . . . Oh, wait. Ten years, of room and board and lessons!" He scraped all the money into his hand, threw it back in the box, slammed the lid and locked it.

Ana found himself suppressing a terribly strong urge to tell his father to go fuck himself. If he did that, he would need the doss money, and he didn't have any. He turned and went back upstairs instead, choosing to do house stuff for the rest of the day.

At the table that evening, his father actually told his mother to be quiet. She looked shocked and sad and obeyed, but Inker did not look up at her or take back what he had said. They spent the meal in silence.

Inker threw his twisted napkin on his empty plate and said, "When you're done eating my food, come downstairs and we'll see how useless you really are."

Ana was done eating Inker's food right then and there, but he stayed and finished what he'd taken for his mother's sake.

"Anji, what did you do?" she asked him at a whisper.

He shrugged and answered, "Three dozen hand-lettered invites."

She frowned at him, either finding some significance in that or worried at the lack of it, and collected his plate.

"You want any help with the dishes?" he said.

"No, no. Go see what your father wants."

He would much rather have done dishes, but he sighed and nodded and went downstairs.

Inker met him at the bottom. He was standing and tapping irritated fingers on the banister. Perhaps he had been doing this for some time. He lifted his muzzle and called past Ana, "Ansel! You, too!"

Ansel came quickly--then he stopped, halfway down the stairs, and came quietly instead. Inker was glaring at Anatole and seemed not to notice.

The press was sitting ready, but empty. Several handwritten pages, the substance of the next day's work, were set out on the table beside. Inker pointed and said, "You set this half. I'll set this half. Graded for accuracy and time. Best dragon wins."

Ana said miserably, "Why?"

The yellow-gold grunted. "You said you can still set type. Well, let's see it."

"I-I don't know that I did say that!" Ana replied. "What does it matter? I don't want a job . . ."

"Look, here! I wasted ten years of my life that I'll never get back tryin' to teach you to set type! And I know you can still do it, so let's fucking see it!"

"This is pointless," Ana said.

"Are you saying you can't?"

"No! I'm just saying it's pointless!"

It didn't matter. They were going to do it anyway. Inker had his teeth in it and he just wouldn't let go. With every protest, Ana gave a little ground, propelled by sheer stubbornness, and soon he found himself standing over an open drawer and holding a composing stick.

"This is pointless!" he insisted.

Ansel was standing on a chair and holding up a white hanky like a flag. He vibrated with a nervous excitement that both wanted this to be over and wanted to see what would happen next. "Ready!" he cried.

Inker nodded.

Ana said, "I really do think this is pointless!"

Ansel waved the hanky and said, "Go!"

"This is stupid," Ana muttered, now only to himself, as he began to pluck type out of the boxes with reluctant fingers. He knows I'm not going to win. I haven't done this in ten years and I was never any good at it.

He knew that himself, and he supposed he might've put an end to the matter if he came right out and said it, but he couldn't get the words out of his mouth. He'd said it was pointless and he'd said he didn't want to, but had he said, I know I can't, even when Inker came right out and asked him? No, no, he could not say that. And even now that he was engaging in an action that would only serve to prove it, he couldn't slam the drawer and say so. Okay! You can set type and I can't. I'm a shitty printer. You win!

It wasn't as if he wanted to be a good printer. Even as a child, even when he got it right, setting type had brought him no joy or satisfaction.

But something in him, be it pride or stupidity, would not allow him to give up and admit that he couldn't do it.

Anyway, I can_do it,_ he thought to himself. I'm just not fast. I just won't win. But he acts like I can't do it at all.

He fumbled the composing stick and turned it in his hand. When he was first learning, he had been inclined to compose his columns the right way up. Backwards, because you had to mirror the type to print it, but the right way up. But the right way up was the wrong way up, and it had taken more than a few smacks (back of the head for setting type badly) to cement the idea in his brain. You were supposed to hold the stick and set the type mirrored and upside-down.

This was not an easy thing to do, orienting the letters that way, and he couldn't slot them in quickly because of his claws. There was also a brief moment of panic where he couldn't find the spacers in the box and a few minutes after that he had to go back and pluck several inches of typing out of the chase because he'd forgotten to justify it.

If I can get half done by the time he'd finished I'll have made a good showing, he told himself.That's all I want. I know I won't win. As his fingertips grew darker and the grime of dried ink settled into his claws, he thought,A quarter done. That's all I want. I'll prove I can still do it. That's all I want. I know I won't win. When he found, with horror, that he had reversed all of his p's and q's, and had been doing this for quite some time, he began to yank them out of the press itself and switch them the right way around. All right,_he told himself, _so I'll only get a few pages. Three or four pages. But they will be perfectly justified, perfectly set, because even if I'm slow, I know how to set type properly. That's all I care about. I know I won't win.

Half an hour later, covered in ink, he had abandoned all hope of making any progress and was only trying to fix the mistakes in what he'd already done. Inker was assembling the last column on his last page, in considerably less disarray, his black fingertips only a half-shade darker. He was somewhat out of breath from the repeated trips to the drawer and back. Despite Ana's inevitable failure, the yellow-gold had been going all out, clicking the letters together with expert precision and slamming them into the press as if his life depended on it. He did not want to win, not merely to win. He knew he would win. His pride demanded that he_conquer_.

He slotted in the last line with a determined snarl and cried, "That is why I file my claws!"

Ana put both his hands up and walked away from the press, all the way to the other side of the room. "I know!" he said. "I know why you file your claws! I do know that!" He had made a pitiful showing, only two pages; he knew some kind of posturing was in the offing and he had no patience remaining for it. His hands were grimed, his muzzle was blackened, and the tang of ink and metal was on his tongue. He felt filthy.

Inker strode to the other side of the press with a jovial step and had a look down at it, "Well, let's see what you've done, shall we?"

"I'm not fast," Ana spat at him. "You know I'm not fast. I don't know why we had to do this just so you could tell me I'm not fast."

Inker said, "You've reversed all your b's and d's. I can't use any of that."

Ana cried, "Oh, fuck!" and punched a filing cabinet. It went clunk and wobbled unsatisfyingly.

"You just fucked up your hand, didn't you?" Inker said, grinning.

"No!" said Ana.

"Yes!" said Ana. He went to the sink and stuck his hand under the tap. He'd scraped open two of the knuckles and the water stung.

"Terez keeps plaster in his drawer. Top left. He's always cutting his fingers. Paper cuts, mostly."

"I don't need it," Ana said, holding his hand.

"Well, if you decide you want it later," Inker allowed. "Ansel, come back upstairs. There's pie in the icebox."

Ansel followed a few reluctant steps after him. "Are we gonna eat the pie in the icebox?" he asked meekly.

"You're not a very bright child, are you?" Inker said and left.

"I guess we are," Ansel said to Anatole. "Are you gonna come?"

Ana was bent over the sink and did not look up from it. "I honestly don't know why I came in the first place," he said.

His mother did not come down that night. Ana didn't know whether Inker had imposed some restriction or if she had just thought better of it herself, but he was glad. She probably would have fussed over his hand, and she would've made him tell the whole thing over. She would have refused to take sides, as she always did when he got into it with his father, and would have made diplomatic comments that were meant only to soothe. And in his foul mood, he would have picked her up by the tail and pitched her out the fucking window.

The ground floor window, he amended. And he would open it first. But still.

He did eventually plaster his hand, after a long, futile effort to scrub the ink out from under his claws. Later, when he was certain his parents had gone to sleep and neither would be coming down, he pulled out the drawers and examined the type until he found a font with a schoolbook variant. He scooped out all the simple, round a's and switched them with the regular a's in the case beside. That was subtle. It would take Inker a long time to find that. He might even make a few prints that way. That would surely screw up his precious formatting.

It was stupid and petty, but it was satisfying--in the same way that a tongue against a sore place in your mouth was satisfying.

Somewhat mollified, he sat and read the Police News until dawn.

At morning meal he expressed a desire to go down to the docks and have a look around.

Ansel dropped his spoon in his porridge and sat forward, "Why? Is something on fire?"

Ana let go a little laugh. Yeah. He remembered watching fires. Great entertainment. Drama. Action. Destruction. He'd drag his mother out of the house to go watch a fire.

He shook his muzzle with a smile. "No. I don't think there is. I'd just like to see the ocean, I guess. I haven't seen it in a while."

Inker spoke to his porridge, "If you catch anything, get it cleaned there. Don't expect your mother to do it. She hates that sort of thing."

"Oh. Yeah. Fishing," Ana said. "I s'pose might fish." No, he would not fish. He did not like fishing, and he didn't have the money to rent a rod or a creel. But it was another excuse to get him out of the house today and he would take it. He would fucking well take it.

His mother looked mildly disappointed to be denied his company, but she didn't raise much of a fuss. "Will you be back for noon meal, Anatole?" she said.

"Oh. I . . . I was thinking a bit longer, actually . . ."

"I'll pack you a lunch," she said, rising. "Make sure you're back for evening meal. We're having fried chicken."

"Again?" said Inker.

"There was a sale!" she said brightly.

Ana concealed a smile behind his palm.

On his way to the docks, bucket in hand (and, thus, clearly not a prostitute) he composed a song about bucket lunch with consisted primarily of the words, Bucket lunch is awesome! and hummed it quietly to himself. He was considering a second verse about cherry pie (there was only a little sliver of that, because Ansel and his father had got into it the previous night, but it was better than no pie at all) when he arrived at his destination and all thoughts of pie were knocked from his head.

My God, this place really has grown.

So many boats. So many dragons. So many bins and boxes and racks of things. And, was there more dock? More deck, more pylons, extending multiple fingers into the sea to accommodate all the traders and travelers? There had to be. There were more freedragons here, and slaves, adding bright colors to the metallic hues of the Pythian workers. Bright blues. Deep greens. Yellows, reds and golds. They blended and contrasted with shades of dyed fabric, polished metals, fresh fruit and vegetables. And the_fish_. Dragons everywhere were hauling fish, cleaning fish, selling fish, toting poles and nets and buckets in search of _more_fish.

The smell was nostalgic, both pleasant and awful. Dark, salted, seasoned wood; multiple damp dragons in close quarters; fresh fish and cold, spilled blood; the leathery redolence of old hemp rope that was more taste than smell. Above it all, mixed with it all, the salt tang of the sea--not clean sea, but_used_ sea, churned and mudded and littered with guts and vomit and sewage. The gulls were having a field day, clacking and crying and swooping down on every likely piece of trash in great droves.

I am going to get shit on, Ana thought with weak revulsion. He hadn't been shit on since he was a kid. His mother, in attempting to calm his hysteria, had assured him it was good luck and he got to make a wish.

A brown dragon moving a large barrel with a small handcart plowed past him and banged into him with a hip. "Watch yourself, Goddammit," he said. With no pause for apology, he added, "If you're looking for day labor, I think Cordez is still hiring, but you'd better be fast about it." He shifted his burden and moved on.

Day labor? thought Ana. Oh.Right. He remembered. He lifted his lunch-pail and considered it. Bucket lunch. Just like big dragons who work real jobs. He gazed off in the direction the passing dragon had indicated.

Do_I want day labor?_ he wondered. Money? He could do with some money. Buy some things for his friends, pay down some of that debt he had incurred begging for books. His off-hand rose unbidden and touched the dent in his side. He looked down at it and sighed. No. No day labor for him. He had healed and he was cleared to fly, but six-to-eight hours spent lugging heavy things about would risk a new injury, and he did not want to endanger his ability to get out of here tomorrow.

Tomorrow. He was leaving here tomorrow. His time here--hour by hour, minute by minute--had seemed interminable, but now he was leaving tomorrow. He was leaving and he was never coming back. This was a relief, but it also left him feeling a tiny bit melancholy.

I wonder if I'll ever see the ocean again?

He liked the ocean. Maybe not the docks so much, but the bare places, where it was just sand and water and quiet. He used to play in those places. Sometimes his mother would take him. Sometimes he'd sneak off and go by himself.

He thought he'd do that now. He followed the worn boards and the line of the sea, until the noise and the chaos thinned out and the smell got better and at last he was deposited on a craggy shore with a smudge of pale sand at the edge of it. Some dragons here were standing on the rocks and surf casting, but not many of them, and quietly. They ignored him. These dragons were not fishing for fun or money. They were after dinner, grave at the prospect of failure and another night spent hungry.

Ana walked out on to the sand and let the ripple of the tide dampen his feet. It was cold, icy cold, and he wondered how he possibly could have liked doing this as a kid. He didn't give up and go back to the dock, though. He stood there and gazed out at the endless, gray expanse. The distant line of the horizon was dark, inky, mysterious. Maybe even dangerous.

History held that Pythians came from there, some distant land across the sea, though there was some argument whether this had been accidental or with purpose.

When he was little, very little, he had thought some day he'd fly out there, as far as he could fly, and have a look. Now he knew that this was suicide. To fly out there, as far as you could fly, left no energy for coming back, and even if you were careful and managed your strength, the ocean was not kind to flyers. Better to hug the coastline, as the traders did in their open boats, so you could put down someplace if a storm blew in.

There had been some attempts, many more attempts in distant times, to build large ships with many decks and sails that could weather the storms, to conquer that vastness and bring back reports of whatever might lay on the other side. These had ended in failure--empty-handed returns or no returns at all. Maybe the ones who didn't return had landed on that distant shore and found strange Pythians who welcomed them and lived with them, together, but Ana didn't think so.

Standing here, a lone dragon, with only his wings to carry him, he was looking at the last barrier, the ultimate, the end of the world.

He bundled his wings around himself, feeling very small, cold and afraid. He was fond of this feeling and often sought it out, but thoughts of the ocean, thoughts of the finality of it, were just a little too personal right now. He had been at the edge of such an ocean, at the edge of a dark, cold place. At the edge of nothingness. He hadn't liked it then.

He wasn't sure he liked it now, but somehow he didn't want to leave. That he was here, in this cold place, was proof positive that he had turned away from the other. He had lived. He was seeing the ocean again, something he thought maybe he'd never do.

With sudden decisiveness, with perhaps even insanity, he turned toward that dark horizon and tramped into the water--still holding his lunch. He got up to his waist and then he screamed. It was so cold it was like fire. He scrambled out, shuddering, cursing himself.

Why did you do that? Why did you do that? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The nearest dragon, some twenty yards away, picked up his bucket and moved farther.

Ana sat on the rocks and huddled up, dripping wet. Okay, you know what? I don't ever need to do that again. There are some things I don't need to do. There are some things I'd miss if I died, but freezing cold ocean is not one of those things. Good to know! Freezing cold ocean, setting type, my father, stabbing things in my side--all stuff I can die without having again.

I want pie right now, he thought.

He broke into his lunch pail and ate with both hands, crouched and nibbling like a squirrel. Pie. Bread and butter. A cold, tender pork chop with a t-bone he could gnaw endlessly. All good things. Such good things. He dried and grew warmer, felt better. The ocean was pretty; he could just look at it, that was a good thing, too.

When he had emptied his bucket he decided to fill it again, at least part way. He didn't want to go back to the shop yet, and he felt too old and self-conscious to build castles. The tide was receding, and it left a scattering of smooth stones and fragmented shells on the sand. Ree had a fondness for quietly pretty things; he would like some stones and shells. The others might not like some stones and shells, but that was all he could afford so that's what they were gonna get. Maybe he could find a goofy-looking one for Dulio.

He kept this up for a couple of hours, choosing carefully and discarding pieces when he found a better one, in and out of the tide with cold toes, leaving his footprints in the sand. He found a feather and kept it. He found some clumped pampas grass and decided not to keep any of that, the stalks being too tough to break and too big to carry. He picked up his bucket and headed back for the docks in the mid-afternoon, well before sundown. Sunset by the ocean was spectacular, but darkness in the city streets was spectacular in rather a different way, one he knew he would not enjoy. They might've caught the dick-murderer (he really shouldn't have worn that necklace in public), but there were plenty of other crazies out there, and they liked to come out at night.

He turned and took one last, long look at the ocean, the whole of it, and the clouded sky above. Well. There it is. I guess I better remember it, 'cos I don't know if I'll ever be back.

He shut his eyes and for a moment he just listened to it, rushing in, rushing in. Hungry. Eternal. Gulls crying. Wind in his ears. Damp air on his body and the smell of saltwater in his nose.

He opened his eyes.Yeah. That's what it is. The ocean. 'Bye.

He mounted the boards of the dock with his head down, afraid to look up again, afraid he wouldn't be able to stop looking, feeling his mortality like a lump in his throat.

Soon there were more dragons and more activity and he had to look up, but the sea was different here, all boxed-in and dirty; he didn't like it as much, and there was plenty to distract him. Get out of the way of that. Get out of the way of that. Oh, God_, that smells awful. What's that dragon doing? Fuck! There are so many birds! Is that another dead cat? For God's sake, aren't there any_ living cats around here? Oh, shit, I almost ran into that guy. Sorry. Sorry. Yeah, throw those fish guts right on the deck. We could do with a few more birds around here. You total asshole_. Oo, what's that?_

He had come upon a long line of posters plastered against a plank fence.

They were color prints whose fading proved them to be a few weeks old, advertising a show that was in its final two days (unless it was held over and then additional signs would be layered on top). He supposed they might have been done at his father's shop. Color prints cost extra, and you had to bring your own plates.

The main figure was a dragoness, a Pythian female. She was illuminated by stage lights, and a dark audience milled about beneath her. She appeared to be singing. The text of the poster confirmed this--waxed lyrical about it, in fact--and listed a few popular tunes she would be performing.

He wondered if she really could_sing. He supposed it didn't matter. If she decided she was going to sing, no dragon would dare to contradict her. So rare a creature as a Pythian female could choose her own path and walk with impunity, at least until her child-bearing years were through. He heard occasional tales of Pythian females growing tired of city life and descending on a fortress, with luggage and retinue in tow. _I live here now,_she would say. _Yes, ma'am, the council would say. Will you be needing anything else? And, doubtless, she would be.

So this one had decided to sing, and she would receive long engagements and sold-out houses, not because she was particularly talented or even particularly beautiful, but merely because she was a girl.

He sort of hoped she couldn't really sing. It would be kind of sad if she could.

He guessed he could've gone and found out for sure, if he'd taken the day labor. He could still go, he guessed. There were other ways to get some coin, one of which he had been hoping to avoid by heading back this early, and that was a thing he knew he could do. He had never done it for money, but doing it for tinned apricots was just a short sideways jig from doing it so he could see a dragoness in a show.

But the thought of doing that here, in a city . . .

The thought of doing that here, so near his parents, where, God forbid, one of them might find out about it . . .

No, he thought, shuddering. Oh, God, no. Not all the girls in the world were inducement enough for that.

Do I really like girls? he wondered, considering the poster. He supposed that might've been the reason he wasn't so eager to blow dragons for tickets.

It was not as easy a question as it should have been. He was just too much of a realist.

Did he want to be with a Pythian_girl, like this one? No, not even for one night, because if she decided she liked him she would essentially own him and he could say goodbye to his life. Did he want to be with a _slave girl? No, he did not want what his father had, not under any circumstances. The very idea made his scales creep.

What about a free girl? That one didn't immediately bother him. He shut his eyes and tried to commit to the fantasy. Some strange, beautiful, colorful girl--a soft girl, with a curve to her hip and a delicacy to her scent. Someone above all who chose him, and had the capacity to say no to him. Someone whom he had also chosen, whom he really, really wanted--whether it be just for the night or maybe forever.

He felt a giddy sort of warmth in his belly. Yeah. Oh, yeah, he would like that. And if he went on thinking about it he might like it enough that he had to go hide somewhere and do something about it.

He sighed and opened his eyes, looking once again at the flat, paper dragoness and her faded colors. Maybe he could like girls, but there was no point in liking girls. To have a free girl, to even have a chance at such a thing, he would have to abandon the fortress altogether and go native, or come back to the city. One of these things he would have hated, and the other would probably leave him with another sword sticking out of him, this time fatally.

Boys were all right, anyway. He had good friends where he was who loved him. He loved them, too, and they took care of each other. That was really all he needed.

He approached the fence and began carefully peeling one of the posters down. Bela liked girls, with a simple devotion that bordered on worship. He kept a collection of pictures of girls, some of them traced, some of them printed, some of them drawn. If you contributed, you got free access. Ana had yet to make a contribution himself, though he did have free access, having been the one who first taught Bela how to make tracings. Those first two dragonesses, front and back views copied out of a textbook, were smudged and worn and not too terribly attractive. This one was much nicer, and in color.

Back at the fortress, Lucero had recently bloated the collection with a new talent for creating sketches of dragonesses out of whole cloth. Ana had no idea how he did that. He could hand letter and he could do scrollwork, but drawing of any kind eluded him. He vividly recalled Inker's ruler removing all desire to adorn invitations with anything more complicated than the occasional leaf. ("What the fuck is that supposed to be?" "A bird!" WHACK! "Stick to scrollwork!") Lucero could even do girl versions of boys. You could tell which boys they were, they were good sketches, but somehow he made them . . . Girly? The girl version of Nirez was particularly popular. There had been a vociferous campaign to get more of those in a variety of poses.

But, thought Ana, grinning, Lucero didn't do color. He rolled up the crackling paper and stowed it in his lunch pail with the shells.

Spoils in hand, feeling proud of himself, and just about to leave the boards of the dock for the cobbles of the street, he saw a white streak swoop low over his shoulder and felt a familiar sort of warmth.

"Ah, Goddammit!" he cried. "I knew it was gonna happen! I knew it! I fucking jinxed it!" He mastered the urge to swipe claws at his neck and shoulder, knowing this would do nothing but get shit on his hands.

His mother's voice was in his head: It's all right, Anji! You get to make a wish!

I wish I'll see the ocean again, he thought.

But no birds,_he amended, bee-lining for the nearest water pump. _All the birds can be dead_._

---

He awoke in the middle of the night, feeling so pent up and switched on that he was already half out of his head. He had dreamed of hot, damp things and the blanket was so warm and heavy on him that he kicked it right off the bed.

The lights in the infirmary were dim, the nurses absent but not far. They would come if you called them. He didn't want to do that.

He wondered if they might come anyway, catch him and see what he was thinking and tell him no. He knew that didn't make any sense, but nothing he was thinking made any sense.

The desire to lick his wound was almost unsupportable. Peel back the bandage, expose the dark stitches, bend his muzzle and lick-lick-lick against them. He thought it would feel good. He thought his tongue would feel cool against the fever of his healing flesh, and his flesh would feel warm against the dampness of his darting tongue. His mouth was watering just thinking of it.

He rolled out of the bed and made rapidly for the hall toilet. He didn't have to go, but he had to_go_--get out of there, find someplace private, _do_something. He fumbled the latch with too-eager fingers but he turned it and closed it and then he was safe.

His side ached, he was panting. It hurt him when he tried to go too fast. He whimpered and leaned with one hand against the wall, bent over the toilet in case he needed to be sick.

He didn't need to be sick.

He put his other hand between his legs and stroked off with a desperation so ultimate and immediate that it allowed no question. It was only after that he thought he might be crazy. He stared at his eyes in the cracked mirror over the sink. He certainly looked crazy.

He was so hot.

He turned on the faucet, full force, and drank directly out of it, not bothering to cup his hands. It was cool, not cold, maybe not cold enough. Lapping with his tongue in the sink made him think of his wound again. It gave a warning twinge when he straightened. He stroked the bandage with one hand and he moaned at the feel of it. It felt like silk and he wanted to lick it. It felt like silk and he wanted to tear it. He could feel the uneven line of stitches underneath and he wanted to tear those, too. Bite them, scratch them, pull them out. Itch. Oh, God, he wanted to itch. All his claws came out but he kept them away. He stroked, he stroked with the heel of his palm. He pressed hard so that it hurt--like a bruise, but like a good bruise, one that he wanted to rub and rub and rub.

His shaft turned up again and he wanted to lick it. Lick it and suck it and ply it with his teeth, press his muzzle against it and bite too hard, so it ached like a bruise. He sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and tried to bend double so that he could do this but he couldn't.

His side, oh, his side. His side said no, and all he could do was stroke and drool and want more and think, Oh, God, what's wrong with me? Is it going to stop? Is it ever going to stop?

He wanted to lick his wound, and now he knew that if he couldn't get to his shaft he damn well couldn't get to his wound, but he wanted it anyway.

"Oh, God, stop thinking," he pleaded with himself, and he thumped the back of his head against the hollow wall behind him. "God, stop thinking." Thump. "Stop thinking." Thump. "Stop thinking . . ."

He didn't know how long he did that for, but maybe it jarred some sense back into him. Or maybe it just helped not to be stroking anything for a while. He folded a large pad of toilet paper and wet it in the sink, then he pressed that over his eyes and let it cool him.

Then he pressed it between his legs and let it cool him there, too.

I can't stay in this toilet. If I miss morning meal, they're going to come looking for me.

He didn't think he could do morning meal. He thought if he put anything in his mouth it would start him wanting to lick again, even water. God forbid the cold pressure of a spoon. But he could go back to bed, hide under his blanket, dampen a handkerchief with his vase of water and say he wasn't hungry. Then, when they took the tray away he could go walking. They encouraged him to go walking, because they didn't know how far he went.

He went there again. He went with panting breath and stumbling steps, as if he were _pulled_there, instead of dragging his own weight and hampered by the pain. The pain only made him go faster.

He said: "Nace--Fourteen-B--Please say he's in," all in one breath. He was holding a wet handkerchief against his muzzle, rubbing it there. It helped best to hold it against his lower belly, but he thought that would look worse. He already looked sick and crazy, and the bandage said he belonged in the infirmary. He was afraid someone would walk him back there and tell the staff he was delirious.

Maybe he was.

They gave him the key, and he stifled a low whimper of relief.

It was a long walk to the cells. A shorter walk now that he had the key, but he was limping already and he had to take it slow. It was intolerable. He just wanted to _be_there.

Nace got up to meet him. "Ana? Oh, you look bad. Is it bad today? Ana . . . ?" Nace touched him through the bars, held him and helped him to stand. "Ana, you're so hot."

He said: "I can't get us a room. I spent everything on murders. I mean, on books. You can have a free one but it wasn't enough and I said double for murders and I shouldna said that 'cos now I have to pay back before I'm even broke and I can't do favors. I took a key but I dunno what I'm gonna do with it 'cos I can't do it here 'cos you've got whatsisname I can't remember but he's there looking at us and anyway there's no bed and I don't want to do that but I don't know what to do. I think maybe I'm crazy but I feel so good and I really want you to touch me. Please keep touching me." He said this rapidly, with no inflection, as if someone had mixed both hands in his punctuation and stolen out all the commas.

"Ana . . ." Nace smiled at him, guided his muzzle and gently got him to focus. He stroked a little, with the edge of his thumb, and the red-gold shivered. "Does that feel very especially good right now?"

"Yes please don't stop."

He didn't stop, but he spoke more firmly and held Ana's gaze, "It's okay, Ana. You're not crazy. It's just your season."

"My season," Ana said. It clicked. He breathed a wavering sigh.

"Yeah, honey. It's strong like this because you were hurt so bad for so long. You missed a couple, didn't you?"

"I did."

"It's okay. It's good. It just means you're better enough to want sex again."

"Oh good," said Ana. "Can we have some?"

Nace laughed at him. "I don't know, honey. I'd like to. But if you don't want to do it here and we can't have a room, we're going to have to get creative." All of the creativity was on Nace's part. Ana was in no shape for lateral thinking. Nace knew a few little places for rent-free activity, but they were all too little, or too far, and Ana couldn't trust his side.

"Ana, couldn't you just be with me here?" the yellow-green said finally. "Would it hurt you too much not to be in a bed? We wouldn't have to stand . . ."

"No," said Ana. "It isn't that. It's . . . him."

The dark blue red-collar in the corner cell. He was there and no one was liable to come take him away. This dragon looked at him and snorted. "For love of the Goddess, I'm not going to sit here and watch you, am I? You think I like looking at that? I never look over when he has . . . people."

"It's true, Ana," Nace said. "He'll go in the far corner and he'll go right to sleep. He can do that if he wants to. He's had lots of practice!"

"I wish I hadn't," the dark blue muttered aside.

"Ana, what do you think?"

"I think he has very pretty eyes and I wonder if I looked into them for a long time if I mightn't go away somewhere nice," the red-gold said.

The dark blue shut his pretty eyes, turned away and crawled to the far corner of his cell, grumbling.

Nace touched him again and smiled at him and stroked him and he forgot all about the other dragon.

"It's all right, Ana. He'll be nice to us. He knows you're nice. Let's have that key, okay?" Ana just gave it to him, and Nace had to pop the lock on his own door and come get him.

"I had a hanky but I lost it," Ana said ridiculously. He didn't know how Nace would know that or why he ought to care. "It helped a little." He touched his muzzle with a hand. Nace took that hand and held it.

"I'll help you a little."

"Yes . . ."

They sat. He wanted to sit. It was good. He was tired. Nace was near. Touching-near.

"Is that all right? Does it hurt?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. Sometimes it hurts and I like it." He touched the bandage. He stroked it with two fingers. Not hard, but he wanted to go harder. It felt like silk. Dangerous feeling. He shut his eyes and gave a low, longing moan. "Ohh, no. I wanted to do something bad last night and I think I want it again."

"We can be a little bit bad," Nace told him, smiling.

"No. No. I want the bandage off and I want to hurt it. I want to tear it." He gazed back at the yellow-green with lost eyes. "Can we really do that if I want to?" If Nace said he could do that he was going to do it right now.

Nace shook his muzzle. He was no longer smiling. "No, honey. I think we really better not do that. Let's put that hand someplace else." He took Ana's hand away from the bandage and held it against himself.

"Okay, but I want to," Ana said.

"Okay, but I won't let you," Nace replied. "Here, honey, touch me." He nosed into the fiery-gold's palm and licked it, then he kissed each individual finger. "That's good, isn't it?"

"Yes. Do that." His shaft slid out and demanded similar attention. He stroked it himself, then Nace stroked it, then Nace licked it. ""Oh, God, yes. I wanted that so bad and I couldn't . . ." Nace licked. Nace licked.

Nace wasn't holding his hand anymore and it went back to the bandage.

"Ana--"

"No! It's good!" He pressed. It ached.

"I'm sure it's good, but I don't trust you there right now." Nace took his hand. He put his other hand and Nace took that one, too. He held them both and gravely shook his head. "Uh-uh, Ana. No more until you stop."

"Please lick! I'll only do it a little!"

"No, Ana."

"Tie my hands," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Tie my hands!" he cried. "Then I won't do it. Then I can't. Then you can lick." He closed his eyes. "And maybe you can touch there a little and not hurt it if I ask you to."

"Ana, I-I don't have anything--"

"I'll go find something!" He tried to rise but Nace wouldn't let him.

"No, Ana. I don't trust you right now. I think if I let you go like this you're going to have that bandage off right away, and maybe pull out your stitches. You are not leaving this cell until I make you come. I will lock you in if I have to."

"Then please tie my hands!"

Nace held him there for a moment longer, frowning. "Two seconds. Don't move. Then I'll tie your hands."

"Nnnnn," Ana said. He clutched his hands together, shut his eyes and did not move. He heard the sound of something tearing. When he opened his eyes he saw Nace with the ragged edge of his blanket in his mouth.

He wanted to weep.

"Oh no, I wanted to do that. I didn't know I wanted to do that until you did. I could've pretended . . ." He actually sobbed.

"I'm sorry. It's done." Nace took the torn strip of cloth and began to bind his hands behind his back. "If you want to tear up the rest of it later, you can."

"I want to," Ana said, trembling. "I want to. Was it like silk?"

"No, but maybe you might like it anyway. How's that?"

Ana twisted his hands. "Tight," he said. "I think I like it. I think it feels safe."

"That's why I like it," Nace said. He smiled again. "It'll make you be good."

"Yes. Please make me be good."

"My blanket will," Nace said. "I'll make you feel good."

"Please," Ana said. "Pleeease . . ."

Nace teased him mercilessly and would not tear off his bandage, no matter how much he begged. Later he knew that this was right and sane and above all a good thing, but at the time he thought it was pure evil. He had an idea that when he reached the moment of orgasm he would tear out--or convince Nace to tear out--the stitches and the bandage both, and that would feel so incredibly, painfully wonderful that he would lose his Goddamn mind. He was so deeply in love with this idea that when he was not allowed to do that there was a minute where he actually could not come, and he thought Nace had done it on purpose. He must have said something about that--he couldn't remember what it was and he only hoped it hadn't been too mean--because Nace stopped 'teasing' him and spoke to him.

"Yes you can. Ana? Look at me. You can. And I'm going to make you. Right now."

Right now.

He didn't know what Nace did to him. Maybe he didn't do anything. Maybe it was just that he _said_that.

He came.

When he was done, he said, "Oh-please-God, do it again . . ."

Nace said they could do it again. Nace said they could do as much as he wanted. He wanted to do it approximately three more times, though by the end of it he had been reduced to a babbling hatchling who could only coo and cry. Somewhere between the fourth and the fifth time, he either lost all coherency and stopped making memories or fell asleep.

When he came back Nace was speaking gently to him and stroking his muzzle and he was absently engaged in chewing his own tail. That embarrassed him but he did it a little bit more anyway because it was nice and he needed it. They were surrounded by little bits and pieces of Nace's ripped blanket and that was what finally induced him to speak: "I'm gonna get you a new blanket. I swear it. I'm gonna get you a hundred new blankets, all silk, and we'll tear them all up together." This would have rather defeated the purpose, but he couldn't really do logic right then. It felt right.

Nace laughed at him. "All right, honey, when you can. It's okay, though. I don't really need a blanket. They're not much good."

---

He had, after multiple visits over the course of a week, eventually regained enough sanity to realize that Nace very much did need a blanket, so he sneaked into the bunkroom to steal one. He had then realized that the 4th was pretty much gone, barring a few irregulars and Ortice, so he had stolen all the blankets. They were heavy, and after he dragged them down there he had to drag most of them back, but the look on Nace's muzzle when he came down to the cells like that was priceless. There had been_screaming_.

His hand crept over his scar and he itched. It still felt good--in a not-entirely-chaste way--to be able to do that again. The bandage was gone, the stitches were gone. The pain was gone, only the memory of the pain remained. It was strong enough now that it kept him up nights, but the worst of his nights had passed away after that week with Nace. Surely this time of memory and fear would pass him, too. He had only to wait a while.

He got up to pour himself another cup of water and exchange his copy of the Police News for a fresh one. He'd already been through the whole year (There was only a year's worth in the file, and the oldest were yellowed and torn. Cheap pulp never lasted long.) and now he was reviewing the best ones. He was still going to steal them, though. He'd have to remember to do that before his father got up in the morning.

Hmm. 'Torso Killer Claims Third Victim!" or "Rogue Savage Slashes Four!!!"?

He selected Torso Killer, despite the single exclamation point. That one was still unsolved.

His mother met him on the way back to the couch.

She looked naked somehow, with no bracelets and only the collar. Smaller. And older, she looked older. Not old, she wasn't old, but pulled and puckered in a few places. How old was she, now? He knew she had been older than his father, if only by a few years. Inker had a keen eye for a bargain and he had not wanted any children, not even the normal kind you gave away. ("An older dragoness? And she can't have kids? How much less? Hell, yeah!") Anatole had come as rather a surprise, to both of them. His brother, even more so. Ansel, her third, might not have been as surprising, but he would certainly be her last.

"Anji," she said, "every night I hear you rattling around down here and I know you can't sleep. I thought maybe you'd settle down if I left you alone, but you never do."

"I'm sorry, Mom. Have I been keeping you up this whole time?"

"Yes, but it isn't because you're noisy or anything. I'm just worried. I've been worried." She sighed. "But I guess you know that."

"Yeah," he said. "I guess I do. Do you want to sit with me for a little?"

"Is that all right? I know you won't sleep, but do you want to read?" She nodded to the paper.

"I've read it," he said and he laid it aside. "I'd like you to sit with me for a little."

His pillows were piled on one end of the couch. They sat on the blanket. For a moment they didn't look at each other or speak to each other, then she snuggled a wing around him. He sighed and dropped his head on her shoulder, then she slipped both arms around him, too.

"I miss this," he admitted.

"I miss it, too," she said.

"Doesn't my brother still let you?"

"Your brother is your brother and you are you," she said. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too." Not just her, this dragoness beside him, but what she had once been to him. So much bigger. So much stronger. So perfect. There had been a time, before he really understood who she was and what she was, when this dragoness had been the most wonderful person in the world. He missed that dragoness. He missed his Mommy.

He shut his eyes. That was a child's want and something he knew he could not have.

That didn't make him stop wanting, and now it seemed so near. She was with him, that same dragoness, no different than she had ever been. But he was grown with too much understanding.

She loved him, though. This dragoness, his mother, she still loved him.

And in the morning he was going to go away and leave her forever. He couldn't pretend he was going to come back. He didn't want to.

"Sometimes I wish I didn't go," he said. "I have a good place and good friends. I like it there and I want to go back . . . but sometimes I miss you so much . . ." He wanted to cry. "I . . . Mom . . . it's been so hard!"

"Oh," she said. "Oh, oh, oh. Anji, that's all right." She held his head and drew it against her. She held him and rocked him and he did cry.

"I was scared, you know?" he said. "I just . . . I just . . . I was scared, and nobody would . . . I had to be brave all the time and no one ever said it was okay to stop." He couldn't do it anymore. He just couldn't do it anymore. She was holding him. He was safe and she was holding him and the fear was so bad and so strong that he was sobbing. "I was so afraid to die. Sometimes it hurt so bad I thought it would _end_me, but I never wanted to die. I wanted to be small. And home. I wanted to be small enough that you could hold me and fix me. I remember I used to just love you, and you could fix anything. Mom, do you remember that? You used to . . . You used to . . ."

She said, "Shh," and planted a kiss on his brow. Her hand crept back to his scar and she brushed it with one finger, then two. She began to stroke him there, the hurt place--gentle, rhythmic stroking to take away the pain.

There was no pain, but there was the_memory_ of pain.

She sang the song.

It had been this way since always. If he skinned a knee or cut himself sorting papers or fell down the stairs. Whether he needed ice or a bandage or even just a little attention. She'd fix it for him, and she'd sing. It was just a simple little thing, repetitive, no words--though maybe there had once been words. She had her own words, from her own time, back when she was free. She had been forbidden from using them.

("And another thing! I don't want to hear him come out with any of that clack-clack-clack language you used to speak. He's going to speak Common like normal children. I hear one wrong word out of him and he's going to live at the school, no argument!")

There had been one wrong word out of him. One. He couldn't remember what it was; she had smacked it right out of his head. With a spoon. A wooden spoon. There had been sauce on the spoon. It was hot and spattered. She had screamed at him. He hadn't known then why she had been so angry, not then, but she had scared the hell out of him and he had never used one of those words ever again.

He thought it might have been that, that senseless smack with a hot spoon, that made him start to pull away from her. That made him realize she was not perfect--no great, benevolent goddess--but only another person, no greater than himself.

It wasn't the same, it could never be the same, but he let her sing to him. He let her hold him and touch him, as if we were once again quite small. It hurt, because it wasn't the same, but it helped, because it was so near. She held him and she sang to him, until the tears were dry and the memory of the pain was gone.

He did not want to pull back from her, but it was time.

He sat up and asked of her, a question to fill the cold space between them, "Mom? Are there words to that song? It's just . . . I always wondered if there were, but I was scared to ask."

"Oh." She shrugged. "I guess there are, but I don't know . . ."

"It doesn't really matter now," he said. "You could say them if you remember."

She laughed. "I really don't, though. It's from a long time ago."

He sighed. Maybe she did remember, but he wouldn't get it out of her either way. He felt like he'd lost something. Not something important but . . . something that might've been nice. "Do you remember what it was about?"

"Old nonsense." She might've stopped there, but she saw him looking at her, looking interested about it, and she went on, "It's a kid's song. It's something like 'Raven, take this pain away and hide it. Frog, take this pain away and hide it. Beetle . . .' You know. Stuff like that."

"Why those animals?"

"Hoo." She rolled her head back and looked up at the ceiling. "It's an old story, Anji. Do you really want to hear it?" Do you really want another story before bed, Anji?

Can't I have one? One more story, Mommy, please?

"Yeah, Mom," he said. He tucked his legs under him and sat closer. "I'd like to."

"Let me think, now."

She told it very rapidly and with duty rather than conviction, skipping over the little details that really made a story get up and run, but he could see the bones of it. They were good bones, and a good story, one that might have kept him reading for hours if properly fleshed out.

This was a long, long time ago, when all the people were one people, the First People, a male and a female. Dragon and Dragon's wife. And all the animals were like that, too. Raven and Raven's wife. Lizard and Lizard's wife. Mosquito and . . . You get the idea. They were made that way. And because they were the first ones they all had great powers.

Now, the gods made everything. The earth and the First People and the First Animals and the sky above. But it was a dim world, always twilight, because there was no sun, no moon and no stars. So the gods made the sun, they wove it out of golden thread and hung it in the sky. The First Ones were so happy. They praised the sun's light and its beauty, and they praised the gods for giving it to them.

But these were the old gods, and they were strange and fickle creatures. They grew jealous of the sun and its light, and they decided they would destroy it. Raven, because he was First Raven, could fly high and far and all the way up to the abode of the gods and he heard them plotting. He flew urgently to earth and told all of his brethren, the First Ones, "We must hide the sun! The gods are angry and wish to destroy it. Later, when they are calmer and will listen to reason, we can put it back, but if we do not hide it now, we shall have no sun at all!"

Everyone agrees with this, because Raven always was the clever one, and they bid him to hurry. So Raven flies up, up high, to the sun, and he plucks out the golden thread with his beak and he begins to unravel it. But the sun is big, and bright, and it burns the body and the eyes. Raven is only able to take a quarter of it, and he hides it in a high mountain, the highest_mountain. And when he returns, all charred and exhausted, he cries, "Help me, my brethren, for I cannot take any more!" So Beetle steps up, and he takes a quarter of the sun and hides it deep within the earth. Likewise he calls for help, and Frog leaps up and takes another quarter and hides it under the water. Owl is the last one, and he hides his piece in a hollow tree in the darkest forest._

So the world was dim again, and there was lots of praying--and this bit doesn't make any sense but I distinctly remember them saying there were burnt offerings and the smoke was pleasing, but this was before there was fire, if you get me. Fire is a whole other story! Also, if there's only two of each animal, what were they burning? Are we missing_some animals, because of this whole sun business?_

(She waved this off and tried to pick up the thread of the tale.)

Anyway, they eventually put the sun back because of course_they do. But it's hard for them, because the sun is so beautiful and so warm, and the animals have gotten used to having it. And each of them has a small crisis and thinks maybe he won't give it back. But Raven masters himself and he puts back his piece of the sun, and when Beetle sees this he puts back his piece of the sun. And Frog puts back his piece, too._

But Owl won't. He hides himself and the sun and refuses to put back his piece.

Raven has to go into his dark forest, and with his clever tricks he takes_that last piece of the sun and he puts it back himself._

And nowdays you never see owls in the daylight anymore, because the sun was taken_from them, and they can no longer bear to look at it._

"--But it's all a lot of nonsense," she said, breaking the spell entire. "All the old stories are like that, stupid old dragons squatting around a fire and making up reasons for this and that. The sun isn't made of golden thread, and nobody ever had to hide it. It's just one of those things . . . an eclipse. And owls only come out at night, because . . . I don't know. But there's some reason with science and it's probably much more interesting." She shook her muzzle at the thought. "Anyway, it's nothing to do with eclipses. It's an old story. It's not your story. And it's not my story, not anymore. I never really believed it, anyway."

I would've believed it, Ma, he thought sadly. Even if only for a little while. Even if I had to pretend to believe it.

He wished she'd given him the chance.

She looked pensive, distracted, and she tapped three fingers against the tip of her muzzle.

Are you like the owl? he wondered. Did they take your tribe away from you, and that's why you don't like to talk about it? Or did you give it away?

"I wonder if we've done any books on owls," she muttered, half-rising to go see.

He sighed, then he laughed, a weak little hopeless laugh. She'd never tell him, and even if she did tell him, he wouldn't trust the answer.

"Ma, come on," he said. "I don't care anything about owls, I just wanted to hear the story. It was a good story," he added, perhaps with a little sharpness, chiding her for keeping it from him. "I liked it. I wish you'd told me when I was a kid. I would've eaten that up with a spoon."

She patted him. "That's part of the reason I didn't. I knew you had a hard time with the other kids. Fitting in. You might've told it around."

"You wanted me to fit in?" he said, staring. "Really? You . . . You told me that one time that cheese grows on trees!"

"Oh, that was your father," she said. "He told me that when he first bought me. I'd never seen it before. I just told you that because it was funny."

"I _believed_you!" he said. "You know, when I transferred to the fortress, I found out they had apple trees, and I said, 'Oh, great! Do you have any cheese trees?'"

She brayed laughter at him. "Oh, Anji, you didn't! You were ten years old! Didn't you ever see a cow?"

"Cheese doesn't look like it comes out of cows, Ma! It's not like they're labeled. Nobody ever thought to drag me aside and say, 'You know what? Cheese? Yeah, that comes from a cow.' You know," he plowed onwards, "you know, it's a damn good thing I was orange as a child, because if they hadn't already been calling me 'Oranges,' I would've been 'Cheese Trees' for the rest of my life. And it would've been _your_fault!"

They laughed, the both of them, together. But she stopped first. She looked at him with an odd expression, a painful one.

"Was it because--" She broke off and shook her head. "No. It doesn't matter. Never mind."

"What? Never mind what?" Was it because . . . He wasn't certain, but he thought he knew. He wanted to hold her and tell her, no, no, of course not. It was never because of you.

He would have said that, but he would have been lying. She knew it, and she did not want that from him. Such . . . cheap words. Hurtful words.

"Just never mind," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I'm sorry, too."

He did hold her, for a little while, and said nothing.

"Anji," she said, "you do have friends now, don't you? You always write about your friends. Good friends?"

He nodded. "The best."

"If," she said, knotting her hands in her lap, "if it ever happens that you can't write to me anymore, will you have one of them write, and tell me? I wanted to ask you . . . I-I don't know what I would've done, if there just weren't any letters anymore . . ."

He touched her and stopped her. If she kept on that way, she was going to cry, and if she started, he would. It had been that way since always. "Yes. I'll do that. I promise."

"Do they know about me?" she said. "Do you ever talk about me?"

He shook his muzzle, admitting it. "But . . . But it isn't because . . . I do love you, you know. It's just . . . Some things are hard to say."

She nodded. "It's all right."

"I was going to have to tell them about you, anyway," he said. "I said some stuff." He twitched a small smile. "I think something about an egg and some toast."

"Oh, that," she said, and laughed.

"Breakfast!" she cried, upstarting. "Oh, shit!"

He laughed at her. He couldn't help it. "It's all right. It's early yet. I'll help you. Do you need anything peeled?"

She shooed both hands at him. "No. No! I love you dearly, but you don't know where anything is and you just get in my way!" She ran up the stairs. She practically flew.

This left a perfect opportunity for Ana to go back in the workroom and steal most of the Police News. He couldn't get all of it; he didn't have enough room in his pack, and the older ones would not have survived bending and folding. He also left the three latest copies, not because he had any care for formatting or his father's sensibilities, but because Inker would surely be easier for his mother to live with if he wasn't screaming and pacing and going on about font sizes.

He gave brief consideration to the idea of taking Hui-Lim's ink stone, but that felt dishonest, somehow. More_dishonest. Besides, even if he did take it, there was no one at the fortress who could show him how to _use it.

What do I need ink for, anyway?_he thought. _I'm trying to get away_from ink._

He still had some under his claws from that dick-waving contest on Wisdom's Day.

He did up the string on his pack, adjusted the strap and made certain it sit comfortably across his chest and between his wings. He checked his bedroll, too, and tucked it together a little more tightly. Then he slung all this casually over one arm and crept upstairs to see about breakfast himself.

Porridge was bubbling on the stove, and his mother was happily making buttered toast, one slice after another. Inker was still arranging his place at the table, a cloth napkin, a dish of grayish porridge, and a salt shaker.

"Don't do that, Master," she said. "I'll do that." Inker was slow mornings; she was fast and giddy from too little sleep. She took the shaker from his hand and set it neatly on the table.

He blinked at her and he stared at his empty hand.

"I'll do that," she told him, smiling.

He sat down, muttered something and put his spoon in his porridge, which he stirred solemnly.

"MOM!" howled Ansel, "I CAN'T FIND MY SCHOOL BAG!" He banged out of his bedroom, holding a pillow and a single sock.

"Is it under your bed?" she said.

"NO!"

"I have a hard to believing there's anything not under you bed, Ansel," she said. "Including new animal species."

"HELP ME FIND IT!"

"DON'T SHOUT AT YOUR MOTHER!" Inker put in, lifting partway from his chair with both hands on the table.

"Sorry, sir," said Ansel, meekly. "My slatework's in there," he added.

"We'll soon find it," she said. She plucked the last piece of toast from the burner and buttered it. "Sit down and eat now. Do you want egg and soldiers?"

"Yes," said both Ansel and Anatole.

There was egg and soldiers. A squadron of eggs and a battalion of soldiers. A bloody battle ensued, with rivers of yolk and butter. There were no survivors.

Ooo, thought Ana. I'm not gonna be able to fly. I'll puke if I try it now.

He suspected, with a small, private smile, that this may have been his mother's intent. Well, he was bound and determined to get out of here today, even if he had to walk the first ten miles. There was only one more thing he needed to do, and he intended to finish it quickly, with as little discomfort as possible for all parties concerned.

"Hey, Ansel," he said, "let me help you look for your slatework. That used to be my old room, you know, I'd kinda like to see what you've done with it."

"It's just a bed and stuff," the young dragon protested painfully. He nevertheless got up when Ana did. "And books and stuff," he added.

"Oo!" said Ana. "Show me your books!" He was only faking a little. He was kind of interested to see the books, see if he recognized any of them.

Ansel looked at his mother, pleading, but she only smiled and shooed him. Go! Go have valuable family time with your brother! He hefted a martyr's sigh and slumped to his bedroom door. "Okay, but only for a little."

It was a little room, always had been, more wide than long. There was just enough room for a bed and a desk. The bed snubbed both walls with headboard and footboard. A single round window let in some light but was too high to be looked out of and offered no view if you stood on a chair and tried. It was a good place for a 'prentice, both much more than and much less than what was required by a growing child. The books were stacked and lined on top of the desk. A scattered few were on the floor and creeping under the bed, but all of these were closed and in places not likely to incur damage from unwary footsteps. The dragons in this household respected books, but in a friendly sort of way.

"This one's a_Bright and Star_," Ansel said, lifting a thin one.

Ana gave a wince of recognition. Bright and Star were oxen. They did adventuresome things like go to market and make deliveries. They did these things with words of one syllable and repeated each one ten or fifteen times apiece.

They were, he supposed, for the sake of leaning to read, a necessary evil, but evil nevertheless.

Ansel set the book down like someone replacing a soiled handkerchief. "And I got all the fairy books." He gestured to some.

Ana nodded approval. When he was a child, he had the blue, the green, and the purple, which had also encompassed all the fairy books, at the time. The editors seemed to have worked their way through the entire rainbow and added pink and lilac as well. Soon they might progress to silver and gold, and wouldn't that binding cost them a pretty penny!

"I like this one," Ansel said. He picked it up and held it in both hands. "It's got monsters."

Ana leaned in and had a look at the title. The Thumbsucker, and other Moral Tales for Children. He gasped and pointed, "I remember that one! That one has the scissorbilled bird! And the snail that lives up your nose and bites off your finger!"

Ansel nodded.

"You know," said Ana, "I never much minded the bird, but I was very worried about that snail."

"I like the bit where there's two little kids and they play in the street, and the cart comes by and their heads are all smashed like melons and chunks all over the cobbles," Ansel said.

"Yes!" said Ana. "Yes! I remember that!" He smiled. "You know, kid, you're okay."

Ansel smiled, too. Ana reached back and pressed the door closed behind him and that smile faded.

"Listen, kiddo," the older dragon said, "you know we've got to talk about some things before I go."

The child bobbed his head without looking up, like a puppet on an exhausted string.

"Okay," said Ana. He considered a moment, then said, "Well, first thing is, you're probably not gonna stay that color."

Ansel audibly relaxed. He looked up and brightened, "You mean it?"

Ana laughed, "You wanted to ask me, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I thought you'd tease me," Ansel replied.

"Well, I s'pose I would've," said Ana, "but only a little. You get teased a lot, I imagine."

"Yeah."

"'Cos you're weird."

"Yeah."

"Okay, so here's another thing I gotta tell ya," he knelt down to eye level and put hands on the child's shoulders. "You are always gonna be the weird kid. Forever. It's too late for you. It's too late for any of us."

"Geez!" said Ansel and he canted his muzzle away.

"Sorry." Ana stood again. "But it's true. I spent a long time trying to be normal. I thought it would fix everything. But this," he gestured to the room, the home, everything around them, "all this is just too much. So forget about being normal. Just be you, and eventually, if you're really lucky, you'll find some others who don't mind that too much. Maybe you'll even have friends."

"Maybe?"

"I can't promise you friends, kid. Try not being an asshole, people tend to pick up on little things like that."

Ansel nodded gravely, turning the concept in mind.

"You thought about leaving yet?" Ana said.

Ansel winced and turned away. He spoke to the rumpled quilt on the bed, "Yes, but . . . I know it would make her sad. I know she's sad that everyone leaves." He snatched Ana's hands, closing the space between them of his own volition. "You can't tell her I said that!"

"I won't. I won't," said Ana. He crouched down again. "But I want to talk to you about it. When I was a kid, I hit on the idea of soldier. Every time something happened that I didn't like, I'd think 'Soldier. Soldier. I'm going to get out of here. I'm not going to be like them. I'm going to be a soldier.' I never thought about the other stuff, I never thought about actually killing people, or getting hurt. Now I'm telling you, so you know. The parts that are good are good. Friends--you'll never get friends like that as a trade dragon. But the parts that are bad are horrible, and those good friends, they're gonna die. Or you will. Soldiers don't make old bones.

"You should get out of here," he went on. "That's right. This is a crazy-house, you need to go to a normal place and see how normal dragons live, even if it's just a doss house. But maybe you don't have to be a soldier. Maybe you don't have to put in for a transfer at ten and never come back. Maybe you could visit sometimes."

"Are you gonna come visit?" Ansel asked him. "Are you gonna come back?"

Ana shook his head. "I can't. I'm not strong enough. And if you're not strong enough, then I can't say you're wrong, or a bad dragon, because I'm just the same. Maybe it's just not possible." He pointed a finger, "But you write her, Ansel. Wherever you end up, you write her. You can't say you don't know how. Ardelio doesn't write, not even for Solstice, and I know that eats her up inside, and I hate him for doing that to her. You write your mother, or I will come find you, and I will kill you, and, believe me, I know how to do it."

"Yes, sir," Ansel said. Dazed and wobbling, he pushed past Anatole, opened the door and made his way back to the table. He sat with a thump, looking down at his hands in his lap.

"Hey, what about your slatework?" Ana said.

"Here it is!" their mother cried, holding aloft a small, strapped bag. She beamed at her youngest son. "It was hanging on the rack downstairs, dear. No wonder you couldn't find it, somebody put it where it belongs."

"Oh," said Ansel. "Thank you." He took the bag and held it. "Mom?" he said. "I love you, okay?"

"Oh, honey!" she said. "I love you, too! Of course I do!"

"Ow! Mom! Too tight! My slate!"

"Oh, oh, okay. It's all right. Let me see, here. There, we didn't hurt it. It's only smudged a bit. I think that was a four. That was a four, wasn't it? Twelve over three? You can fix that before you turn it in. That'll be fine."

"Yeah," said Ansel, weakly. He slipped his schoolwork back into the bag.

"And here's your lunch." She set the bucket on the table before him. "You'd better get moving. You took forever in the other room Were you reading to him in there? Did you show him how good you can read?"

"No . . ."

"And, Anatole, here's your lunch!"

"Mine?" said Ana. He took the bucket. "Mom, I'm not bringing this back . . ."

"Oh, I know that. It's an old bucket. I was going to throw it away. It's got a hole in the bottom. Don't cut yourself, you'll get lockjaw."

He put his hand on the bottom and felt the hole. Well, it did appear to be a genuinely old, useless bucket, but he wouldn't put it past her to bang holes in the bottom with a nail, just so she could give him a lunch. "Thanks, Mom. I really love these. You spoil me."

"It's fried chicken and mashed potatoes," she told him. "Because of course it is. And some pie. Half a pie, I know you'll be hungry." She sidled closer to him and spoke in his ear, "Don't be too obvious about it, but you're taking some things of your father's."

Ana staggered and put his hand on his pack. "What? Huh?"

"There's a pie tin in the bucket," she said tightly. "And a bowl, and a fork." She touched his shoulder, "Anji, I know you lick your plate when you think I'm not looking, but please do at least consider the fork."

He flushed darker, orange again if only for a moment, in his ears and crest and muzzle. "Oh, yeah, that. Okay. Yeah. Sorry."

"It's okay." She flung her arms around him and squeezed. "You're a good boy, Anatole. Really, you are. It's okay."

He knew she wanted to cry. He also knew she wouldn't do it while he was there. She wanted him to stay forever, but if he had to go, it would hurt less for him to go quickly. He slung his pack across his chest and picked up his bucket by the handle. He felt absurdly over-prepared, like a young child off on his first day of real school. "I'll write when I get home, Mom," he said. "First thing, okay?"

"Okay," she said, nodding. "Okay." Her smile did not falter, but her eyes were overbright.

He went down the stairs, one foot after the other. One step. Two steps. Three steps. The first few hurt, and he did not dare look back.

Inker and Ansel were arguing at the bottom of the stairs. "My jacket was here! I put it here!"

"Where is it, then?"

"I dunno!" Softly, "Or maybe I left it at school."

"Maybe you don't_need_ a jacket, if you're just going to leave them at school!"

"Well, maybe I_don't_!"

"Your mother_hand-knit_ that jacket for you, you little cretin!"

Ana said, "'Bye," quickly on his way out.

Ansel said, "'Bye," and lifted a hand.

Inker said, "Hn," and threw a gesture. "Do you know what I'm gonna do to you if I come to pick you up from school today and you don't have that jacket on you? I'm gonna . . ."

Ana shut the door on them and ducked into the street. He walked fast for a few paces, fast to get away from that, from them. Gradually, as the tension left him, he slowed, and then he stopped and looked back.

The printer's shop was tucked away on a dead-ended side street, as it always had been. His father had a long-standing feud with the stationer across the street, they hated each other like poison, and this kept a little sliver of sky free, right in the middle of the street.

He lifted his bucket and had a cautious peek inside. The smell was glorious, and the pie was still a little warm. She must have made it and put it in last night, just for him.

It was apple, he liked apple, with crunchy little crumblies on top.

"Bucket lunch is awesome," he sang quietly to himself. He squared his shoulders and walked on. Long journey, today, and he intended to make a good start of it. He was going home.