In the window a massive beast lumbered, long and lean, with a load pathetic compared to its bulk. Fourteen slim legs supported its weight, each as fat around as a dragon’s. The length of the creature was repetitive, as if it had once been a natural thing, but had that midsection resculpted and appended to the end again and again and again like clay. Mossy chitin glinted in the light, textureless green alternating with foggy pools of collected water on its back and sides. Even from the door, I could scent the chemicals smelling like burnt garlic which kept flies and parasites away, and coupled with it the rank scent of the fungi and moss all over. In a word, it was a caterpillar cow. One of the strange creatures the surface had offered, a creature that really couldn’t decide if it was to be an oversized insect or an oversized beast. Whenever I saw it, I was torn between laughing and shivering. Despite the name, they weren’t cows or caterpillars or even close to either. Like cows, they were grazing, simple-minded herd animals, and like caterpillars, they loved leaves, tasted nasty unless cooked just right and knit themselves a cocoon to brume out the summers, emerging each gyra with new chitin and fresh scent. The creature had its many-tongued, tapering head stuffed in a feed bag around its neck. For that I was grateful. Their mouths split down their head and writhed with tongues and flexing muscles. Their eight eyes glinted, black and alien. I flicked my tongue, and I was subjected to the stench of the caterpillar cow. It brought the forest-y odor of its flora, and yes, I could even smell the sweetness of its feed and the chemical scent of the buggrounders, but the unwashed mass of its body and the awful odor of its manure washed out any pleasantness. Its rear stood out of view, so I can only hope whoever owns this cow had a bag to catch its droppings. On its back a number of boxes lay strapped. A stocky plain-dweller sat astride, spurring the creature on. A ruddy-red and a dark-orange drake landed by the head end of the creature. The Mawrion payed the rider as Sinig took two boxes from the back of the caterpillar cow. Mawrion, too, took a box after he finished. When they entered, Mawrion called for Arall, telling her to help unload the boxes. But not me. It fledged a little sense, at least. I wasn’t really built for carrying things. Mawrion might not have even considered me for the job. My wings hugged my body. “Oh well,” I murmured. They brought in our cyclic shipment of new goods. It meant I would do some more inventory today. I prayed the stars: please let it be with Sinig, and not with Arall. After five boxes, they finished. Arall went back to her counter, while Mawrion gestured for Sinig and me to go back and organize the new stuff. Yay, but also ugh. We walked back, me falling into step beside him. I folded my frills. “Hi, S.” “Hey, K.” He glanced at me once for politeness and continued to looking forward. “So, I guess we have inventory now.” I followed his example, but still glanced at him in the corner of my eye. “Yea.” He made some dismissive gesture with his wings, but gave up partway through, and it became a sort of floundering motion. I looked up. Then brought my gaze down. I wasn’t that predictable, Staune! “So um, what are you going to do today⁠ ⁠—⁠ later, I mean?” “Have a few fights down at the ring, fly with some friends, maybe eat something,” he said. “Yourself?” “Uh, going to the library, then the east market. I already ate something.” “Our eternal rivals,” he said, tone dry. “I am hurt that you would betray the shop like this.” “Someone asked me to come with them, it wasn’t my idea!” “Ah,” he said. “Want to go flying in some downdrafts tomorrow, then?” “Sure!” As long as you weren’t too close to the ground, it was a nice mix of tricky and thrilling and overall high fun. We’d reached the room where the boxes went. Holding open the door, Sinig said, “That was a joke.” He looked at me now, head tilted and tongue waving. “Oh. But I used to that a lot when I was fledgling, with my…” I looked away. “You mean your family never hit you with that ‘if all your friends flew into a downdraft, would you?’ argument when you wanted to copy someone?” he asked. I’d looked back, letting out a breath when he didn’t ask about my trailing off. “No?” I flicked my tongue at him. “I’m not from around here, and we don’t even speak y Draig where I’m from. Our saying are all different.” “Really?” Sinig low-walked over to a crate still speaking, “Weird. You sound almost like a native tongue⁠ ⁠—⁠ Minus the accent.” I preened at the compliment. When I had first come to Gwymr/Frina, my y Draig dragged and would slip Käärmkieli words all the time. I’d improved, high thanks to Chwithach. I said, “I’ve known it since I was small.” “That doesn’t really narrow it down much,” he said in that annoying, scentless tone. He was joking, maybe, but about what? At my blank stare, he added, “You never exactly stopped being small.” I snapped my tongue. “Gah! Since I was smaller, then.” I let out a big breath, baring my frills. Changing the subject, I said “I learnt all the major dragon tongues. Was made to learn, anyway.” “Impressive,” he said, again scentless. Was that sincere or some advanced joke? I tossed my head and ambled over to a box and uncovered it. Having gotten one of the ledgers on a slab by the wall, I began tallying up and sorting the contents of the box. Inventory. At least it gave me to time think. The ruddy-red drake glanced at me. “You want more smalltalk?” I lowered my head into the box, hiding my smile. “Sure? I mean, it’d be nice.” “Ha. Well, I don’t know what you want out of it. I could share some observations from my ride this morning, but they aren’t very light,” he said. Then, “Or we could talk about the weather.” I lifted my head from the box. “Well, that might not be the worst topic. I’ve never been in Gwymr/Frina for a gray season, but I just got out of the Berwem —⁠ it is like that? All ash and vog?” “And acid rain. But… no, not all the time. Ash and acid come, but we get normal weather too. But it gets wicked hot. Vog’s only a problem when the winds get drafty. And then you can just grab a gasmask or some cloth in a pinch,” he said. “Or be rich and afford to just brumate the gray season.” “Oh, okay.” I looked up. “Thanks.” “Berwem is where it all comes from, makes sense that it would be worst there.” “Yeah.” We kept sorting after that. I finished the first box, followed by Sinig with his box. “So, what were those heavier observations?” “Saw lots of guards and their turts milling around like riled ash-ants on my way to work and when getting these boxes. Something’s up. Even saw an inquirer poking their muzzle around. That won’t end good.” I found another glider in my box, but it was a cheap bamboo one. Balancing it on my head, I said, “What do inquirers even do?” Sinig continued sorting. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, in that tone. The glider fell onto the pile with the wheel and sleigh blades. “What kind of answer is that! What do they do?” He clicked. “If you need to know that, I don’t want to be near you.” “Are–are you messing with me?” “Only a little. I don’t know what specifically they do, I just hear the stories. My brother says his father says they aren’t as scary as they were when Dwylla was around… But they still make my frills stand on end, and I’m not the only one.” “Oh. My friend mentioned Rhyfel’s inquirers once — something about them sniffing evidences.” “Rhyfel,” he said, flicking his tongue. “Be careful around that drake — I’ve had friends get on the wrong side of the guard. Wydrllos’s cells aren’t fragrant.” “I’m not doing anything drafty, S.” “What were you doing in the Berwem? You don’t look like a sifter, and you already have a job.” “I didn’t know it was illegal! I was following a friend!” “Yeah, I’ve seen a lot of dragons go down like that. Just be careful, K. You aren’t a bad sort and I’d hate to have to get to know your replacement.” I popped my tongue. “If that wasn’t a backwing’d compliment —” “Backwingèd.” “What?” “It’s three syllables, not two. Stress on the second.” “Gah! Did you grow a tongue just to mess with me? You’re worse than Chwithach.” “No, my sister was a poet. You pick these things up.” “A poet?” “Yeah,” he said. “There was a song she wrote for me a few years ago — do you care?” I found some spherical object that might have been a compass. I rolled it around. “Sure. We aren’t really busy, go ahead.” Sinig lowered his head, but stayed silent for a few beats. His lips moved, as if remembering the lines, then he spoke, his voice a iambic pulse.

“When ash-clouds raged and spit their flakes,

“That hatchling molted, sprung a drake;

“When scoria filled the air in spray,

“That fledgling filled the ground, then lay.

“But I have watched you try and try,

“And true to time, your wings did fly;

“Yet then, to learn, I left my home.

“It dried my fangs — they were but bone.

“As dance and season came to pass,

“The greenery would never last;

“Bright skies grew black, suns seemed a sore

“Above, an’ dull shadows crept into my core.

“Aground, life seemed most bleak and wrong…

“But friends I made, and found my song:

“And lifted by these thermal bonds, I sang;

“Now love’s sweet kiss bedews my fangs,

“And I become a mother…

“Do I still love my brother?” I had stopped sorting to listen. When he finished, I folded my frills. “That’s…” “Old. From when she had just left for university and was only then discovering her love of poetry. She got a bit better. Well, before her new job ate up all her time.” “No, it’s pretty! Very pretty. It’s just… how do I put this? I know nothing about poetry.” “Same as me, then. My sister sucked up all the smarts in the family. She sings verse and leads. I punch things and smoke.” “No, I mean I never heard anything like it. I’ve never even read poetry. It’s–it’s not proper. Artistry is for drakes, wivers take up science. Or war. Or trade. But not song.” “That is the most unhatched rule I’ve never tasted. Where is this?” “Huh? We’re in y Llygaid Crwydro.” I gave him a silly smile. “No, who shovels this drafty ‘artistry is for drakes’ manure?” “Tädet/Pimeys. It’s one of the larger skycyties. And it’s not a rule. It’s just⁠ ⁠—⁠ how it is.” “Glad I’ll never be able to go to the sky, then. Sounds worse than Pteron.” “Hey, the sky is…” Great. Wonderful. Exactly where I’d want to be if I had hatched with any other name. “…pretty okay.” “Why leave, then? You know you can never go back⁠ ⁠—⁠ and you really don’t smell like the type to get exiled for something bad.” “Don’t–don’t worry about it.” “Okay, not pushing. It’s personal, right?” “Yeah.” We continue sorting awhile in silence. “Kinda odd to end it on a question like that, though. It feels… maybe a little unfinished?” Sinig looked over. “Oh no, that isn’t the end. There were two more lines that got smudged and lost in the letter where she’d it sent to me.” Sinig took his glasses and wiped them. “I’ll never know the answer to her question, but I like it that way.” I hummed before saying, “I don’t think I could live with the uncertainty.” Tossing his head, he just said, “It keeps life interesting.” My box half-emptied with that thought on my mind. My life had certainly become a bit interesting lately. I’d lost count of how many times I almost died in the Berwem, and then there was Ushra’s conspiracy theory, whatever the guards and that inquirer were up to, and Adwyn. My thoughts danced like that, and settled on my question from earlier. “What do you think of Adwyn?” I said suddenly. “What?” Sinig glanced back at me. “The military adviser? He’s a killer, a Dyfnderi noble who got booted out of his country.” “The faer seems to trust him, though.” “The faer does all sorts of silly things. She thinks she knows better than everyone,” Sinig muttered. He adjusted his glasses, and added with effort, “And she does, but you never taste it until after it’s all said and done. I wouldn’t trust him as far as his dress falls, but the faer must see something in him.” “Should I trust him? He wants me to help him fledge an alliance with Dyfnder/Geunant or something.” “The thing to know about Adwyn — and the rest of the canyon-dwellers in town hall⁠ ⁠—⁠ is that you don’t care whether they succeed or fail. The only thing to want out of an alliance with Gwymr/Frina is burried in the Berwem. If some contract with the canyons materializes, the only result will be who gets claws on the metal and gems the sifters dig up. Nothing ever changes here.” “Sure, but he said he could get me — recognition. Give me a name besides my family title.” “I don’t see it being worth anything unless he gets you a slice of the trade cake. And no offense, K, but I don’t think he’ll think you’re worth it.” I jerked my head from my box to the ruddy-red drake. “What! What do you mean I’m not worth it?” Sinig slipped off his glasses for a beat. “I mean, you’re like me. We’re not big dragons, we’re just flying one beat at time. We don’t have big plans for the world, and I don’t want to see you wuthered up in someone’s grand vision. It’d be a waste.” I glanced away⁠ ⁠—⁠ back to the box of new stuff. From somewhere in my memory, I heard my brother’s voice. I’m going to change things, sister, he said. We’re going to change things. A House Specter without masks, without tradition breathing down our necks. Your House Specter. It waited for me, up there. Gwmyr/Frina was a part of the plan, his plan, and soon the outrage at me would blow away, my exile would blow away, and I could return. It wasn’t a hope or dream, it was the plan, stars willing. And if they weren’t? If I were stuck here, then Adwyn had a plan, too. I couldn’t live without wind under my wings, even if that meant being wuthered up in someone’s vision. Inventory went on, and soon I come across a glazed vase, painted with constellations and asterisms. I smiled at the stars, tracing them with my toe. How much would this cost? “Hey, S, what constellation did you hatch under?” Sinig snapped his tongue, giving me a skeptical look. “You believe in that fortune-tasting ash?” “Why not? The stars are mysterious and powerful — why can’t they affect dragons’s lives?” “Because the motion of the stars is completely determined? Ask any stargazer.” “I am a stargazer. Being determined doesn’t mean anything. The seasons are determined⁠ ⁠—⁠ they come every year. But will you tell an ashstorm it cannot affect anything?” “I can lick an ashstorm.” He whisked a wing. “Starcharts have never given anyone anything but a pretty sight.” I smirked. “Stars aren’t used for navigation?” “Still just a sight.” “Fine, but what about the tides? They match exactly with the phases of Ceiwad —⁠ and the perturbations can be attributed to the meddling of Laswaith or one of the loversuns.” “Moons don’t meddle.” “What do you call all the volcanoes that start erupting with Laswaith’s perigee?” I said while sliding over a spiked metal glove thing for him to identify. “Para–what?” “Perigee. When the moon is closest to the world?” I waved with my wing while I dug the last things out of this box. “Look, I’m just saying it’s wasteful thinking. I have a friend like you — wastes all her money on that charlatan⁠ ⁠—⁠ excuse me⁠ ⁠—⁠ ‘fortune-taster’ in the slums.” I jerked my head up from the box. “There’s a fortune-taster in Gwymr/Frina?” Sinig covered his face with a wing. “Great, I just gave her more business.” “Maybe I should go there myself, see if I can prove there’s something to it.” “Do it, don’t do it. I don’t care⁠ ⁠—⁠ I’m just saying, the sooner you stop blaming your trouble on drafty stars and fickle gods, you’ll⁠ ⁠—⁠ oh, not you, sorry.” Sinig wiped his glasses, looking back to the utensils he had pulled out, then arranging them. “I have this conversation too much.” I smiled. “It’s cool.” We stayed all silent after that, and finished in that silence. * * *