My head lay on the counter. Two long ring each chimed at some point. I may have stumbled close to sleep once or twice, but never near enough to really rest.

A bell jingled when I was closest, jostling me from my nap. A dark figure entered. They were short but long⁠ ⁠—⁠ still taller than me, but only just so. They wore a black cloak, embellished with pale gold and gray threads. Various glyphs decorated — most prominent among them the old symbol for Cyfrin ac Dwylla, a purple flame melting a rock struck through by a pickax. In the left corner, a stylized glyph for faer Dwylla spread, but a diagonal slash struck through it.

They advanced to the counter and I lurched my head up. I cleared my brilles, only to find a mask covering their face, and reveal only peering, brilliant gold eyes that dart to my headband, right where the matua brand lay, and settled on me. Did they know?

“Omoù ptèromai, Specter-eti.” Their voice was a private murmur.

I snapped my tongue. Would I ever be rid of that stinking title? But I licked my fangs and said, “Greetings and welcome to Llygaid Crwydro~” I righted myself out of my slump. “What can we do for you?”

“I would like to sell this,” they said in a strange accent with long, low sibilants. Reaching into their cloak, they pulled out a foot-sized object in a black schizon pouch. Its strings were pulled at and its contents dumped onto the counter.

My frills were wrinkling before I saw it. When the glowing red stone slid onto the counter, a familiar, unwelcome hum vexed my frills.

A cryst.

The thing itself gleamed a deep, sparkling red. Gleamed. It looked more than an actual gem than the stinking stones we’d dug up. Cut into many faces, each side was a little triangle. The vibration of the cryst rumbled even deeper, more intense than any of the crysts from yesterday.

The gem-like crysts hummed with more clarity and focus than any I’d dug up. Where the others resonated with a cacophonous chorus of interleaved, staggered vibrations, this cryst sang in a single voice and melding overtones. It was an undulating note in tremolo. And it sounded almost like music⁠ ⁠—⁠ almost sounded good.

Then I recovered, remembered that I supposed to be bartering. I hummed a thoughtful hum, and didn’t mean for it be in tune.

“It’s pretty, I guess. And sounds nice,” I said. Is there anything else to it?"

Their frills wrinkled under their hood and their eyes grew sharper, giving the impression of being evaluated, interpreted. But where someone like Ushra or Adwyn had eyes that pierced, these eyes seemed only to prod. Only needed to prod.

They said, “It is of particular value to those with… certain talents.”

“Oh. It’s magical, then?” I asked. I popped my tongue in a very no-nonsense gesture, halfway between a snap and a click.

Their eyes shifted a bit at my response, intense and almost glaring. Their frills shifted too, tending less prominent under their hood. “It is not magic.”

I rolled my head. “Anti-magical then, is that —” I cut myself off. The words had just left my mouth when I cringed.

They hissed, and said, “Better,” before adding in a lower, even more private tone, “You are a practitioner, then?”

“No,” — I tried to measure my words before saying them — “I have a… friend. She knows more about this than I do.” It was all I could do to keep another reaction from my face. I was just digging myself, and Hinte, deeper, wasn’t I?

I tried forcing more seriousness in my tone, without reaching for my ariose Specter voice. “But it doesn’t matter. There aren’t a lot of practitioners around here, and the ones there are hide it for–for a reason. Saying this is magical makes it less likely to sell, not more.”

They snapped their tongue when I said ‘magical’ again. What was their problem?

They said, “I am not selling it as a instrument of magic, only… pointing out that the market exists.”

“I shall not buy this on the hope that there is a practitioner in this town besides yourself.” Too much. I pulled back the seriousness. “It’s a cool bauble, I guess? But… curiosities only really go for so much. I’ll, um, give you maybe ten aris for this.”

“I usually sell these for five times that, at least. In the east market, that is.” I could read a smile in the folds of their mask.

“You do that, then. Have a nice day~”

They stared for a moment and closed their eyes in thought.

“Thirty.”

“Ten.” My frills wrinkled. “If their prices are so much better, why not take this to the market?”

“There is quite a crowd of dragons at the market today. This shop doesn’t seem to have that problem.”

I clicked my tongue. “Good one. Your jokes might net you more than these rocks.” I poked the red cryst, and it wobbled but didn’t fall over.

The mage’s eyes cleared. “It’s one of a kind. Does that not improve the price?”

I flicked my tongue, giving the stone another look. While the cut looked complex, it also looked regular. As I turned over the crysts, listening to how the hum shifted, my frills unfolded, miming my exploits in the Berwem, and I caught something.

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “You have another somewhere under your cloak.”

Frills flattened and hissing laughter came from under the hood. “Very good,” they said as a foreleg produced the implicated cryst. Their mask shifted again, and they said, “I can part with both of these for that price.” When they set the cryst on the counter, my breath cycle hitched for a beat.

That sonorous rumble and pale green body? “Sterk,” I mouthed. I looked back at the mage, giving them a closer look. The question perched on the tip of my tongue. But I flicked and said, “Only if you have some schizon to wrap it in. One hum is enough. Two will drag on my nerves, drag on everyone’s nerves.”

A tongue flicked. “Are you sure? Three halves is quite the harmonious interval. The only one I’ve seen called perfect, in fact.”

I whisked a wing. “That won’t stop it from waxing tiresome.”

The mage waited a beat. Then, “Fair. Consider this,”⁠ ⁠—⁠ they brought their forefoot to the counter and now it held a short bronze rod, tipped with a white stone⁠ ⁠—⁠ “I call it a synkén rrávdos. It dulls the vibration of nearby crysts. More importantly, it is cheaper than schizon cloth.”

“Ten and three,” I said.

“An understandable offer. I suppose I shall take it.” They place both crysts on the counter with the ‘synkén rrávdos.’

After reaching under the counter for our coinsack, I payed out the amount in gray-yellow coins, counting from ‘one’ to ‘ten and three’ in a conversational tone. I finished, and they didn’t take the aris. I just gave them a bland smile, saying, “Is there anything else you need~?”

Their brilles clouded, then cleared. Their mask shifted, but still hid whatever shift of expression caused it. “Do you sell gliders?”

My brow furrowed for a beat, before I said, “We have two.”

“I shall take the better one.”

I slinked around the counter, weaving past three support pillars, to where stone wheels, ash-sled blades and diller leashes lined the wall. Sitting on the slab just below it, among a few other things, lay two rods smelling of tanned and painted dillerskin. One looked the grayish black of firm but snappable gray bamboo, while the other looked sturdy, brown wood.

The wings of the first folded down, which halved the width but still let the glider take up half the slab. The other had wings folded to its sides, loosed by latch at the top that kept the wings spread in flight. That one only took up a rod’s width sliver of the slab.

Back at the counter, the mage bought the wooden glider, leaving me with the aris I just payed and then some.

My scroll unrolled and lay in front of me, but I watched them leave, tongue waving, I took a sip of my water, washing a metallic lightning taste from my mouth.

“Who was that?” I murmured, staring at Sterk.

----------------------------------------

Just then, a bell jingled, jostling me from my rest; and in stepped a brown wiver with her left frill ringed with piercings, a wide laughing mouth and dark-blue eyes that lit up as they lighted on me. She smelt oddly electric.

“Kynra! They said I might catch you here.”

“Hi!” I said. My tongue searched around. “Mawla, right?”

“Got it in one.” She slinked to the counter and leant over, smiling not far from my face. “So. I licked the papers. Tastes like you went to the faer anyway, last night. How did it go?”

“Well…” I cast my gaze to the ceiling. “The faer was… perceptive. The secretary is just as scary as they say. Everyone else was weird or creepy. But everything turned out okay.”

“Obviously,” she said, scowling. I tilted my head, but she must have been talking about something else because she continued with, “you wouldn’t get a mat in the faer’s administration if you were a decent, normal dragon.”

I frowned at the wiver. Did that mean I wasn’t decent, or I wouldn’t get that position?

“Think about it,” she was continuing, “have you seen a single plain-dweller in her skein? She has a whole flock of gray scales, even Dyfnderi⁠ ⁠—⁠ screaming Dyfnderi⁠ ⁠—⁠ but not a single plain-dweller. Except Bariaeth, and Bariaeth doesn’t count at all.”

Under the force of her words, I drew my wings toward myself and rested my head on the mat. Did I upset her?

“Sorry.” I glanced away, eyes clouded. “My frown wasn’t at you. I was just thinking about how I was trying to get a position in the administration, maybe as a secretary or something.”

“Oh–oh, you’re fine, Kynra, obviously. I —”

“Um, it’s Kinri.” I was still looking away.

“Whoops. You’re fine, Kinri.” She spoke my name slowly, trying to get it right. “Guess I spend too much time idling at y Dadafodd. Didn’t mean to turn this into something serious.”

I glanced back. “I think,” I said, “things turned serious for me the day I asked Hinte to take me into the lake.” I looked away again, licking my eyes. Why I made the topic about me like that? It was rude.

I cleared my brilles and jerked my gaze back to Mawla. “The lake! Why aren’t you in the lake? I thought you were a sifter.”

Mawla grinned and gave me one of her throaty laughs; with it, the electric smell grew, gaining a metallic hint. She said, “That’s actually why I tracked you down.” She paused, snaking her head toward me until I could count the scales on her snout. “No⁠ ⁠—⁠ blinking⁠ ⁠—⁠ sifting. At all! You must have worked some magic in the town hall, because the boss gave us all flight⁠ ⁠—⁠ paid flight.”

Mawla had gotten a little closer with every exclamation. Her grin had grown until her teeth were revealed, including her fangs. She gave the impression she might bite my nose off if it wouldn’t hurt.

“That’s good?”

“It’s delicious! Of course, I love”⁠ ⁠—⁠ her clouded brilles caught a glint of light⁠ ⁠—⁠ “the lake as much as everyone else. But a day of freedom? That’s a whole notch on its own.”

I smiled at the wiver, even as I slid back some. I could stay calm and professional here if I wanted to. It wouldn’t even be hard.

Hide your fangs.

I didn’t want to.

Mawla was looking around, first back at the door, then gawking at Arall, who turned away⁠ ⁠—⁠ staring⁠ ⁠—⁠ somewhere over there, and the sifter gave her an unreturned, excited wave; then she was gawking at the dusty, webbed rafters above, and she gave them a scowl; and then she was gawking at me, and she gave me a faltering grin. “So, that’s the news.” She looked away and back again, and this time looking very much at me. “I like the way you’re handling this.”

“What?” My head had tilted after I asked the question, I was so confused.

Mawla rubbed her frill piercings with an alula. “We’re strangers, and you could have kept it at that. But instead you were nice last night and you’re nice now, smiling and letting me gust. It’s sweet.”

“You’ve been nice enough so far.”

Mawla tossed her head. “Yeah, I have, obviously. But it’s been a dance, you’re just as much to blame.”

My eyes went extra cloudy. “How am I to blame for you being nice?”

Her head tossed, and her tone was amused hissing. “It’d be a lot easier not to if you weren’t all cute and friendly. Flick at your molty, green friend if you want an apprenticeship in how not to do any of that.”

“Hinte’s friendly too… in her own way,” I said.

“Obviously not. She said I had a drake’s name.” Mawla drew her wings together.

“Maybe it was a joke?”

“Sure, sure. But what about taking the credit in the papers? She’s stealing all your glory.”

“I — I —” I could be calm and professional. “You think so?” But that wasn’t what drew Mawla here, was it?

It wasn’t wearing a mask, it was just deliberately not wearing a mask.

No, no, cringing, simpering Kinri was the mask.

“Obviously.” She yawned, as if me or the question had bored her. “If my whole squad doesn’t praise your name for this flight by the end of the day, I’ve done something wrong.”

“But I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Would it have happened if you weren’t there?”

I twisted my head. Would Hinte have made it back without my help? “I don’t think so.”

“See it? It’s obvious.”

A bell jingled, jostling me from my conversation.

I saw Arall had only just turned around, so I waved a wing at the mud-dweller stepping in.

“Welcome to the Llygaid Crwydro~” I said. “Let me know how I can help you.”

Mawla seemed to find that funny, hissing just under her breath. “Sweet lilt. Do my name.”

I glared at her, and she fluttered her frills at me. With a tonguesnap, I said, “You smell, Mawla~”

She hissed harder.

“I hope you’re entertained, because I have to do my job now. I might have to handle that customer.”

Mawla lowered her head with some sagely gleam in her blue eyes. “Yeah, jobs drag.” She glanced around again, touching her piercings again. “Anyways, the real, real reason I came here: I’m⁠ ⁠—⁠ Well, I don’t really have anyone. So even though I have some freedom today, I have nobody to while it with.”

Licking my eyes, I said, “You want me to spend the evening with you?” Mawla only mouthed the syllables, this time.

I blew my tongue at her. “My schedule is mostly tied up today. I can’t say I can.”

“I can wait. Do you know the red cliffs down south?”

“I spend most of my nights down there!”

“That’s where I’ll be. It’d be my day if you’d drop by.”

----------------------------------------

A bell jingles, jostling me awake again. A cloying, poisonous smell told me who was there before I lifted my head.

Stiffly, Gären vor Gronte strode right by my counter, and with her eyes roaming the shelves and signs, she missed me.

I watched her quick steps take her to three spots among the shelves. She searched intently enough I didn’t think she came here often⁠ ⁠—⁠ or even at all —⁠ but she was a quick enough search to find whatever after just a few moments.

And the dark-green wiver turned for a counter and then she saw me.

“Kinri?”

Standing in front of my counter, she smiled and laughed. “Ja, it is you. Hello.”

“Good afternoon~ Did you find what you were looking for today?”

“I did, thank you.”

I nodded, and spoke normal, saying, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“With the market open?”

“That’s a part of it.”

“Well, I wanted to keep away from the crowd for this,” the dark-jade wiver said. “The market’s so busy today, at full Ceiwad.”

“Why is everyone saying that?” I asked. “You’re not even the first to come here on that reason.”

“Of course. If someone’s here instead of the market, it’s for a reason.” Gronte grabbed her basket. “Regardless, let’s finish this deal before we talk.”

Gronte bought two pots, a big stirring spoon, a bagful of bones, and a jug of vinegar.

“Alchemy stuff?”

Gronte nodded, silent.

I told her the starting price for her selection — ‘Twenty and five aris’ — and she bought them all without haggling.

“So,” Gronte said, her basket still on the table. “Have you read any thing from the book?”

“I have! I read The Confusion of Underbush, like you asked.”

“Good! Can you guess why I recommended it?”

“Well, I guess there’s some similarities with the situation with the humans, I guess.”

A wrinkly smile. “You’re a clever one. It’s exactly that. I thought it was somewhat appropriate.”

“Are the humans the city, or the spiny-frills? I never puzzled that one out.”

Gronte scrunched a frill. “I had thought it clear that the humans were the city. I never considered the alternative.”

“Does that mean you don’t think the humans might be, well, innocent? That we shouldn’t have killed them?”

The older wiver looked away and remained silent for a few beats. “Do you think the spiny-frills were right to do what they did? That they had no other choice?” Gronte shook her head. “No, I take it back. The situations aren’t quite comparable. It’s just… she’s all I have left. They didn’t kill her⁠ ⁠— thank Hazer⁠ ⁠—⁠ but they hurt her and…”

Gronte took a step back. “No, I’m sorry to inflict this all on you. Let me answer your question: I don’t know. I had thought that whatever we did to the humans was justified but…” Gronte shook her head.

“Vengeance is what I want, but it’s the easy path. It would be harder to move forward without more loss of life⁠ ⁠—⁠ any life, yet I don’t think anyone is pushing for that amongst Mlaen’s administration. I’d like to⁠ ⁠—⁠ share that perspective. I can talk to my tartness about it, he has more influence than I do. And, perhaps you do as well. Think on it, please?”

I clouded my eyes, and thought. The image that stained my dreams crawled up in an instant: a dewing human clutching its comrade and pleading. I could say I already made my decision, and it wouldn’t be a lie.

“I will.”

* * *