“Did you hear? Fugelmons is dead.”

“Good! I always say, the only good dragon—”

“Don’t be so sure,” the first man interrupted. “He was powerful.” He took a gulp of beer from his stein. With the back of a large, hairy fist, he brusquely wiped his thick black beard.

“Even better,” replied the second, a thin-faced man with a pointed hook nose.

“Not better. He owns half the shipbuilding industry in Ash City, from the mines to the forge, so his death’ll cause a stir. There’ll be a grab for power. Hossvor’s sure to swoop in and try to take the rest for himself.”

“Swoop in? You know Hossvor doesn’t have wings, right?”

The first man scowled. “I wasn’t being literal, Vincent. Power grabs are always bad news for us little guys. And I’ve heard Hossvor’s a brutal taskmaster.”

“Wouldn’t be so bad if Durregar took over. He’s just a workaholic.”

“He’s a dwarf—they’re all workaholics. Something about how they sleep.” He shook his big black beard. “Don’t know if he’d be much better. Heard he’s got ties to the Iron Mattocks and even General Orgrist—no, he’s not dead and I won’t believe he is ‘til he’s been publicly executed for his crimes. And isn’t he obsessed with timetables and productivity logs and whatever?”

“As he always says, ‘If it isn’t written down, someone will forget it.’”

“And by someone,” said a curly-haired man, “he means himself. His memory’s terrible—if he didn’t keep those records of our productivity, he wouldn’t remember our names and whether he likes us or not.”

“Eh,” thin-faced Vincent said with a shrug, “he’s not so bad. I work for him—”

“Yeah, but don’t you just take inventory or something?”

“Ship’s manifest.”

 “Whatever. Deskwork. But the dockworkers go through Hell I’ve heard.”

“Hear! Hear!” Grunted a large man with height, muscles, and gut but no hair.

“Yeah, and if you’re hearing it from Lance’s fat-ass—”

“Hey!”

“If you just stopped loafing around and kept his timetables you wouldn’t be hearing about it all the time.”

“He barely gives us any lunch break,” Lance mumbled and resumed his silence and beer.

Thin-face shook his head disdainfully. “Anyway, I’ll take having no lunch over being Hossvor’s lunch any day. Durregar’s ties to criminals are only rumors; it’s a known fact that Hossvor has eaten insubordinate underlings. He’s just got enough power that the law won’t touch him.”

Drake lit up another cigarette as he listened to all of this in silence from his corner of the bar some distance away. The match briefly illuminated his face, which was dark, black like the shadow of a cliff on a sandy beach, darker still for the brown broad-brimmed hat we wore inside, despite the bar’s custom. His dusty brown leather trench coat looked burned in places and stained in others, perhaps with blood. On the bar before him was a glass of water—slightly brackish like all the water in Haskheshath, but he was used to it and daren’t touch the alcohol like the other patrons. Not in public. He exhaled a stream of smoke and took another sip as he listened.

“Hey, at least with Fugelmons’s death some of those artifacts will be returned to humanity,” chimed in the curly-haired man again. “Like St. George’s sword.”

“Yeah, you would like that, wouldn’t you, Arthur?”

“Yeah, it would be nice if those human artifacts came back to us, but they’ll never let it get to us. Some dragon or other is going to take possession of them.”

No, no,” countered Arthur into the sudden lull of the room’s conversations. “Fugelmons married a human!” 

There were cries of disgust from all corners. And the tone of the conversational buzz shifted.

“Ugh,” grunted black beard, “I’d forgotten about that.”

“I hadn’t.” Smirked thin-face. “It was all over the news a few years ago when it happened.”

“But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Arthur pressed, looking a little flushed. “Not the marriage itself, of course—thank Frigga they never had children!—but at least humanity will have those artifacts again. His widow, Ronit, will get possession of them.”

Not that simple, thought Drake. Dragon inheritance doesn’t default to next of kin—if they’d even consider a spouse, especially human, next of kin. Unless he specified her in his will.

“That would be nice if it were true,” said thin-face, looking at a flat diamond-shaped obsidian shard.

“What do you mean? I know he’s married to a human.”

“He was, but she’s been arrested. They think she murdered him.” He turned the shard around to show a news article confirming what he said.

Drake snorted. A blast of smoke shot from his nostrils, followed by a steady stream from his lips. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out his own shard and began tapping its surface. He had pulled up a message conversation with someone named Blothe. The text of the messages looked like branching paths with the origin at the top, and the characters were swooping, curving with occasionally sharp, angular strokes. It was the dragon script native to the Fire Isles, and the last text Drake had received from Blothe, dated from a month ago, translated literally like this: “Me stop texting.”

Though it sounded like a caveman saying he wasn’t going to text anymore, Drake knew he was just following word order conventions for fire dragons and meant, “Stop texting me.” He ignored the request. “Fugelmons’s death. Human wife arrested. Why?”

 He didn’t wait for a reply but switched to another contact, Sally Munroe, and wrote in English, “Ronit Fugelmons was accused of murdering her husband, Fryenandr Fugelmons. Arrested. She’s an expatriate associated with the Euro-American Embassy. She’ll be needing a defense. Send her my way for counterevidence.”

While he was texting his contact at the embassy, Blothe responded: “A remedial course in Fireislish need you? My last message misunderstand you? Me not text you.”

Drake slowly exhaled a jet of smoke and let his eyes sweep across the room until they alit upon a young woman with flyaway strawberry blonde hair in tight curls and lightning blue eyes. Her skin was almost as white as Queen Anne’s lace yet with a warm golden glow like wild honey. She was placing food at a table when she made eye contact with him and smiled like the noonday sun reappearing from behind a cloud to warm a cold sandy beach. A smile almost moved Drake’s lips; instead, his brows furrowed, and he took a sip of water as he texted Blothe back, careful to use fire dragon syntax: “For Linzi me owe you. Fugelmons’s death. Me tell.”

“Something wrong, Tony?” Drake looked up from his shard to see those lightning blue eyes studying his face.

Its features softened slightly. “No, Audra.” His voice was low and gravelly. “Work.”

“Work, huh? New case? Must be serious for you to be scowling like that already.”

Drake scowled. “I’m not—” He stopped short at Audra’s laughter like a babbling brook, and his scowl faded. He chortled though it sounded more like a grunt. “Well, it might be. Too soon to tell. Mine is not really the case, not yet. Work to do.”

“If it’s not your case, what are you working on?”

“Making it mine. Finding out what I’m getting into.”

“Sounds like it could be a lot of work for nothing. Too much of life is chaos and unexpected to plan ahead. Better to bend with the wind and turn to the sun. Soak in the rain.”

“Like a sunflower?”

She beaned. “There’s much to learn from them. Adapt. Then you’re ready for anything.”

Drake grunted. “Adapt. Sure. Plan too, so you know what anything is.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

“Staying alive.”

Audra opened her mouth to respond but was called back to her work.

Drake looked back to his shard to see a reply from Blothe: “About Linzi how knew you know not I. But fine. At Veithr me meet. Half hour.”

He assented to the meeting and drank deeply of his water. Had the wife of the great Fugelmons really killed him? He mused. Could be. Human married to a dragon. The thought made him queasy. She probably had no choice in the marriage. Kidnap? Coercion? And he could just get away with it for all his money. But she needed out. She found an opportunity. Must be tough as nails to pull that off. He probably deserved it too for what he did to her. He exhaled a blast of smoke. But I’ve got to prove she didn’t do it. Pin the murder on someone else. So she can get away. If she hires me. Which—he moved to pull out his shard to check if Sally messaged.

A commotion near the door interrupted his thoughts. A tall, bulky man had entered the bar and approached the counter still wearing a tan flat cap speckled with the ash from outside. There were angry cries from all corners for him to take off his hat.

“Can’t you read?” Someone shouted. “The sign says, ‘No hats. No hoods.’”

“What’s the big deal?” He demanded. “I just walked in for a drink. Nothing wrong with wearing a hat inside. I like wearing my hat.”

“Just take it off, buddy,” said the bartender in a low and kind but firm voice, leaning on the counter with one muscular arm. “Don’t cause a stir over nothing.”

“It’s my right to wear my hat,” the man retorted. His face, olive with a greenish undertone, was flushing.

“Not here it isn’t.” His voice was barely audible amid the continued outcry. “It’s our custom—my rule if you want a drink here.”

“But why?”

“You must be new here.” The bartender sighed. Jeers still filled the air, and sudden anger burned in his eyes. He stood up and shouted at the room in general, “Would you all shut up? Is this the kind of welcome you show? We humans gotta stick together, and, if you push him away, he’s gonna get chewed up by this town.”

“He’s not one of us,” Arthur yelled back. “He’s a drast!”

Drake shifted in his seat.

“You don’t know that,” the bartender barked.

“Why else won’t he take off his hat?”

“He’s new. I’m explaining the rules, but I can’t hear myself think with all you yammering.” He glared around the room, which quieted down to an irritable rumble. “My name’s Brandt,” he resumed in a low voice that Drake could just hear. “What’s yours?”

“Kirk.”

“How long you been here?”

“A month maybe? I’m not yet used to the length of the days here.”

“It takes time. You’ve been here for a month and haven’t stopped by the Five O’ Clock? It’s the only human bar in town.”

“Been busy.”

“Busy, huh? Look, Kirk,” Brandt said leaning on the counter again, “it’s custom around here, not just in my bar but everywhere in the city, to brush the ash from your hat when you come in. You didn’t do even that when you walked in.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I don’t care much about that.”

“You might start caring when ash falls in your beer.”

“Oh. Right.”

“So take it off or get out.”

“Why does he get to wear his hat?” Kirk pointed at Drake. Their eyes met. Kirk looked away.

“Who?” Brandt glanced at Drake, rising to his full height and folding his arms. “Tony? I know he’s human. Served with his father, Corporal Blaze, in the war—now lieutenant, I believe?” Drake nodded. “Anyway, I owe Tony big time, so I let him wear his hat. As for you…off or out.”

The man scowled and sighed heavily—Drake could see the vacant, far away look of resignation. Kirk removed his hat. There it was: the tell-tale crest of a werewyrm. Though different for each, unmistakable, for the werewyrm has no hair and the crest shapes the crown of the head like a lizard’s horns. His crest began just above the brow in the center and swept back like branching blood vessels, making seven downward curving horns that lay close to his skull.  

 The room erupted with sounds of shock and fear and disgust and anger. Brandt stepped back and growled with a finger thrust toward the door, “Get out.” Audra looked surprised but curious.

Only Drake hardly reacted. He tilted back his water, draining his cup. Tragic. He thought. Almost impossible to hide. Probably shape-shifted the rest of his body to look fully human, but there’s something about the crest that can’t be shifted without a potion, and those aren’t cheap.

“Please,” the werewyrm begged, “just one drink, and I’ll leave. I can’t help who my mother was—my dad didn’t even know.”

 There were jeers and sounds of disgust. Someone echoed his words mockingly. Audra’s eyes blazed and her cheeks flushed as she looked around the crowd of jeering men and women.

“It was during the war. It wasn’t even widely known that dragons could shape shift—” He stopped short amidst the shouts. “Please, I just got fired from the refinery because of this, and I need…something. I can just sit over there. I won’t bother anyone.”

“Rules are rules,” Brandt said. “This bar is for humans only, and you are not only human. Get out.”

Kirk replaced his hat, lowering the brim over his eyes, and stumped out of the bar.

“Why don’t you just kill yourself, drast!”   Arthur shouted.

“That,” Brandt growled at him, “was uncalled for.”

“Who cares? Someone’s got to put it out of its misery.”

“Him.”

“Whatever! Hey, why is he allowed to wear a hat. Why are you wearing a hat?” Arthur rose unsteadily to his feet, glaring at Drake. “You also a slimy drast?” He demanded with an accusing finger.

Drake took a pull of his cigarette and stared the curly-haired man dead in the eyes.

“Well?”

The eyes of the room were on Drake, formerly unheeded in his corner.

He exhaled smokily. “No.”

“No? No what?” Arthur stomped towards Drake. “No, you won’t take it off? No, you’re not a drast?”

Drake rose to his feet and glared down at his challenger, who glared right back with an audacity unfitting for someone whose head only came up to the other’s chest.

“You’re freakishly tall. Like you’ve got dragon blood.”

“Nope, I’m just tall for a human. I don’t assume you’ve got dwarf blood just because you’re that short.”

He was, in fact, about average height. “I’m not short!” Steamed Arthur, his face reddening further.

“Cool it off,” shouted Brandt, “both of you! Or I’ll kick you out as well!”

“You’re taking his side? He’s a drast—he doesn’t belong here!”

“Oh, I’m human all right.”

“Why don’t you prove your humanity by taking off that hat?”

“I’ll show my humanity through its tradition of ignoring stupid customs,” Drake replied coolly.

Arthur took a swipe at Drake’s hat with his right hand, but the other’s left hand caught his arm in a powerful grip. Drake’s eyes fell upon a tattoo on the forearm: a knight holding a sword and a rifle, a foot planted triumphantly on a dragon’s head. Six stars surrounded the image.

“Space marine, huh? But you didn’t even finish boot camp—you’re missing the seventh star.” He gave a single dry, throaty laugh like a grunt.

“Why you—”

“That’s enough!” Brandt had moved from behind his counter. “Let him go, Tony,” he said with a hand on Drake’s elbow and the other on Arthur’s chest.

Drake released his grip and took two steps back. He reached for his water glass, but it was empty.

“You gonna make him leave, or what?” demanded Arthur. The sentiment was echoed around the room. “Rules are rules, aren’t they, Brandt?”

“He stays,” the bartender said firmly. “I know his parents—both human.”

“How do you know neither of them were shapeshifted?”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me earlier, but I served alongside his father in the Dragon War. His mom was the ambassador here on Drekheim for many years after the war—you can’t get that position without first undergoing rigorous testing.”

“She lived here for many years, away from his father,” Arthur pressed, “maybe she—”

“You watch what you say about my mother,” Drake said coldly.

“Or what?”

“Just leave him alone!” Audra exclaimed from the far side of the counter. She began moving to join the discussion. “I know he’s human!”

Drake’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise.

“What?” Arthur asked, turning to look at her. “How would you know?”

“Don’t you know what he’s done for us humans around here?” Audra asked fiercely, her eyes level with Arthur’s. “When humans get in trouble around here, especially with the law, Tony finds the evidence needed to defend them.”

“It’s true,” Brandt said. “We wouldn’t even have this bar if it weren’t for Tony. He uncovered the protection racket that almost put this place under; he gathered enough evidence that even the dragon police couldn’t ignore.”

There were murmurs of surprise and appreciation around the room.

“A private investigator, huh?” Arthur continued. “So you know he’s human because you went under cover and investigated with him privately?”

“Go home, Arthur,” Brandt said. “You’ve had enough to drink.”

“No, we’re not like that.” Audra blushed. “We’re just—at least—” She looked at Drake, perplexed, but he was glaring at Arthur, smoke blasting from his nostrils as he snorted—no one seemed to notice.

“Oh, you’re not? Then maybe you’d like to privately investigate me and make sure I’m hu—”

Drake’s fist was like a sledgehammer to the side Arthur’s head, who crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

“That’s no way to talk to a lady,” he grunted.

But few heard him amid the scraping of chairs as people jumped to their feet and the shouting of angry patrons. The two men who had been sitting with Arthur had come round their table towards Drake with fists clenched; the black-bearded man got as close as he could before Brandt put a hand on his chest to hold him while his thin-faced friend hung back just behind him.

“You wanna fight, big guy?” Bellowed black-beard. “I’ll take you!”

Brandt was one who had heard Drake, and he shook his head, disgusted by Arthur’s words, but he directed his glare at Drake. “Go home, Tony. You’ve caused enough trouble.” He held out a hand to hold Drake back too, but it wasn’t necessary.

He had taken a measured step back and was surveying the room with eyes that burned like embers. His head was clear like it had been during the training back on Earth on the frigid shores of northern Norway. “I was just leaving,” he said to Brandt. “Work to do. I’m sorry for the trouble.” He touched the brim of his hat and walked out.

The other person who had heard Drake’s words watched him with admiration, looked around the room, and rushed after him into the city outside, dimly lit by the street torches and the silver twilight of the planet’s ring. Under the bar’s illuminated sign, which said, “The Five O’clock,” he was lighting another cigarette.

“Thank you,” Audra said almost breathlessly.

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’m sorry they were treating you that way—you don’t deserve it. Neither did that other guy.”

Drake said nothing but watched a few flakes fall through the air. The forges were mostly cold this time of night.

“You’re not leaving the bar forever, are you? Brandt didn’t ban you for that, did he?”

“I’ll be back. Good night.”

“Good night, Tony.” She smiled.

Without looking back, he walked away through golden pools and silver shadows.