As daylight faded, Ylia spied their first stop on the journey to Gorgosa.

  The Drunken Dragon.

  She had heard a few tales of this place in Midnere. Supposedly, the revelries were uniquely debauched and went on long after midnight. However, people also spoke of how the innkeeper was a goodhearted fellow, who looked after his patrons—even the most inebriated. Such contradictions made her curious to experience its hospitality for herself.

  A sign hung from a tall post by the roadside turning, daubed with artwork depicting a red dragon guzzling a tankard of ale. The House itself was larger than Ylia’s had been, more like a town-hall, with out-buildings for storage, stables for horses, and multiple chimneys spouting blood-fed fire.

  Seeing the place was both relief and dreadful reminder.

  Qala steered her wagon along the wide track leading up to the palatial tavern. Two stablemasters soon appeared and offered food and water for her horse. Qala graced them with Relics and dismounted. Ylia followed suit. The stablemasters climbed aboard and one took hold of the reins, driving it a little further into a large field given over to vehicles such as theirs. Clearly, Qala was not the only merchant stopping here, for there were perhaps a dozen wagons parked there of varying and eccentric designs, from awning-clad caravans to ornate carriage boxes.

  Ylia was glad to stretch her legs after the long, rattling ride. Qala, she noted, was slightly bow-legged, as she hobbled up to the main door. Urgal slunk alongside Ylia, making a growling noise at the back of his throat she knew meant the cat was hungry.

  Even before they reached the door they could hear the sounds of madness within. A loud crash indicated a table overturned. A woman shrieked—it might have been with ribald laughter or terror, Ylia wasn’t sure. And there was music, an insane and relentless jig played on a squalling fiddle.

  A man stood before the door in an assortment of mismatched armour, a club at his belt. His face looked like a child’s clay putty rendition of some old patriarch. He looked down a bulbous nose at them, cheeks tinged the choleric red of one who loves either drink, fighting, or both.

  “You two can come in,” he said, crossing his arms over a breastplate that did not fit over his distended beer-gut. “But that thing cannot.” He nodded at Urgal, who rewarded him with a hiss.

  “Where I go, he goes,” Ylia said.

  “Then you don’t go in there,” the man said, firmly. “Not animals except dogs.”

  “Why are dogs allowed?”

  “Because Harper, who owns the place, loves dogs,” Qala supplied. She stepped forward. “Be that as it may, Urgal is an exception.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He is part of the act.”

  His brow furrowed, slow as two tectonic plates colliding.

  “What act?”

  With a sudden flourish, Qala unfurled her cloak, which parted via a diagonal cut artfully layered and wrapped. One wing opened. A glittering dust filled the air. The bouncer gaped. His eyes looked like they were about to fly out of their sockets into whatever brilliance was hidden beneath.

  Ylia could not see. She stood behind Qala. All she saw was vermillion light play on the bouncer’s face and armour. A twist of wonder reconstituted his lips.

  Then it was over; the cloak folded once again,

  The bouncer swallowed once, nodded.

  “Wonderful,” he whispered. “Quite… wonderful.”

  He stepped aside, performing a sort of creaking half-bow.

  Qala pushed open the door and stepped within. Urgal followed swiftly, no doubt drawn by the smells of cooking meat. Ylia shook herself and scampered after them, aware the bouncer might change his mind, although when she looked over her shoulder he was still wide-eyed, muttering to himself.

  “What did you do?” she whispered.

  The corners of Qala’s eyes wrinkled, revealing she was smiling beneath her mask,

  “There are many wonders in Qi’shath, as you yourself discovered. We remember the old magics there.”

  Ylia wanted to press her for more information, but she was distracted by losing sight of Urgal. Most of the time he was loyal as a dog, but just occasionally he reverted back to more typically feline tendencies—usually when he was famished.

  The House of the Drunken Dragon lived up to its name and reputation. The revelry was in full swing and it was not yet dark.

  Ylia remembered an old story her father used to tell her. Talon, the God of War, had once challenged a mortal man to a drinking contest. The mortal, a warrior called Heraklon, had arrogantly accepted. His family and friends had all lamented as though he were already dead, for who could possibly out out-drink a god?

  But when the fateful night came, Heraklon matched the god flagon for flagon, wine-cup for wine-cup, blood-shot for blood-shot, until it was the god and not the man who keeled over, blacking out in a puddle of his own vomit.

  When Talon finally awoke, with a hangover to end worlds, he was informed by his servants that not only had he lost the contest, but that Heraklon had been bragging about the outcome to every man, woman, and child on the continent.

  Naturally, the god was upset.

  Talon invited Heraklon aboard his sky-ship, promising to take him to Nilldoran, the home of the gods, for in winning the contest he had earned his rightful place among them. Heraklon had naively accepted this offer too, only to be hurled from the sky-ship into the fury of the Sea of Golden Ghosts.

  Looking at the debauchery on the tavern-dwellers, she could well believe a man had outdrunk a god.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Every table was buried under flagons; every chair, board, and stool was slick with sweat and beer. Courtesans draped themselves over the laps of semi-conscious men. Gamblers screamed and jeered as dice clattered in cups. Food sailed through the air. About their feet, an army of dogs yapped and barked. The dogs tussled over discarded bones and chased each other about table legs. Overhead, in the rafters, flocks of dragonlings nested, shitting on the patrons below. Many had messages tied to their scaly limbs. Clearly this is a thoroughfare for more than just cargo—but information too.

  Hooded messengers conversed in low-lit booths. Barmaids curried to and fro, never able to keep pace with the demands of the throng. Behind the bar, a muscular, handsome man with a face like a proud hound bellowed orders while cleaning a pewter tankard with a filthy dishcloth. That must be Harper, the owner, Ylia thought. Once we were rivals. Now… Now she was nothing.

  “I have acquired a room on the upper floor,” Qala said, drawing her out of melancholy thoughts at just the right moment. “It will be quieter there.”

  Somehow, her voice carried over the clamour of the party and the shrill melody of the mad fiddler.

  “Sounds good!” Ylia yelled in reply.

  They wove through tables, fist-fights, and dogs until they reached the bar. Harper grinned at them.

  “Qala! Good to see you!”

  “And you,” Qala said, with a slight bow.

  “Your usual room is ready. Shall I have drinks brought up?”

  Before Ylia could say no, Qala answered, “That would be wonderful.”

  Ylia wanted to explain to Qala that she did not drink, that she could not drink, but Qala was already on the move again. It will be fine, she thought. You simply shall not touch it.

  They wove once more through the crowd to a set of stairs at the back. Urgal had found them again, appearing out of the chaos like Nereth was said to have appeared out of a thunderstorm created by Koronzon.

  Ylia climbed the stairs after Qala. They climbed for perhaps ten steps then turned at a right angle and continued to an upper landing without windows, lit by candles in wall-mounted sconces. The landing was lined with doors bearing iron number-plates.

  Qala hurried down the hall and stopped before number thirteen.

  “Thirteen is lucky in Qi’shath. Come, you can help me prepare.”

  With a practised twist of the key, she opened the door, revealing a dark room furnished with lusciously crimson draperies. A small table sat at its centre, flanked by two chairs. A Qi’shathian oil lamp, similar to the lighter Ylia owned—hand once owned—sat on the table. The light within shone through coloured glass depicting scenes of mythic significance. Shadows played on the walls: gardens and odalisques, gods and Daimons.

  “Good old Harper,” Qala said. “He always remembers the little things.”

  Qala took the lamp and placed it outside, in the landing. Meanwhile Urgal had slipped into the room, seemingly drawn by the unique aroma emanating from within. Entering herself, Ylia saw incense sticks burning upon a petty altar. A gold statue of Lileth stood atop the altar, her limbs twisting in the throes of ecstatic dance.

  Ylia’s cheeks turned scarlet.

  “She is not only the goddess of sex and love,” Qala said, noting Ylia’s embarrassment. “She is also the goddess of stars and auguries, for who cares more about their future than the star-crossed lover?”

  Ylia relaxed. She had feared Qala was about to reveal some sordid secret, but it seemed she was simply a fortune-teller as well as a merchant.

  “Rooms are not cheap here,” Qala went on. “But the cost can be offset by augury-work. However, I insist that my first client of the night discovers their Fate for free.” Qala seated herself and indicated the chair opposite. Ylia hesitated, then seeing Urgal had fallen asleep, no doubt aided by the soporific incense, she closed the door and sat before Qala.

  “So… how does this work?”

  “It is simple,” Qala replied, stretching her hands across the table, clearly expecting Ylia to clasp them in return. “You tel me the day, moon, and year of your birth. The hour too, if you know it. I may ask some further clarifying questions. We take it from there.”

  Ylia gingerly clasped Qala’s hands, aware again of the strength in the woman’s grip. She took a deep breath.

  “I was born in 517, in the fourth moon, twentieth day.”

  Qala closed her eyes. At fist, Yia thought this was mystical performance, the kind she had seen certain charlatans work on her patrons when they came travelling through her House, but then she realised Qala was making calculations.

  “Your birth reside in the Manse of the Dragon. You are a hoarder of wealth, and jealously guard that which is yours.”

  So far, pretty accurate, Ylia thought, although a little generic, truth be told.

  “When wronged, you will go to the ends of Erethia to make it right. You are slow to anger but when the dam finally breaks your wrath is frightening and sweeps away all in its path.”

  Qala gripped Ylia’s hands tighter. The furrow in her brow deepened.

  “The Dragon is a Wind sign, and thus your Fate will be governed not by earthly matters, but by the airs in which you soar. You are not destined to stay or settle. For you there is no home but sky, buffeted by the winds of chance.”

  Qala let out a moaning, slurred sound. Ylia felt suddenly very afraid. She wanted this to end but now she could not extricate her hands from Qala’s grasp.

  “Flying… flying… over Yarruk, over the Winedark Sea, over Aurelia…” Her voice changed, becoming high and childlike. “I… I want to fly on the back of a bee up to the sunlight, daddy!”

  Ylia recoiled, lurching back from the table, breaking Qala’s grip. Urgal roused from his stupour, growling like incipient thunder. Qala slumped back, head bowing. She remained still for a while.

  “How did you know that?” Ylia whispered. She had said nothing to her of those childhood words, or of how much they meant, or who she had said them to.

  “It is like I said...” Qala replied. “In Qi’shath we remember the old magic, some of which is forgotten even in Sumyr. I am sorry if I frightened you. Sometimes, the connection forges itself deeply, and images and words arise whether I will them to or no. Take comfort in the fact I will have forgotten much of it before long. That is the way of these gifts.”

  Ylia nodded, though she was still shaking.

  “Just who are you? You can’t be just a merchant. I spent time in Qi’shath and never saw anything like what you did to the bouncer.”

  Qala sighed, the sound of trees in the forest bowing to some elemental tempest.

  “There is a price for knowing. A burden falls on those who find out. If I were you, I would accept your augury, journey with me to Gorgosa, and never ask again.”

  The two women were silent for a moment.

  Then Ylia laughed.

  Qala’s brow furrowed yet further.

  “Why do you laugh at me?”

  “Because for all your auguries, you do not know me at all. A Dragon hoards knowledge just as much as gold.”

  Qala’s eyes twinkled.

  “You are sure.”

  “You shall not leave this room until I know.”

  “Very well…”

  Qala let fall her hood, revealing tumbling locks of shimmering indigo, a face of devastating beauty, like a mask wrought from white glass, filigreed with silver, the lips painted a purple so deep it was nearly black. She was familiar, but it was not until she spoke that Ylia realised the full truth.

  “I am Qala Jin,” she whispered. “The firstborn daughter of the Jade Empress, and rightful heir to the Empire of Qi’shath.”