The Dragon Never Sleeps

— 71 —

N. Etoartsia 3. Tregesser Hyxalag High City. Myth Worgemuth sneered. He had seen DownTowns that pleased him more.

The High City was bedecked with special effects. It was some damned holiday he did not understand and had no intention of understanding, though he was hosting a gala for Tregesser Hyxalag's cream.

Be barely better than scum in Tregesser Horata, he told himself, and kept smiling.

He looked out at the High City, sneered again, glanced at his guests. The locals ignored him. He could slide out for a dip without anyone noticing.

He slipped.

He was dipping from a jar of Jane—the finest True Blue—when he realized he was not alone. A figure in black moved toward him. "Who the hell are you?" The figure unnerved him. He backed toward the doorway.

"Go ahead and snort, Myth."

"Valerena? What're you doing here?"

"Take it, Myth."

He looked down the half-meter barrel of a hairsplitter. Its compressed sodium bullet could cook his brain beyond hope of reclamation.

He snorted a dip. The euphoria started immediately.

"Do one on the other side."

Voice frightened but growing languorous, he protested, "That would put me out of it."

"Do it, Myth."

He did it. He had no choice, did he?

Two minutes later he needed help standing. The woman in black helped. She led him to the rail of the balcony, where he could support himself. She dropped his jar of Jane. A fortune spilled across the balcony. He did not notice.

"Goodbye, Myth." She squatted, lifted his ankles, flipped him over the rail.

He giggled for a while, having fun flying. Then he stopped doing anything at all forever.