A long time ago, literally in a different lifetime, I had had a girlfriend. Shirley had a weird sense of humour that had been quirky and lovable until it became annoying and tiresome. She’d also kept an alarming number of rodents as pets.

  Rats, mice, ferrets, ants, and rabbits. I’m aware not all of those are actually rodents, but it was close enough for my purposes. Sitting down was always a gamble. You could never be sure if something might unexpectedly move under your ass. And not in a good way.

  The door to the bar swung open, and the age-old smell of spilled beer and stale smoke wafted over me as I cautiously probed the air with my tongue.

  The rat folk all fell silent as we entered. Snouty, hairy faces turned in our direction as I stepped to the side to let Alicya and Plop in behind me. They looked pissed off at my entrance, interested in Alicya, and positively fuming at the sight of Plop.

  “Don’t fret, I’ll keep you safe,” I said quietly. So quietly that the sound of half a dozen daggers being drawn slowly from their sheaths drowned me out.

  “I am Moon Shiver, First Fang, Shadow In The Night,” Alicya declared loudly. “My companions are under my protection.”

  A weird chittering noise echoed around the room, teeth bashed against each other, whiskers shivered, and the hostile crowd grew…

  “I don’t think that helped.”

  “This is my companion Bob! He’s a dragon, so don’t fuck-fuck with him. Admiral Scaredark has recently led the Revenge Fleet home on my orders,” she declared, with sweeping waves of her arms at us.

  “No fuck-fuck. I’m a married dragon,” I growled.

  “Proof? Looks like pink-skin. Smells like pink-skin.” There was always one unfortunate soul who was only too eager to be made an example of. In this case, they were a wizened creature, bent with a back that sat at an odd angle above their hips. Her, it took me a moment to ascertain, whiskers dropped like a Fu-Manchu moustache, and she wore ragged clothes that were badly in need of a needle and thread.

  “This is just a mammal suit. I spend a lot of time around humans.”

  The collective intake of breath from the crowd, combined with a subtle elbow ot my kidney from Alicya, suggested I could have phrased that better.

  “Back off, vermin!” screeched Plop.

  It was nice to know that I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t read the room.

  “Feather-shit no drink-drink!”

  “We’re all beasts here, but let’s keep this civilised,” Alicya argued.

  “You know we’re going to have to stand here with our dicks… do owls have dicks? In our hands, while you resurrect, right?”

  “Do you have any alternatives?” Plop said quietly, moving behind Alicya, his round eyes flicking back and forth as rat people rose to their feet.

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “No. We have cloacas.”

  “I feel you, man. Look, we could just burn this place down and kill everyone, but I’d much rather just buy a round of beers and sit quietly in a corner.” I had raised my voice considerably during the last sentence, and the rats that heard my words had stopped looking quite so aggressive.

  As with anything involving a crowd, there were always exceptions. People tend to fall on a spectrum, and some of them just aren’t very bright. I used Hunter’s Gaze to freeze the first pair that moved, and then smiled at the rest of the mob.

  “Just want some beer and a bit of peace. Been a while stuck on a boat, and we want to wet our whistles.”

  “She no Moon Shiver. Stress-stress no return.”

  The young rat that had spoken wore a dress that reached to her ankles and had a tray balanced on one hand, loaded with a mixture of empty and full tankards.

  “Hairy Esme, three beers please.”

  “No serve pink-skin,” she hissed.

  “I am Moon Shiver.”

  “You already told them that, Alicya,” I muttered.

  “And they are my guests. Please, could we have three beers?”

  “Ask at bar.” The waitress sniffed, which made her nose twitch in a way that was weirdly cute, and turned away. Her dress swished behind her as she headed away from us.

  Having spent a not insignificant proportion of my life, both recent and historical, threading my way through a bar, I chose to lead the way. Tails snaked out to try and trip me at first, but my disregard for the pain I might cause by stamping on them soon disabused the locals of the benefits of this idea.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “What ales have you got?” I asked, ignoring Alicya trying to nudge me aside and Plop lurking behind me.

  “Ratpiss, Porkswill, and Jermiah’s Taint.” The bar-rat was dressed in neat clothes, even going so far as to wear a tie despite his shirt's lack of a collar, and as expected, a glass had been mid-polish when I arrived at the wooden counter.

  “None of them sounds appealing. Look, I’ve got a small barrel of Hangle’s Hurt in a storage space.” I produced the barrel and set it on the counter. “Try a bit. If you like it, you can keep the rest as long as you pour us three pints.”

  He sniffed the barrel cautiously, then produced yet another glass from somewhere without me seeing what happened to the one being polished. The tap was turned cautiously, and the cup was half filled. Whiskers twitched, button nose jiggled. A thin tongue snaked out to touch the deep brown ale, and I nodded encouragingly as he glanced up.

  “It’s fine. Go ahead. ”

  I won’t describe what happened next in detail, but it involved a flailing tongue and then the hasty draining of the glass. He reached out to refil but I lunged and caught his wrist.

  “Ours first, please.”

  We retired to a table, Plop looking very uncomfortable as he swept the seat before lowering himself down.

  “Not sure I like this,” I said softly, setting the drinks down.

  “They're good people.”

  “Rats just poop wherever they are. People who own rats think that them pissing on you is a sign of affection.”

  “Bob is right. These are filthy creatures.” Plop was keeping his voice even lower than mine.

  “Damn, that’s good!” Alicya slammed her cup on the table. “Bar-rat! Three more!”

  “I’m starting to think we made a mistake coming here,” I muttered, sipping at my own glass.

  “Stupid human.”

  I glared at Plop, who had the common sense to look down at his beer.

  The barman came over with three more glasses and put them down in the middle of the table.

  “Good-good piss.”

  “I’m happy you feel better?” I offered uncertainly.

  “Piss.” He poked at the glasses, dipping a finger into one and waving it in my direction. I carefully pulled one of the others towards me.

  “Beer. It’s called beer.”

  “Stupid Pink-pink. Good piss make gold-gold. Want more… please?” saying please looked like it was almost physically painful for him.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Cheville. Been here long time. No better piss.”

  “I can probably cut you a deal—”

  “Bob, that’s not why were here,” Alicya cut in.

  “You want to know the best way to make a dragon neutral? Let him set up a business in both countries. I won’t act against them or the empire if it risks profits. And I think we can make some profits with this place.”

  The decor was outdated, the furniture ancient and worn, but there was potential here. Even with shit-tier beer, they had a decent clientele. Throw a portal up in the corner, get some rugs and throw cushions, and this… was being married starting to change me?

  Greed reared its ugly, goblin head in my mind. I’d been thinking about buying things. And not useful things. Stuff for aesthetics. A shudder ran down my spine, but I wrestled my inner demon down. Now was not the time.

  I could still make this a profitable stop.

  “How’s the food?” I asked as casually as I could.

  “Got beets and meats.”

  “That sounds delightful,” I lied. “How about if I could hook you up with the finest food from the empire? All delivered at cost by portal, no travel time.”

  It hadn’t struck me until that moment how the preindustrial travel system most people had to operate under hindered the distribution of food. Fresh meat, vegetables and fruit would rot within days so they simply couldn’t be transported long distances by wagon. Not even a rider with a pouch of holding could cover the distances quickly enough to deliver the produce in a fit state to sell.

  “Fresh meat-meat?”

  “Sure. And the finest booze. Here.” I pulled a bottle of Golden Jack from my possum pouch and grabbed a glass. “Got a clean one?” I asked as I put the froth-lined cup back on the table.

  A fully polished glass appeared in one furry hand, received a brief buff and was placed almost reverently in front of me. I poured the amber liquid out slowly, watching whiskers twitch in the corner of my eye. I slid the glass towards him and watched as Cheville brought it up to his nose.

  After a deep, slow sniff, he tipped the very expensive booze back like it might be taken away from him if he didn’t.

  “More-more?”

  “Not until we agree to a deal.”

  “Bob, you really don’t want—”

  “I’ve got this, Alicya.”

  “Being tied to food is a bad idea,” Plop offered as his eyes stayed locked on my bottle of whisky.

  “I’ll provide the food. It’ll be fine. “What do you say, Cheville? How about we sign a deal? I can bring you in on the Swinging Cod franchise. I’ll buy a stake in this property and provide chef-cooked meals, the finest ales and spirits, and all I ask for is a modest fifty percent of the profits.” I slid the bottle towards Plop, who pulled the cork with a pop and took a sniff.

  “Ten-ten,” Cheville snapped back.

  “Twenty?”

  “No. Ten-ten.”

  I drew in a slow breath and ran through the possibilities that he might possibly mean.

  “A hundred?”

  “Yes-yes.”

  “Get fucked, rodent. I’ll go down to sixty percent.”

  “Two-ten.”

  “Is that a hundred again, just phrased a different way?”

  “Noooo.”

  “Sixty-five.”

  “Five-ten,” he said hurriedly.

  I looked him up and down. He was twitchy and nervous, but I wasn’t sure that was my fault. I looked like a regular pink-skin, and while he might have understood that Alicya wasn’t kidding when she told them what I was. At face value, it would be a tough sell, and I didn't expect these creatures to have vivid imaginations.

  The werewolf, currently lapping at the beer-foam in her glass, and the beak-faced owl-man… they were threats he understood. Rats existed in the shadows, hiding from more powerful creatures, and my companions represented a great deal of threat to the simple mind of the ratty chap.

  “Fifty?” He nodded in reply to my question. “Ok. Deal.”

  I reached out and offered a hand. He leaned down and licked the top of my thumb—which was gross—then shook. His palm was hairless, but the stubbly fur on the back of his hand made my fingers itch.

  “More piss.”

  “I’m good for now, thanks.”

  “No. Give-give more piss.”

  “I’m keeping tabs on this, by the way,” I grumbled as I produced another small barrel. That stuff wasn’t quite so expensive, but it should still be a step up from his usual product.

  “Contract?”

  “I’ll bring in a friend of mine later. She’ll sort out the details.” Kat deserved whatever I threw at her, but this one shouldn’t be too bad.

  “You know what you’ve done?” Alicya asked as the bar rat bounced away happily.

  “Brought another pub into my gastrochain?”

  “You’re going to defend what’s yours, right?”

  “Of course,” I growled.

  “What if the strixkin raid the rats? Or the pigs stampede through the town?” asked Plop.

  “How many clans or tribes or whatever are likely to start shit here?” I asked wearily.