Quinn led Zebulun down an alleyway in the most crime-ridden part of the city. He opened a nondescript door in the side of one building and waltzed inside. Zebulun followed.
A man almost as large as Zebulun stood guard before a second doorway. He nodded at Quinn. "Who’s this?"
"Hi, Radah!" said Quinn. "This is Zebulun. He’s my new friend! He saved me from a beating by Ezekiel’s dumb, ugly goons."
Radah grinned and snorted. He opened the door and nodded for them to go in.
A narrow stair led down into darkness. A haze filled the room below. Patrons sat in low light, drinking beer and wine, smoking from ornate pipes, and whispering and giggling to one another. Several stared as Quinn and Zebulun descended.
Quinn greeted numerous people on the way through the room. He waved at some, hugged others, and high-fived one. They finally reached a table in the back and sat down. Quinn hugged the waitress and asked for a mug of beer and some bread and cheese. Zebulun ordered a cup of whiskey and a mug of tea.
Zebulun looked around the room. Some patrons wore common clothes, while others wore exotic dress that seemed from a far away land. Many had painted faces. Some had piercings in unusual places. He heard multiple languages spoken. He smelled tobacco, and at least two other plants he didn’t recognize.
The waitress brought their food and drink in earthenware vessels. Zebulun gave her a silver coin and told her to keep the change.
"Thanks," she said. She winked at Quinn and nodded her head towards Zebulun. "I like this one!"
Quinn grinned. Then he tore into the food like he hadn’t eaten in days.
He looked up at Zebulun. "You hungry?"
Zebulun shook his head and took a sip from his cup. The whiskey tasted strong. Quinn continued devouring the food.
"What is this place?" asked Zebulun.
Quinn chewed forcefully and swallowed hard. "See that hot old lady over there?" he asked. Zebulun saw a middle-aged woman with the rarest of features: pale skin, red hair, and green eyes. She wore leather. "That’s Jezebel," said Quinn. "This is her place. She calls it The Dungeon."
"Who are all these people?"
"Some are travelers," said Quinn. "Others are performers, or patrons of the arts. Then there’s the criminal element."
"Criminals?"
"Oh sure," said Quinn, taking another bite. "This is the bad part of town, right? So why do fair folk and rich merchants and wayfarers find their way in here? Because they want something they can’t find in the daytime market. Could be lotus blossoms or simple information."
Zebulun mused. "Information."
"Sure!" said Quinn. "These people are far closer to the street than people who live in the rich houses."
"Ever hear anyone talk about dragons ruling the kingdom?" asked Zebulun.
"On occasion," said Quinn. "There was an old storyteller here, in this very bar, one night who was drunk as a sailor. He went on and on about how the lords and princes and kings were servants of the dragons rather than the other way around. He said, 'they blind the whole world with their sorcery'."
"How did the people here react?" asked Zebulun.
"Most laughed. Some shrugged. Some told him to shut up. A few took his side, and a spirited debate began!" said Quinn with a smile. He cocked his head and looked up at the ceiling. "I think it ended in the fighting pit in the back." He took another bite.
"Anyone say why they thought this?" asked Zebulun.
"Well, one guy — wait, you know what? I bet he’s here. Let me go check in the back."
"In the fighting pit?"
"No, the gambling room. Be right back!" Quinn leapt up and turned towards the back, took a couple of steps, then came back to grab more bread and cheese before turning back around and running off.
Zebulun scanned the room again. He felt eyes on him, but the dungeon’s denizens seemed to make an effort not to be seen looking at anyone.
Except Jezebel herself. He found her staring right at him as his eyes reached her. She gave him a slight smile and nod, her eyes sparkling with cleverness. Zebulun nodded politely and turned back to his drink.
Quinn returned with a lean, middle-aged man in tow. He had a few tattoos and a few more scars. Zebulun saw something familiar in his eyes. A weariness.
"This is Mak!" said Quinn. "He defended that old drunk when everyone was telling him to can it."
Mak nodded and sat down.
"Why do you believe dragons rule over us?" asked Zebulun.
Mak lit up a pipe and puffed thoughtfully. "I grew up in the slums of Harlan, down by the coast. Kids with no prospects tend to turn to burglary or robbery, in my neighborhood. By the age of 17, I was sneaky as a cat and quick with a knife. I wound up working for the biggest gang in town."
He paused to take a few puffs before continuing.
"One of the boss’s favorite sources of income was spying. He had me gather all kinds of information — in all kinds of ways — about rich merchants, the prince’s courtiers, his ministers, local priests, other criminal gangs, you name it. Anybody important."
"He also used his network to spread rumors for profit. It was this business, as well as his spies, that attracted the attention of one of the princes of Harlan and 'his' dragon."
"The dragon summoned my boss to meet with him alone in his lair below the palace. He normally relayed orders through his prince, but I guess there were some things he didn’t want his favorite pet to know about. He engaged my employer directly, and paid handsomely."
"How do you know the dragon wasn’t acting on the prince’s orders?" asked Zebulun.
Mak shrugged. "I don’t, but I got to meet the snake up close and personal, once. It apparently wanted to meet the one charged with doing a particular job for him. The boss took me there, and the prince was there, and he didn’t act like he was the man in charge. The dragon talked down to him."
"It could speak?" asked Zebulun.
"Not exactly," said Mak. "It’s like… it looked like the dragon shape-shifted into a man, then spoke to us. The boss told me later that it’s a trick. Dragons got some way of messing with our minds."
"Hm." Zebulun finished his whiskey and stared into the empty cup.
"I’ll get more!" chirped Quinn. He ran off to find the waitress.
Zebulun looked up at Mak. "Know anyone else with similar experiences?"
"Not sure," he said, taking another puff. "Folks tell all kinds of stories, especially after a few drinks. I’ve heard rumors, over the years. It seems to be a common belief among those on the left side of the law."
Quinn returned with beer and whiskey and a glass of wine for Mak. "You know what?" he said, rhetorically. "You want to know about dragons? We should go see this friend of mine. He’s super smart! He knows a lot of things about a lot of stuff. All he does is read. He’s got piles of scrolls lying around."
"When?" asked Zebulun.
"Right now!" said Quinn. "Well, not right this minute — we should finish these drinks and have, like, three more, then go over there. He lives in the affluent part of town, so it’s a walk."
"Sure this friend wants visitors at this hour?" asked Zebulun.
"Oh, he’ll be awake," said Quinn. "He’s a night owl. He stays up all night reading, then sleeps til noon. I seen him do it."
Zebulun thought for a moment. "Why not?"
"Great!" said Quinn.
They had a few more rounds.