Contrary to popular stories and the lists of horrors attached to Wanted posters, The Dragon wasn't a monstrous man, wasn't obviously strong or heavily scarred or missing any limbs. Were it not for the layers of mismatched, weathered, highly expensive clothes and handfuls of glinting rings he might have blended in easily among any crowd. The only accuracy in his identity was the tattooed pattern of lines on the back of his hand -- the constellation from which he took his name. With this hand he scribbled numbers on a curled page of parchment, sitting alone at a sticky table on the grayer side of Padstow.

A wooden cup of ale appeared at his elbow, and above it the bartender gave him a tired look. "If ya ask me you kin sit here an' buy drinks all night -- but there hasn't been a ship since this mornin' -- who'd you say's supposed to show up?"

The Dragon finished writing another equation, then with a released breath leaned back, an elbow over the back of his chair and the pen dangling from his teeth, to peer up at the bartender. "Say a great fortune fell into your lap," he suggested hypothetically, waving the pen at the bartender, "but it had an old curse on it that'd drive you mad and to death. What would you do, Bonesy?"

The bartender puffed his chest and replied immediately. "Nothin' too foul fer my family, Sir! I'd take that fortune, Sir, and exchange it for clean money, an' give it to my wife an' my girls, and I'd go happily suffer whatever curse's waitin on me!"

The pen waved thoughtfully between the Dragon's teeth, and he grinned a little. "That didn't occur to me," he admitted. With a final decision, he slid a few coins under the empty cup and got to his feet, rolling the parchment between ringed hands. "If a snake-faced lady shows up, tell her the deal's off," he said while he strode out of the tavern, much to the confusion of the bewildered barkeep.

The air outside reeked of old fish and crusted salt, and the sky was turning blistered shades in preparation for evening. The Dragon moved quickly through the mud and stones, dodging a goat and a cart, headed into a back-alley shortcut to the docks and the ships tethered on the gray cove below.