“I’m keeping this.” I stored the cleaver in my possum pouch.

  “It’s the only way to be sure. We don’t get many impostors these days as a result. She the real deal?” Remy asked, cocking his head to one side to examine the damage he’d done to Alicya’s skull. His tall hat wobbled, then seemed to right itself.

  “Seems so. Where you from?”

  “Grew up in Piletown, scavenging on the Pile.”

  I fought back a sigh. “Where were you from on Earth?”

  “Oh, Lyon. You know she’s going to get eaten if she doesn’t resurrect? And no offense but you’re also on the menu if that’s the case.”

  “You don’t sound French.” I set the menu; I was never on it, so I ignored his foolishness via an Olympian effort of self-control.

  “Born in Phoenix, Arizona. Mum moved us to France for her job when I was a kid, and it’s always been more home than the States. You?”

  “Yorkshire. And for the record, I can burn your entire shitty clan down if I want—”

  “Shut up, Bob,” Alicya groaned. Her skull had knit itself back together, the skin regrowing. Her fur was still matted with blood, and she seemed to be cross-eyed as a result of the blow.

  I clicked my fingers in front of her face until she scowled at me and swatted my hand away. Her eyes seemed to be working again.

  “Piletown was here when I last visited the clans. A few miles inland? The other preykin on Lefticle use it as a dumping ground,” Alicya continued. “A fine place for a rat to grow up.”

  Remmy crossed his arms, his tail flicking from side to side behind him. I wondered how many cleavers he had stashed on his back. “You’ve got no fucking idea how shitty it is growing up as a rat. I killed and ate my first man when I was six. Nine for the first woman. She spotted me dragging a haul of copper pots back to town and thought I was an easy mark. Last mistake she ever made. Pilerunning isn’t fun.”

  “Makes strong rats, though. I’m here to take control again. Looks like things have gone to shit over the last couple of centuries.”

  Hearing Alicya casually talk about such lengthy time spans stirred something in me. I was technically immortal, at least until I died again and reset, but the average lifespan of a dragon was a couple of millennia. That was an incomprehensible amount of time for the mammal part of my brain to wrap itself around.

  “The taurkin are complaining. We treat the milkers well! But Chief Hairyhorn wants better scrap for their services. I can’t make cheese if it’s always making a loss. It needs to be profitable!”

  “The old deal was half a ton of metals per year per milker?” Alicya said thoughtfully.

  “You really must be the Mistress. Ever heard of inflation, lady? It’s two tons a year now, and we have to recast it ourselves. Used to be we just sent them a wagon of scrap, but now it has to be ingots. And the bastards test for purity!” Remy began pacing as he spoke, but when he finished, he stomped over to his throne and threw himself into it, his hat wobbling but somehow not falling off. “They’re milking us dry!”

  “Who is pressuring them?” Alicya asked. “I can’t believe they would exploit you for no reason. The beastkin, whatever their differences, always stuck together.”

  “Your homilies from centuries ago carry no dairy these days. Empty buckets,” he said bitterly. "The taurkin have a feud with the oviskin and the porckin over grazing lands. The raids have been getting worse. Don’t even get me started on the shit going down on Rightsicle and Shaftbase. The herbivores get along a lot better than the predkin.”

  “Your kind has always been everywhere; you tend to have a paw in many pies. I could use some up-to-date information,” Alicya suggested. “I’ll be settling all the scores anyway, but it could work out in your favour if the Ratmoot helped me out.”

  “You wanna know what the problem is? The Wyrm. I dunno what the ursakin have on the scaly bastard, but ever since he was appointed to the high seat, things have gone downhill.”

  “Scaly?”

  “That interest you, supposed-dragon? Got your scaly pecker pulsing?”

  “I’m married, and you’re starting to piss me off.”

  “The Wyrm… he’s an ass. Came in as an anti-corruption candidate and won, ended up more corrupt than the rest.” Remy might be powerful in his way, but he glanced away and softened his tone after my threat. The mammal should fear the dragon; it was the natural order of the world.

  “What is he?” I asked, carefully controlling my temper.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “A wyrm, obviously!”

  “Wyrms are basically subterranean dragons, Bob. They don’t like you, and your sort doesn’t like them. Powerful, but not usually terribly bright.”

  “Is he an ancient beast? I’ve got a fair amount of Umbraxis still to eat, but restocking never hurts.”

  “You can’t kill The Wyrm,” Remy said quickly, glancing about nervously.

  “I rather think you’ll find that I can.” I gave him a level nine grin.

  “If you say so.” Remy sniffed in a way I found distinctly insulting.

  “Stop it, boys! So what is the basis of the complaint from the taurkin?”

  “Mmmph mmmph.”

  “Sorry, Remy, didn’t quite catch that.” I was enjoying his discomfort more than I should.

  “Working conditions,” the rat muttered unhappily.

  “I’d like to do an inspection,” Alicya said flatly.

  “Do we have time for this? Let’s just kill the Wyrm and take the damn place over.”

  “You’re here as a diplomat, not a conqueror. Don’t step on my paws here, Bob. We need long-term thinking, not short-term murdering.”

  “Fine, fine!” How long was this going to take? Who knows. Why not just nuke the Wyrm dude from orbit? Also, who knows? Was Jace's affliction for aerial bombardment contagious? I did have quite a few of his bombs in my possum pouch… Sometimes, wholesale slaughter was the simplest solution to a problem.

  “Forage costs are way up! We might have… augmented the feed a little.”

  “Your Cheesiness, what were you mixing in?”

  “It’s not just that.” Remy looked down, I assumed in false shame. “We’ve been working the pumps a bit harder than we agreed.”

  “How much harder?” Alicya’s voice was cold. I would have asked what pumps, but she seemed to know what was going on.

  “Twenty percent.”

  “Nairn’s nipples! No wonder they’re angry. Bad feed and sore teats? You’re lucky they haven’t sent in a stampede.”

  “Mistress, they can’t! That’s why it’s so genius! It’s the only way to keep the cheesery going.”

  “Why can’t they?” Alicya snapped.

  “Feral Flock are picking at their heels. They can’t spare any forces from the eastern fields, or they’ll lose their forage.” The rat-man snickered.

  “Show me the dairy.”

  “Lady of the Night, I think you need to investigate the mainland more urgently than our little island. The killing is terrible. There’s constant raiding and warfare. They need the peace your return promises first. Our economic disputes are small change in comparison. I can arrange a ship to take you—”

  “The dairy, now.” Alicya had a good growl when she wanted to use it. Good for a mammal, I mean. Her chest was tiny in comparison to what could be achieved when your torso was the size of a bus, but it was certainly effective on the rat king.

  “Yes, Mistress,” he squeaked unhappily.

  Remy stood, straightened his hat, which added an extra foot to his height, and led us towards the backroom he had emerged from before killing Alicya. The other side was nothing horrific, and I was somewhat disappointed. Rows of steel drums, each with a rat monitoring the contents while clutching some kind of oversized sieve.

  “This is the curdling room. Once the curds form, we take them in lots to the presses. That’s where the real magic happens,” Remy said proudly.

  The rats bowed their heads to Remy as we passed.

  “See how clean it is? All the staff are well paid and well fed.”

  “All the rats are,” Alicya replied. “I’m not worried about how you treat your own people.”

  Beyond the curdling room was another stainless steel cave. All the walls and the ceiling were metal, polished to a pleasing level of shininess. I liked it and considered something similar for my lair in the near future. Assuming it wasn’t too expensive, I thought hastily as Greed perked his ears up.

  Large, round drums stood in rows with scaffolding built up on either side of them. A screw dangled above each of the drums, and a heavy disc of metal was forced down my sweating ratkin, slowly cranking levers to either side of it to spin the press down onto the curds. Milky whey oozed out of the barrels and ran into gutters along the floor.

  “The magic room,” Remy said proudly. “After this they cure for up to—”

  “The milking room. Now.” Alicya was out of patience.

  Remy nodded his head reluctantly and headed for a door off to one side. As soon as he spun the lock, a circular thing that would be more at home in a submarine, the sound of unhappy mooing washed over us. Then the stink. I closed my mouth firmly and resolved to speak at little as possible.

  It mostly smelled like shit and wet grass, but for some reason, it also made me hungry. There was a bovine tang atop the more powerful tastes that tickled something in me.

  “So, uh, as you can see, we’re a bit behind on the cleaning rota in here.”

  Lady minotaurs, very obviously female, stood in rows down the aisles. They were held in place with sturdy restraints. Metal masks covered their lower faces, with clear tubes attached to them. Green-brown slurry flowed down the tubes in fits and starts.

  They were also each equipped with metal bikinis, similar to the one Kat had been forced to wear back when I hatched, if she’d had four boobs, that is. More tubes came out of the cups, white liquid moving away from the source. Gutters behind the minotaurs dealt with the end product of the forced feeding, but they hadn’t been swept or hosed down for a few days, judging from the piles and the flies that haunted them.

  “Jesus!” I instantly regretted my exclamation and clamped a hand over my mouth. Whatever strange hunger the smell had stirred when it was weak was washed away when I experienced the stench at full force.

  “This won’t do at all,” Alicya growled.

  “Can I eat him now?” I asked quickly, making sure to only open my mouth while exhaling. It was still horrible.

  “This is all part of the arrangement! There’s nothing out of place beyond the gutters needing a wash down,” Remy protested, backing away towards the door.

  I headed to the nearest cow and took a closer look. She wasn’t emaciated. In fact, she looked rather plump. I reached up and tugged at the buckles holding her feeding mask in place and held it to one side of her face.

  Her big, brown eyes were weirdly soulful. I’d never been up close and personal with a cow before, aside from a bit of cattle rustling, and I’d been too busy chasing the terrified beasts down to pay too much attention to their eyes.

  “You ok with this, or should I kill some rats?” I asked pleasantly as she gasped a breath of “fresh” air.

  “Moooo-der them! This wasn’t part of the deal! Hoof and grass, they’ve betrayed us! Kept us as milk-slaves to feed their cheese obsession.”

  I could move very quickly when I wanted to, especially while in my light-weight mammal-suit. I blurred across and snatched the terrified rat king up by the scruff of his neck before the minotaur’s mask had hit the floor. I pulled a hand back and formed a fist, treating Remy to a tight-lipped smile as I did so.

  “Don’t do it! I can explain!” said a voice from his hat.