Everything he wants to do costs money—money he’s determined to get at all costs, Dragon thought. I have to keep him out of the blue light district and get him somewhere that isn’t so expensive—someplace with fewer temptations, if I want him to leave Rep. Gersh alone.
“Forget about playing for tonight,” he told his Saurian brother. “What about our Sire’s feast? Weren’t you put in charge of procuring the Ornith eggs? I thought you promised him the freshest and the best money could buy. When do you plan to take care of that if you’re whoring and gambling all night long?”
“Fuck!” Zerlix ran a clawed hand with six short, stubby fingers and one long, three-jointed thumb over the scaled ridge that rose in the middle of his skull. Dragon could see him trying to justify the night of drinking, gambling, and womanizing he wanted to do and weighing it against the idea of failing to keep his promise to procure the feast-day delicacy he’d been put in charge of.
“Komendant Vizlar forgives you a lot,” he said to his brother. “But he’s not going to be happy if there aren’t any Ornith eggs for his feast-day.”
“Shit. All right, you’re right,” Zerlix admitted at last. “What a fucking kill-joy you are, Little Brother.” He sighed deeply. “I guess we’d better go get the fucking eggs while we can. Gods, all I do all day is work, work, work! When do I ever get to have any fun?”
Since the other male spent nearly all his time drinking, gambling, fucking, and sleeping off his nightly binges, Dragon had no sympathy.
“Come on,” he said. “We need to get to Avria Pentaura during the Orniths’ daylight hours if we want to trade for the freshest possible eggs.”
Zerlix sighed heavily and ran a hand over his skull ridge again.
“Fine. Gather the crew and let’s go.”
He turned and left the little shop with a ding as the front door indicator chimed.
“Er…then I don’t need to pay any money now?” Rep. Gersh looked at Dragon hopefully.
Dragon shook his head.
“No. Just have the money ready when my Sire’s representative comes next solar month. And I’m sorry for the, uh, misunderstanding,” he added.
“That’s all right. May the great Saurian god, Goeth, bless you, son.” Rep. Gersh gave him a grateful look. “You’ve saved everyone a great deal of trouble—myself most of all!”
Dragon just nodded at the old male and left the shop. He might have narrowly averted a disaster nearly brought on by his Big Brother’s greed and heedlessness, but he had to keep an eye on Zerlix to make sure they got to the spaceport without a side trip to the blue light district. His Big Brother was always easily distracted—the sight of a pretty Pleasure Girl would turn his thoughts away from his responsibilities.
He sighed as he jogged down the sidewalk to join Zerlix, who was still scowling and muttering about how hard he worked and how he never got any time off. Watching the other male, Dragon wondered where his life was going—or if it was going anywhere at all. He believed in the honor of the Crimson Blades—he had been raised in their traditions from the age of five, when his mammalian parents had been killed by a rival Clan and Komendant. Vizlar had adopted him.
But was he really going to spend the rest of his life chasing Zerlix around, trying to keep him from doing damage to the proud tradition of their Clan? And once Komendant Vizlar retired—what then? Dragon had no illusions about his relationship with his adoptive Big Brother—Zerlix didn’t like him and never had. He wasn’t going to make Dragon his Advisor, the way Komendant Vizlar had with his own adopted Little Brother, Rep. Yariz.
What was more probable was that Zerlix would either cast him out of the Clan altogether, or else bust him down in rank, making him a lowly collector at the very bottom of the Clan’s food chain.
Either way, Dragon was afraid he would have to watch the Clan he loved spiral down the waste chute. Zerlix had none of the cold, considered calculation that his Sire was known for. He was incapable of making decisions that would benefit anyone but himself. The Crimson Blades, under his leadership, would descend into ruin in fairly short order. And Komendant Vizlar was getting old—it probably wouldn’t be long before he gave up the role of Komendant and allowed his oldest son to step into his shoes.
It’s too bad he can’t see his son for what he really is, Dragon thought, casting a sidelong look at his Big Brother. A selfish, spoiled brat who only thinks of himself.
He was tired of cleaning up Zerlix’s messes and trying to avert disasters brought on by his poor judgment. But what else could he do? Where could he go? His life was here, on Saurous, and his place was with his Clan.