The Blue Dragon wasn't a typical Frontier bar. For one thing, it was run by its namesake. For another, it catered to Men and aliens in almost equal percentages. For a third, it offered no sexual services. For a fourth, it didn't have any gaming tables.
It was also one of the few leads provided by Cassius Hill on the possible whereabouts of Ibn ben Khalid.
It was that first item, though, that made its reputation. The owner was a blue-skinned alien, covered with octagonal scales, with a face almost as elongated as a Shetland pony's. He stood erect and had opposable thumbs. He also possessed vestigial wings from an earlier point in his race's evolution where his progenitors either flew or, more likely, rode high upon the thermals.
His chest was angular and oddly-shaped, as if once, a few thousand generations ago, his wings were much stronger and were manipulated by a coil of muscles that was clearly visible around his rib cage. He had a short, flat tail, one that in eons past had functioned as a rudder.
His eyes were the palest blue, and his teeth were a rich violet. He had two sets of nostrils, separated by a couple of inches, on each side of his long face. There were no ears, just pulsating slits on the side of his head.
He wasn't the only member of his race, but he was, so far as anyone knew, the only member that had migrated to a human-occupied planet in the Inner Frontier. Whenever anyone asked the name of his race, or the name or location of his home planet, he answered them promptly and truthfully—in his native language, which was an assortment of guttural clicks, grunts, and whistles.
He called himself Blue Eyes, and pretty soon so did everyone else.
"Good evening, good evening," he crooned as Nighthawk and Kinoshita entered his bar on Sylene IV, which circled a dull yellow sun, dragging two moons with it. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
"Probably we all look alike to you," answered Nighthawk wryly, looking around until he spotted Melisande nursing a drink at a table in the darkest corner of the place.
Blue Eyes threw back his head and hooted.
"Is that a laugh?" asked Nighthawk.
"You think only Men have a sense of humor?" shot back Blue Eyes. "Where are you two from and where are you heading, and how long can I entice you into staying on Sylene?"
"Don't tell me—you own the hotel, too."
"Okay, I won't tell you."
Nighthawk stared at Blue Eyes for a moment. "Never saw an alien like you before."
"Never will again, either," said Blue Eyes. "But let's keep in mind that on this world, you're as much an alien as I am."
"You speak the language very well," continued Nighthawk. "No accent, and no formality—your slang sounds very natural."
"Languages are easy for dragons," said Blue Eyes. "Giving up virgins—now that was hard." He threw back his head and hooted again.
"As long as you feel compelled to entertain us, the least I can do is buy you a drink."
"I never drink with the customers, but I'll be happy to sit with you for awhile." He turned to the bar. "Nicholas, bring me my chair."
A young man, underweight and carelessly dressed, immediately stood up, walked over to a strangely-configured chair, and carried it over to the empty table where Blue Eyes was waiting.
"Thank you," said the dragon. "Gentlemen, this is Nicholas. He has spent the last three years recording everything I say in my native tongue and trying to create a dictionary of my language."
"How far along are you?" asked Kinoshita.
"About thirty words," said Nicholas. "Maybe thirty-two."
"In three years?"
"That's more progress than is made on a lot of alien tongues in the same period of time," replied Nicholas. He frowned thoughtfully, then continued. "The biggest problem is determining whether the alien is intelligent. A lot of non-sentient animals communicate by vocalizing."
"How long did it take you to learn Terran?" Kinoshita asked Blue Eyes.
"About a week." The dragon smiled—as much as he could smile, anyway. His jaws parted and his eyes narrowed. "It's a knack."
"The government could use you in the Alien Affairs section," remarked Nighthawk.
"The Oligarchy doesn't hire non-humans, or hadn't you noticed?" said Blue Eyes.
"They used to," said Nighthawk.
"Not since the Domarian Rebellion," answered the dragon, as Kinoshita put his heel atop Nighthawk's toe and leaned on it.
All right, it happened in the past hundred years and I'm supposed to know about it. Now leave my toes alone.
"I used to work for them," volunteered Nicholas. He grimaced. "Until we had a slight disagreement about taxes."
"Oh?"
Suddenly Nicholas grinned. "They said taxes were mandatory, and I said they were voluntary. So I came out to the Frontier where there aren't any taxes at all."
"So let's all sit down and get to know one another," said Blue Eyes, finally lowering his bulk onto the chair Nicholas had bought. He signaled to the bartender, who brought over a bottle and three glasses.
"Sounds good to me," said Nighthawk, as he and Kinoshita sat down across from him.
"Try to get him mad," said Nicholas, picking up a chair from a nearby table and carrying it over.
"Why?" asked Nighthawk, curious.
"Because when he gets mad, he curses in his native language. The rest of the time he speaks Terran, just to annoy me."
"Be careful, my friend," said the dragon. "If you annoy me enough, I'll start speaking in dead tongues like English or Swahili and really drive you crazy."
"Can you really speak dead human languages?" asked Nighthawk.
"Of course," answered Blue Eyes. "Languages are easy. Giving up drugs is hard."
Nighthawk saw what he hoped was a small opening, and plunged in. "How about Arabic?"
"Arabic's a very broad word, Mr . . . ah . . . you know, I never did catch your name."
"Nighthawk. Jefferson Nighthawk. And this is Ito Kinoshita."
"You know, I used to hear stories of a Jefferson Nighthawk," said the dragon. "He had quite a reputation."
"I've heard 'em too. But that Nighthawk lived more than a century ago."
"So they say," replied Blue Eyes. "Where were we?"
"We were talking about Arabic."
"And I was about to explain that what we know as Arabic probably covers a couple of hundred dialects. To say that two people are similar because they both speak Arabic is like saying that the Raphinites and the Yorbans are the same simply because they both breath chlorine."
"Point noted."
"Still, I'm curious to know why you were interested in Arabic."
"Simple enough," said Nighthawk, finally pouring himself a glass of blue-tinted whiskey and taking a swallow. "Ibn ben Khalid is an Arabic name. If he has to issue orders and he's not sure that his communication system is secure, he can do it in an Arab dialect, and probably no one monitoring him would have any idea what he's saying."
"An intriguing thought," admitted Blue Eyes. "But I suspect Ibn ben Khalid is as ignorant of dead languages—including that one—as you yourself are."
"Still, it's an interesting idea," interjected Nicholas. "Maybe I'll suggest it to him the next time I see him."
Nighthawk wanted to ask, Do you see him often?, but fought back the urge.
"Lots of death tonight," remarked Blue Eyes. "Dead languages, dead gunfighters."
"Lot of death on the Frontier," responded Nighthawk.
"Maybe a little less than there used to be."
"Why should you think so?" asked Nighthawk.
"You brought up the reason—Ibn ben Khalid."
Speak up now, Ito, or you're going to find out what getting your toes ground under someone's heel really feels like.
"I hear he's nothing more than a kidnapper," said Kinoshita, as if he had somehow heard Nighthawk's thoughts.
"Actually, he's a lot more than a kidnapper," answered Blue Eyes. "I assume you're referring to Cassius Hill's daughter."
"They say he's holding her for ransom," continued Kinoshita. "That sure sounds like a common kidnapper to me."
"There's nothing common about him," said the dragon.
"I say he's a kidnapper and a murderer!" shouted Kinoshita, wondering just how far he could go before someone simply pulled a weapon and shot him.
"True," said Nighthawk. "But those aren't necessarily bad things to be when you're fighting for a just cause."
"When is murder ever good?" demanded Kinoshita.
"When your enemy is even worse," answered Nighthawk. "Maybe it's not pretty, but you do what you have to do."
"Let's not lose our tempers," said the dragon. "Ibn ben Khalid has never wronged anyone at this table."
"Damned right," chimed in Nighthawk. "And if he was here right now, I'd tell him so." Damn! I wish I could look at some other faces in here. Are we loud enough, Melisande? Are they reacting?
"In fact," added Blue Eyes, "I can tell you all a story about Ibn ben Khalid to prove my point."
"Spare us another of your meandering stories," said Nicholas.
"Yeah," added Kinoshita. "I don't need to hear you apologize for him."
"As you wish," said the dragon with a shrug that made every scale on his body shimmer.
Thanks a lot, pal. Don't overplay your goddamned role, okay? We need all the information we can get.
"So, Mr. Nighthawk, where do you come from and what do you do?"
"I come from out there," answered Nighthawk, waving his hand carelessly in a motion that encompassed roughly half the galaxy. "And I'm a troubleshooter."
"Trouble walks in and you shoot it?" asked Blue Eyes with another reptilian grin.
"That's perhaps a bit too literal," said Nighthawk. "I fix problems."
"What kind of problems?"
"What kind have you got?"
Blue Eyes sighed deeply. "It's been a long time since I've been with a lady dragon."
Nighthawk chuckled. "That kind isn't exactly in my line."
"I had a feeling it wasn't," replied Blue Eyes ruefully. He turned to Nicholas, who was pouring himself another drink. "Hey, go easy on that stuff. You've had half a bottle already."
Nicholas got up and staggered off without a word. Then, just in case his indignation had been missed or misinterpreted, he walked back, picked up his chair, tried to remember where he'd gotten it from, suddenly looked very confused, and sat down on it again.
"Did you have a nice trip?" asked Blue Eyes.
"Not bad, not bad," replied Nicholas. Suddenly he leaned forward until his head was on the table, and began snoring.
"I guess that's the end of today's language lesson," said Blue Eyes. Suddenly he uttered a totally incomprehensible sentence in his native tongue. "Just so you can tell him what he missed." He turned to Kinoshita. "I haven't yet asked you what you do, Mr. Kinoshita?"
Kinoshita jerked a thumb in Nighthawk's direction. "I'm with him," he said. "Until he decides to get us both killed by Ibn ben Khalid."
"I'm not going up against him," said Nighthawk. "Hell, I'm on his side."
"That's what I meant," said Kinoshita. "You can't trust a killer."
"I'd watch what I said about him if I were you," said Nighthawk ominously.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Blue Eyes, rising to his feet, "I will not permit any altercations in this establishment."
Kinoshita made a vague gesture with his hand which could have meant anything from defiance to acquiescence, then also stood up.
"Okay, I know when I'm not wanted. I'm out of here." He turned and started walking to the door.
"Has he got a place to sleep?" asked Blue Eyes.
"That's not your problem," replied Nighthawk.
"You're absolutely right." He sat down again, staring at Nighthawk through his pale blue eyes. "I like you, Mr. Nighthawk. Tell me some more about yourself."
"There's not much to tell."
"Oh, I think there is. There's something about the way you carry yourself, something about the way you choose your words . . . something dangerous. Forgive an indelicate question, but how many men have you killed?"
"Forgive an indelicate answer, but go fuck yourself."
"I can, you know," answered Blue Eyes. "That's why I haven't spent my savings on a lady dragon."
"I don't want to destroy your self-confidence, but whether you can actually fuck yourself or not is a matter of complete indifference to me."
The dragon hooted his laughter again. He made a brief signal with his hand, and a moment later the bartender brought over a spherical bottle and a tall, thin glass. Blue Eyes opened the bottle, filled the glass halfway, then reached for the whiskey and filled it to the top. It began smoking and sizzling.
"I thought you didn't drink with the customers," noted Nighthawk.
"You were a customer when I said that. Now you're a friend."
"What is that stuff?"
"I suppose it really needs a name, doesn't it?" said Blue Eyes thoughtfully. "I first encountered it in the Deneb system. A mixture of Bilotei rum—it isn't really rum at all, but that's what they call it—and pure Sirian whiskey. Wonderful stuff." He took a sip. As he did so his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, but Nighthawk couldn't tell if that was a reaction to the concoction or an inadvertent physical reaction caused by swallowing. "I think we'll name it after you, Mr. Nighthawk."
"A Nighthawk?"
"A Widowmaker."
"The Widowmaker died a century ago."
"All the more reason to find ways to keep his memory alive." He took another sip. "Though of course there are more meaningful ways."
"Oh?"
"That is, if your skills lie in the same direction."
"It's possible."
"How long will you be on Sylene, Mr. Nighthawk?"
Nighthawk shrugged. "How long do you want me to be here?"
"Another day, perhaps two, while I check you out."
"You won't be able to."
"Why not, pray tell?"
"I took this name less than a year ago. At the same time, I had laser surgery on my retinas and I had fingerprint grafts. I'm not on file anywhere, not with the Oligarchy, not with anyone else."
"A man who's not on file with the Oligarchy?" repeated the dragon. He threw back his head and hooted.
"What's so funny?"
He hooted once more, then finally managed to control himself. "What could possibly say more about your skills than that?"