Saya and the Dragon Chapter 193: Licensed Once Again

They threw out like a fishwife’s bastard baby.

No warning. No polite “Sorry, miss, but…” Just two thick-ard bouncers in oil-stained tunics grabbing by the wrists and armpits like a sack of turnips, hauling through the tavern like a sack of louder, sassier turnips, and flinging straight into the gutter out front. My heels caught air. My ass caught gravel.

I hit the street with a wet splat and a shriek that made a passing mule bolt sideways. A drunk cheer went up from inside.

"Only licensed whores!" the barkeep roared from the doorway. "Not street trash with a smile and a rash!"

“I’ll license your mother, you limp-dicked fungus-sucker!” I shouted back, brushing mud off my thigh. “I’ve had handjobs more professional than this establishnt!”

The door slamd.

I sat there, in the gutter, skirt up to my hips, one sandal half-off, hair full of sawdust and soone else’s lentils, absolutely livid. Not even for flashing a tit. Not this ti. Just existing. I only sat on the bard’s lap. Maybe ground a bit. Smiled. Whispered sothing about moonlight and vigorous saddlework. All very tasteful.

Apparently, tasteful isn’t enough when you’ve got temple brandings and no brothel contract. Gods forbid a free harlot dares to flirt with coin in her eye. I’m not even contagious. Not anymore.

A kid walking past stared. I stared back. He dropped his at skewer. I picked it up and bit it.

“S’cold,” I muttered. “And I’m still prettier than your mother.”

The Dragon was going to love this. Another tavern blacklisted. Another town with my na on a do-not-serve list. Another bruise forming on my ass.

And I hadn’t even gotten to the good part of the scam yet.

“Licensed whores,” I snorted, spitting a chunk of gristle into the gutter. “What’s next? Union dues? Performance reviews? A custor satisfaction seal on my left tit?”

I stood up, straightened my hem, twisted my braid over one shoulder like a whip, and flipped both middle fingers at the sign above the door.

Then I strutted down the street barefoot, furious, glittering with indignation and gutter water, and absolutely certain I’d rob that place blind before sunrise.

Licensed this, fuckers.

“Na?” the clerk asked without looking up. His quill was already moving.

I stared at the dusty tiles. My toes wiggled. "Saya," I mumbled.

"Full na."

I glanced up. The clerk looked like a raisin had mated with a bottle of vinegar. "Just Saya."

He sighed like I was already ruining his week. “Origin?”

I hesitated. “Seebulba. Probably.” Then, to fill the silence, “Port district. Canal side. Possibly born in a laundry basket.”

“Race?”

“Human adjacent.” He didn’t blink. “Fine. Human.”

“Forr profession?”

I chewed my lip. “...unlicensed.” Then, more helpfully: “Freelance. It’s the sa thing.”

He gave a look. Not quite pity. Not quite contempt. Just the tired disdain of soone who’s stamped too many lives into boxes.

“Do you possess any temple certifications?”

I paused. “No. I left the Temple of the Bleeding Heart.”

“Left?”

“They asked to. With ropes. And a horse.”

Another sigh. Quill scratching.

"Specializations?" he asked. Still not looking at .

I glanced at the faded poster behind him: Licensed Sex Professionals May Register Specialty Services for Premium Tax Breaks.

“Uh… oral. Flexibility. Roleplay. Knife play. Emotional devastation. Foot stuff. So clients cry.” I shifted. “Do I list those?”

He finally looked up.

“Basic,” he muttered, and checked a box.

“Basic?” I hissed. “I once sucked a ballad out of a bard!”

He ignored that. “Any surviving relatives?”

I blinked. “Emotionally or legally?”

He didn’t clarify.

“None that would claim ,” I offered.

He nodded. “Preferred districts?”

“Anywhere with soft beds and low morals.”

"That’s not a district."

"It should be."

He finally handed the slate to sign. I scrawled a backwards S and two swirls. He stared at it like it gave him hemorrhoids.

“That your signature?”

“It’s interpretive,” I said sweetly. “Also I’m semi-literate.”

He filed the form in the Done pile. I watched it disappear like the last of my dignity.

"Next," he called.

I turned and walked out slowly, barefoot on hot stones, now officially a whore.

Again.

Gods bless bureaucracy.

I strutted into camp like a damn duchess. Breezy, barefoot, sun-kissed, waving the parchnt like it was a royal decree and not a crumpled, smudged form that slled faintly of vinegar and regret.

The Dragon was lounging by the fire, polishing one of his hoard coins with a claw like he was already bored with the world. He barely glanced up.

“Well?” I announced.

“Well what.”

I shoved the license under his snout. “I’m legal. Certified. Registered. Sanctioned by the blessed bureaucratic arsehole gods themselves.”

He blinked. Took it delicately between two claws, like it might be contagious. Squinted.

“Iolika,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And adjacent trade colonies.”

“Yes?”

He looked over the top of the parchnt at . “That’s it.”

I blinked. “What do you an, that’s it?”

“It’s not a regional guild license. It’s local. This only applies within Iolika city limits. And maybe the port hamlets if the clerks are drunk.”

I snatched it back. Read it. Slowly.

Tiny letters. Valid within city bounds of Iolika and recognized trade colonies of the Lower Coast Confederation. Non-transferrable.

“Those bastards,” I hissed. “They charged three full silver livers!”

“I warned you,” the Dragon said, already reclining again. “You didn’t listen.”

“I thought I was getting the deluxe package! The one with regional immunity and cross-border privileges!”

He shrugged. “You got the tourist permit. For seasonal suckage.”

I stared at the license. My proud parchnt. My stamped symbol of legitimacy.

"Three livers," I whispered.

He plucked up a silver coin, held it to the light. “Still cheaper than your last legal mistake.”

“Oh shut up.”

I crumpled the license into a ball, shoved it into my cleavage, and collapsed onto my bedroll.

Legal. For one city. And only if I stayed inside the gate after sunset.

I crumpled the license into a ball, shoved it into my cleavage, and collapsed onto my bedroll.

Legal. For one city. And only if I stayed inside the gate after sunset.

The Dragon stared at over the edge of his tea bowl, one scaled brow cocked so high it nearly detached.

“Why did you even need a license?” he asked, voice half gravel, half judgnt.

I shrugged. “Tired of getting tossed out of taverns arse-first before I even finish my drink.”

He snorted. “You never finish your drink.”

“Still,” I said, flopping onto a rock, waving the crumpled parchnt like a victory flag. “Legal now. Certified. Market-standard harlotry with state seal and everything. I’m a woman of status.”

He squinted. “Your license is valid in Iolika and maybe two goat ports.”

“Still counts.”

He sipped his tea, slow and unimpressed. “But… why whorecraft in the first place? I thought we were doing scams.”

I grinned. “We are. That’s the main gig.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“This,” I said, jabbing at the air with my license, “is the side hustle.”

He groaned.

“Pays for wine. Gathers intel. No one spills secrets faster than a man with his pants around his ankles and a mouth on his chest.”

The Dragon blinked. “That’s not how human anatomy—”

“You’d be surprised,” I cut in. “You want to know where the baron keeps his gold? Talk to the baron’s scribe. Or his mistress. Or the tavern boy he pays for foot stuff on Wednesdays.”

He set his bowl down. “So what you’re saying is, we are still scamming—just through genitals now.”

“Exactly!” I bead. “Multi-channel revenue stream. Diversification. Asset deploynt. Strategic penetration.”

He groaned louder. “You’ve been listening to that rchant from Delvida again.”

“Only when he moans my na.”

Silence stretched.

Finally, the Dragon sighed. “Fine. Just don’t get us arrested. Again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, tucking the license between my breasts. “I’m legal now.”

He gave a long look.

“…That’s what I’m afraid of.”