Novice Dragoneer

12

With the story of her courier run told and retold back in the Dancers’ Quarter (once to Ottavia in the common room, again to the dancers settling down around Preen’s tea), she was able to thank Vii in proper form. She handed her a bundle with a tenweight of swirl from Sammerdam itself. Vii looked at it like she might a paper bag of fairy dust and gold nuggets.

Vii sniffed it and sighed. “Ground and seasoned and everything. Did your man say where he bought it?” Ileth shrugged.

That aroused the troupe’s curiosity, so she made some after a search for some milk they could steam and honey they could add. “You can do it with water and add a little butter, but milk is the best,” Vii explained. They passed it around.

“At home we’d stir it with a sprig of sweetmint,” Vii said. Ileth had no idea what sweetmint was but nodded along with the rest until her turn to try it came. It was warm and rich and satisfying and she felt almost immediately restored.

“It’s like witchcraft!” she squeaked.

“I know,” Vii said. “I feel like I should brew it in a cauldron. Some of the Names show off by offering it to guests instead of tea.”

“Take it slow,” Santeel said. “It grows on you like ardent spirits.” She was fuming at Vii being in her element, explaining the combination of flavors and ingredients and the spices you could add. Some people liked it peppery, others added mint or cinnamon, and there was even a delicate, hard-to-obtain sort of brown bean pod . . .

“Speaking of which, what happened to Ileth’s lifewater?” Preen asked.

“Ottavia put it up after I drank mine,” Santeel said. “When no one could find you we thought—we thought the worst. The flight cave men figured it out eventually.”

Ileth yawned. “If I have it, I will be out like a plunged torch. I feel like I’ve been gone a week.”

“If only,” Santeel muttered. “I’ll get you your drink.”

Ileth looked longingly at her bed, four curtains down. “I should eat, but I’m too tired.”

“Sorry, some dirt must have fallen into it while it was on the shelf,” Santeel said, handing her the drink.

“‘Though the Serpentine crumble, our dragons won’t fail,’” Vii quoted, to general acclaim, casting a look at Santeel.

Ileth tossed it back in the manner of the sailors she’d seen at the end of a hard day on the water. It burned on the way down, and it burned on the way back up when she started discreetly burping it. Perhaps it wasn’t settling down in a friendly fashion with the swirl.

She decided to let the swirl and lifewater fight it out without her. She staggered away from the swirl party, collapsed on her bed, and fell instantly to sleep.

There was little to do over the next few days but drill and rest. The weather closed in around them and they ate salted and dried food. The Serpentine slowed to a near stop like a hibernating bear while the snow flew.

Ileth was in the main room working on her flying rig, calling in Vii for advice when she was in difficulty, but mostly just listening to Zusya’s chatter about the coming Fast of Ashes. Over at the other end of the room, where Zusya was somewhat muffled by the cushions and carpets, Ottavia and Dax were talking music for choreography involving all eight dancers currently present. Shatha was working on a wig, using Dax as her model head, when Santeel crashed into the room like an escaping thief looking for a hiding spot.

“My father comes! Ileth, thank the gods you’re here.”

“What do I have to do with it?” Ileth said. How had Santeel found out about the letters? She’d worked on them in great secrecy and had snuck them out through Galia. Galia would be the last person to go to Santeel.

“Advise me! You are a runaway or something, right? Once you’re oathed into the Serpentine, can they pull you out?” Santeel asked.

“Where is he?” Ottavia said. “He can’t just storm in here; I don’t care if the whole Dun Troot household is marching across the Long Bridge.”

“He’s in the Visitor’s House. He’s found out I’m a dancer! He means to take me back home. Ileth, what should I do?”

Santeel, in her panic, didn’t seem to be wondering just how her father found out. Maybe she was so used to him discovering her secrets and stratagems she no longer asked why.

“Ask Master Caseen. I don’t know any-anything about legalities. Said the oath and that’s it. Same as you.”

“I shall speak to him,” Ottavia said. “I’ve had to explain dragon dancing to worried fathers before.”

“He doesn’t listen to women,” Santeel said.

“Perhaps if I spoke to him,” Dax said, adjusting the voluptuously curled wig Shatha was touching up. “Man to man.”

“If you don’t have a title to your name and ten thousand in property it won’t do any good,” Santeel said. “If a brass god came alive and climbed down off a temple monument and told him to sacrifice a chicken, he wouldn’t listen to it, either, just point out that gold is more valuable. Suppose he has Falth beat me? He traveled in winter, Ileth. Through the snow. On a road. My father doesn’t visit a decorative garden unless he can do it from his traveling barge.”

“He just needs to understand what we do,” Ottavia said. “Let me reason with him.”

“Reason? Litus of Hypatia himself couldn’t reason with him. He’s like a scale that will tip only if you put money or Names on it. He doesn’t care six figs’ pocket money for art. Unless it’s reading the prices paid at auction in the Quarterly Record.”

An idea came to life in Ileth’s head. It wasn’t on its feet yet, but it was sitting up in bed and calling for some porridge. She needed to occupy Santeel so she could think in quiet.

“Santeel, go put on your riding rig.” Ileth grabbed her hand and pulled Santeel toward her sleeping nook.

Ileth moved the quarter-trunk to the floor and opened the main trunk. There it was, beautifully cleaned and folded. Not a trace of spew.

“Why should I wear my riding gear?”

“Because you look st-stunning in it.”

“Stunning?” Santeel asked. One corner of her mouth turned up, the other down. “You think so? In truth?”

“Yes. Whoever d-d-designed it and fitted you out is a genius. You look like you could . . . command an army in it, leave off chasing around atop a dragon.”

Santeel was never so happy as when she was dressing, and the ritual took some of the fear out of her eyes. “Powder your hair. It looks fine with the black.” Ileth threw a scarf around her shoulders and handed Santeel her powdering mask.

Even Preen got into the spirit of the thing and worked laces and buckles. “Tight enough?”

The conelike powdering mask nodded from the fog of hair-powder.

“Let’s go,” Ileth said, after throwing on her overdress. Good, it was thoroughly pilled and wrinkled. The contrast would help.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to lie like a Galantine High Inquisitor has caught me at midnight under a blood moon bearing a black cat on my left shoulder, that’s what I’m going to do. Play along.”

It wasn’t the entire Dun Troot household, but it was the illustrious father in a heavily brocaded coat, in person, with two servants, one at the door holding an overcoat and the other holding a decanter on a silver tray; a clerk standing at a portable writing desk; an elegant powdered woman, with a female servant, who must have been Santeel’s mother (so alike in features that they might be mistaken for the same woman at two different ages); and Falth. Falth, despite standing nowhere near the fire and there being a winter chill in the still-warming Visitor’s House, wiped his forehead and looked as though he’d prefer to be clamped in the public stocks at the end of the sorry tomato harvest.

Various supernumeraries for the trip were still waiting outside the gate. Ileth had seen them standing about a great wagon-carriage with real glassed windows. It had sleigh fittings on the axles that could be swapped out for wheels—at the moment the sleigh tracks were on.

The Visitor’s House was a cottage with a large fireplace, currently lit. Selgernon, the Master of Apprentices, and the Charge of the Serpentine Deklamp himself were entertaining the guest. Quith had managed to free herself of her duties and was peeping in the window with another novice from the Manor.

Falth brought Santeel and Ileth in with the relief of a besieged garrison that’s just had reinforcements cut their way through to the gate. Santeel’s mother smiled at her daughter in dragonriding attire, but other than Falth the men ignored her.

“There’s no argument, sir, that you have the right to take your daughter away,” the Charge was saying. Ileth thought he looked even more owlish thanks to a scarf wrapped about his throat. The senior Dun Troot still looked now and then at the taller and more impressive Selgernon as though he required some convincing that this small, odd man was responsible for the whole of the Serpentine. Dun Troot kept glancing at Charge Deklamp’s plain black uniform and ordinary shoes. Ileth had to admit that he looked like the owner of an accounting house who wanted to give the impression that he wouldn’t overcharge you for his services to support his lifestyle. “It isn’t a question of rights, but it is a question of right, if you understand me. Santeel is a very promising young dragoneer, just elevated to apprentice.”

“The honorable young Dun Troot is the first young lady of her draft to make apprentice. It is an honor, sir,” the Master of Apprentices assured him. “What she does is not material. It’s an honor if she were bristling out the chimneys or pushing fish up from the Basin.” Ileth hadn’t come across the Master of Apprentices often. Like Charge Deklamp, he didn’t look fierce at all but had more elegance to him, like some of the tutors she’d seen giving lessons in the Great Hall.

Dun Troot, stiff as a statue, spoke: “Sir, I would understand my daughter being put to such work, even chimney sweeping, provided she was instructed and supervised so it could be accomplished safely and allowed to wear gloves to save her hands. Common labor is an exercise that benefits several virtues. No, sir, I am strongly in favor of that! Dancing for an audience is not work, sir. It is performance. Dun Troots entertain but they do not perform, sir! And dancing of all things—well, you are men who have been in the world, certainly. I say again, it is not fit, not for a maiden of her Name who hopes to enter into respectable marriage and social life. I could perhaps, perhaps, just see it were she singing to the dragons.”

“That’s just it,” the Charge said. “The dancing is for the dragons. It is in no way public. Nor is it entertainment. If anything, it is a ceremonial ritual of great antiquity, going back to the first days of human and dragon cooperation.”

All the while he spoke, the clerk took notes on the paper at his portable desk and then looked at the Serpentine officials expectantly.

Santeel’s mother moved up next to her husband. “Why can’t we just see them dance for these beasts and then make up our minds?” She spoke with the air of having said it several times before and in little doubt that she would have to say it again.

“Santeel,” the father said, turning to his daughter. “These men tell me you asked to be taken off the duties they’d assigned you and become a dancer?”

Santeel’s lips trembled. “Yes, Father.”

Her mother took a deep breath but said nothing. Falth wiped his forehead again.

“Excuse me, would you introduce me to your friend, and explain her presence in such an intimate family matter?”

“Father, this is Ileth. She is . . . she is my best friend here. She grew up in a lodge. She is also a dragon dancer, and an experienced dragonrider who has been charged with delivering the express to Asposis and Sammerdam. Ileth, I have the honor of introducing you to my father, of the Name Dun Troot.”

“Thank you, Santeel. I am happy to meet you, Ileth.” He didn’t particularly look it but gave her a nod of recognition, then turned to the company as if he expected acclaim.

“Well done, sir,” Falth said. “You display a true egalitarian manner.”

Ileth bobbed an obeisance.

“Santeel,” her mother said, “if you bring a friend in the hope of keeping us from speaking plainly to you in front of her, you are mistaken. Just because dancers exist and you have one as a friend does not make it right for you. I wish to know a great deal more.”

“This determination of yours,” her father said. “I am willing to indulge you in your service here up to a point, accept that there are certain dangers involved in flying about on dragons, and even acknowledge that you have met with more success here than I—than anyone expected.” He looked at the Masters and nodded. “All that is a credit to our Name. But if it became generally known that a Dun Troot was dancing . . . Well. There are lines one does not cross, marks that cannot be erased, debits to character that money cannot pay up. Santeel, if you can’t keep your Name clean, it’s up to your parents to do it for you, in the interest of your brothers and their futures as well as yours.”

Ileth burst into tears and quickly covered her face with her hands. Falth ran forward with yet another handkerchief.

“Young lady,” Santeel’s father said. “I was speaking of and to my daughter. There is no need for you to carry on so. I bear no reprimand for you and would not think of speaking for—” At this he stopped, perhaps remembering that his daughter had introduced Ileth as a girl from a lodge.

“Oh, S-S-Santeel, all y-your hopes. Gone!”

Santeel looked uncertain. “Ileth,” she said, patting her on the forearm. “Don’t cry. I cannot defy my parents. No matter—no matter the reason. The reason. The reason being—”

“He will be so dis-disappointed,” Ileth put in quickly.

“Who will be disappointed, girl?” Falth asked.

“Rapoto Vor Clay-Claymass,” Ileth cried. “I’m n-not s-supposed to say, but it was all arranged. The painter Heem Tyr—” For once the stutter worked in her favor; it made the tears sound more convincing.

“Sir, shall I assume she is talking about—” the clerk began.

“Would those be the Jotun Vor Claymasses?” Santeel’s father asked the Masters.

“One of my apprentices is Rapoto Vor Claymass,” Selgernon said, after a nod from the Charge. “Yes, he is of that renowned Name and line. I have seen him walking about with your daughter a little. In daylight, to be sure.”

“He’s one of our better young men,” the Charge said. “I expect him to remain here as long as we are fortunate enough to have him.”

Selgernon nodded. “He’s working in the Masters’ Hall. Page duty, keeps track of work schedules, that sort of thing.”

“What did she say about the painter?” Dun Troot said. “She did mention Heem Tyr?”

The clerk nodded.

“I believe his paintings sell at fabulous prices,” Dun Troot said, displeasure leaving his face as though rinsed away.

The Charge cleared his throat. “Yes, Heem Tyr was here a few years back to paint one of our dragons. We’ve usually no objection to visitors. We have experts of various kinds visit now and again. There’s an architect here at the moment, as a matter of fact. But Heem Tyr spent a season here. He found the dancers fascinating.”

“I’m sure he did,” Santeel’s mother said, arching an eyebrow. “I met him—years ago, when he had his old rooftop studio.”

“You never told me this,” Santeel’s father said.

“If I listed everyone I’d met in Zland before we courted I should have to have the pages bound as a book, husband. The society there is quite lively.”

“I understand he did several studies of our dancers,” the Charge continued. “I think we have a sketch or two still in the Serpentine. I should have to ask the Charge of the Dragon Dancers. He spoke of coming to do more, but I never heard anything definite. One of our dancers, lovely young girl, ended up engaged to him. She left us before this last solstice.”

“Well, girl,” Dun Troot said, glowering.

Ileth feigned terror and pursed her mouth tightly.

“You aren’t in any jeopardy, young woman,” the Charge said. “You are not giving evidence to a jury. This is simply a misunderstanding, not an inquisition.”

“This was all to be a secret,” Ileth cried. She fell to her knees and clutched at Santeel’s riding skirt, sobbing into it. (It still did smell a bit like sick, up close.) “Rapoto spoke of g-g-getting your picture done alongside his. It was all arranged. And a study of you dancing. He wanted to know if we would write Peak in Zland for him, so that she might get a price for the commission. I’m sorry, Santeel. I’m so sorry. It was to be kept secret. This will ruin everything.”

Santeel managed to look confused, and a little stunned. She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. She patted Ileth on the head, then squeezed her shoulder.

“Oh, come now, girl,” the Master of Apprentices said. “Don’t carry on so. This is easily remedied. There is no injury here.”

Dun Troot paced the length of the room and back, muttering the name Heem Tyr a few times with arms clasped behind him, chin down in thought. He halted, as though an idea had come to him.

“Perhaps, before we make a final judgment, we should see your dancers perform,” Dun Troot said to the Charge. “One should examine all pertinent evidence before making up one’s mind.”

Santeel’s mother sighed quietly.

“Excellent idea, sir,” Falth said. “I’m sure Santeel would not be a member of the company if they were doing anything immoral. She was raised better than that.” Falth added emphasis and distinction to each word of the last as he looked at Santeel.

“Get up, girl. Stop carrying on,” Dun Troot said to Ileth, who was still clinging to Santeel’s skirt as though it were the only thing between her and a headsman’s block.

Ileth shot to her feet at the order as though on springs. “Then Santeel’s hopes are safe?” she asked, covering her stutter with sniffles.

“I—well, let us leave the matter as suspended for now, awaiting reevaluation as necessary,” Dun Troot said. “All shall remain as though we never spoke of her leaving. This is a social call, to drive away the winter doldrums, and see how our daughter is progressing among her new friends.”

“Thank you, Father,” Santeel said. Her father gave her an encouraging smile. There was a gentleness to his eyes when he looked at his daughter. Ileth couldn’t help but feel an empty ache in her chest. Lucky Santeel!

Santeel’s face worked, and for a moment Ileth feared she was going to confess. Instead she turned.

“Ileth, you are my best friend,” she sobbed, clutching at her and burying her face in Ileth’s shoulder. “You are!”

“Didn’t she just say that?” Dun Troot said, nonplussed.

The clerk checked his notes. “Yes, sir.”

“Girls. Come, my wife,” he said, extending his hands to his wife and daughter. “We should spend some time with our dear Santeel. I believe she is taller.” He turned to the Charge as the servant helped him on with his coat. “Perhaps, Heem Deklamp, you might indulge us with a brief tour, as long as we are visiting.”

“With pride and pleasure, sir. You might be interested to know that Santeel lives not far from the dragons. Anyone wishing to threaten the safety of your daughter will have to go through them first,” he said as they walked out the door. “As it is a quarter exclusively composed of young ladies, even I must make a formal request before entry, so we can’t visit until I get her Charge’s approval. But I’m sure there are other points of interest and sights you would find as more than compensating your journey.”

“Like that lighthouse! I saw it once, touring in my youth before I was married, and always wished a closer look. Come along, Santeel,” her father ordered. Santeel hurried through the door the servant held open. Her father and the Charge exited, the Charge already pointing out landmarks.

The Lady of the Name Dun Troot looked Ileth up and down and slowly, then silently applauded, if such subtle motions could be called applause.

Ileth grabbed each side of her dress and bobbed an obeisance in return.

“I am glad Santeel has found such a reliable and, well, resourceful friend here,” Santeel’s mother said.

“I should hope if she ever needs someone to stand by her, she will find Santeel and the rest of us equally resolute,” Falth said, exchanging a glance with his mistress.

Ileth gave a deep obeisance, as though just finishing a dance to general acclaim. Though it took no small effort to keep the smile off her face.