by E. E. Knight
“What has happened?” Wistala asked.
Both jumped, for Wistala’s steps were light on the rag rugs Widow Lessup had made to save the hall floors from dragonclaw and tailscale.
“The moony girl’s got a thane-letter,” the older of the girls said. “The master insists on reading it before giving it to her.”
Lada exploded out of the library like Auron leaping up onto the egg shelf, and all three listeners instinctively flattened themselves against the wall to get out of her way.
“Beast!” she said to Wistala, clutching the open letter to her breast as she fled to her room.
Wistala went into the library, found Forstrel standing behind Rainfall in his chair.
“I think that last was intended for me, my dear,” Rainfall said.
Wistala had once seen Jessup turn his younger son over on his lap and strike him for starting a fire out of some scrap wood where the inn was being constructed, and couldn’t help but think Lada would benefit from a similar treatment, for she had no snout to tail-snap in Mother’s fashion.
Widow Lessup’s voice intruded through the door as she sent her girls off to work. Forstrel made himself look busy at the bookshelves.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” Widow Lessup asked, her dark eyes hard and angry.
“A little wine, thank you, ye’en,” Rainfall said.
“Perhaps the letter held an offer for her to return to Galahall, that we might have some peace?” Wistala said.
“A brief mention that she was often in his thoughts and that he yearned to see her again,” Rainfall said.
“He’s well consoled by his other wards,” Forstrel said.
“Rumormongering improves nothing, Yeo Lessup,” Rainfall said. “He’s still the thane, and I won’t have that kind of talk. Go save your mother a trip back upstairs, if you please.”
“Why doesn’t the thane just marry her?” Wistala asked after Forstrel left. “Wouldn’t that make his path to ownership that much shorter?”
“Ahh, but Hypatian tradition allows only one wife, so he must choose carefully. Poor Lada is small fry from our river. Hammar has cast his net far at sea looking for a greater catch.”
Wistala digested this. “Have these circumstances been explained to Lada?”
“She will not listen. She’s like a sleepwalker who will not awaken till she falls off a cliff. Let us survey the road and bridge. I won’t have Ragwrist hurling jests as he once did daggers about the state of the roads under my care.”
The dwarven couriers returned before Ragwrist arrived, and rather than another formal session in the reception hall, Rainfall invited them to a quiet dinner at the Green Dragon Inn.
While the dwarves saw to their mounts and packhorse in the barn, Rainfall and Jessup together hatched a plan to give the dwarves a fine tale to carry back to their delvings.
Rainfall and Jessup took her in the great common room of the inn, showed her the wide river-stone chimney dividing the kitchen and storerooms from the common room and two of the sleeping rooms upstairs. Rainfall told her what to do when he snapped his fingers once, and then the second time.
She smelled that one of Yari-Tab’s kittens had already installed itself as the inn feline. Ah, there it was, sleeping on the mantel of the smaller fireplace on the outer wall of the common room.
Wistala found the inn rough-hewn and bare compared with the careful workmanship of the interiors of Mossbell, but something about the thickness of the logs and stone-and-masonry walls Jessup had used suggested safety and comfort as much as the carven door-frames and window seats of Mossbell. She recognized a mug, a favorite of Rainfall’s, on a special shelf all its own behind the counter of the common room.
“The landlord’s mug, may it be refilled many times,” said Jessup, taking it down and pouring a sweet-smelling liquid from a tapped keg resting on one side of the bar.
“I see you’ve copied the old style,” Rainfall said, reclining on a lounge next to the big fireplace. A blanket covered his legs. “The first Hypatian posthouses were built much like this, when there were barbarians of doubtful behavior to consider.” He sampled the mead. “Delicious. My compliments to the innkeeper and Old Golpramp for his clover-honey.”
Jessup smiled at being called an innkeeper. He poured himself a pewter mug. “To better days between the Apple and the Whitewater, thanks to troll-killings and dragon hoards.”
Wistala felt she should point out that the coin from Tumbledown would be more appropriately called a “rat hoard,” but she let the hominids talk. Jessup’s family watched her from the doorway to the kitchen. They’d seen Wistala only at a distance until now and stood as still as the painted dragon on the wood panel leaning next to the door.
“Father, the dwarves come,” the youngest of Jessup’s boys shouted as he came in through the door.
“Very well, Wistala, up the chimney.”
Though it was wide, she had a little difficulty backing up it. Her tail end found purchase, and she braced herself with her legs.
“As you bid, we’ve returned with a response from the scroll-sorters,” Elgee said upon entering and after words of introduction. “And a whole host of seals and ribbons their baton contains. Caps are intact, you’ll see, Sir Elf.”
“Thank you. I’ve prepared a purse with the balance of your fee. Would you care for it now?”
“Only if you’ll deduct the cost of a pouring of this fine-smelling mead!”
Rainfall again: “That’s quite impossible, my good dwarf. I rounded up, and there are no pennies within.”
“Then the round and sup besides will be paid by our expense purse. A feast, good Innkeeper, and don’t skimp on the side dishes!”
Wistala shifted her weight in the chimney, wishing Rainfall would play his trick.
More drinking, lip-smacking, and beard-wiping followed. “This is one dragon I’ll be glad to see anytime I’m on the Old North Road,” Embee said.
“Would you like to hear the tale of how the inn came to be named?” Rainfall said.
“Stories always make the food come faster,” Elgee said.
“Then put that kindling on the fire, would you, Embee.”
Wistala saw a short-fingered hand appear, placing the splinters in a stack with plenty of air space between. “Shall I call for the innkeeper’s fire?” Embee asked.
“This inn has all the modern conveniences,” Rainfall said, and snapped his fingers.
Wistala let loose her foua on the stack of wood, which promptly burst into flame. She heard gasps of astonishment from the dwarves. Then she heard a sizzle like fresh meat thrown on a hot stove, and green smoke boiled up the chimney. Wistala hadn’t been expecting that, and as she held her breath, Rainfall snapped his fingers a second time.
She dropped down the chimney and jumped to avoid the small fire. She was a bit clumsy with her tail, knocking the burning wood to the side, but landed credibly.
The dwarves fell backwards off their hearthside bench and did amazing backrolls, coming up with hands at sheath hilt.
“What in the Lavadome?” Elgee sputtered. Embee moved to draw his weapon, but his uncle held his arm.
“Rah-ya,” Rainfall said. “I’m sorry, good dwarves, I couldn’t resist. Please, laugh with me at this little trick. This is the Green Dragon herself.”
“What, have you conjured her?” Embee said.
“Ach, she was hiding up the chimney, blockhead,” Elgee said. “Sorry for the violence of our reaction, sir. Robbers may be found round the keg-tap as well as on the road, and we’re accustomed to being always on our guard when outside the Delvings. Let me replace the spilled drinks.”
When everyone was settled, Wistala told her tale. It came haltingly at first; then the words flowed more smoothly. She found herself imitating the strange, loping, two-by-two run of the troll and mimicking its roars.
The dwarves’ eyes were white behind their masks, and they hardly looked away save to take another mouthful from their mugs until she was finished.
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“Well told, good drakka,” Rainfall said. “You have a talent for pleasing an audience.”
Wistala bowed, hoping the dwarves didn’t hear her prrum.
“Will she dine with us?” Elgee said.
“You’ll find your expense purse lighter than you might like when you pay the tally,” Rainfall warned. “I’ve been feeding her these eight months.”
“What’s the price on being able to say you dined with a dragon?” Elgee said.
“Though my grandfather said many’s the time he feared being dined on,” Embee added.
“Keep your—,” Elgee warned.
“Oh, I’m sure he meant it as a joke,” Wistala said. “You dwarves tweak your beards when you jest, and I saw Embee pull at his.”
“So we do,” Elgee said. “Mark! I look forward to telling this tale to my directing partner when I return to the Delvings. A courtly dragon!”
Wistala ate, even tasted a little of the honeymead on her tongue, but found it too sweet. But even a drakka’s appetite, somewhat guarded by Mother’s repeated warnings against gluttony, couldn’t compare to the amount of food the dwarves ate.
When farewells were said and the dwarves installed in their room upstairs, weighted by the vast meal, mead, and Rainfall’s coin purse, Rainfall sat beside the fire with the bit of craft from the Library at Thallia on his lap.
“Aren’t you curious to see this opened, Wistala?”
“Honestly, I am,” she admitted. The “baton” was made of black shining leather, stiffened in some manner, and capped at one end.
“Then open Heloise’s seal, and let us see their answer.”
The wax—it featured what looked like two sets of identical steps rising to a peak—yielded to Wistala’s sii-claw with no trouble at all. The seal held a leather thong closed over a tiny metal nub, which in turn secured the leather cap in place, as tight fitting as a hominid’s footwear covered the feet. Both a rattle and a rustle came from inside, as she turned the tube.
She looked within. Rolled paper, and something glinting. She extracted the thick paper.
“Fine cotton paper, Wistala,” Rainfall said. “I expect good news.”
“I can’t read it.”
“May I?” Rainfall asked.
“Of course.” Wistala handed it to him.
“Ah, it’s in the priestly tongue, the oldest script of Cloud-temple of Thellasa and therefore Hypat, and only used these days for ritual. I shall translate:
“Be it known within and without the . . . ahem . . . civilized land that Wistala of Hesstur, having been of service to scholarship and common enlightenment, is recorded among the ancient and exalted order of Librarians, Keepers, and Archivists; is entitled to call herself an Agent in and of the Librarians; is admitted to the commons of all Hypatian Libraries; and is presented with insignia of rank and station in the Hypatian Order, all of which are to be recognized and held for the remainder of her natural life.”
A thin hammered disk of gold had been set into wax and pressed hard into the paper. Wistala inspected the device, another triangular shape with a star at the top.
Rainfall smiled at her. “The old phraseology sounds a little ignorant these days. It was used before Hypatia knew of aught but barbarians beyond its borders. How do you like being an Agent-Librarian, Nuum Wistala?”
“Nuum? Oh, for an expression easier on dragon-tongues.”
Wistala sniffed the paper: ink and a dry sandlike smell were overlaid by the gold and the wax. “I can’t say yet. What must I do?”
“Avoid swaggering your entitlement about, unless you wish to be laughed at. Even a Surveyor-Mapper will receive more bows, for on his lines are fields and pastures divided. Should you want to take pupils, it is useful, I suppose. Now let us admire your badge of title.”
The badge was a triangular gemstone, about the size of Yari-Tab’s nose, set in silver and fitted on the top with an eyehook for a chain.
“Golden topaz,” Rainfall said. “It matches your eyes nicely. Symbolic of a clear head and clear vision, and enlightenment. The motto on the back reads lun-byedon, ‘light-giver,’ in the old priestly tongue.”
The polish of the stone made the baubles Father used to give Jizara and her seem like dull quartz. “I would like to wear it.”
“It would look well set into one of your scales, I suppose, and all elves would smile, for our victory garlands are of wound green and gold—but you shed them, don’t you? Chain about your neck? But you’ll outgrow anything we can find around here.”
“How do the others at the library wear them?” Wistala asked.
“Some fit them into their hair so they hang just above and between the eyes, an old tradition dating back to the priestly scroll-keepers. Or they will puncture the earlobe and dangle them there by a sort of hook.”
Wistala looked at her reflection in a polished piece of copper near the door. Hominids made a little ritual of gazing at themselves before stepping outside.
“Then I shall fix it in my fringe, at the fore, as I don’t have a hominid head with that grotesque plate of greasy skin above my eyes. You may have to help with your blacksmithing tools. A drakka’s fringe is nerveless, but tough.”
Jessup returned, and he and Rainfall pointed out different features of the public room to Wistala, and Rainfall suggested the addition of a notice-post outside the door. “I fear I’m becoming in danger of being entirely too pleased with myself,” Rainfall said. “Making Wistala a librarian and getting you the rank of postman.”
“Postman? I’m hardly able to read, sir,” Jessup said.
“Oh, I’ll improve you. Without being able to work my gardens, I need more mental diversions, and if I stay within my library all hours, I’ll be thought a hermit. A reliable post will bring visitors to the inn. But before making you postman, I must give Tala her oath of citizenship.”
Jessup dropped his mug, sending mead across the assembly. “A . . . a dragon. A citizen?”
“And why not?” Rainfall said, wiping away the stray mead on his hand with a small cloth he kept in his pocket. “There are precedents, albeit ancient ones. She can understand our laws and take the oath.”
Jessup chuckled. “The teeth will drop out of his skull.”
“But we must hurry. I can administer the citizenship oath, and you shall witness it, Jessup, and then we will have a bill of sale, and it will be done. What say you?”
“I fear.”
“What do you fear?” Wistala asked.
“The course of these events. I don’t want to be the one whose witness frustrated the thane.”
“He’ll count me as an enemy if he does anything to you and yours,” Wistala said coldly.
Rainfall turned. “I must ask you, Wistala, for something of an imposition.”
“Nothing would be too great to my savior and host,” Wistala said.
“I’ll adopt you as my daughter. That confers on you full citizenship after you reside in Hypatia for six years. A simple oath gives you citizenship for now.”
Wistala had been practicing the words daily.
“I’d hoped to hear the words in the Hypatian Hall at Quarryness, but Jessup’s Inn won’t be hurt for having one more story to tell about its sign.”
Jessup looked out the windows, as if fearing hostile eyes in the night.
Rainfall pointed to the floor before him. “It’s customary to touch the hem of the officiant’s robe of state before taking the oath, but I’m afraid this mead-spattered bit of blanket will have to do; it’s the words that matter in the end.”
Wistala laid her sii on his blanket.
“The oath-taker usually kneels before the officiant. But having four legs—”
Wistala folded her sii under her. In consequence her saa and tailvent were raised, but as they were facing in the direction of Galahall, it seemed befitting.
“Do you understand the difference between a truth and a lie, and the seriousness of an oath, Nuum Wistala?”
“I do,” Wistala said.
“Then take the oath.”
“I, Wistala, promise to take up the responsibilities of a Hypatian Citizen. I will obey the Hypatian laws, keep the Hypatian peace, and maintain the Hypatian lands and seas against all enemies. May my strength and honor sustain this oath and Hypatia’s glory from now until the end of days.”
“Rise, Citizen, and never kneel again,” Rainfall said.
“Walls fresh up and already hallowed,” Jessup said. “That reminds me: I should have Mod Feeney in to bless the post and lintels.”
“Jessup, I must beg for a delay in the rites. Wistala and I must go into Quarryness. Wake up Forstrel and tell him to put my saddle on Stog. Oh, and could I trouble you for a pennysworth for Tala?”
“Of course, sir, but she needs no pennies here. As long as I’ve got a bit of bone in back, her meals shall be free under this roof.”
“Not for food, Jessup. She must purchase Mossbell, and while I’d accept her loosest dragonscale, a land sale’s not legal unless it’s in Hypatian coin. And it’s just bad form for me to lend it to her.”
Stog could keep a punishing pace when he put his will into his hooves. Wistala loped along the road northward in the evening dark as best as she could, and finally begged him for a ride behind Rainfall’s special strapped saddle.
“Fine,” Stog said. “But sheathe your claws.”
Wistala climbed up, and Stog broke into his buck-trot again.
The night was foggy and turning cold, the moisture thick enough to collect at the branch-tips and drop with soft, wet taps into the fallen leaves. There would be a thick frost by morning, she expected.
“You dragons are supposed to be able to sing,” Stog said. “I’d like to hear a song of the merits of mules. What horse could carry this burden at this pace?”
“Is he complaining about the weight?” Rainfall asked. “My beast-tongue is not that of my forefathers—I’ve been too long in tamer lands.”
“He wants a song,” Wistala said.
“Perhaps it would help pass the time,” Rainfall said. “Beside, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing.”