by E. E. Knight
She wore a silver sash and matching pauldron, but no sword, being in the Serpentine on ordinary business, and had an old, hard look about her, everything tarnished and worn down like a weather-beaten bronze statue. Her skin was red with wind chafe.
Scars on the dragoneer’s face made Ileth’s little rend seem like the nothing it was, with damaged and repaired skin drawing her left cheek tight that gave her sort of a smirk.
“Who are you?” she asked sharply, looking from her face to novice pin and back again.
Ileth bobbed. “Ileth, app-apprentice and dancer, s-sira.”
“Where’s your sash? Not hiding a pregnancy, I hope?”
“Sira?” was all Ileth could manage.
“Don’t look shocked. You wouldn’t be the first. Seeing you coming out of the physiker’s with dress loose as a sheetcut sail.”
“She was being treated for a gash above her eye, Garella,” the doctor said from the door.
So this was Garella! There was only one female full dragoneer in the Serpentine entire. Ileth, somehow, had never encountered her or her dragon. They were posted somewhere south. The Serpentine seemed to be full of new faces lately: the tanned, white-haired dragoneer in the beer garden, and now Garella. She wondered what was going on.
“Ain’t you proud of your sash?”
Ileth fought her way through an explanation that she’d just been promoted and hadn’t acquired hers yet.
Garella finally noticed the wound above Ileth’s eye. “I remember your name now. Dueling again?”
“Garella, I received your note,” the physiker said. “Let’s have a look at your back.”
“Needs more than a look. Jab your knee in hard if you must. And don’t kiss me off with a draught, drugs have never fixed mlumm.”
She watched Garella stump into the office, wondering if she was looking at her own future.
Breakfast had passed in the Serpentine and the apprentices, novices in their new clothes and shorn hair, and the exalted wingmen were filtering in and out of the Great Hall. She circumnavigated the little clusters of the Academy and returned the silver pinch-pins to Joai. Joai was happy to get her pins back and pronounced her scar healthy, silver once again proving its sovereignty in keeping corruption out of a wound, and had Ileth breakfast on oat porridge, cold sausage, and yesterday’s bread toasted over flame and smeared thickly with butter. Joai groaned a little as she picked up a tray of dirty dishes and Ileth jumped up and took it herself. Ileth asked if she had any white cloth about, even an old table covering or curtain would do. Joai chuckled.
“So you’re too thin to come up with the price of cloth? Poor thing!”
“What’ll happen to—happen to me if I can’t come up with a sash?”
“You know this place by now, girl. Testing you all the time, even if the tests aren’t proper Academy style with you standing in front of Masters reciting poetry in Hypatian or whatever they do at those gentlemen’s schools.”
“It’s not a fair test. Were I rich, I could just go into Vyenn and have one made.”
“And does that make them clever? Or tough? You learn a lot more climbing a mountain than you do standing atop one, girl.”
Ileth chewed on a sausage and thought about that. Joai was right.
“There’s tests for that lot too. Don’t forget, you probably thought nothing of gutting fish all day. Some of these Toppy-Nameseys, why, they’d sooner take a slap than do manual labor.”
Ileth remembered Santeel working in the chicken pens, cursing quietly to herself as she tried to get her boots clean again.
“Doesn’t help me get a sash.”
“I’d give you mine, but it went years back. Local boy from Vyenn. Thickest hair I’ve ever seen and brown eyes like a puppy dog. Poor local boy mixed in with all these rich swells, well . . .” She trailed off as she wandered through her memories. “Can’t say if it was my soft woman’s heart pulled at by those eyes or my republican politics, but it went to him despite me being so proud of it that it used to hang right there by the door in a glass case. Good glass, too, Elletian. Gave it to the Charge to keep his ribbon and star as it had no further use.”
“Did he make wingman?” Ileth asked.
“Oh, yes. Killed over the Scab a couple years back and his dragon, Serenene, she was wounded and quit on us. Wasn’t much of a wound, I hear, but quit on us all the same. I suppose a Galantine agent worked on her in all the confusion of the war.”
Ileth must have had a question in her eyes, and Joai answered it.
“There’s more than one way to win a war, flower. Which do you suppose is easier, killing a raging dragon, mad with fighting blood, or sneaking in and convincing it that it’s throwing away its one precious life in this world in a human war that won’t even be in a nation’s memory in five hundred years?” She mocked a whisper: “Where are you going to be in five hundred years, great dragon? Scale on some fortress roof and bones on a mantelpiece, or napping in the mountain sun with a belly full of elk?”
Spies and sausage and porridge. Ileth crunched into her buttered toast as Joai talked, and then when she swallowed, she asked: “How did a . . . did a G-Galantine g-get to a dragon?”
“It’s not like they come over in uniform, girl. You know the Vales, people show up from all points to start a new life. Easy to get an agent in. Sometimes they join up. We don’t get actual turncoats too often, that’s more of a thing you see in plays and novels, for all that that boy who used to sick up at the smell of dragons went for them. See, that’s the problem, all it takes is one act of conscience and you lose the turncoat and the agent who recruited him both. No, the agents, they more pick up information like and put in a nasty word here and there where it’ll be surest to lower everyone’s spirits. Of course for all I know Puppy- Dog Eyes was their agent. He would have been good at it. Maybe he was doing the whispering in Serenene’s ear and caught poetic justice on the crossbow bolts of his countrymen.”
“I could be an agent, then.”
“Well, you could be one; Caseen told me you spoke Galantine well enough, which is a strange knack for a girl who’s poor as a pile of raked leaves to have, but then it would be dumb of them to let you go off and spend a year or more in the Baronies, knowing you’d be watched after that because you might turncoat on us. Because I’m sure the Republic has an agent or two giving reports on what’s going on in the Serpentine.”
“What, the dragoneers?”
“Lots of aristocrats—even if we don’t call them that anymore—send their sproggies here. If someone wanted to put the king back on his throne, this’d be a smart place to start.”
Their talk turned to lighter subjects and Ileth helped her with the washing and brought in more firewood. Joai said that she’d be glad of a young body to help out around her kitchen, if ever she grew sick of the smell of dragons.
With a full belly she went in search of Sifler. She suspected he’d be at the gate, on the wall, or doing his studies in the Great Hall.
She tried the Great Hall first and was rewarded. There were six or seven tutors in, some with groups of about ten, others teaching a single pupil. Caseen used to tell her that the Academy was that in name only, but many of the families wanted their youths to continue their formal education even while they trained to be dragoneers. She’d overheard lessons in the social graces, music, singing, Galantine, and more artistic endeavors. Sometimes when she’d had time to eat dinner in the Great Hall, she’d seen an artist filling in a rough sketch on a canvas of, say, the fishing boats in Vyenn’s harbor from a paint palette, but then there were many in the Vales who drew or painted just for fun. Art gave you something to look at when the weather was awful.
Sifler was there, off duty as his Guard’s tunic was hung up on a wall hook near the bench where he sat with some novices. They were passing a book around; it appeared to be a history or a commentary, as Ileth overheard des
criptions of how many thousand light cavalry something called the “Ironriders” possessed, and Sifler interrupted to mention that cavalry weren’t of much use against a well-defended mountain pass.
She caught his eye and he excused himself.
“Ho! Ileth, we’re deep in Forder’s Influence of Dragon Power on History. Care to join?”
“You’re a tutor?”
“More of a minder. I make sure they’ve read the texts and so on for Jellisween. He does history, military organization and method, leadership. Between guard duty and helping him, I skim by without paying a tuition. He’s an old family friend to our Name. That helps.”
Having a Name meant even when coin was short, the rough edges of life were smooth and cushioned. Well, no helping it.
“I wanted . . . I wanted to ask about”—her discomfort with the subject and her stutter combined to render her wordless—“your offer.”
He led her away, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t look particularly embarrassed. If anything, he was eager to talk about it.
“My offer is this: I’ll help you with this report you have to write, phrase it properly and so on, show you a few formal composition traditions, whatever you need, and we’ll work on your handwriting. Turn it into something a lady can be proud of.”
Sifler glanced around and lowered his voice. “What I want in return is this: I’m utterly inexperienced with girls. Never mixed with them, don’t know the first thing about them, beyond, you know, all the, well, all the biological processes and such. I’ve never so much as held hands. Through you I could get the amorous experience I need so the others don’t chafe me up so much.”
There it was. “You w-want me to let you . . .”
“You! Heavens, no! Not for a fortune, never.”
Ileth was relieved, yet oddly put out by his alarm at the thought. Was her reputation that terrible?
“You see, Ileth, there’s this girl in town. Do you know Caribet’s?”
Confused, Ileth could only shake her head.
“It’s not on Broad Street. It’s not even on a street, it’s up an alley, he sells paper and ink, envelopes, stamps, books. He doesn’t buy books, though, the cheap bugger. I have several I’d like to sell.”
Ileth had missed it on her reconnaissance. “So this girl is . . . is—”
“His daughter. She’s quite pretty. I was thinking as she was about your age and class, except with the advantages of parents, you could advise me on how to attend her socially.”
“No scars and a perfect little nose, I’m sure,” Ileth said.
“Ah! Oh, you thought —”
“N-n-not exactly.”
“Oh, well, that is funny. No, never. You wouldn’t believe the blistering lecture we got when we came in as novices about keeping our hands and . . . our hands and . . . kisses off the ladies here.” His face had turned bright red, Ileth had never seen anything quite like it. “Even you dancers. You know, some of the boys in our draft joined partly because they heard there was a troupe of dancers permanently attached as entertainers. You know, they thought they were for the dragoneers. Like a . . . well, one of those houses with people going in and out at all hours. Didn’t know the dancers were strictly for the dragons. Some author of red-letter novels had been letting his imagination run away on him. I’ve never seen such disappointment.”
Ileth was used to the attitude by now. Women who danced in public were considered disreputable at best. Conversely, they had a certain contradictory glamour to them, perhaps partly because of their reputation. High-born young men liked to appear in public with a dancer on their arm and enjoy the swirl of scandal. When the young men were done with them, they’d move on to older, richer men who showed public proof of their virility by being associated with a dancer, or former dancer, and so on, until they wound up quietly keeping one of the old rakes company in his dotage. Not that that sort of thing went on in the Freesand. Old men showed their virility there by boating stripers.
“You mean to . . . to s-seduce her?”
“That’s putting it too crudely. No, just social congress. I’ve floundered. She’s wary of men from the Serpentine, I’m sure.”
“No doubt,” Ileth said.
“There’s a bit more social life for apprentices, and the Guard have dinners and memorials and dances, and there’ll be more should I make wingman. I should like to have someone I can partner with at dances and festivals and dine respectably with in her home at the family table. You’re a girl; don’t they want invitations, especially with a man in uniform?”
Sifler was still much more boy than man, but Ileth nodded. “Some. Some,” she said.
“The gang in my bed-row, they’re mostly hot air, I think, when they describe their, well, exploits. I don’t mean to brag myself up or lie about her. But I think if I’m associated with a girl in town, if they see her with me at the Overwinter Ball and such, they’ll leave off.”
Once again, cutting down one problem seemed to make two rise up. How many comic stories were there about an inept man being aided in the wooing of a lady? Sifler must know that most of them ended with the would-be gallant disappointed. “Then I’ll . . . I’ll help you. But I must complete my—my commission first.”
“Agreed.”
“What must I do?” Ileth asked.
“Go and write down what you found as best as you can. Paper and ink not a problem?”
Ileth shook her head.
“You can give it to me anytime. Until the next week-over I’m on four-hour watches at the gate, past noon and the evening one that ends at midnight. If you’ve no objection to late work, we can look at it then.”
* * *
—
Ileth returned to the Guard quarters that very night, just not for the purpose she intended. She was shaken out of a deep sleep by Santeel, with a crowd behind her. Ileth startled. “What? Is it Falberrwrath again?”
“Just get dressed. Quietly.” Santeel had a lot of powder on her face and smudging at the eyes. Much more than she normally wore.
The troupe was dressed in ordinary clothes, all dark. Most had their hair wound up in cloth. All except Vii and Santeel, who were in dancing sheaths with cloaks thrown over them. Ileth put on her boots, broke the old lace and retied it. Ileth noticed that Vii also had made an effort to highlight her face with powder and smudge.
They allowed her a quick cup of tea to warm herself, as it was ready anyway. Ileth followed them out of the Dancers’ Quarter. Shatha grabbed Ottavia’s walking stick on the way out.
They threaded through the quiet Beehive, Santeel far ahead as scout, waving them forward.
“What’s this about?” Ileth, now fully awake, asked Vii.
“Counter-raid. Been planning it for a while.” Ileth choked back a laugh. “Counter-raid for what?”
“For that throng of wingmen and apprentices barging into the Quarter to run you across the bridge, of course. No parley, no formalities observed. They can’t just shove into the Quarter like that. Especially not Guards.”
“In uniform no less, the mutts,” Shatha said.
“If this is about me—”
“It’s about the sanctity of the Quarter, Ileth,” Fyth said.
“Santeel is Chief of Staff and planned the whole thing under Shatha’s approval,” Vii said.
They crossed the Long Bridge in still air. It was a clear night. The lighthouse atop the Beehive littered the grounds with moonshine, strong enough to throw shadow. They moved cautiously past Mushroom Rock and left the road, moving along the interior shade of the walls, Santeel still ahead scouting.
Santeel ducked down.
“There’s the main guard door,” Shatha said.
Santeel returned. “Everything’s as usual. Just like the Guard at the gate. Officer of the watch, sentry above the side door.”
“Vor Claymass?”
“Where he’s supposed to be, of course,” Santeel said with a smile.
“Dancers!” Shatha said. “The plan?”
Everyone but Ileth recited: “Officer at his station. Sentry at the wall. Infiltrate. Chastise. Retreat.”
Shatha smiled at Santeel and pointed with Ottavia’s stick. “Your turn. It all depends on you now.”
Santeel removed a cut lemon from her sheath and took a deep breath. With a swift, savage motion she tilted her head back and squeezed lemon into each eye. Preen winced; Fyth hid her face.
Santeel dropped the lemon and used an oath that Ileth hadn’t heard since the Captain’s Lodge. Someone gasped. “Bitch who bore me, that stings,” Santeel said, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips.
After a moment she looked at them. Her eyes were already going red and tears streamed down her cheeks. She smelled a bit like lemon, but Santeel had a habit of rubbing cut lemons under her arms to freshen herself when she sweated, so that was nothing strange to those who knew her. “How am I?”
“Pathetically perfect,” Shatha said.
“Officer at his station,” Santeel said. She stood off, moved more into the open, and walked swiftly up the parade ground toward the Guards’ garrison door at the side entrance. Vii gave her a moment, then followed. Vii had worn her most daring sheath and her body moved provocatively in its confines.
“Rapoto! Rapoto!” Santeel sobbed.
The troupe snuck closer under the shadows of the wall.
Vor Claymass shot to his feet from the officer’s desk at the door. “Santeel!” He got his scabbard out from between his legs and ran to her, holding it clear.
“I have to talk to you,” Santeel bawled.
“Santeel, you mustn’t tell him,” Vii pleaded. Vii was good at drama.
“Leave off, Vii.”
“Gods, Santeel, whatever’s wrong?” Vor Claymass asked, taking her hand.
“I—” She looked up at the wall. The sentry was looking down at the action. Santeel pulled Vor Claymass away with the hand he’d put on hers. “I can only speak in private.” She glared at Vii and led him off toward the gardens. They were on the other side of the Serpentine Road and a longish walk.