Daughter of the Serpentine

by E. E. Knight

  He stepped lightly for such a broad man to the first shelf in the store, behind the paper counter his daughter had just vacated. “Have a brand-new one on that very subject, Commentary on the Late Galantine War by Heem Vollosh. It has a very good appendix with all the latest military terminology most lucidly explained. Six maps. Printed this very year, young lady, so it is absolutely up to date.”

  He showed her a rather plain-looking book. The title and author were handwritten on a plate pasted to the cover.

  “How much is it?”

  “It’s selling in Sammerdam for seventy guildmarks, but happily this copy was a printer’s proof, so I can let you have it for forty. It’s the cover, you see; the seventy-guildmark one has leather and titling.”

  Ileth blanched. A hand on a fishing boat up in Freesand might see forty guildmarks over a summer if he had a good captain and the fish were findable.

  “I haven’t—haven’t nearly so large a s-sum, sir.” It was the truth.

  Master Caribet sighed. “We can all sympathize. These are difficult times. I can let you read it here under my supervision, cost is two figs a book. Of course if you wish to borrow it to do so, I need a security the same as the purchase price, for obvious reasons . . .”

  “Ah. W-well, I haven’t time today. Perhaps another time.”

  The smile reduced a little. “Perhaps. I must warn you, if it sells I can do nothing for you.”

  Ileth thanked him, complimented him on his shop, and backed out the way she came in.

  She’d made it to Broad Street and turned back up toward the Serpentine, walking at a hurried pace so she’d still have part of her afternoon in the Serpentine to work on her commission before Ottavia returned. She stepped around a cobbler who had taken some re-soling work outside, tapping away at shoes, and who reminded her that her Galantine boots needed attention, when she heard a call from behind.

  “Miss, oh, miss!” a girl’s voice called.

  It was that Eswit. Ileth stopped and let her catch up, even moved toward her so the cobbler wouldn’t overhear, not that he seemed interested in the doings of young ladies. She had a delicate handkerchief tightly clenched in her left fist.

  Eswit was out of condition; the short run had her breathing heavily. The Captain would have put her to work carrying water while he timed her with a sandglass, had one of his girls gasped so after a short run.

  “You are returning to the Serpentine Academy, yes?” Her face was almost as red as Sifler’s.

  “Of course,” Ileth said.

  “Would you deliver a note for me?”

  “Possibly,” Ileth said. “I cannot say for certain until you tell me more.”

  “There’s a young man,” Eswit said. “He comes into our shop. I’ve talked with him twice and I’d very much like to get a note to him without the bother of the mail, or me being seen walking up to the fortress. Any of the girls in town who do that, well, there is speculation. Vyenn is full of peeping eyes and ready tongues.”

  She leaned over to examine the cobbler behind Ileth. Ileth warmed to her. Sifler would be delighted.

  “We can do each other a favor,” she continued. “There’s two figs in it for you, if you still want to look at that book.” She showed what she’d been concealing in her palm, wrapped up by the lace. It was a fig, all right.

  “Settled,” Ileth said.

  “On your oath you’ll deliver it to him and no other?”

  “Y-yes.” Another commission. She accepted a note, extracted from the hidden recesses of Eswit’s simple overdress. It was closed by a wax seal the size of a small plate; the girl had really let herself go with the sealing candle and ribbon, and the precious fig rode atop it like a dragoneer.

  Eswit straightened up, as though a burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

  “Whom shall I take it to?” Ileth asked, though she knew the answer.

  “His name is Rapoto Vor Claymass, from Jotun. I don’t suppose you know him?”

  “A . . . a little,” Ileth managed to say, through the sudden roar of surf in her ears. “How old are you, Eswit?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  Ileth thought fast. The surf in her ears faded. “Didn’t your father call you that?”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, I’m fifteen. So I’m old enough to be in society, and understand my heart when it guides me.”

  “What if I’m secretly in love with him t-too, Eswit? I wouldn’t be the only girl in the Serpentine who has her eye on him.”

  “You are at the Academy. Courtship is forbidden. Beyond that, you’ve given me your word you’ll deliver it and taken the fig.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Eswit. Of course I will deliver your note.”

  Ileth stopped in the Kingfisher’s, with its three white sashes in their different grades of quality, and found that her fig couldn’t purchase any of them. Even good wool socks were more. She tried to buy on credit, but the man in the wig who worked the front clucked his tongue. “I can tell a girl on an allowance from one without. The laces on your boots are tied where they’re broken and don’t even match. If times were good I’d risk it, but there’s a new batch of novices in and one’s bound to make apprentice by winter.”

  There was nothing to do but return to the Serpentine. She rolled the fig in her sock for safekeeping.

  She hurried up the long slope to the Serpentine, feeling weighted down by failure, and gave her password at the gate.

  As it turned out, she didn’t have to search for Vor Claymass at all. He was walking up and down before a line of male novices drawn up in the center of the plaza, a whistle dangling from his neck on a lanyard. They all wore heavy, wood-braced packs and were saying something about keeping close enough to touch during a night hike. Ileth recognized shelters and bracing poles, water bottles and camp cooking gear. Another apprentice, one from her group but not much known to her other than that she’d been told he was a soldier’s son who grew up in the Scab, checked their packs from behind.

  She had no idea of Vor Claymass’s duties as a wingman these days. She’d lost track of him while in Galantine lands, had never asked about him in the infrequent letters she sent.

  Ileth wondered if she could call him away from his group for a moment.

  More than one novice watched her approach with interest.

  Rapoto smiled a genuine enough smile. “Good to see you, Ileth. You’re looking well. Sorry about that fall with your eye. It looks much better.”

  “Thank you, Vor Claymass. May we s-speak privately, sir?”

  He stiffened a little at the formality of his well-known Name.

  “Take a break, cadets,” he told the novices. “Don’t take your packs off, I don’t want to waste what’s left of the day getting them straight again.”

  They sat down, a little wobbly under the burden of their load. The other apprentice took his place in front of them.

  Ileth walked a small distance away.

  “I have . . . I have a n-note for you.” She held it out.

  “I look forward to reading it, Ileth. Beautiful linen quality. I didn’t know I was this grade of paper in your esteem.” He smiled that diffident smile that used to make her innards do somersaults. He was a little taller, better looking if anything. He wore an air of command, and wore it well.

  “It’s not from m-me.”

  “Santeel knows good and well that tormenting me in this way—”

  “Not S . . . not Santeel either.”

  “Now I’m really curious. Do they have you running messages?”

  “Don’t you recognize the hand? It’s that girl from the bookstore in town, Eswit.”

  He looked as shocked as if she’d just slapped him. “How on earth . . . why didn’t she just bring it to the gate?”

  “She said Vyenn had too many peeping eyes and ready tongues.”


  The apprentice from the Scab, who must have had sharp ears, gave a loud chuckle.

  “Enough of that,” Vor Claymass said over his shoulder.

  “It’s not what you think. It’s not the other thing you would think, either. Go down about four thinks and you’ll be about right. In any case, I thank you, Ileth. I should get back to my duties, but if I may bother you a moment more: I’d like to hear of your experiences in Galantine lands when you have time. Perhaps when we are both off duty I can stand you a summer punch in Vyenn. Sharing a bowl would be a pleasant way to spend an off afternoon.”

  “It would feature in my . . . in my m-memoirs,” Ileth said, and instantly regretted it. One of the curses of a stutter was even when you tried to say something in jest, it never arrived quickly enough to make it seem like your wits were in order.

  Vor Claymass stiffened and put on that hard wingman-officer face. “If you’ll excuse me, apprentice.”

  “Rapoto, I’m sorry. It’s been a wing-over-and-tail-first of a day. I would like that punch, if it wouldn’t break that little Eswit’s heart. I did learn something of the Fencibles you might find useful if you ever fight them on dragonback. But I’m one servant with two masters these days, and neither’s happy with me.”

  For some reason, quoting Traskeer made her angry at herself.

  He turned up the corner of his mouth. “That’s the Ileth I used to know. Well, the offer stands.”

  She fled, note delivered, fig earned, commission fulfilled. She managed to chop this mythic head while still new, before it could grow any more. Or so she hoped.

  * * *

  —

  If she returned to the Dancers’ Quarter Ottavia would either give her an assignment or set them to drills and fatigues. Dinner was being set up in the Great Hall and the first diners were going in, including Sifler in his Guard uniform.

  She hurried to the archive, retrieved her commission report, and managed to get him as he filled a plate. Even though there were mutton chops, a favorite of the apprentices, Sifler had a simple meal of fish and piles of vegetables.

  Ileth didn’t want to wait in line, though her stomach growled in hunger as she smelled the food.

  She intercepted him. “Spare a moment?” she asked.

  “More than that, I don’t go on duty again until the eighth hour after noon.”

  She led him away from the noisier tables to a smaller one on the other side of the fireplace and speaking pulpit, where they sat together.

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Not just yet. I wanted to talk to you. Eat up, don’t m-m-mind me.”

  “Summer vegetables,” Sifler said, raising a forkful and sniffing in appreciation. “Have to enjoy them while we can. It’ll be pickled cabbage and musty potatoes soon enough.”

  “No mutton?”

  “Too greasy. They say fish sharpens the mind anyway, and it looks like you’ve brought me some mind work.”

  Ileth nodded.

  “We could do it at midnight, here. I’m relieved then.”

  “You’d lose s-sleep.”

  “So would you. You want your commission finished, I want to hear your reconnaissance.”

  The situation was almost funny. Each jealously guarding the little scraps of knowledge and ability, afraid that if they yielded first the other would cheat.

  She offered him what she reckoned was her prettiest smile. “Could you look at what I have so far?”

  He yielded. “Of course.” He began to read. “Do you have a fair copy?”

  “That is . . . that is the fair copy.”

  “We may need to spend more time on your hand than I thought.” He dug into his fish, chewing thoughtfully as he read.

  Ileth glanced around. A few of the other diners were stealing looks at them. Generally, the women grouped together; mixed tables usually had a dozen or more. It was odd to see two apprentices of the opposite sex, close together at one of the little wall tables the wingmen and dragoneers used. There was bound to be comment.

  “Interesting problem you decided to examine. It’s not exactly news; everyone’s complaining about the decline in trade to the south and the Inland Ocean.”

  He read further. His eyebrows shot up; he stopped chewing and set down the paper. He took a deep breath and picked it up again, went back to eating and reading. Finally he set it down. His mouth worked, but he didn’t say anything. Ileth found it amusing that for once her conversation partner had trouble finding words.

  “You know, Ileth, when I praised your strategy yesterday, I think you took it a bit far. How old are you?”

  “Sixteen, seventeen next spring.”

  “Sixteen. And you’re suggesting a war. A war?”

  “These are . . . these are pirates. D-do you declare war on p-pirates? I thought . . . I thought you just hunted them.”

  “The term I’ve heard is ‘suppression,’” Sifler said. “Well, I suppose it’s all theoretical anyway. Master Traskeer put you on a commission; let’s give him one that’ll set fire to his cursed index. Eighteen dragons up and victory in days. What a joke.”

  “It’s what . . . it’s Heem Strath’s recommendation.”

  “The tactics have to support the strategy. At least she got that right; too often it gets reversed in the heat of things.”

  “I’m not sure of . . . of the di-difference.”

  “Had it pounded into my head that tactics are easy enough; tactics are what you do when the enemy is in front of you. You destroy them with whatever means you have. Strategy is the real art. Strategy is what you do when there’s nothing obvious to do that will hurt the enemy, your overall plan.”

  “You should be a lecturer.”

  “And you’re a quick student. Even with the aid of this Heem Strath’s report, it’s a remarkable document, Ileth. I like the lack of fancy language, the calls to republican politics, the history of the Vales. It’s just short, clear sentences with verbs right out of the Litanies.”

  Ileth smiled. “That’s how I learned to w-write. Copybooks with . . . copybooks with quotes from the Litanies.”

  “Others have done much worse with much more.”

  The praise warmed her. She patted his hand in gratitude, saw the thoughtful look in his eye, felt a sudden urge to ensure that he disliked her.

  “S-Sifler, about that bookshop girl—”

  “Yes?”

  “She has—she has her heart elsewhere.”

  Sifler looked alarmed. “Who?”

  Ileth didn’t feel any need to keep it a secret; all she’d promised was that no one would know she sent Rapoto the note.

  “Vor Claymass.”

  Sifler’s face went blank. His lips twitched. For a moment she thought he might cry, but she decided he was just working his mouth as he thought.

  “Our good lieutenant. All I did was mention her to him.” He went silent for a moment. “Well, even better for me.” He collected his utensils, put them on his plate.

  “Better?”

  “Rapoto will dally with her, if he hasn’t already, her heart will be broken, and she’ll need to pretend, publicly, that it’s not. Most likely she’ll be highly desirous of appearing in public with his equal. Why not me? We’re both Names.”

  Ileth almost giggled at the idea that Sifler was in any way an equal to Rapoto Vor Claymass. “Good. I was worried you’d get into a duel or something with him.”

  “A duel? That’s your game, Ileth, not mine.”

  “I don’t know that it’s my g-game.” Sifler was nice to talk to. She hardly stuttered.

  “It’s what the Serpentine Guard talks of when your name comes up. You fought a duel with a man three times your size.”

  “I lost. Very nearly died—”

  “You’re certainly considered spirited. Heem Beck claims that your spirit is why he’s so sure . .
. never mind.”

  “Never mind what?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” Ileth said, though she did want to hear how she was viewed in the Guard quarters. No doubt being caught kissing Rapoto in an unlit stable came up, with plenty of salacious embellishment to make the story fun to tell.

  They arranged for him to make a fair copy of her commission after he was relieved at the gate. Ileth, with another head practically chopped off the beast, bolted her only food of the day, then went over to the Masters’ Hall for paper, ink, and a fresh quill before the clerks went off duty, her heart in her throat the whole time, worried that Traskeer would see her still without a sash.

  In her hurry to gather up the paper she dropped a sheet. It fluttered as it sailed off behind her, reminding her of something . . .

  Inspired, she hurried to the Beehive. There she kept an eye out for dancers, lest she hear that Falberrwrath demanded her attention, and went to the flight cave. She peeked into it; it would be just her luck for a dragon to be about, tired and deciding that a dancer would be just the thing to relax him and settle him for sleep after a long flight. No dragons were there, just the humans who served them. The flight cave was shutting down for the evening; the apprentices there were hanging up equipment, lugging saddles to trees for storage, inspecting buckles and bracing lines and girths for signs of a sharp bit of scale cutting through, putting out some of the lamps and refilling oil in others. A dragoneer lounged at the mouth of the cave, his feet dangling into the summer air and the long drop to the Skylake below, smoking. He was shadowed but she thought it might be Dun Huss.

  For once, she didn’t want to speak to him. She found one of the older apprentices carrying an armful of tack. He looked familiar.

  “Excuse me. Some time back I flew . . . I flew with some dragons into Galantine lands. You might have been working here then, I remember you.”

  “You’re Ileth. You flew Vithleen on a mail run your first flight. There was a mix-up that day.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Here.” He handed her an armful of leather traces. “It was oiling day. Help me.”