Daughter of the Serpentine

by E. E. Knight

It made Ileth oddly pleased to know that sometimes the dragons had difficulties with their superiors too.

  “I’ll do . . . do my best,” Ileth said. “But you’d be . . . you’d be b-better off a-asking one of the Masters, or Hael Dun Huss. He’s who I’d go to.”

  “I don’t know him well. I must have a dragoneer. Taresscon wants good politics with the humans.”

  Ileth had decided to play politics herself lately. She’d spent time doing everyone’s washing and volunteering to dance as often as possible, as her apprentice lot was still idling, getting a little more experience in the air as they waited for a Master to be named.

  Vithleen’s eggs hatched the very day Ileth spoke to Aurue, two males and one female, a red and a gold, with the female the usual green. Unfortunately one of the handlers working with Vithleen failed to get the hatched male away from the other as he came out of his egg and the red was injured. Newly hatched males would fight until there was only one survivor, but among certain dragon societies, the Serpentine being one of them, the males were separated at birth until they could be trusted not to tear each other to bits.

  Everyone talked of a celebratory feast, paid for and put on by the dragons and in dragon style—great troughs of food outdoors, in other words—and there was general curiosity, as the dragons hadn’t sponsored a feast since before the late Galantine War.

  Ottavia was anxious that the dancers might be expected to do something above and beyond in honor of the occasion and asked Ileth, who was handing out favors and running errands, to go to the Charge’s tower and ask. Ileth thought it would be a good opportunity to seek help on the matter of Aurue’s odd request about helping select a dragoneer.

  She’d been to the Charge’s tower before. The Old Tower dated to the earliest days of humans in the Vales—and looked it; it was one of the barest and least comfortable constructs in the Serpentine. The Charge had been restoring its condition in his rare gaps of free time.

  Unlike the other Masters, Charge Roguss Heem Deklamp didn’t have an apprentice to help him with his duties; he had two full wingmen, one male, one female, both of long service, not that different in age from the Charge himself.

  “He’s engaged, Ileth. A storm that’s been long on our horizon is here at last,” Wingman Dogloss said in the outer sitting room. She’d been formally introduced to him, but they’d never spoken privately. He’d joined the dragoneers unusually late in life, after a disappointment or something, she’d heard from Quith. He had dashing good looks accentuated by a beard with two white streaks going down from the corners of his mouth (Santeel told her that there was some art to it; the style was popular in Sammerdam at the moment with men who wished to appear distinguished) and a commanding presence. She’d heard stories that when Roguss Heem Deklamp was announced at assemblies in Sammerdam or Asposis, Dogloss was frequently taken to be the Master in Charge, as the actual figure was short, dark, owlish, and potbellied, and while he certainly possessed a certain amount of appeal when speaking, he wasn’t the sort of commanding, broad-shouldered dragoneer you met in novels.

  “Shall I—shall I come back?”

  Dogloss thought it over. “Under other circumstances, I’d say yes,” he said, quietly. “But Commissioner-General Navarr has the wind and altitude on us. I’d like to show him that the whole Serpentine doesn’t freeze up just because he strides through the gate in all his majesty. Maybe you coming out of the sun would do just that.”

  Ileth knew the name and title. He’d overseen and served as star juror in the jury that had examined the poisoning of Vithleen and the theft of the eggs. She remembered the frustrated looks of the other jurors, but Commissioner-General Navarr had urged her to take all the time she needed to properly form her answers to the jury’s questions. She didn’t know much of him, though Dun Huss’s wingman, Preece, who’d accompanied her to her questioning, said he was part of a faction that thought the dragons an expense that didn’t merit the enormous costs that went into their upkeep and support.

  Ileth wished she’d visited at a different hour. She’d rather dance until her toes bled than have to stand in her patched overdress and broken-laced boots in front of great men. Up in the Freesand, a commissioner of the Republic poking around was considered a bad omen; she could only imagine the power a Commissioner-General wielded.

  Aurue had asked her if anything frightened her earlier that day, and great Names frightened her more than barking gate-hounds. “I think . . . I think I’ll c-come back later.”

  “No, now is best,” Dogloss said. He rapped hard on the door to Heem Deklamp’s office. Ileth hurriedly checked her novice pin and her apprentice sash. She’d done both just before arriving at the tower but couldn’t help repeating the examination.

  “Sir, I have an apprentice here, it’s urgent,” Dogloss said in answer to a query from within.

  “Enter.”

  She followed him and froze two steps in.

  Ileth, in her shepherd days in the hills above the Freesand, had once sought shelter from a sudden cold wind and rain in a half-ruined barn. The part under the still-intact roof was filled with crows. She could still remember all the black backs as they rose.

  It was much the same in Heem Deklamp’s office. This time she didn’t shriek, as she had with the crows.

  A throng of officials, all in the plain black attire of the Republic, stood, sat, or leaned about the office, with Heem Deklamp sitting casually at the edge of his desk with his other wingman behind. Ileth had heard of her but never met her, as she was almost always visiting posts for Heem Deklamp. She was a tiny woman, one of nature’s alterations to the usual human pattern. At the moment she was seated in Deklamp’s chair with paper and fountain pen in front of her, making notes.

  Ileth bobbed, slowly and deeply—as she would have if she’d been invited in to Heem Deklamp’s office, never mind the rest of the officials, and the Republic’s commissioners, all seven of them plus Commissioner-General Navarr.

  He was as she remembered. Taller than most, with a flat, stern face that had only a sharp nose breaking the plane, and the fullest head of white hair she’d ever seen, of a uniform color and length swept back and neatly cut off at the collar like a tailored cape. He wore a polished silver gorget on a heavy chain below the white collar of his shirt. It caught the eye, set against the plain republican black.

  Deklamp checked his marvelous pocket timepiece. “It is opportune, perhaps, that we now suspend the discussion for a meal. They should have dinner available at the Visitors’ House by the time you return.”

  The assembled commissioners looked to their leader. “Yes, perhaps we can return to the outstanding questions tomorrow with renewed spirits,” Navarr said. His was a pleasing voice. It carried as though he was used to speaking to audiences.

  He glanced at Ileth, then gave her a second look, sort of an appraising air.

  “Apprentice, I believe we’ve met,” Navarr said. He stepped, or rather loomed, before her. She found herself staring at the silver gorget: it had a sort of curved lip that went up as if to catch crumbs fallen from his chin. Lettering and scrollwork had been beautifully engraved on it, but most of it was too tiny for her to make out, though it did have the year 2902 in the center, the year of the Republic’s founding.

  She bobbed again, more quickly. “Yes, Com-Commissioner-General.”

  “You went after the eggs, recovered them from the Skylake. I remember your testimony.”

  One of the Commissioner-General’s associates gave a wry smile at another.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your experiences in Galantine lands were useful. I am happy to know you are still here.” Navarr turned to Deklamp. “Charge Deklamp, we will talk more when we’ve restored our tempers with food.”

  Dogloss hurried to get the door and the assembly formed up to follow the Commissioner-General out. There appeared to be some protocol about it, though as far as she
could tell from their clothes, nothing much distinguished them except varying heights. Even their faces were identically shaven clean and without sideburns. The first one after the Commissioner-General did have a silver chain about his neck for his half cloak, but no gorget.

  “Excellent point about the purchase of cattle,” one of the retinue at the back end of the file said to another. The man in front of them turned and hushed them.

  Deklamp looked at the smaller of his two wingmen. “Make sure they are properly attended.” The wingman’s eyes narrowed just a trifle. “Oh, Serena, have you been introduced to Ileth? Ileth went with Galia to Galantine lands to care for Fespanarax, forgotten be his name. Only Ileth came back, sadly.”

  “I’m somewhat acquainted with the matter,” Serena said. She stared at Ileth, nodded. “Good to meet you at last, Ileth. Excuse me.”

  She left, stepping quick, with a slight rolling gait.

  The Master in Charge surveyed the room and locked his face on Ileth in that owlish fashion of his. Maybe Serena stared so in imitation of him. “Don’t mind her, Ileth, it’s been a tiring morning. You’ve never come to my office without being summoned. It must be important. How may I help?”

  When he spoke thus, Ileth felt the devotion many others had admitted.

  Ileth asked about the feast first, that being the easier subject. “I doubt the dancers will be called on. The exact words from the Beehive were ‘Let every human rejoice and eat with us, and spare everyone from their duties you possibly can.’”

  Ottavia would be relieved.

  “There’s one more matter. I’m not sure of the rights and wrongs and procedures for the whole thing, but it’s the . . . it’s the dragon Aurue. We are f-friends. He has asked . . .”

  It took a little time for it all to come out. The dragon’s unusual request, her wanting to find the best possible match for him.

  Deklamp and Dogloss exchanged looks. “So he is staying. Good news.”

  “The better news is he wants a dragoneer,” Deklamp said. “Ileth, you’re my star’s daughter* today.”

  “Then you . . . then you will advise me? Or him?”

  “Gladly. Aurue won’t ever be a famous battle dragon with laudii all over his wings, but he has gifts that compensate his lack of scale. Storms and thunder, we need him, scale or no. This comes at a good time for us.”

  “I am . . . I am happy to hear s-so,” Ileth said. “May I a-a-ask h-how?”

  “Oh, it’s politics and favors being offered and paid. Affairs of the Assembly. Nothing for you to worry about. I’ll consult with the Masters about your matter once I’ve concluded this business with the Commissioner-General. Odd way to go about it. Usually the dragon has someone in mind.”

  “He’s an odd dragon,” Dogloss said. “Very quick in the air. Hesitant on everything else.”

  Charge Deklamp dismissed her, telling her that he hoped he’d see her at the feast. Dogloss showed her out.

  In the outer chamber, she asked Dogloss about Serena. Any woman who made dragoneer was of supreme interest to Ileth. Ileth had heard of her a few times but had never met her, or anyone like her. Ileth, who’d never had much learning except by example, was always interested in what sort of woman rose to prominence in the Serpentine.

  “She flies the Charge’s dragon, Telemiron. Telemiron is slim for a male. Have you met him? Perhaps not, he’s hardly ever here. He’s quite as unique as she is. They’re a good match. Our best navigator. My Master has too many cares here to fly much, so Serena is about making the rounds to the posts, his eyes and ears and tongue in the world outside the Serpentine. I don’t think she spends twenty days a year at the Serpentine if you total all the hours. If you have a special interest in getting to know her, she’s good company. I’m sure she would offer dinner in Vyenn.”

  “I’d like that,” Ileth said. “If she is loose of her duties some night.”

  “Speaking of duties, I have to go over some figures with our Charge. Enjoy your evening, Ileth, knowing that you flew to his rescue when he was outnumbered and heavily pressed. You’re the hero of the Old Tower today.”

  * * *

  —

  It seemed to her that the Serpentine was on edge. Ileth guessed it had something to do with the Commissioner-General and his party. Everyone was tense, fussing with this or that when they weren’t doing actual work, making sure every dropped scale was accounted for and dragon-meal properly weighed and recorded.

  Ileth couldn’t quite cite anything specific that made her feel tension. Apprentices and novices hurried about; did it seem they stepped faster? She decided that as she was at the up end of the Serpentine she’d take dinner in the Great Hall. Did the dinner crowd at the Great Hall seem hushed, with conversations being carried out in low tones, heads and bodies leaned closer together than usual over the table? It seemed so, to her.

  She ate alone, at one end of a long table crowded with exhausted novices, who gave her fresh scar curious looks but didn’t speak to her. She didn’t dine often enough in the Great Hall to have any regular companions, and Sifler wasn’t about.

  Finishing her plain meal of fish on a bed of leeks and fat summer carrots, she was about to take her plate and fork to the washtub when Velleker ascended the pulpit. He’d put on his green pauldron, a sword, and a short cape for the occasion. He rang the bell and the diners quieted. His thin, handsome face broke into an easy smile.

  “We have glad tidings from the Beehive: the clutch of Vithleen and Falberrwrath has hatched, two males and one female. Taresscon, speaking for the dragons, would like to remind everyone that the Cellars are off-limits to all but the grooms and feeders already on special duty. A feast day has been declared for the day after tomorrow, hosted by the dragons in the Rotunda. Falberrwrath will be there to accept any offerings of coin or metals for Vithleen. There will be alterations to usual routines. The cooks especially will need extra assistance, so those of you who are released from other duties would be welcome to lend a hand for part of the feast. The dragons are paying a labor bounty to everyone who works the feast. I know this is not usual Serpentine practice, but we do bend the rules when the dragons wish to celebrate. Oh, Charge, I didn’t see you there, do you have anything to add?”

  Charge Deklamp ascended the pulpit. From the top and her angle looking up at him, nothing visible to her but his hunched shoulders and intent stare, he looked even more like an owl in a tree. The assembly quieted. “Dragoneers of the Serpentine,” he said, and the last voice or two in the audience quieted. “We have a commission from the Assembly visiting. Offer them every courtesy. Answer every question. Bar no door, withhold no record. They may ask some of you about your experiences in the late Galantine War. Consider yourselves free to speak as though to a fellow dragoneer. We have nothing to hide from the Assembly or its assigns. The more helpful we are to them, the sooner they will depart and fulfill their commission. That is all, except that I hope all of you enjoy the feast day the day after tomorrow. In order to accomplish that I am releasing, from my own family stores, one valoon* of wine or one flask of brandy to anyone who works the feast in preparation, service, or entertainment. The usual standards of drunkenness while on duty will be enforced, as always, so you may have it registered to your account and have it meted out at any time. That is all.”

  Wine (or a smaller amount of brandy) being given out inspired a faint buzz of hushed talk. Ileth had never been in the Serpentine when the Charge issued wine.

  “That’s the first wine he’s handed out since they took down that black-and-gold monster over the Scab,” someone at the next table said. “That was a death-toast in his honor.”

  “No, it was for Agrath, the silver,” a wingman corrected. “The death-toast was for him. Reconnaissance never found the black-and-gold’s body.”

  “Who was his dragoneer again?”

  “Annis Heem Strath,” Ileth supplied, feeling much of the pleas
ure of the announcement leave.

  * * *

  —

  That night Ottavia, as a special treat for her dancers, managed to get permission from Taresscon and the Charge to go down and see the hatchlings. Ottavia made them all promise to retreat at the first sign of irritability from Vithleen. Mothers of hatchlings fresh out of the egg could be dangerous.

  Ileth was familiar with the chamber in the Beehive Cellars; her first duty as a dancer had been to keep a failing old dragon known as “the Lodger” company.

  Vithleen lay like a great green wall between the two male hatchlings. She’d lost a lot of flesh since Ileth had ridden her when a mix-up in the flight cave put her atop Vithleen for a courier run. The female hatchling, perhaps already sensing her job as a neutral go-between, scuttled around her mother’s forelimbs to sneak stew from first one male’s trough and then the other’s. Ileth smelled liver. The slaughter of the cattle brought in for the feast had already begun. Dragons adore liver, but Vithleen was content to leave it for her offspring and just nibble at a platter of scorched cubed beef.

  The males, bellies already swollen from their feast, ignored their sister and snoozed, twitching.

  The mother dragon waved her head back and forth, up and down, making a trilling sound. Ileth, after matching the noises to the movement, decided she must be using her head and the breathing passages in it like a musical instrument, changing the sounds by altering the angle they came up out of her voice box, if the dragons had the same sort of humming strings the natural philosophers and physikers said humans possessed.

  “We’re lucky,” Ottavia whispered. “I think that’s singing.”

  “You don’t know?” Santeel asked, and the others shushed her.

  “The last time there were eggs here I was just out of novice year,” Shatha whispered. “I never heard Yarienne sing. I did hold a bit of the shell and saw the hatchlings.”

  Santeel Dun Troot, fidgety with curiosity, kept jumping up to see over the front rank.