by Jo Walton
Hathor’s outer office was spacious. It had a typically Migantine barrel-vault ceiling, making it seem pleasantly cavernous. On the walls were old-fashioned two-color ground-level views of Migantil. Several clerks, all respectable maiden dragons of various shades of gold and beige, sat busily writing at desks around the room. There was space for three or even four waiting clients to seat themselves, if they were careful. There was only one client waiting when Avan arrived, though he was probably as large as two of Hathor’s usual clients. Avan was surprised to see such a very prosperous dragon there, and even more surprised when he recognized him as his acquaintance the Exalted Rimalin. He had not known, and was a little surprised to discover that the other dragon did business with Hathor. All the while, as he gave his name to Hathor’s clerk, he felt Rimalin’s gaze on his back.
“Well, Respectable Agornin,” Rimalin said, as Avan came to sit beside him, curling around so that his head rested on his tail. “Or should I say Dignified now?”
“Not yet,” Avan said, and smiled so that his teeth showed. He thought Rimalin meant it kindly, but he had not needed Sebeth’s reminder that others would be reassessing his position.
Rimalin laughed, putting his head back to expose his throat and thus demonstrate his complete confidence in Avan’s friendship. Then he sobered rapidly and looked Avan in the eyes. “I believe Ketinar wrote to express our condolences on your loss,” he said.
“I am very grateful to the Exalt and to you for your thoughts of me,” Avan said, politely. “I received her note last night, as soon as I was back in Irieth.”
“Then you’re only just back?” Rimalin leaned back a little to see more of Avan.
“I flew in last night, very late,” Avan confirmed.
“And you’ve come here first? I hadn’t known you were one of Hathor’s clients,” Rimalin said.
“I hadn’t known you were,” Avan replied warily. “Or is this a new venture?”
“We politicians like to spread our business about,” Rimalin said, with a flick of his wing. “But I’ve been dealing with Hathor for years.”
“He was my father’s attorney, and I’ve been using him all this time,” Avan said. “I find him very reliable.”
“I have found the same, but confirmation is always good,” Rimalin said.
“You can’t judge an attorney by the decor of his outer office,” Avan said, one of the terrible Migantine pictures catching his eye.
Rimalin laughed again. “Ketinar outright asked Hathor about them once. He said that his father bought them in Migantil, when he was a young dragon.”
Avan looked at the one in front of him again. The sky was pink and the outline of the buildings blue. “You mean that they were actually painted by Yargish hands?”
“I can’t vouch for it, but that’s what Hathor told Ketinar.”
“I don’t know if that makes them better or worse,” Avan said, in horrified fascination.
“Oh, worse, old chap, definitely worse. But one does see why it is that Hathor doesn’t replace them. It’s always the same with old family things, you have to hang on to them whether they’re ugly or beautiful, valuable or valueless, they don’t really belong to any one person, they exist to be passed along to the next generation. We have a lot of things like that out at Rimalin, lot of nonsense really, but I wouldn’t touch them all the same.”
“No, how could you?” Avan murmured, thinking that it could be little hardship when he spent so much time in the city, where his house was furnished completely in the most fashionable modern style.
“I wonder if you might like to come and stay with us in Rimalin some time? This winter, perhaps, if they can do without you in the Planning Office for a little while?”
Avan was so astonished he could not speak for a moment. He had many friends in Irieth, especially since his job required him to move on the fringes of political circles, but had never before been asked out of the capital. He had counted Ketinar, the Exalt Rimalin, as his friend, but her husband had never before been quite so forthcoming. His father’s death had clearly changed his status in ways he had not yet been able to assess. “I’d love to,” he stammered. “If I can get away.”
“I’ll have Ketinar send you a proper invitation, good for any time you can spare us a few days,” Rimalin said.
Just then the door to the inner office opened and a young, very beautiful dragon maiden came out, followed by her very large, very formidable ruby red mother. “Isn’t she gorgeous? Dowry arrangements do you think?” Avan ventured very quietly.
Rimalin said nothing until the outer doors had closed behind the pair. “That is the charming Respected Gelener Telstie, and her no less charming mother Blest Telstie,” he said. “Gelener is one of the most marriageable maidens on the market this year, and for the last two years, but if a marriage has been arranged, it hasn’t yet been announced.”
One of the clerks rose and gestured to Rimalin to go in to see Hathor. The door was open, and Avan could just get a glimpse of the inner office where Hathor crouched on papers and books as most dragons would on gold. “I have to go. But come and see me soon. And if you have any capital to venture, don’t tie it all up before you’ve spoken to me. I have something to suggest.”
“I read your note, but—” Avan began, but Rimalin was already on his feet.
“There’s no terrible hurry about it,” Rimalin said, and walked into Hathor’s inner office, closing the door carefully behind him.
23. OFFICE POLITICS
Avan reached the Planning Office a little before noon. The gold had been placed on deposit for the time being, and Hathor had made arrangements for collecting it. After hearing all the facts, Hathor had agreed Avan had a case, though not as good a case as he would have if Haner and Selendra would join with him. The writ against Daverak had nevertheless been issued, and would be sent out the next morning. As he flew back, happy with his morning, Avan had considered making himself even later by visiting a public bathhouse. He thought better of it. He could not afford to lose his position. He wished to appear confident, not insolent. Besides, he had sluiced himself only three mornings before in the chilly river Nia that flowed through the Agornin demesne. Too frequent bathing was supposed to be bad for the scales. He smiled, showing his teeth a little, then straightened his cap, pushed away hesitation, and walked confidently in through the archway.
Kest was leaning over Sebeth where she was attempting to write letters. Kest was a fine bronze-scaled dragon, much the same size as Avan, a little over twenty feet long, and therefore almost twice the size of Sebeth. “You have time to do this copying,” Kest said, caressingly, leaning closer. Avan paused where he was.
“Have your own clerk do it,” Sebeth said, icily, withdrawing as far as she could behind the block of granite that was Avan’s desk.
“I don’t have a clerk, as you well know, little Eminence, and the drudge who does all the copying won’t get to mine until tomorrow now.”
“I fail to see why this is my problem,” Sebeth said, squaring some papers and looking up at Kest.
“Oh, you fail to see why it’s your problem,” Kest echoed, mimicking her voice. “Well, it’s about time you did see, and stopped giving yourself airs, little Eminence v—. It’s your problem because when Avan gets back, if he does, he won’t have a position here and I’ll be taking over his responsibilities, and that includes your pretty—”
Avan had heard enough. On the word “v—” he had entered the room, and before Kest could speak the obscenity Avan’s claw had taken him under the armpit and tipped him sideways. Before Kest could recover himself, Avan leaped forward, his whole weight falling onto Kest’s thorax, his teeth at his throat. Avan had the advantage of surprise, and perhaps a little that of size also. He had grown since eating his father’s body. Kest owned himself defeated immediately, denying Avan the pleasures of the fight and the hope of eventually killing and eating his opponent. Kest laid his claws and tail flat and closed his eyes. For a moment Avan regretted t
hat he was a civilized dragon, then he was reminded of the tussling he had done with his sibs long ago. Poor Merinth had signalled surrender just like that.
He lifted his head a little, ready to bite again if necessary. “Do you yield?” he asked.
“I do,” Kest said, faintly. Avan was still lying on him, almost choking him.
“And do you yield position in the office?”
“I do,” said Kest, opening his eyes a crack.
“And do you apologize to my clerk and promise never to so insult her again?” Avan asked, keeping his weight where it was.
“I do,” Kest echoed, and when Avan did not move, added, “I apologize, ’Spec Sebeth, for insulting you and swear I will not do so again.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Avan backed off and allowed Kest to breathe freely. “Tell anyone else you may know who thinks to intrigue for my position that I am back, and not reluctant for a struggle, if that is necessary,” Avan said.
“Yes, no, I’m sure nobody will bother you now, Dignified,” Kest said, backing away, coughing a little. Still backing, he went through the arch that led to the other offices.
Avan picked up his cap, which had fallen off at some point in the struggle. He smiled wryly at Sebeth, who looked flushed and excited. “You did warn me,” he said. “Is he always that obnoxious when I’m not around?”
“Little Eminence is his usual name for me,” she said, and spread one hand in incomprehension. “Trying to impose on me to do his copying because he thinks it’s important is something he’s done before. He’s always been more familiar than he should, he clearly thinks my status is ambiguous and wants to take advantage of that.” She looked down at her exquisitely pink shoulder and sighed. “The rest was new.”
“I should have killed him,” Avan said, staring at the doorway where Kest had disappeared.
“With all that envy and covetousness and scheming coursing ’round his blood, he probably tastes disgusting,” Sebeth said.
Avan laughed. “If he says anything to you again, anything beyond ordinary chilly politeness, anything you don’t want to hear, tell me,” he said. “I’m prepared to take the risk on how he tastes.”
Sebeth opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak, Liralen came bustling in. Liralen was an elderly dragon, black scaled, almost fifty feet long. He carried a file under his arm, not just at that moment but almost all the time.
“Oh Avan, Kest told me you were back,” he said. “My condolences on the death of your father.”
“Thank you. And thank you for your note of condolence. I was held up with some urgent family business first thing this morning,” Avan said.
“Oh, that’s of no consideration, as you’re here now,” Liralen said. Trust Liralen to care about nothing but work. “ ’Spec Sebeth informed me. But while you were away rather a difficult situation has come up concerning building rights in the Skamble.” The Skamble was one of the very rough areas of Irieth, across the river. Sebeth moved some papers on the desk, making both the others suddenly aware of her presence.
“Is this confidential?” Avan asked.
“Tolerably, but not from your clerk,” Liralen said, with a wintry smile that was all in his pale eyes. “I’ll leave the folder with you. I didn’t have time for it myself, but I couldn’t trust anyone else to deal with this properly, so it has been waiting for your return.”
Avan felt the implicit reproach, but as he had been to his own father’s deathbed and stayed away less than two weeks, a scant nine days, he did not feel the slightest guilt.
“I’ll become conversant with the details and deal with it as soon as I can,” he said, taking the folder. This particular folder was pale lavender colored. Liralen handed it over reluctantly and looked almost naked without it.
“It’s a delicate matter,” Liralen said. “You’ll see when you read it. Let me know what action you decide on.”
Avan blinked, startled. Generally he investigated, then thought out possible actions and then put the possibilities before Liralen, he did not decide for himself. This responsibility was something new.
“Is this promotion?” he asked, daring to say it outright.
Liralen hesitated. Sebeth lowered her head over her papers and tried to look inconspicuous. Avan waited calmly.
“It may be,” Liralen said. “It may be indeed.” He paused, looking at Sebeth with clear disapproval. “I am getting older, and in a year or two I can take my pension and go home. At that time, somebody will be wanted to take my place here, and I would prefer it to be someone who gets the work done and not someone with no idea of propriety.”
This was the first time Liralen had ever mentioned retirement to Avan. Avan tried to still the frantic whirling of his eyes. What did Liralen mean about propriety? He knew his superior disapproved of Sebeth on principle—she was pink, but unmarried, and therefore by definition not a respectable dragon. There was no appeal, and though Avan had staunchly represented his employing her as redeeming the unfortunate, he knew Liralen had only grudgingly become reconciled to her when he saw how good her work was.
“Propriety?” he ventured to ask.
“It is not so long since dragons have been dismissed from this office for partiality,” Liralen said. “There are others still with us who appear to believe they are living in the days before the Conquest when promotion could best be achieved through violence. You, I am glad to note, are not one of those.”
Avan, still full of the exhilaration of beating Kest, tried to look peaceable.
“I’ll look forward to seeing how you deal with this case, and so will the Board,” Liralen said. The Board were shining figures to whom Liralen answered. Avan bowed his head at the mention of their name. “Well, there is work to be done,” Liralen finished.
“I’ll do what I can to make up for lost time,” Avan agreed, and opened the folder at once.
24. A SECOND CONFESSION
Just before sunset, Sebeth left the Planning Office. Avan was still working, engrossed in the contents of the folder Liralen had brought him earlier. He had spent some time catching up on what she had done in his name in his absence, but always he returned to the lavender folder. He barely grunted a farewell as she left. She walked from the Cupola in the direction of the river. Nobody had asked her where she was going, and nobody seemed to pay any attention to her. She walked through the park, ignoring the fashionable strollers and the millworkers alike. Occasionally she saw a clerk she knew, and they exchanged a nod or a word. Though they were generally polite, none of them were her friends, most of them found her suspicious. She knew they thought she should not be in respectable employment. She preferred strangers, who had no way of knowing she was not a bride.
When she came to the promenade by the river she hesitated, and turned around, scanning the walks to make sure nobody was watching her. She paused, as if hesitating as to left or right on the river walk. Right would have taken her towards the shops and entertainments and grand Houses of the fashionable Southwest and Marshalling quarters, while left would have brought her back towards the mills and offices of the Cupola and Toris districts, and at length home.
Once she was sure she was unobserved, she took off her hat, the marker of her status and respectability, and folded it into her bag. Then she ignored the promenade and walked with rapid and assured steps across the high-arched stone bridge that crossed the river Toris. Once on the other side she continued to walk with confidence, tracing her steps without hesitation through the twists and turns of the narrow streets. She was soon in the quarter lying between the river and the railway tracks which was known as the Skamble. She wondered as she went about the contents of that lavender folder. Building rights, in the Skamble? Every claw’s width that could be built on was built on already, though much of it was covered with wretched shacks where poor mill workers scratched out what comfort they could between thin patched walls. The roads were narrow and the buildings huddled together as if for warmth. There were few open spaces, and those there w
ere had clearly been caused by recent fires.
At last, when the sun was almost down, she came to a church, larger but hardly better built than the houses around it. She paused for a moment, again looked both ways, though nobody at all was in sight, then pulled her mantilla from her bag and set it on her head. She could not help feeling a thrill of excitement at doing something illicit. Going to a church of the Old Believers was no longer illegal, except for a parson, but it was certainly frowned upon. Many things fall in the shadows between the bright light of illegality and the comforting darkness of approval. Avan could certainly not have continued to employ her as a clerk had her religious affiliation become known. She pushed away the excitement, murmuring a prayer to Veld for clarity of mind. Then she put a claw to the wooden door, which swung open, and went straight in.
The room Sebeth entered was much like any church in a poor quarter. It was a dim vault, barely half underground, half-filled with dragons, many of them with the bound wings of servitude, all of them small, hardly one of them longer than seven feet except the priest, who stood at the center of the narthex, about to begin his service. Such a sight could be seen in any church on any Firstday morning or the evening of any day. Only the nodding mantillas and the carved wooden side-doors that led to the confession room marked it out as in any way different. A visitor seeing those might have been surprised as Sebeth gestured and joined the prayers, but surprised because nobody was feasting on cooked meat or howling out grotesque and titillating confessions, merely behaving as any dragon might have in any congregation. Even the prayers were the same.