by Jo Walton
“And the church building?”
“This street is safe,” Sebeth said, proudly. “I persuaded him to draw the warehouse line just a little north of here.”
“Well done,” the priest said. “It must be a miracle of blessed Camran that changed his mind so abruptly when I had almost given up hope of so much as keeping the darkness over our heads. Bless you, little sister, you did very well.” He frowned, and Sebeth wondered why.
“Thanks be to Camran,” she said, bowing her head.
“You are sure that Avan has the right to make this decision? That the Planning Office cannot be overruled by some other office?” Calien asked, anxiously.
“I have copied and recopied the documents controlling that, some of them dating back to the Conquest and the original foundation of Irieth. He’s sure, and so am I.”
“Did you learn anything of the foundation of Irieth?” he asked.
“Only what we already know, that it was founded after the Conquest, when the Yarge had most thoroughly defeated us, and they wished to herd us all together within borders, as a farmer might pen swine away from muttonwools.” There was a little bitterness in Sebeth’s tone.
“Some say Irieth was a city before that,” Calien said, the slightest rebuke apparent in his tone.
“Majestic Tomalin was named in one old charter,” Sebeth admitted.
“Who can tell, about time so long ago?” the priest said. “It was the mercy of Jurale that the Yarges knew the gods and brought them to us, instead of killing us all when they might have.”
“Yes, Blessed One,” Sebeth said.
They sat for a moment in silence, contemplating this fact, of the Yargish conversion of dragonkind, which was, for them, the truth, and which was considered by most right-thinking dragons the most rank heresy. Then Calien began to worry again. “Can Avan be overruled within the Planning Office?” he asked.
“Why, yes, but I do not think that will happen in this case,” Sebeth answered.
“Why not?”
“He was entrusted with this project alone by Liralen, and it will be to Liralen’s credit that he carry it out well. Liralen will present the project to the Board, and the Board always do what Liralen suggests to them. Normally, there might be rivalry within the Office, but in this case as Avan so recently bested Kest, he is standing rampant over them all.”
“Good . . .” Calien hesitated, his eyes still troubled. “Kest is no longer causing trouble?”
“Kest causes trouble the way normal dragons fly, but at present it is all insinuation. You know, Blessed One?” Sebeth made her voice into a whine to imitate Kest. “Though Avan attacked me from behind and without warning I did swear to support him so I will not allow the words peculation or simony to pass my lips with respect to him.”
The priest laughed. “Does that win him friends?”
“The opposite,” Sebeth confirmed.
“Then tell me when the matter has passed the Board, and we will all gather to give thanks to the gods for our escape,” he said.
“Thank you, Blessed One, I will,” Sebeth said, gathering herself up sejant preparatory to leaving.
“Wait,” Calien said. “I do have some other news for you.”
Sebeth waited obediently, bowing her head.
“Your father is very ill,” he said.
Sebeth’s head came up and her eyes flashed blue fire. “I have no father, you know that,” she said. “You know how he rejected me when most I needed him, you know what happened to me and what a life I led. You and the other Blessed Ones helped me then. I have no father but Veld, who is father to us all. You know that.”
“You have an earthly father, whether you acknowledge him or not, and he is very ill,” Calien said, calmly. “The Church teaches forgiveness for any sins.”
“For any sins repented and confessed,” Sebeth said. “He will never do that. I need not forgive him.”
“Are you Veld to know what he keeps hidden in his heart?”
“No, Blessed One,” Sebeth said, but she did not lower her head in submission. “He may have repented, but he did great harm to me and I cannot forgive him.”
“That is a sin you should have brought to confession,” he said, sternly.
“Yes, Blessed One, but when I was in most need he said he had dragonets enough and abandoned me.” Sebeth did not sound penitential. “Camran might forgive him, and Jurale, who are so wise, but I think even they would have trouble if he had done that to them.”
“However that is, he is sick, and word is that he is looking for you.”
“For me?” Sebeth blinked. “He said—”
“And I said he may have repented of saying so,” the priest interrupted gently.
“How do you know?”
“I hear many things. I heard that he is near the end of his life, and he is looking for you. I am telling you this. You must do as you think best. If you cannot forgive him for his sins against you, maybe you should consider whether you could bring him to a true confession at the last.”
“You mean I should take you with me to see him?” Sebeth asked.
“If you go, you should go alone, but ask him to see me, or some other priest. He might be prepared to listen. Camran has given us one miracle. He may be about to offer another. Any soul saved is a blessing, and one in such a high place is an example to others.”
“He would never convert in public,” Sebeth said, sure of that. “Oh Blessed One, I do not want to see him. I should forgive him, but I cannot, and seeing him when I feel that way would just distress us both. If he wants me it must be for me to forgive him, and I am not ready.”
“You may not have very long to prepare yourself,” Calien said. “But go now, and think about what you want to do.”
Sebeth gathered herself together, took off her mantilla, and went out into the streets of the Skamble. She had come to the church almost dancing with delight for the joy of having saved it, she left with dragging feet and a frown so hard it pulled her ears forward.
46. A FOURTH PROPOSAL
Daverak neither fulfilled Haner’s worst fears nor her best hopes. He did not blame her for Berend’s death, nor did he usher her politely to the nearest ledge and tell her to take herself off. He did not devour her on a slight pretext, nor demand that she marry him in her sister’s place, as had been the case in a nightmare she had the first night after Berend’s death. Nor did he insist that she continue to sleep in the room where Berend had died, providing her with another sleeping cave immediately she mentioned her uneasiness with her old one. On the other hand, he would not augment her dowry as Berend had told Dignified Londaver he would. The most he would say on the subject was that he’d see about it after he had subdued her brother.
She was given her fair share of Berend’s body, and Lamith measured her later at twenty-five feet. Daverak, who, with the children, naturally took the greatest part, grew to an even greater length, reaching almost fifty feet.
She remained in Daverak, helping to run the household, helping to look after the dragonets, caring for Berend’s eggs, and trying to improve the lot of the servants and dragons of the demesne, quietly, without attracting Daverak’s attention. The dragonets found the loss of their mother hard to understand, and were inclined to cling to her as a substitute. Dignified Londaver visited the day after Daverak’s return and spent a little time closeted with her brother-in-law, but did not speak to her. She was surprised, a week later, on the first clear day after several days of snow, when he paid another call and asked for her.
She went to him in the elegantly appointed Speaking Room, where Lamith had shown him. He was standing uneasily before the mantel, at least appearing to admire the agate inlay. He was a full thirty-five feet long, with dark scales well burnished to a good shine. He was holding a book under his arm. He should have looked magnificent in the Speaking Room, but instead he looked uneasy.
Haner stopped in the doorway, as if she meant to stay only a moment. “Illustrious Daverak is gone to A
gornin on business,” she said.
“It’s you I’ve come to see, Haner,” he said.
Haner didn’t want to make it easy for him. “Did you have something you wanted to say to me, Dignified Londaver?”
His green eyes met hers, and for the first time since his first wavering she felt a stirring excitement.
“Haner, you know I love you,” he said. “I told you so on the mountain last time. I consider myself bound to you, whatever you said then. But Daverak—”
“I know. He refuses to make up the dowry now Berend is dead,” Haner said, taking a step into the room. “He told me.”
“I want to marry you, but I just can’t afford it. I explained it to you before,” he said, his voice strained with desperation. “We’ll have to wait.”
“Wait? For what?” Haner asked.
“For one of my uncles to die and leave me some gold, or for some relation of yours to do the same.” He did not sound very confident of this plan. “Or I could go to Irieth or one of the other cities and seek my fortune—except that it’s a bit awkward doing that when I’m a Dignified, you know?” Londaver shifted his weight uneasily.
“I can’t imagine you going into trade, or into a government office like my brother Avan. The only fortune you could seek would be a rich bride,” Haner said.
“I’ve never met anyone I liked as much as you,” Londaver said, his sincerity plain. “And you’re so clever. I’m not terribly clever myself. But you’re what I need. You could be clever for both of us. I think about what you say, about the stars, and about treating servants well. I agree with you about that, the more I think about it. I’d like to hear more of what you think about things. I don’t want to marry anyone else.”
“Oh Londaver,” Haner said, her heart softening immediately. She took another, involuntary, step towards him.
“Only we have to wait,” he said, putting out a claw to stop her.
“I’ll wait,” she said, staying where she was. “But waiting indefinitely without any fixed thing to wait for is very difficult.”
“You’re completely free to change your mind at any time,” he said quickly. “If someone else makes you an offer. I was thinking I’d tell you that in that case I’d never marry another, which is what heroes say in stories, and really how I feel, but of course you know, I’d have to, because of the family. There’s an obligation, if you’re the heir, whatever you privately feel. But I’d always be sorry.”
“So, shall we tell everyone we’re waiting?” Haner asked.
Londaver thought for a moment, his eyes whirling. “I don’t think so. It complicates everything so.” He sighed. “It’s such a pity I can’t just go off and take the gold of some Yargish town and come back to marry you. Life was so much simpler in those days. I hate the very thought of gold sometimes. But if we married now, we’d soon be spending our beds. Londaver isn’t a rich place, you know, and we do like to be fair to the farmers and the servants.”
“I admire that,” Haner said, truthfully.
“You’re so wonderful,” Londaver said. “I brought you a book.” He held it out shyly towards her, and she took it, tentatively.
“The Subjugation of Servants, by Calien Afelan,” she read.
“It’s a book of my mother’s,” Londaver said. “I thought you’d like to read it, to do with what you were saying.”
“Thank you,” Haner said, deeply touched.
“It’s going to be very hard to wait,” Londaver said, sighing.
He left her feeling much more fond of him than she had been when he first proposed, but also much less betrothed to be married.
“What did he say, ’Spec?” Lamith asked, when she went back to her new room. Several months of being Haner’s attendant, and a week of being without Berend in the establishment had helped Lamith relax into something approaching familiarity when alone with Haner.
“He said he loves me and we should wait until we can afford to marry,” Haner said, flinging herself down on her gold with a sigh.
Lamith’s familiarity did not extend to saying what she thought of such statements as that, so she contented herself with clucking and taking up a fleece to burnish her mistress’s scales to as bright a gold as she could manage.
47. THE FIRST HEARING
Hathor and Avan were strolling together through the Toris quarter of Irieth towards the Courts of Justice. Hathor, with a presence larger than his measurements, was striding confidently along. Avan walked like a dragon who could only just keep his tail from whipping about uncontrollably.
“There’s no need to be nervous,” Hathor said. “This is only a preliminary hearing, to decide whether there is a case to answer.”
Avan tried to smile, but was aware that his eyes were betraying his agitation. “You told me that six times already,” he said.
“Why are you so worried?” Hathor asked, encouragingly. “I don’t understand it. It’s Daverak and his expensive attorneys who ought to be nervous. We have everything on our side.”
“It’s actually going there,” Avan admitted, trying to keep his tone light. “You have been to the Courts so many times. I am a provincial dragon and this is all new to me. The real power.”
“Power, yes, but it’s all contained in ritual. You’re in more danger with your colleagues who want your position at the Planning Office. Illustrious Daverak probably won’t even show himself today,” Hathor said.
“I’m not afraid of Daverak,” Avan snorted. “This is a case of nerves from the stories my nanny used to tell me.”
“You’ll soon get over it when we get there,” Hathor said, attempting to be reassuring but with his complete incomprehension showing in his voice.
Their walk took them past the famous Malnasimen Brewhouse, which was that day belching out a smell of yeast thick enough that they almost needed to cleave the air with their claws.
“I hear there’s a movement afoot to make the brewers move out of town,” Hathor said, in quite another tone.
“What a wonderful plan,” Avan said, almost choking. “Beer is a blessing of Jurale, but brewing is a disgusting process.”
“You haven’t heard anything at the Planning Office then?”
“A petition was circulating about it last year, but if anyone in Planning is taking action I have heard nothing of it.” Avan’s confidence grew as he spoke, the whirling of his eyes slowed, his tail steadied, and he sped up his walk, making the attorney scurry on his shorter legs to keep up with him. “It isn’t my department, but I believe the Malnasimens have an ancient Charter Grant allowing them to brew from the River Toris. They also say beer is heavy and doesn’t travel well, so unless we want Irieth to drink worse beer at higher cost, we should leave them alone. The other brewers say the same, only without waving their Charter Grants because they don’t have any.”
The lawyer said nothing for a moment, looking at his client speculatively. “So they’ll stay?” he asked.
“My guess is that they’ll still be brewing here, and dragons will still be raising petitions about it regularly, when our grandchildren are fathers,” Avan said. “But that’s a guess, not official word from the Planning Office.”
“Your guesses are as good as gold to some dragons,” Hathor said.
“I wish I didn’t know any of those dragons,” Avan said, bitterly.
Hathor eyed him again, but said no more. Just then, they rounded a corner, and all at once the entrance to the Great Chamber of Justice was before them. It was a huge cavernous entrance, carved all around with hearts, flowers, and other abstract representations of justice. Avan checked his stride.
“Now take a piece of advice from me,” Hathor said, clicking his teeth for attention. Avan swung around to face him, staring into his attorney’s eyes. “Stay calm. Stay confident. You’re so confident talking about your own business, I don’t know why mine should give you pause . . .”
“Lack of familiarity, as I said,” Avan blinked, keeping his tail still only by effort of will. “I know the
Judges won’t order me eaten, but they have the power to do so. The law stands to allow dragons like me redress against dragons who are stronger, but the Judges can order anyone to fight anyone at any time.”
“Is this about Daverak’s letter? Because I can assure you that it helps our case to be able to prove his intimidating tactics. He may have threatened to strip you of everything down to the bones, but it demonstrates that he’d have threatened your sisters similarly, and thus coerced their withdrawal from the writ. Don’t worry.” Despite himself, Hathor allowed a shade of impatience to show in his voice.
“It’s not that, truly,” Avan said. “But look at that.” He gestured towards the gateway. “It’s designed to be intimidating, and it intimidates me.”
“It’s designed to intimidate wrongdoers and dragons bringing suit lightly,” Hathor said. “You’re neither. But it’s important that you make a good impression on the judges. Be calm. Above all, don’t look guilty or worried. Keep your mind on the streets of Irieth and the importance of brewers. When you were talking about that, anyone could have seen you were in the right.”
Avan laughed. Hathor nodded to the guard at the gate, who recognized him and raised the bar deferentially. The two dragons entered and descended.
The Court lay deep underground in an enlarged natural cavern, rare in Irieth. Hathor led Avan past carved depictions of the execution of Justice. Here, a judge held up a still bleeding heart, there a Yarge and two magnificent dragons conferred over a flower. Avan knew it was ridiculous to twitch at the sight of them. He had been so steadfast throughout the whole process, it was ridiculous to want to turn tail now.
Hathor left Avan to sit in an alcove just outside the great circular justice chamber while he bustled forward to consult with the court scribe and the other attorneys. Avan tried to think about his work as Hathor had suggested, but found his eyes straying to the imposing might of the chamber. Liralen had approved the plan for the Skamble enthusiastically, soon it would pass the Board. Was that one of the judges coming in? No, only another scribe. He sat restlessly and in time came to be more at ease with the place through sheer boredom.