Daughter of the Serpentine

by E. E. Knight

  Flattery, in Ileth’s experience, presaged a request. Ileth waited for it.

  “Would you like another sweet before you go, Ileth? Tea? Or perhaps a good milky swirl, it’s quite the sensation with young ladies in Sammerdam these days, and just the thing before a nighttime walk to your own bed.”

  Ileth shook her head. He rose to his feet and she followed his example.

  “You . . . you just had me brought for-for-for c-conversation, sir?”

  “Yes. Was I not clear? You interested me on my last visit. As I had to come again, I wanted to learn more about you in less intimidating surroundings than a jury chamber. I have.”

  He went over to his desk, picked up a pen, and scratched something on a little rectangle of paper. “Please take my card.” He walked over to Ileth and handed her a small, hardened piece of linen paper. It had his name, title, and Posy Court, Sammerdam in neat press printing. “Just in case you are ever in Sammerdam and find yourself loose from other attachments. I’m afraid I indulge my weakness for the bakery there, too, so you are always welcome for tea and cake.”

  Ileth traced her finger over the printed letters. They were raised up on the paper. Most distinctive.

  “They’re the latest thing in Sammerdam. Some of the young ladies like to collect them from their favorites. But don’t think of starting a fashion of them with mine; I am not anyone’s favorite within the walls of the Serpentine. Know that if matters here do not proceed as you expect, I have need of sharp minds and quick reflexes in the red-and-whites.”

  She’d never heard of the red-and-whites. Quith would probably know, or Santeel. She looked at the reverse side of the card. He’d written his initials and scratched an X with an overlong leg and a dot opposite the long leg, like the hilt of a . . .

  “Is th-this a sword?”

  “I’m flattered you can distinguish it. I’m no artist. Yes.” He lowered his voice. “If you ever feel that our Republic is in danger, from any source or corner, without or within, present this card at any post or to any commissioner. As you’ve visited me, I shall return the favor and visit you. If there is a threat to your person or great need of haste, simply include the word sword in your note or message, in an innocuous fashion if you fear a more plain message being read. I am able to call on the most skilled swords and meteormen in the Republic, at need.”

  Ileth thought it a strange offer and disliked the idea of screaming for help—at least to these crows. He had a point about the sword business, though. She was almost as defenseless as when she’d come in as a novice. “As a dragoneer I . . . I hope to be one that others call on . . . call in if they’re in danger, sir.”

  “Of course. But some dangers can’t be destroyed by a blast of dragonfire. Now, I’ll exercise age’s prerogative and announce that I wish nothing else of the evening but my bed. Good night, Ileth.”

  “Good night, Commissioner-General,” she replied, going out into the common room of the inn.

  Ottavia excused herself from conversation with the innkeeper. He looked sleepy.

  “Well?” Ottavia said.

  “He asked me some questions about the . . . about the-the Baronies. Not what I expected.”

  “Not what I expected either. I should have taken his age into account.”

  They decided to walk back to the Serpentine. Ottavia enjoyed the honorary rank of a Master and could come and go at will. The only curious thing in their return was her question about Santeel. But she held it until they were safe within the Serpentine again.

  “As we have this moment alone, Ileth—I know you and Santeel are friends, of a sort. Is she well? The quality of her dancing is falling off. I thought a reduction in her drills to make allowance for her apprentice duties would make sure that she’s better rested, but to me she dances like a girl who hasn’t slept for a week. Is there something wrong?”

  It was understandable that Ottavia would think them confidants. They’d both been sworn in together, and even taken their first flights on the same day. Ileth had helped Santeel’s father ease into the idea of his daughter dancing in public, even if the “public” was dragons.

  “She hasn’t said anything to me,” Ileth said, honestly enough.

  “Maybe it is that she’s starting to apprentice under the physikers,” Ottavia said. “Not many do, and fewer still have much success at it. I understand it’s mentally and physically quite demanding. I must make sure she sits down and eats. That’s probably all it is.”

  As she readied herself for bed, Ileth looked at the sleeping Santeel. She did look like she’d been running ragged; the skin in her face looked pinched, and even asleep her eyes looked tired. And there was a strange rasp to her breathing.

  * * *

  —

  The next day Santeel was up early for drills and bright as ever. Ileth received a note from one of the clerks in the Masters’ Hall. A dragoneer had been posted to her lot and she was to report for the beginning of her formal apprentice training.

  “At last!” Santeel said, her eyes merry. “I should hate if you fell too far behind me. I always try harder when I have a rival. Who is to be your dragoneer?”

  “It doesn’t say,” Ileth said.

  The note informed her that she was to report to the hippodrome groaningly early, at the fourth-hour bell, which meant Ileth had to be up in the Dancers’ Quarter at the third. So fearful was she of sleeping through that unaccustomed hour that she didn’t sleep in the Dancers’ Quarter. She spent the night in the flight cave—which always had both Guards and a clerk on watch no matter what the hour—on a pile of cargo netting, having asked to be wakened when the bell sounded. Ileth begged the Guard and the clerk to pass her request on at the end of their shift and have someone wake her at the third bell.

  Were she a full dragoneer, she could just order a page to do it and ruin someone’s day if she wasn’t wakened on time.

  They kept their word. The clerk shook her awake as the third bell sounded.

  He had a badly pocked face. “Good whatever-you-want-to-call-this-unholy-hour, Ileth,” he said. He seemed amused.

  “Many thanks,” Ileth said. She realized he was the overnight clerk who’d let her rummage about for oil when she stole the streamer that was now her apprentice sash. She wondered if he recognized it.

  He shrugged. “Glad for something to do. Next time have them settle you in behind the office. That’s a warm corner, vent from the kitchens runs up through it, and we see you when we pass in and out so we don’t forget. The dragoneers sometimes catch a quick nap there.” He used a rag to wipe off the chalked block letters saying WAKE HER AT 3 above the netting. Someone else had scrawled something obscene about how to wake her in smaller letters below. Ileth brought up an eyebrow. At least whoever had added to the instructions had phrased it cleverly.

  “Sorry about that. No one in the office wrote it, I’m sure of that. I know their hands.” He had a green apprentice sash. Today began her journey to one just like it!

  “Dath Amrits had an early flight on Etiennersea?”

  “No, a late return. How did—oh. Yes, that is his sense of humor.”

  Ileth, too excited to find out who her first dragoneer would be, wouldn’t let adolescent jokes spoil her day. She just smiled and stuck her fists together, knuckles toward the flight cave clerk. “Keep the Troth, sir,” she said. She’d seen the encouraging gesture now and then in her novice year at a few important moments, but this was the first time she’d used it on someone else.

  He mirrored it reflexively but smiled as he did so. “Anytime, uhhIleth. I don’t know the rest, my apologies.”

  “There is no rest. It’s just ‘Ileth,’” she said. “Everything aligned and proper, sir?”

  “Run a comb through your hair. It’s Sef, by the way.”

  She thanked him again and did her best to sort out her hair.

  She’d gone to bed grip
ping a heel of bread and a bit of cheese saved from the feast, wrapped up in old paper. She found it in the netting, ate it, and refreshed herself at the cistern the dancers used, then struck out at a good walking pace for the hippodrome.

  Arriving in plenty of time, she reviewed the other faces in the arena, where they sat on benches in the half that didn’t open up against the stables. She looked across at the stalls. The last time Ileth had been here, Rapoto Vor Claymass had pulled her into a stall and kissed her, and she’d been kicked out of the Manor. She ignored the past and thought about what was about to start in her life. She’d heard a lot of stories about what an apprentice’s first dragoneer had them do as they started off on the “circus.” Usually it was some form of physical toughening. She felt equal to that; there couldn’t be anything worse than the drills Ottavia put them through. She was happy to see that Quith was in her group. Quith, a bit of a scatterbrain unless the subject was social connections and affiliations, hadn’t much impressed the Masters but had finally made it. She knew another, Zante, Zan to his friends, of which Ileth was most certainly not one. He’d been thrown out his novice year for filching scale under a renegade named Griff who’d gone over to the Galantines when Ileth had discovered his scheme.

  She surveyed the boys, none particularly well known to Ileth, though there was a groom who’d been there the wild night of the egg theft. The only other girl was obviously young, a novice who had made apprentice early. She wore lenses on her eyes. She must come from money.

  The group stirred. A wide-shouldered, narrow-waisted man in a porthole-necked work tunic and wide girdle walked out into the center of the hippodrome. His attire was simple and sleeveless, and ended at midthigh. Ileth had a hard time guessing his age. There was no gray in the dark curly hair cut tight against his scalp. She’d seen him riding about now and then—you noticed a man built like that on a horse—but hadn’t known he was a dragoneer. She thought he was a specialist as he always seemed to be involved in herds and wains being driven into the Serpentine, unloaded, then passed out again.

  A few quiet groans broke out.

  “Oh gods, it’s the Horse,” one of the lot said.

  “I knew it. When they said ‘hippodrome’ I just knew it.”

  “Well, I’m off,” another said, rising. “I don’t care if they make me work the chicken coops until the next lot’s organized.”

  Ileth, next to Quith, looked at her. Quith had a scared expression on her face. “What?” Ileth whispered.

  “From the trials. Remember? They call him the Horse.” Quith must have been referring to the physical tests the other applicants had undergone while she’d been starving on the doorstep.

  He had two wingmen, dressed similarly. She’d seen one at that pile-in with Rapoto.

  He stepped up to the low wall of the hippodrome set before their seats. He had put on a genial smile for the occasion, showing immaculate teeth.

  “Congratulations, apprentices. I am the Master of Horse, dragoneer in charge of your lot. A few of you know me. The rest of you are in for a surprise.”

  He let that sink in.

  “The first thing you should know about me is that I’m no dragonrider. I hold the title as a courtesy. Horses are my love and my duty. If you can ride well, you will find a dragon an easier job.”

  Ileth wasn’t the sort who pointed out irony, but she could appreciate it. She’d rarely seen a man who looked more draconic. With his close-cropped hair and angular features, he seemed designed to cut through air easily, and he oiled his skin so it gleamed like polished scale. He also took very good care of his teeth.

  The Horse brought up and introduced his wingmen. Ileth liked the way he moved: gently, gracefully. She hadn’t met many men who’d make good dragon-dancers, but she believed he could do it. “What do you think, lads, should I give them the good news, the bad news, or the worse news?”

  “The bad,” an apprentice near Ileth said.

  The Horse inclined his head. “I didn’t speak to you. Wingman Surrim, take this apprentice over to the Beehive and run him from the Catch Basin to the lighthouse. Encourage him if he falters.”

  “Yes, sir!” the wingman said, pulling a short, flexible speed-whip from his belt. He cracked it, loudly enough to startle the whole lot. The apprentice who had spoken up rose to his feet and was trotted out of the hippodrome with the wingman running lightly at his heels, whip dangling. “Here’s your bad news, apprentice. You’re running all the way there,” he said on his way out.

  “Can they whip us?” the girl with the spectacles whispered. “The Matron said they couldn’t whip us.”

  “Give them the good news, sir,” the remaining wingman said.

  “The good news,” the Horse said, turning back to his new lot with an easygoing smile. “The good news is my lots of apprentices have the best record of being promoted to wingman once they have earned, and you will earn it, their green sash. Look up the rolls in the archives at your leisure. The bad news is I lose about half of them before they get their green sash. Some leave, some request other duties, I even had one die on me. Unsoundness of the heart or blood vessels, the physikers said. But that’s what I do, I sniff out weaknesses. The gods didn’t give me these nostrils for show.”

  Ileth, considering him, decided that his nostrils were bigger than most, or maybe it was just the angle they were set at in his nose.

  The Horse stepped over to the end where Quith, Ileth, and the ’67 girl with the lenses sat. “Girls in Horse Lot. One-two-three! You’ll find my nose doesn’t make special allowances.”

  He lost interest in them and paced back to the center of the hippodrome.

  “Do you all mark my attire? This is a fatigue tunic. They’re simple to make. I have some material and thread in the stable workshop. You’ll spend the rest of your morning making them for yourselves.”

  He led them over to the workshop where Ileth had been for the pile-in. Folded towers of felt were arranged on a tack table, along with sewing instruments, razors, shears, measuring tapes, and so on.

  They set to work. Ileth and the girl with the lenses both copied Quith’s actions. She was clearly the handiest at the sewing table, after they watched the way she arrayed her instruments and fabric.

  One of the apprentices said that he was willing to measure and cut, but sewing a hem was women’s work, he’d never picked up a needle in his life. The Horse told him that he would do the sewing for the three girls, even if he had to stay up all night to do so.

  Ileth gladly handed over her measured-and-cut cloth. She’d had enough mending in the Lodge to last her until her gray years.

  The simple sewing was mostly finished by breakfast. He brought them as a group—save for the apprentice who had to sew the three extra tunics, who missed his meal—to the Great Hall for breakfast, lined them up by height, and then had them sit down to eat in that order. Some of the wingmen elbowed each other as the Horse led them in and put them in line for their food.

  They sat in the same height order. Ileth would have rather been next to Quith; the boy she had on her left ate with his elbows wide out, and the one on her right looked shocked when she didn’t give him her toast to have with his porridge, as he wanted extra. She was jealous of the girl with spectacles. She was smallish and had a seat on the end where she could shift down a little and give herself space.

  The apprentice they’d left to finish the extra tunics had disappeared, the unfinished sewing thrown on the floor with a dirty and distinct footprint stamped on it. “You’ll have to finish on your own, it appears another apprentice has left us,” the Horse said. He assigned a wingman to supervise and had the rest get into their new tunics, hanging their clothing in unused stalls. Then he passed out leather girdles such as workmen and some soldiers wore. He instructed the girls on how to wrap scrap leather around their waists and secure it with horse lead-lines, as there weren’t any work girdles sized fo
r them.

  “Any former cobbler’s apprentice here who can fashion a girdle?” one of the wingmen asked. No one responded.

  Ileth looked over her half-done tunic. What sewing had been done was started badly, but by putting the girl with spectacles—Finila—on pulling out the bad they finished and were dressed in the work clothes by the time the Serpentine changed the gate-watch at midmorning. Their wingman took them out the gate.

  “I’m sure to get red,” Quith said, eyeing the sun, alone in the sky without even a wisp of cloud for company.

  “Rub some m-mud on your face and shoulders,” Ileth suggested. Finila looked horrified.

  The wingman led them around the bay, going steadily up until they reached something Ileth had heard about but never visited—the quarry. It was a limestone cut, partially washed by artesian springs that fed down into the Skylake. At the bottom of the quarry lay a pile of limestone cut into bricks. The Horse and his wingmen had arranged the lot into a chain designed to pass stone up out of the cut to a growing pile on the trail they’d just ascended.

  “Do we have to use picks and things?” Quith asked, looking at her hands.

  “No,” the wingman said. “Cutting limestone—it’s a skill. You need experience and judgment. Some cutters from Vyenn do that. We’ll just be hauling it down to the Serpentine.”

  The Horse trotted up the limestone chain, surveyed the mass of more or less brick-shaped stones, and looked at the attire of his three girls. “Good. You’re here just in time to start the mid-meal. We’ll need to eat. Go back to the Serpentine and get bread, milk, and honey for thirty. Pickled eggs, too, if they have some. We have cups and such here for water.”

  There was nothing to do but obey. They hiked back, asked the chief of the Great Hall for baskets with the mid-meal, and returned loaded with food. Ileth carried a great jug of milk in front, balanced by a wicker basket with bread strapped on her back. Quith carried the pickled eggs, and Finila the honey and some cheese the cooks thoughtfully included when they heard the Horse had his lot at quarry work. Quith complained the whole way of the weight of the glass jug. Ileth switched with her, but Quith only carried the milk twenty paces or so before groaning and demanding the eggs back. Ileth enjoyed the new respect in Quith’s eyes as they hauled the meal up the mountainside.