by E. E. Knight
“I don’t know social dances well enough to lead.”
“Well, you should choose as a partner then one who would carry you through on the skill of his lead.”
With that he took her by both hands and began saying, in a musical fashion, “aaand-beat-beat-beat aaand beat-beat-beat” while first pulling her toward him, then pushing away as he stepped away, then crossing one arm over the other and twirling her, then breaking off one hand’s grip to step forward in parade, holding her hand and repeating the whole thing again “aaand-beat-beat-beat.”
Dancing there, on the hillside, with the horses nosing about in their feed bags and watching the humans curiously, she forgot about Raal and the coming campaign.
Astler finished and bowed, out of breath from dancing and verbally keeping time. “I think you must go, and you must make the Governor buy you a decent party dress,” he panted. “This will be your introduction to northern society, so you should look your best. Fifteen is the traditional age for an introduction dress, of course, but you’re a smallish sixteen so I doubt anyone will be the wiser.”
Ileth had just turned seventeen and had never owned a social dress of her choosing. What would it be like, to have one made by a seamstress to your size, rather than trying to improve on an overdress out of the slop bin?
“I should like to be there. I’m not promising anything about leading dances.”
“Then do I have at least the opening dance?”
“Some hero of the coming campaign might ask me. It’s very hard to turn down a brave man in his country’s uniform.”
“No one else knows about it. All part of my stratagem.”
“Maybe you should have taken a greater part in planning this campaign.”
“I would have, and would ensure its success, just so I can see you in a party dress.”
“I’ll tell the dragoneers that your mind is made up: we must have victory.”
Ileth still had enough of her religious upbringing to wonder if she wasn’t tempting the Celestials to send a disaster by spinning fantasies with blood still waiting to be shed. Astler turned to the nose-bagged horses, a new assurance in his step. “I feel different. Like I’m under a different will. It’s not some Galantine witchery, is it? A spell using your eyes?”
“The only thing Galantines do with their eyes is decorate them so that they might flutter them at their husbands when they’re ready for another baby.”
“Well, then flutter away. That’ll make my mother happy. Gandy wants me to set up with you, but all my mother cares is that I reestablish the family. Father so many children the gods will pant from breathing life into babies like they’ve run up a mountain.”
“You’re quite ahead of me, you and Gandy and your mother. Stop it, the lot of you.”
He swung up into his saddle. “We’d make a splendid couple. You, practically the Governor’s daughter, me the last male of my Name with all my family’s hopes resting on my shoulders, or perhaps I should say features farther down.”
“I’m beginning to think I should have slept with a mounting-hook that night I was in your room.”
“Those things that are half shepherd’s staff and half pry bar? I’m glad you didn’t. You still haven’t answered my question about the first dance.”
“I didn’t? The answer is yes. Don’t be surprised if you find your partner hiding at the very back where no one will notice her, however fine a dress it is.”
The horses weren’t happy about being in motion again, and Ileth sympathized; things felt too much in motion. Astler, the Governor and his ailing wife, secret papers with invisible writing for the dragoneers, and looming over it all the coming campaign. She resettled the scarf about her neck and wished she could be Gandy for a few days, with nothing to think about but matchmaking her cousin.
* * *
—
As they approached the Chalk Cuts, they were met by three provincial militia men roaming the tufted heather.
Astler recognized one of them.
“Militia been called up, Loak?”
Ileth decided they were still boys under the dirt and woodsmoke odor. “Astler Aftorn, it’s been some time. Good to meet you again.”
“You’ve picked a bad place to picnic,” an older militia man said, looking at their basket. “There’s plague in Yarth and Break Even Roads. They say it’s carried by bugs from the bog. Or is it rats that carry the bugs? It’s bad. Stavanzer ordered in some dragons to burn the swamps.”
“Yes, well, this young lady is actually a dragoneer and has a message from the Governor. I really need to see the Captain. Is it still Patkers?”
“Yes, but it’ll take hours to find him in this mess,” Loak said, looking around.
“She needs to get through.”
The older militia man scratched his chin. “Loak, as you know the young Aftorn gentleman, you take him to the Captain. Have to warn you, sir, you go past us and you could be subject to Republic Quarantine. The Quarantine Camp’s not the most comfortable place. You want to be sure to see your bed again, you turn back for the Sag now.”
“If you get quarantined it’ll lay your mother out,” another boy said.
Astler frowned. “I know.”
They found an officer of the militia pickets who passed them on to the Captain, who summoned a dragoneer with a red studded pauldron and dueling saber who turned out to be Roben, Falberrwrath’s dragoneer.
“Yeah, she’s one of us. Message from Governor Raal, you said, Ileth? May I see it?” He had several gold teeth, and they flashed as he spoke.
“Won’t do you much good, s-sir,” Ileth said, showing him the paper with the secret ink so that the others could not see.
“Ahh. Yes, I won’t fiddle with it. You may pass.”
The Captain of the militia also knew Astler and extended an invitation to dinner. Astler offered Ileth the use of the horse while she was in camp, but Ileth declined. “I know the distance and the landmarks now.”
They said a halting good-bye.
“It feels all wrong. It’s the woman who should be seeing the man off at the edge of an armed camp,” Astler said.
“It’s just some mosquitoes that need suppressing,” Ileth said with a wink. “I shan’t be involved.”
“Still. I feel upside down about it,” Astler said, taking her hands in his. “Be safe, Ileth. Don’t get . . . don’t get sick.”
If she were seeing him off at the edge of a camp, she would kiss him. She drew herself up to her full height, went up on her toes, and gave him a kiss that covered as much of his lips as her mouth allowed. She hoped she didn’t kiss him like a signpost.
The kiss didn’t make her swoon, or weak in the knees, or make her feel weightless. It did make her want another, however, and made her wonder what his arms would feel like about her.
“See you at Sag House,” she said. He looked shocked.
“Lucky boy,” Roben said. “She’s a rocket, that one.”
* * *
—
Roben escorted Ileth to the Chalk Cuts. She ignored his comments about her not being the only dragoneer sampling the local produce. A full dragoneer with a pauldron could say what he liked to a lowly apprentice. She consoled herself that not every man could be a Dun Huss, but Roben was supposed to be good in a fight.
At first, Ileth thought she’d become lost, as she couldn’t make out tents or campfires as she approached the white scars in the hillsides that must be the Chalk Cuts. The dragoneers had made good use of the many folds and furrows of the landscape to hide their tents. Her first clue that she was approaching an armed camp was the smell of cooking.
Then they broke out over a hill and saw tents scattered in the folds of the earth. Ileth marked dragons sheltering under great screens with cut brush tossed atop them and heard the clamor of work being done on wood and metal.
T
he expression spectacle and beat of war drifted through her thoughts as she followed Roben into the warrenlike camp, a mass of tented alleys and cut-brush pathways that already had her confused. What was going on in the Chalk Cuts was certainly a spectacle, most of it seeming to be related to feeding half the dragons of the Vales and the small army of men and animals in attendance to them. Even the local birds were getting in on the action, drawn to the piles of garbage.
The camp smelled of dragons. Roasting meat, tobacco, and sweating men were part of the odor, but it was mostly dragons.
She received more “oh, hullo, Ileths” and friendly nods than she ever had in the Serpentine. She wondered if it was her more distinguished attire or just the fact that very few of the Serpentine’s women and girls were in camp, making her stand out. She spotted Garella in the mix, smoking a pipe on a camp stool and content to direct an apprentice in filling a suspended stewpot, using the pipe-stem as a pointer, and a wingman she met on one of the paths informed her that Shatha and Fyth had been set up in an old shepherd’s hut.
“Falberrwrath is here?” Ileth asked Roben.
“Of course. Sleeping, mostly, which is why I’m walking the perimeter. I think he’d rather face war than his hatchlings.” Roben greeted a pair of wingmen walking the camp.
“Aurue?”
“Yes, this is his first campaign.”
Ileth would have to visit.
“There are some dragons you haven’t met, too,” Roben said. “The Auxiliaries are here with the Duke and Duchess.”
Ileth had read the names stitched on memorial victory banners hung up in the Great Hall. They were a mated pair. The Duke and Duchess went back to the Troth, or before it, back when humans didn’t use their actual names for whatever reason but called them by a Montangyan word. They were aged and no longer flew, or only could fly for a very short period, something like that. As they were both uncommonly fierce, they had gone off and joined the Auxiliaries. Or rather the Auxiliaries had grown up around them, as they were the original Auxiliary dragons.
Were they here just to cheer on old comrades? Annis Heem Strath’s estimate of the campaign to suppress the Rari called for flying dragons. Perhaps they were here just for advice, like veteran commanders who’d seen a hundred battlefields and could be trusted not to lose their heads.
“Who should I present the Governor’s letter to?”
“Watch the mud there, girl,” Roben said as they walked. “Garamoff’s in overall charge with the temporary rank of Captain-General, and doing a proper job of it. His chief of staff is your Dun Huss friend. You can give it to him, he’s in the middle of camp.” He pointed into a group of tents wrapped around the base of a low, chalky cliff. “I have to see what new messages and errands have piled up. You might want to put on your belt, apprentice.”
Ileth had brought her novice brooch and apprentice belt all this way, and forgotten to pin them on. Silly. She rectified her clothing. It didn’t look quite right on her Stavanzer-pattern overdress, but then she wasn’t quite part of the camp. Officially.
She asked directions, became lost, asked directions again, met someone as lost as she, then ran into one of the apprentices from Horse Lot who was here at the express request of a dragoneer because he was a northerner as well. He brought her to the tent of Hael Dun Huss.
The tent was about the size of a two-cow shed, strung in a circle around what she assumed was a central tentpole, tall enough for men to stand up inside. Once it had probably been whitish, but it was weathered and stained now. It had some sea grasses tied to the top so from a distance it might be mistaken for a chalky cut.
Grumbling and swearing came from within. She recognized the voice of Dun Huss’s wingman, Preece. “That’ll hold it.”
“Sir, it’s Ileth, may I enter?” she called.
“Ileth? Ileth, yes. Enter.”
She opened the tent. A dark figure hung there, arms out and reaching. She startled. Her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside and made sense of the patterns. Dun Huss had his flying rig hung up inside his tent on a crossbar. He was fitting armored bands and fine steel chain about it. She’d never seen his flying rig readied for battle, apart from the customary single pauldron identifying him as a full dragoneer.
“This is a welcome interruption,” Dun Huss said.
“Good to see you again, Ileth,” Preece said.
Her first duty was to hand over the letter from the Governor, so she did so, explaining the need for the hidden ink.
“At least he’s careful about keeping secrets,” Preece said.
“That is my impression as well,” Ileth said.
There was plenty of vinegar about the camp, of course, and Dun Huss wetted the paper lightly and the letters appeared, faint but legible.
“Governor Raal has put strict terms on your presence,” Dun Huss said, reading over the letter. “You’re to stay with the household at the Sag, visit the encampment only in your ordinary clothes, no uniform. You’re not to perform any hazardous duty. You’re not to dragon-dance. In the event of any fighting or the likelihood of fighting in the Headlands, you are to return immediately to Stesside. He wants the Captain-General’s word that you will be supervised to ensure that you abide by these rules.”
Securing Garamoff’s word wasn’t difficult; his tent was just around a set of bushes and a camp cooking-wain from Dun Huss’s. He glanced at the now-dry letter. “Eyes and ears, then. Well, I’m glad you convinced him, Ileth.” He turned to Dun Huss. “There’s plenty to do around camp that doesn’t involve breaking this. Ileth will be kept safe, but we won’t have her idle in the Raal family tradition.”
Ileth didn’t think that was quite fair; Raal was many things, but idle wasn’t one of them.
“There is the matter of her staying at the Sag,” Dun Huss said.
“We’ll have her go back once the thing gets under way.”
Dun Huss scratched a note on the Governor’s letter and handed it to Preece. “One for the archives, I suppose. Send him a letter saying that Ileth and his terms are accepted.”
Dun Huss smiled again. “Have your novice pin, Ileth?”
“Always, sir, I keep it on my sheath, right above my heart.”
“They gave you one of the nicer ones, I recall, symmetrical as an arrowhead. You really should show it off. The sunlight here is so bracing, I think it would catch it well.”
“Is that—”
“It’s not a uniform, or an apprentice sash, is it?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you should feel free to wear it. But better take off the sash.”
Ileth warmed as she pinned the bit of dragon scale on her breast. Ileth was glad she’d kept her novice pin. It was like her secret promise to herself that she was still of the Serpentine and not Raal’s “ward.” She felt suddenly lighter, knowing what to do.
They returned to Dun Huss’s tent. Ileth heard a sort of muffled metallic banging in the distance. She supposed it was some bit of blacksmithery taking place under a blanket to hide the noise.
Once back in his tent, Dun Huss looked around as if gauging if he could fit another folding sleeping pallet in the place. “Ileth, I am curious to hear the story of just how you engineered your return to us.”
“I can only explain the matter in p-private.”
Preece wrinkled his nose. “Ileth, we’re old campfire smoke.”
“It’s a . . . a feminine matter, Preece.”
“Oh.” He glanced at Dun Huss, who nodded.
“Find us some dinner. It’s about that time.”
“Sir,” Preece said, in the tone Ileth had learned was an acknowledgment of an order. He stepped out. A campaign camp was a good deal different from the Serpentine, Ileth was learning.
“How may I be of service, Ileth?”
She lowered her voice. “I don’t know what to do, really. It’s Gover
nor Raal. He says he’ll release me back to service in the Serpentine . . .”
“That’s good,” he said, covering the gap where she groped for words.
“He wants dragon blood,” she whispered. “Not for him. For his wife.”
“Ahh. Did you agree to supply him with some?”
“I said . . . I said I didn’t know how I’d manage it. But given that we’re expecting battle, I expected I could try. It was the only way he’d let me come.”
Dun Huss’s face tightened. “Follow me,” he said.
“Am I . . . am I . . .” Ileth almost cried.
“Heavens no, Ileth. I’m glad you took this trouble to me. I’d just like a few witnesses about while we decide what to do.”
“Witnesses?”
Dun Huss chuckled. “Don’t worry, you know them.”
* * *
—
Dun Huss found them in Dath Amrits’s crowded tent, playing cards. The Borderlander had set up his own camp within Amrits’s, as he had no wingmen and apprentices on staff to help him.
“Ileth, good to see you. Are you back?” Amrits asked, looking up from his hand.
“After a . . . after a fashion.”
“You know, Santeel never did let me see her in the dress I bought in that jade palace. How did she look in it?”
“Positively the part.”
The Borderlander nodded at her. His great sword hung from the peak of the tent like a warning. “Good, I need some help with Catherix. All the talk of mosquitoes and mites and rats has her convinced her scale’s infested.”
“Well, go scrape it, then,” Amrits said, throwing down his cards. “I’m tired of losing to you. How am I supposed to cut a figure in Stavanzer if you cheat me out of my money.”
“It’s not cheating! I’ve told you, over and over, that you mouth the card you draw half the time.”
