The volcano drew her interest and occupied her mind as they approached. It steamed, but the prevailing winds carried the vapors off to the northeast, over Baron Blue Heron’s lands. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of planted fields near the volcano, and she soon saw why—there were ash clouds falling. The volcano gave off a steady series of belches and tossed about rocks now and then—she could see one now, rolling down an ashy slope, sending smaller rocks on its journey with it.
“Tricky things,” Fespanarax said. “Don’t believe the legends about dragons being born from them. I’d just as soon stay well away.”
He added a name in Drakine that she knew to be a place. Ileth had never heard any of those legends, of volcanoes giving birth to dragons or this other unknown word that gave birth to it. Which gave her a thought.
Their first stop was an old posthouse.
The posthouse was in disrepair—part of the roof had fallen in and there were cracks everywhere in the masonry. It looked like there had once been constant repairs to it, but now they left well enough alone.
The Baron Blue Heron’s man met them. He had two cases of ceramic jugs with stoppers and wax seals. Ileth helped him tie the ardent spirits behind her saddle. There did seem to be some kind of diggings at the volcano.
“They look for ore with silver that others have missed,” the agent told her when she asked. “It is not as futile as you think. There are often quakes. Sometimes silver nuggets even turn up. There are silver veins all through these mountains, but mining is hard because of the earthquakes.”
Ileth asked him about the miners on the plateau. He said they found silver at a slow but steady rate. Few got rich quickly.
“But once or twice a month, there is a big silver find. A few times a year, someone becomes rich and returns home to buy land or a business or found a mine elsewhere—that hope keeps them up on that hell-in-the-sky.”
While she made to remount, Fespanarax was lively and talkative in anticipation of some delicious silver, so she decided to ask him.
“Now that . . . now that I’m thinking of it, Fespanarax, what does vhanesh luss mean?”
She had to repeat it twice more, her pronunciation of Old Drakine was so bad.
“If I’m hearing you correctly, which I’m not sure of, it means more sun. More light might be the closer meaning in Montangyan. Where did you pick up Old Drakine?”
“Can’t remember, quite,” Ileth said. “In the Serpentine, anyway.”
“Well, I hardly expected you to hear it in whatever kennel bred you.”
“Ah. Well, let’s go seek some more light. The kind that shines off silver.” Fespanarax was so pleased with that he let out a prrrum like a gigantic cat. Then it was up to the plateau.
Ileth didn’t know what she expected to find, but the mining colony reminded her more of a giant colony of scattered gopher or rabbit holes, with bits of canvas stretched to shelter those who set up housekeeping just outside their holes. Not much would grow, as it was cold and dry. Her improved-by-reading vocabulary settled on desolate.
There were perhaps two hundred miners, she guessed, and an indeterminate number of women and children, dwelling among their holes and rain-catchers. According to the agent at the old posthouse, the women allowed life to exist on the plateau. They would make the daylong trek to a market some distance below (on the Baron’s side of the mountains, as it was considered more safe from the volcano), spend the night there, and bear a week’s worth of supplies back up, plus a little charcoal and whatever else might be most needed. They worked out schedules and rotations and somehow scraped out an existence. It seemed bleak to Ileth, but the children played happily enough among the piles of tailings and she heard laughter and songs from the women.
The dragon made a stir. Children who’d been digging with broken bits of tool jumped up, left their works, and came to see Fespanarax land.
It was unusual to see so many bearded Galantines in a land where the men were generally clean-shaven or wore artfully trimmed mustaches. Then the wind hit her face as she came around the dragon’s side.
They had been right. It was cold up here. Ileth wondered how the Galantines stood it. None of them were dressed in anything like her riding rig, mostly rough vests and cylindrical wool hats with flaps that came down over the ears.
They met a big man in an apron who also wore a Galantine-style collar under his fleshy jowls. She’d been told he was the Tentkeeper and would take the beer delivery and give the agreed-upon silver, if the count was correct. He and a pair of associates carefully removed the kegs, spirits, and sloshing goatskins and placed them where Fespanarax could keep an eye on them.
The Tentkeeper tapped the beer barrels suspiciously and inspected the seals on the bottles. He stuck a reed through the main stitched closure on one of the goatskins and sucked out some wine. He smiled as if at an old memory and tied off the opening he’d just made. Only then did he hand over two rags tied with a broken old bootlace. One was much heavier than the other.
“Big for you. Small is cut for the Baron’s Tightneck waiting down below,” the Tentkeeper said. “Understand?”
Ileth nodded. She let Fespanarax sniff at the silver. When he was satisfied and his mouth was running with thick, clear liquid, she stepped to the saddle.
“Ready to return?” Ileth asked the dragon, back in the saddle with her safety lanyard on.
“What, and leave this garden-spot of the Baronies?”
The dragon trundled over to the edge of the cliff. A dragon’s steady gait ate up a fair amount of distance in a few moments. No wonder the Auxiliaries would gladly use a grounded dragon. Fespanarax didn’t even bother to ask her if she was ready when he jumped off the cliff.
Just to add to her thrill, he only opened his wings when they were three quarters of the way to an end upon the rocks at the base of the cliff. He whipped around and, still using the momentum of the dive, rode cliffside air currents toward the old posthouse.
“Feels good to be rid of those barrels!” the dragon called back to her. He came in for a neat landing in the field. The agent stood up from where he had been reclining on an old bench and hurried over.
“That was quick. That journey would take a strong man much of the day, up and down, with a tenth part of the load.”
Ileth handed over the smaller of the two pouches, as instructed. The agent tossed it in his hand speculatively, then concealed it in his undercoat.
Airborne again, and homeward bound with their silver.
“How much of that is mine?” Fespanarax asked in Montangyan.
“Our sh-share,” Ileth replied, “is about—about a third. To your health, Fespanarax.”
“That’s hardly a mouthful.”
“Well, you had some exercise, managed to leave the confines of Chapalaine, sharpened your wits on me, and have some silver. I’d say you came out well ahead on the b-bargain.”
A dizzying distance below, the Baron’s Green River began its journey to his lands. No wonder growth along its banks was so rich; it carried rich volcanic soil downstream.
They were back at Chapalaine in time for Ileth to interrupt a tea. Galia and Dandas, with Taf there as a chaperone, were all enjoying some of her small store.
“Just help yourselves,” Ileth said. “Taf, is your father at home? I have something I must give him.”
“Oh, he’s about,” Taf said. “I know he walked out twice to see if he could see your return. I think he suddenly grew afraid you’d just fly off.”