“Ileth only embarrasses her friends; she doesn’t desert them,” Galia said.
“That is unkind!” Dandas said, shooting Galia an accusing look. “We have poached your tea, Ileth of the Serpentine, but I’ve ordered a quarter-chest of the stuff for my cousin here and I shall restore the portion.”
“It’s . . . just tea, sir,” Ileth said.
“I’ve heard you republicans were . . . ahem . . . reluctant and judicious in your hospitality. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to steal anything away from you.”
The Galantine summer, all sun, stillness, and heat, came on in full. Whenever she and Galia said anything about the heat, the Baron’s family said that their guests didn’t know heat—the true heat was on the coast to the south, or in the islands. That was their response to most conversations about the weather—it was always worse somewhere else. To hear them talk, the Vales were a frozen wasteland of snowy mountain passes and avalanches.
Ileth continued flying beer to the plateau. As the summer baked on, they developed a system where they went once every six days. The one change to the system that had been developed by the Baron and his cousin in the north was that Fespanarax never had to fly empty kegs back. Wood was so scarce up there, it was used for shoring in the mining tunnels or turned into cooking charcoal. The Tentkeeper paid them for the barrels instead, and the Baron allocated the precisely weighted silver nuggets and dust to the cooper and the brewer in the village, who were enormously satisfied with the increased business.
The Tribe stayed in residence, grooming Fespanarax, with extra attentions on his flight days. Now and then one or two of them disappeared into town or left with a cart on one of their mysterious journeys, selling the potions and medications cast off by the dragon. Ileth thought it was profiting off superstition, but Fespanarax said there could be something to it, as in his father’s time dragon blood was still being drunk by people—with appalling results to humans or animals who made it a long practice. Fespanarax, more conversational now that he was eating silver every week, told her what he’d seen with his own eyes: jungle jaguars transformed into terrible striped creatures twice their usual size with a great round face gone white. They were set up in the Realm of a Thousand Princes (wherever that was) as holy temple guardians. Some escaped, and they appeared to be thriving.
From just about any other dragon she would have assumed she was being teased, but Fespanarax cared so little for what she or any other human thought of him, she decided it must be true.
“What happens to humans who drink dragon blood?”
“The first time, very little, except excellent health and vigor. That’s all, if you have it only once every few years. How long do humans live again? The ones I know all die young. Sixty or seventy years? Then say six or seven times over the course of your life. Insofar as I know in the Serpentine, they would have you drink it when you became a dragoneer, but I’m unsure if that tradition continues. I haven’t asked lately. If you drink it more than that—you don’t want to know.”
Even as Fespanarax grew more social, Ileth began to have doubts about the deliveries. The miners and their families lived in holes, their children went barefoot on a chilly plateau, everyone’s ribs were showing, and she was flying in not plump chickens or sides of pork but beer and spirits.
“If they would pay for pork pies for what they pay for drink, I would have you fly in pork pies,” the Tentkeeper said, who was now looking like someone was, in fact, flying in pork pies. Although she knew a great deal of beer could also fatten you, pigs in the Freesand were fed on the tailings from brewers and thrived on it. “It makes no difference to me. Beer and spirits are what they are willing to give over their silver for, so that is what I sell them.”
Ileth still felt a little guilty. Perhaps she could bring in some sugar candy for the children.
The Tentkeeper must have caught her smiling at the thought. “While I am on the subject of what they will pay money for, I have an offer for you.”
Ileth went suddenly wary. “Oh?” she said.
“I know you are a dancer. A good one, who performs for audiences. Audiences who pay.”
“Who told you that?”
“Your dragon.”
“I’ve never seen you talk to him!”
“It was two runs ago. You had to—the necessity.”
“Ah, yes.” There were filthy holes scattered about for such purposes. Perhaps, in time, the collective waste of the miners would build up the soil enough on the plateau for a few crops to grow.
“How does this concern him?”
“Oh, we were talking as men do. I swear he is not—you know what I mean to say. What do men ever talk about? Women! There aren’t enough up here. So he told me of your dancing and the bucket full of silver vits you earned.”
“I only dance for audiences of dragons.”
“Well, your dragon said otherwise. Take it up with him. When he told me you do it nearly naked, and with your youth and figure, I knew that you could make some extra silver. Not a great deal, but you never know. If it doesn’t work out, forget it ever happened. But if it does, you may buy yourself a new, modest dress to impress the Tightnecks. You need not be afraid. The dragon said he would be there.”
“Did he?” Ileth wondered if a dragon would feel a slap.
Ileth was in a foul mood the entire return trip. The dragon was already eating all the silver. She was flying for the exercise and the joy of it, so she didn’t mind, but for him to want to increase his haul by—well, it was a good thing he was a dragon with a thick hide.
Her mood, only somewhat mellowed by the free air and sunshine of the flight back, did not improve when she returned. The Baron waited for her.
As usual he ignored the purse for the moment. He had to take care of the courtesies before matters as distasteful as counting out coins could be addressed.
“I have some news for you, Ileth. I’m not sure if you will take it as good or bad.”
“More problems with the . . with the negotiations?”
“No, they are to return to the table this autumn. I expect the matter will be swiftly concluded now. This has to do with our arrangements. I want you to hear it from me rather than at the inn so you understand: I had to send the brewer’s son off to the islands, convicted and sentenced.”
“You were right. I’m . . . I’m not sure I understand,” Ileth said.
“You know, the brewer has been cheating me this whole time. I only found out because I was talking to the cooper about making barrels more cylindrical along the lines Fespanarax suggested. He showed me what it would cost, and I happened to see what he was charging the brewer for each cask. Something looked wrong about his figures. Well, the brewer has been doubling that in his accounts to me!”
“What—the brewer’s son was taking the difference?”
“No, the brewer. But I couldn’t send him to the islands, could I? Have the village inn, and our little concern, lose its source of ale? No, under Galantine law I am allowed to scapegoat—are you familiar with that concept?—a close family member for bloodless crimes. Hard for the son, but it’s not my fault I was being cheated. I’m glad you wouldn’t do anything like that, would you, Ileth? You’re not protected by our excellent Galantine law, just military custom and my own sense of hospitality. Though I do feel your Vales have cheated me a bit; I had the distinguished Heem Zwollen, and after he died they replaced him with someone who’s just a Dun, then I got these two girls for him, and now it’s just you. Not your fault, but you Vale folk deal sharp, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. I shouldn’t wonder wars start all the time.”