She didn’t hate it.
In truth, she was relieved to be given extra duties. She wouldn’t have cared if the Matron had ordered her to clean the privy with her only remaining sheath (the one she’d worn to the fight mysteriously disappeared from where it was soaking away the bloodstain in the washtub). She worked with such mind-numbing diligence that she had to return to the Matron and ask for more.
After dinner, Galia returned with news. A jury of Masters heard the evidence against Gorgantern. The physiker and Joai verified that she had been purposefully wounded after the whistle had blown. Galia and two others testified that he struck intending to kill. It was enough to burn Gorgantern’s career as thoroughly as if a dragon had spat fire upon him. Stripped of his tattered sash and put out the gate with rags tied around his feet because no footwear in the beggar’s bin would fit him, he left with a curse against a conspiracy to ruin him. The gate-watch said he took the road down to Vyenn.
That settled her mind.
While the others were bent over their night-work she made herself an infusion of tea and herbs and took it out into the garden. There was a bench against the back wall, well away from the privy, where you could just see the bay over the fortress wall—if it hadn’t been dark and overcast. Still, even without the view it was peaceful. She’d run a terrible risk and had Galia been a trifle slower she could be dead, instead of enjoying a quiet bench and her infusion.
The cup was hot in her hands and the chilly air felt delicious. It was a miracle to be alive. If the Captain himself had stomped up to the Manor door with dirty teeth glinting, she’d have bobbed and smiled and told him she missed running to refill his tankard and get a light for his pipe.
“How is your wound?” a voice called from the darkness.
Rapoto stood on the other side of an apology of a gate, askew on rusty hinges. Ileth was sure the Matron wanted it that way to better sound the alarm against male intruders.
“It’s nothing.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I live here. I should ask y-you, lurking in the-the dark outside a house full of . . . full of girls.”
He didn’t mind her trip-tongued sauce; in fact, he smiled. “Want to come away? I can offer you better than warm milk.”
“Against the rules.”
“Official business with the Master of Novices. Then a victor’s cup of something stimulating.”
“Stimulating?” She’d been amply stimulated for one day, coming within a missed stab of death. But Rapoto had the sort of face that put her in an agreeable mood.
“Oh, yes. Well, I hope. Interested in a pile-in?”
“A . . . a what?”
“A pile-in. Sort of an after-hours party. We apprentices still aren’t allowed out of the Serpentine without a gate pass at night. Since we can’t all get passes to town, we’re celebrating Gorgantern’s fall inside the walls. Complete the night if I could get you to join in to receive a toast.”
Ileth thought it odd that they’d celebrate one of their own being kicked out.
“She’d never let m-me attend.”
Rapoto waggled one of the tails of his knotted sash. “That’s where the official business comes in: I have a signed note calling for you from Caseen.”
Curiosity roused her. It must be important for Caseen to ask for her at night.
She sighed. “I suppose I must go with you.”
He turned up one corner of his mouth. “To the pile-in, as well?”
“I want to hear what he . . . what Master Caseen has to say, first.”
He found that amusing, though she didn’t see the humor. She found she liked it when he looked at her. Some men were easy to read. Venality often was. Rapoto looked at her attentively, like he was listening to a five-string well played. Appreciative, not appraising.
“C’mon. I was a novice for two years, or close to it, the last of my draft but one to make apprentice. Never had any fun at night the whole time.”
“Why ask me now instead of on the way?”
“Maybe you want to dress.”
“You’re looking at my-my-my best overdress. Also my w-worst.” She laughed, a little tiredly, and instantly regretted it. She disliked people who laughed at their own jests.
“No one is going to care. You are going to be talked about anyway. You might as well be there. I don’t think anyone believes me when I try to tell the truth of it. Galia will be there.”
Meeting some of the other apprentices could be advantageous. It couldn’t be that much of a violation if Galia was about; she was a stickler for rules and shifts and how things looked to the Masters. She’d like to hear some stories about what inspired an offer of apprenticeship. She’d learned the value of specific intelligence from Falth.
“I reserve the right to leave if I don’t like it,” she said, after a moment’s thought.
“You’re a strange one. I have to be seeing to the Masters’ Hall door lamps at the midnight bell anyway. Then I have to be back in that filthy hovel under the parapets. My family wouldn’t think it fit for their dogs. Signal me and I’ll make my excuses and walk you back.”
“They’ll . . . gossip,” she predicted.
“I don’t mind. Honestly, it’d feel safer with someone as fierce as you alongside after dark. Keep the gargoyles away.”
Ileth was washing her face when Rapoto showed up at the door.
She returned to the common room to see Santeel Dun Troot introducing Rapoto to the household. She looked pleased to be able to show him off.
There weren’t many visitors to the Manor with a Vor in their name, even among the moneyed and influential scions who were sent off to the Serpentine by their families.
“The Vor Claymasses are from Jotun, I understand,” the Matron said, taking charge of the guest as soon as she heard his full name.
“Most of them, sira,” Rapoto said.
“Do you have orchards?” Quith asked. “We would get barrels of these lovely Jotun apples yearly. Golden, stamped with a beautiful sort of two-tree insignia that formed a shield between.”
Rapoto’s face went blank. “Yes, that would be my family. My grandfather invented that type of apple.”
“How clever!” another novice said. “I didn’t know you could invent an apple. I thought they just grew.”
“It’s just as exciting as it sounds,” Rapoto said evenly. “We grow three different kinds. Each strain does best in different sorts of soil and weather.”
“Imagine that,” the Matron said.
“Which is your favorite?” Santeel asked.
“Depends. The Golden are flavorful and just a little sweet; that’s my favorite for eating. Quite reliable. The Green Crested make a good cider—or you can cook with them. The Huskies, they have a reddish-streaked patina and the quality varies depending on how dry a summer we had. Too wet or too dry and they end up going to the pigs. But if we get a fair summer, well, they’re like apple-flavored cake, then.”
Some of his audience made hungry noises. Oh, how I want to try one! I wonder if they have them in Vyenn? Would you tell us how to get them?
“I’m—ready,” Ileth said, having retrieved her old, reliable boots, suitable for walking in the dark.
“Excuse me, ladies. Thank you for your attention, sira,” he said to the Matron. Then he turned to his audience. “I regret leaving. I could talk apples all night. Apples apples apples.”