“I don’t know that I possess an education of much use to a human here, beyond teaching you Drakine,” the Lodger said. “You can’t dance all the time, and it’s something to keep me awake. You’d find it useful if you wish to build a life here.”
She’d been told to learn Drakine if she could, and she eagerly accepted.
Learning Drakine often led to talks about other subjects. He recited, from memory, a list of books and compilations of old scrolls he wanted her to read, and she turned it in to the Mistress of Chambers, who was in overall charge of meeting the dragons’ needs. Two or three volumes appeared almost immediately, available at the Serpentine’s small library, and a bookshop in Vyenn supplied one other, though where the funds for its purchase came from Ileth didn’t know. The rest would require some expertise in finding and the project had to be shelved (literally; the Master of Novices put her reading list on his bookshelf with a promise to write a friend of his in Asposis who knew some of the old libraries there). She had more than she had time to read in any case.
Ottavia alarmed her briefly just before the Feast of Follies by calling her in for an interview. Ileth went up, fearing that she’d be removed from duty with the Lodger now that he was on the mend. It turned out that Ottavia was equally relieved by their talk, because she had what she thought was the bad news that the Mistress of Chambers thought it would be best if the Lodger had company through the winter at least. The physiker hadn’t liked the sound he heard when he put an ear to his chest and listened to him breathe. He worried about the old dragon’s health and wanted to make sure he stayed active and engaged. Ottavia thought it was strange, the Cellars business; old or badly hurt dragons were generally sent off to one of several locations for “pensioners,” as they were called, with plenty of fresh air and mountain sunshine. For some reason the Lodger stayed hidden in the Cellars and no one spoke his name. It was a mystery.
Ileth was only too happy to agree to continue attending the dragon she increasingly thought of as hers. He was the most unusual tutor one could imagine, but she wouldn’t trade him for the most famous sage in the Vales.
Ottavia finished the interview with good news. “Oh, and a parcel arrived for you. If I read the posthouse legend it comes all the way from Sammerdam.”
Ileth thought it would be a book from the Lodger’s list, but Ottavia handed her a wooden box about the size of a loaf of bread. Someone had been in a hurry to get it to her—there were wings stamped on the labeling from the posthouse and the final destination of the Serpentine. It had gone by dragon courier.
That was most strange, and a very expensive way to send a gift, as she understood such things.
Ileth borrowed a knife from Ottavia and managed to work it open in the privacy of her own sleeping area. With mounting excitement, as it certainly didn’t look as if there were books within, she extracted the object and removed the old, lightly oily rags protecting it.
The box contained a music box. It was carved out of something that reminded her of whalebone, with a design of moon and stars on the lid.
She showed it to Ottavia, who identified both the material—ivory—and the tune it played, “Dance of the Fireflies.” Ottavia, something of an expert on music boxes, pronounced it exceptionally fine and pointed out that it had two wind-up keys, allowing the owner to play the tune at two different tempos, slow and solemn or fast and twinkling.
There was no note enclosed, no token that might give away who had sent it to her. She wanted to ask Ottavia how much she thought it was worth but sensed that crass subjects like the price of a gift were beyond discussion for Ottavia’s class of person. So she had to speculate in silence. It drove her to distraction.
She thought about the timing. The most likely candidate was Rapoto; his family had money and perhaps he felt as though he owed her some kind of restitution for being turned out of the Manor. She wondered if she could let it drop that she’d received an expensive gift next time she saw Santeel or Quith at the Great Hall and gauge their reactions.
The music box played a lovely tune at either tempo, and she danced to both for the Lodger. She used the slower tempo for drills and fatigues—the Lodger showed an equal interest in those as he did in pure dancing—and the lighter, quicker tune for a variation on a dance they’d rehearsed for the Feast of Follies. It was still missing something, though.
In happier news, Peak and the others were due to return on the eve of the feast. They’d been much delayed by encore performances, social invitations, sketches by artists who wished to imitate Risso Heem Tyr, and the inevitable problems of travel as fall gave over to winter.
Outside the Cellars, preparations for the Feast of Follies were under way, and they chatted about the feast. It was the one feast day that did not have a regular and predictable spot on the calendar. It was reserved for a warm spell in late fall. North of the Notch in the Vales you didn’t always get a final taste of summer after the equinox, but south of it there was almost always a reliable span of balmy warmth that gave the citizens one last chance to gather outside. For summer to come after fall seemed folly, thus the name.
This year in Vyenn and the Serpentine, the date had been settled on by the Masters and a quick in-town jury of the guild heads and an innkeeper’s wife who had a sixteen-year run of predicting the weather and having it not rain on the feast day she selected.
On the Serpentine, it would take place on the Long Bridge, which would have every available lantern and candle strung between the existing lamp stations, oiled to burn all night. Tables would be spread out in the shelter of the Pillar Rocks just in case (the innkeeper’s wife’s run would have to end sooner or later) with food to be served by the Masters and dragoneers instead of the usual workhorses of the Serpentine, the novices and apprentices.
It was one of the highlights of the year, especially for novices and apprentices, who for once had nothing to do in the feasting. Ottavia put her heart into it, especially as it would be a farewell performance for two of her veteran dancers.
Ileth had her own set of worries. By tradition you appeared at the Feast of Follies in a costume representing some bit of foolishness, ideally that you wished to be rid of, but she had no money for the purchase of odds and ends. She took her problem to Ottavia, as she was expected to perform with the others in costume.
“I’d be happy to help you if you wish to create a costume. As Charge I’m handling drinks. Small beer, courtesy of the Serpentine and the fishermen’s guild.”
“I’ve never attended a costume party,” Ileth admitted.
“They’re fun. This is the only one the Serpentine holds. But the tradition is a mote confusing,” Ottavia said. “You’re from the north and I don’t think it’s much celebrated up there. No? Well, you wear a costume that’s supposed to evoke a folly. The problem is, some celebrants wear one they wish to indulge, and others wear one they’d like to be rid of. It can be confusing. Pride, for instance. Lust is always popular at both ends. Ignorance, profligacy, it seems like there’s no end to them.”