Galia nodded. “And I had to jump in to keep her from being stabbed through the belly.”
Santeel glared at Galia and turned to Ileth. “Is it true, what your Charge said about the dancers? You, uh, perspire all the time.”
Ileth nodded.
“That’s the idea,” Rapoto said. “The dragons enjoy the sweaty smell. It’s their job to stink. I don’t mean stink. You know what I mean, Ileth.”
“Stink is the word for it,” Ileth said.
“Doesn’t it make you feel uncomfortable?” Santeel asked. “Clammy? I would think you would faint. I have an aunt who faints just getting out of a carriage and walking across the courtyard on a hot day.”
“We wrap up whenever we aren’t dancing,” Ileth said. “She m-makes us drink. She has this salty vinegar concoction she gets from the kitchens that they use for the pickled eggs. We drink it between drills.”
“That girl with the thick black hair, Peak, can certainly spin,” Rapoto said, shrugging off Santeel and stepping up to Ileth. “If I ever get a free morning, I’d like to watch you rehearse. Is that allowed? I mean, you’re in the middle of the Wall of Mirrors and the dragons hang over you.”
“We get the grooms up all the time. Cooks. Or dragoneers, even. We’re used to it. Wh-Which reminds me. That roasting pig smells d-delicious. I must—”
“Allow me to get you a plate,” Rapoto said. Santeel glared at Ileth.
“Thank you,” Ileth said. “But—”
Rapoto hurried off before she could stammer out anything after but.
“I thought you dancers never ate,” Santeel said.
“Not at all. They put us practically n-n-next to the kitchens because we’re always eating.”
“The dragon kitchens? I saw them on my first tour. You must have strong stomachs.” Santeel looked up and down. “What are you, anyway, Ileth? Resolving not to accept charity anymore? It can’t be putting a price on your virtue, that’s too obvious. That would be like selling a swayback horse that’s already been—”
“She’s greed, Dun Troot,” Galia said.
“Doing away with greed.”
“Greed? What do you have to be greedy about? You haven’t anything to your name but a secondhand silver whistle, if you haven’t sold it, that is.”
“Someone sent me a nice music box. Ivory. It p-p-plays at two tempos.”
Santeel looked thoughtful. “It certainly wasn’t me. No card with it?”
“No.”
Santeel started to turn her head toward Rapoto but instead smiled at Ileth. “Well, tra-la-la, a music box. How nice. Your costume looks well sewn, anyway. Clever about using those coins, draw the eyes when you move. It’s simple but well done, Ileth.”
“This is my first Feast of Follies, so I thought I’d s-start with an easy one. Oh, still have the-the-the whistle.” She pulled it out of her costume. “I promise to blow it if your Rapoto tries to kiss me again.”
Ileth regretted the speech at once. Santeel looked authentically hurt. She’d been trying to be nice with the compliment on her costume. Unlike Galia, Ileth was inclined to believe her talk about duty to the Republic. There was no reason a rich girl couldn’t be as patriotic as a poor one.
“We have a lot of people from town this time,” Galia said.
Talk turned to the music and the size of the crowd. They looked up at the dragons—there were four up on the rocks and little natural ledges in the Beehive, watching the festivities—and tested themselves on their names; Ileth used her improving Drakine to help Santeel on the pronunciation by way of making amends. Santeel only got one right, Telemiron, Charge Deklamp’s dragon, whom the applicants had met while Ileth was waiting out on the doorstep.
A mass of barbecued pig with Rapoto somewhere behind appeared.
“Left some for the rest of us, I trust,” Galia said.
“You bid good-bye to the folly once your costume comes off, I hope?” Ileth said, setting down the platter on the wide railing of the Long Bridge.
“Rapoto, have you heard about Ileth’s music box?” Santeel asked quickly. “I wonder who could have sent her such a wonderful gift.”
He denied any knowledge but seemed impressed that someone had sent for it all the way from Sammerdam.
“Maybe it was the grateful staff of the Catch Basin,” Galia said.
They sampled the roast.
This led to a short argument over whether greed covered food as well, or if that was solely gluttony’s territory. Ileth said no, Galia yes. Santeel supported Ileth, as if to rub her republican convictions in Galia’s face.
Ileth understood little about politics, but it evidently caused some sort of enmity between Santeel and Galia. She’d been out of the Manor for weeks and weeks now. They might have argued about the use of a hairbrush for all she knew. In the Freesand nobody talked politics; they mostly talked about fish, lobsters, and oyster beds, and the depredations of the Rari on the north side of the bay. Politics belonged to the rarefied air of the Governors and the Assembly, and no one Ileth had ever known spent any time talking about them.
Santeel moved Rapoto off to another group, this one containing a few apprentice friends of his.
“She’s like a dragon on a bullock,” Galia said, watching Santeel point out details of her costume to the other apprentices, still tight on Rapoto’s arm.
“Santeel doesn’t like losing,” Ileth said. “Toenail clippers, boys . . .”
Which reminded Galia, who told the story of Santeel’s nail clippers being found hidden in the bedding of the novice from her room who snored loudly. Santeel accused her of being a thief, the girl denied it, and Quith pointed out that it was odd that the snorer would steal toenail clippers and then not clip her nails with them, as both her hands and feet needed attention. The affair ended with the return of the small scissors and the snoring girl being removed to a corner of the attic where she wouldn’t bother anyone.
“I can’t believe she’d t-try to get someone dismissed.”
Galia shook her head. “I can. I know her kind. She’ll take a ride or two on a dragon, get a pretty sash she can trot out on the patriotic holidays, maybe ride dragonback down the Sammerdam Archway in the Declaration Day Review, and ride off on a pensioner dragon on her wedding day while people toss flowers. The Masters will run her through here like a twig washed down a drain spout. Entered, apprenticed, a few fun rides, and passed on to a husband. Her dragonriding stories will be the highlight of the high priestess’s teas.”
Ileth danced once more, an informal encore with the musicians, who’d continued playing all through the feast. She didn’t drink anything but water. Not even the punches or ciders; she wasn’t sure she could trust them. Many of the feasters were already feeling their drink.
A few of the girls from the Manor embraced her and congratulated her on the dancing. The Manor seemed so long ago. Increasingly, her life felt like it was divided between getting to know the Lodger and everything else. She’d come to the Serpentine with a girl’s fantasies about riding dragons, swooping around temple towers and scattering herds of sheep or peering straight down onto a whale’s back as it blew at the surface. What she found was something like a master who could tell her about ages no living human eyes had seen. About higher ideals. The ancient troth between dragon and dragoneer. The sorts of things that were the reason men like Hael Dun Huss served his people and land.
She couldn’t wait to tell the Lodger about the evening, so she hurried down to the Cellars as soon as she was able. He’d be asleep, probably. Perhaps she’d curl up just outside his room so they could talk as soon as he woke.