Though weary, Ileth wondered at that order. Did it reflect how hard it was to part an applicant from their household? And she felt a minor flutter at the use of the word consort. She knew they existed, but she’d never met a professional consort. Just amateurs. How many apprentice-aged youths even had such associations?
“Yes, I am aware of the Academy’s rules.” Santeel Dun Troot turned to her servant. “Falth, thank you.” She walked back down the stairs at a careful, measured pace. “I was hoping they’d at least shelter you until dawn.”
“Oh, no matter, miss.” Ileth wanted to rub herself against his soothing tone like a cat; she couldn’t recall ever hearing such a melodious voice. Falth handed over a beautifully woven tapestry that had been turned into a clasped bag with a leather shoulder strap. “I would hang that cloak to dry first and then beat the mud loose. Who knows what sort of laundry they have here.”
“Never mind the cloak. You get a good room at the inn. Sleep in. Stay tomorrow night too, with plenty to eat and drink in between. Bring in the local doctor if you have stiffness, you might need a liniment. Don’t even think about what Mother would say about the expense. You’ve earned it after all this.”
“I’m sure I will be fine. You’d best be off. He’s waiting for you at the door.” Falth was too well bred to point with anything but his chin, but the gesture toward the door couldn’t be mistaken.
Santeel Dun Troot cleared her throat. “Please, Falth, some of those things I said to you over . . . well, I didn’t mean them. Forgive me.”
“I don’t remember anything to forgive, miss. I was busy coping with that dreadful mud.”
“Still, it was wrong of me to speak that way, whether you say you heard anything or not.”
“Thank you, miss. Eyes ahead, not behind, as your father says. Good luck to you at your examination. I’m sure you’ll do the Name Dun Troot credit.”
Said Name took a deep breath and hurried up the steps, clutching her fine bag with straining fingers. The door shut and a bolt slid home.
So easy, with a Name and letter.
Falth took out a fine handkerchief and wiped his face. He looked at the soil that came off with distaste. “Now why couldn’t all this have been handled at the gate? You must apply at the door. Dragoneers. Fah. I suppose they just fly in. Who needs a proper path for that?” He resettled his own, smaller traveling bag across his back and only then looked down at Ileth.
“Aren’t you cold, out here in the wind?”
Ileth just nodded. It was better than stuttering.
“You’re not pennymonging, obviously. Are you an applicant?”
This time she paused for a moment before nodding. The admission made her miserable.
Falth stepped up to the door and peeked about the edges, showing a lightness of foot and a grace that surprised her in such a stout man.
“You must be about her age. If they do let you in,” Falth said, his voice measured to just overcome the wind, “I’m sure the Dun Troot family would be most grateful for news, especially if she isn’t doing her utmost. It’s important, supremely important, to her mother and father that she at least earn her apprentice sash. They would be intensely interested if anything stands in the way of that, either in her behavior or in the actions of others. Can you write?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be willing to be a friend to the Name Dun Troot inside the Serpentine?”
Ileth tried to clear the fatigue and disappointment from her mind. What was he after? Better yet, what was he offering? She’d be no use to the Name Dun Troot sitting outside the shabby red door.
“Why—Why me?”
Falth smiled a practiced smile. He waved his hand at the doorstep as if to say, Behold! All the choices I have, rank upon rank of them!
“Maybe if we’d arrived with the others when the gate was open I would have made the offer to another. You’re a northern girl by accent. You northern types don’t accept commissions lightly and are generally reliable once your promise is dragged out of you. And forgive me if I tread heavily, but someone of your age and sex who has found her way here on her own and is quietly sitting in the dark and the wet must have a certain amount of wit and will. More than one boy on his way to the Serpentine has found himself waylaid and forcibly joined to a bargeman’s crew or a mine or a lumber camp. As for girls—well, either you are too innocent to understand the risks you’ve run or you’ve lived in the world and anything I might add would just be insulting to the courage that brought you this far.”
She shrugged in reply. Handy gesture: citified enough to show that she wasn’t just out of the sheep pens, yet noncommittal. The Captain found shrugs objectionable—he liked direct answers in a firm voice—and she was still fresh enough out of his Lodge for its use to thrill her.
“I’ve not m-much hope of being admitted, sir.”
Falth extracted a purse and scriptbook from a hidden recess in his cloak.
She held out her hand. “I won’t be paid to spy on someone.”
“I wasn’t going to. The friendship of the Name Dun Troot can’t be counted in coin such that I’d carry. I have three preaddressed, taxed, and carriage-paid packets. You’ll find ample blank space for any message you wish to write; simply fold them back up as you found them and seal with whatever candle is handy. Three in case one goes amiss. I shall reply with other blanks. Write me in charcoal if you can’t get a quill and ink. But do write.”
“Even charcoal pencils cost,” Ileth said. He’d identified her as a northerner; she might as well act the part.
“I can offer you something more valuable than a few figs.[1] I’ve spent some time learning what I can of the dragoneers and their ways. I’ll offer you my intelligence for yours. The better your intelligence, the better my replies will be. I may even be able to help get you on the other side of that shabby little privy door up there, in exchange for your promise.”
She gulped. “You—You—You have my promise. My name is Ileth, of the Freesand on the North Coast. I will post you those three bulletins.”
He handed them over to her with a distinct bow of his head—but his head only. Still, the novelty of having a full-grown man make even a perfunctory obeisance gave her a tingle. She felt oddly heartened. If she did make it into the Serpentine, she’d receive such compliments as a matter of course. From the mannered, that is.
He leaned close, his voice a reassuring caress. “Then here is my intelligence: you never know what the dragoneers will consider as a test or illustration of one’s character. Always act as though you are being examined by a jury.” He gestured at the wall above with his chin, much in the same manner he’d directed his charge.
Ileth glanced up. All she saw was the Guard above, a silhouette with that vaguely fore-and-aft-rigged hat of the dragoneers. The sentry didn’t appear to be making any effort to listen to what they were saying, or even watch the interplay between man and girl.
Falth read the confusion that must have crept over her face and continued: “I’ll give you an example: there was one of your age, an apprentice by the name of Sabian, traveling with a pair of dragoneers and their dragons in the Hierophant’s War. They operated out of some small mountainside cave above the tree line in the Ludium, I suppose, as that’s the only range of that height in that war. As usual, while one dragoneer scouted the area, the other hunted until they had sufficient game for a hearty meal for the dragons—dragons must be well fed to fight properly, I’m sure you know—and they left Sabian to dress the game and hang it properly. Their commission went badly. Both dragoneers were killed, one of the dragons was grounded, and in the following efforts to come to the aid of the injured dragon everyone simply forgot about the cave and Sabian.
1
The Republic’s smallest coin depicts a fig tree and its fruit. The first luxury-good commerce with the miners and trappers who explored and settled the region was in dried figs and preserves, as fig trees would not grow in the Vales.