“Light,” the dragon called.
“I see them.”
“Blue light. Light it and keep it upright to let them know a courier is coming.”
“Uhhh—I don’t have blue lights.”
“Right,” the dragon said. She spat out a small gob of flame, waited a few wingbeats, then spat another, and another after that at similar intervals. They puffed out long before they reached the ground.
The moon had moved across the sky.
A sprinkling like tiny flowers in a burned field, the lakes and waterways about and running through Sammerdam reflected the moon. Far to the west was a faint smear of light. That had to be the Benthian Ocean. The Captain had never sailed on it, though some of his friends had.
The lights below resolved themselves into hundreds of little glitters, most of them emanating out from a shape that reminded her of a crab for some reason. It had seven legs, though, and two thick, uneven arms reaching around something octagonal and dark.
Vithleen circled down toward the dark thing, tipping her wings so she slipped toward the ground.
Ileth made out a vast plaza. In the center of the plaza, behind them, the giant building loomed. It was the tallest structure she’d ever seen save for the Beehive.
Vithleen set down in a great open plaza made up of what must have been a million cobblestones in front of a whitish building raised up off the cobblestones on a masonry mound, making it look like an old tooth in the lamplight. She had a horrible moment when she didn’t see the map tube with the vital white cylinder, but found it; she must have accidentally nudged it so it lay out of sight over the front lip of the saddle. She checked the catch. All was secure.
A team of six men hurried to take their places around the dragon. One of them held a lantern, lighting up Vithleen. The others were armed with pikehooks, save for one who cradled a long meteor, a weapon that instead of firing an arrowhead or bolt launched a lead bead by way of explosive dust.
Ileth took out the white tube, slid off, and patted the dragon’s neck as if she’d been carrying mail for years.
She’d been half considering confessing her status as a novice, but these huge, formidable-looking men made her cautious.
“The one with the brass buttons,” Vithleen said quietly, gesturing with her snout. “Give the express to him.”
Ileth looked around. A heavyset man with a thick, bristling mustache, a tunic closed by shining great buttons, and an even bigger buckle at his waist, carrying the lantern, looked at her expectantly. He saluted her, felt something amiss in the salute, and tucked back a shock of hair that poked out of his hat. Perhaps he’d been sleeping.
“Express,” she said.
“For—” Brass Buttons asked.
“I was taught that it’s . . . it’s impolite to examine others’ letters,” Ileth said.
Brass Buttons harrumphed, said, “Of course,” and studied the tube. “House Heem Roosvillem, better take it now. I’ll have those,” he said, taking the two heavy satchels. He expertly hooked their straps and hung them over his shoulder.
“Haven’t seen you before,” Brass Buttons said as he shouldered the bags.
She didn’t care how big he was; if he would be rude, she’d be rude right back. She had the honor of the dragoneers of the Serpentine to uphold. “No.”
He waited for an explanation, but when none came forth, he rubbed his mustache.
“As you’re new: there’s a warm bed in the backyard, right in the enclosure. The stove is lit. I’ll wake the old woman and send some soup. Tea is ready right now, or would you prefer an infusion? The escort will water the dragon. They’re used to her.”
She thanked him. She wasn’t sure where she stood, as a dragoneer-courier, with such officials. Vithleen, restless despite the long flight, eagerly moved off toward the back of the white building. She followed the dragon around an iron railing and over more cobblestones. A lonely-looking tree stood in the back in a little patch of garden with a stout block dome-roofed building that would have been one of the finest houses in the Freesand, but it was evidently a dragon stable. It stood with dragon-sized sliding doors open, an inviting orange glow from the stove within.
Vithleen settled down by the stove on a thick mat woven out of what looked like ship’s cable. Ileth looked around. There was no bed near the stove, but some sort of hinged panel was folded against the wall near where the stovepipe rose to the ceiling. She found a latch and opened it, and a shelf with rope webbing came down. It was rugged enough to hold six girls her size. She shrugged off the heavier parts of her flying rig, then warmed her muscles and stretched a little. Ottavia had repeated that it was when your muscles were most exhausted that you needed a quick stretch to keep them from seizing up on you in the night. With that done, she climbed in, putting her feet closer to the fire, grateful to be able to stretch out. It smelled a little greasy, but she was too tired to mind. In an instant she was asleep.
Light. A hand shook her awake.
“Why are you sleeping on the ham rack?” the young man who’d taken the express tube asked. “There’s a little apartment up the outside stair, you know. Bed, sheets, blanket.”
“Didn’t see it,” she yawned.
Vithleen was eating out of a wheelbarrow that looked like it had a detachable pan. Ileth smelled roasted pork.
“Your soup’s on the stove,” the post-assistant said. “Would you like bread? It’s yesterday’s, sorry.”
“Yes,” Ileth said, getting to her feet, sore from her ears to her toes. “Do you have a market nearby that is open yet? I need to bring back something special.”
“The markets of Sammerdam never really close. But yes, it’s a fine morning.”
“Here’s the thing—I left my p-purse behind at the Serpentine . . .”
“Umm—” the assistant said, “I don’t mean to—”
Vithleen looked up from her meal. “Oh, for my egg’s sake, put it to my keeping. Say I asked for it and put it to my account. For her first run, she’s not complained at all. She’s been up there like another parcel bag. Go and run get whatever she wants and if you’re not back by morning bells I’ll wing-whip you.”
Ileth gave him exact instructions and he hurried off with an apologetic bow to the dragon.
“Bureaucrats,” Vithleen huffed, watching him go.
“I don’t feel like I’ve slept at all,” Ileth yawned, wearily sniffing at the soup.
“We got in at the evil hours, so I’m not surprised.”
“I forgot to find you water.”
“There’s some in that lovely ceramic trough against the wall. The boys here filled it fresh.”
She washed up in the dragon trough, then drank—the water tasted a bit odd after her months with the clean mountain water of the Serpentine—and some more of the couriers came out with the inevitable bags, this time four of them.
“Rich city,” Vithleen said. “I vouch they just like the look of the wing stamp. Ohhh, look here, darling, the Heem Twits sent us an invitation by air courier . . . ”
The young assistant returned with her parcel. “Charged to the Serpentine’s account under Vithleen’s courier run,” he confirmed as he handed it to her.
Ileth thanked him, enjoying the fact that the young man was out of breath from his run to do a lodge-girl’s bidding, and stretched again before turning back to the dragon. “Do you need to settle your stomach before I tighten the girth again?” For some reason words came easier when she spoke to dragons. Her speech flowed almost evenly, with just a short halt now and then such as was usual in most people’s conversation. Curious.