Fespanarax lay in the center, on a thick bed of wood chips—well, larger than chips, bark and shards of wood that reminded her of the lumbering camps that harvested, and planted, and harvested again the tall straight pines that grew on the mountains in the frequent rain of the Freesand.
He was quite the largest dragon Ileth had seen to that date, bigger even than the Lodger (she’d always been told older dragons were larger; they kept growing like trees, albeit slowly after the first hundred years or so), but did not seem older than her ancient departed friend. His color was as unique as Mnasmanus’s purple, in this case a steely blue not that different from the spring-steel arms of a crossbow rubbed with an oily substance to protect it from the elements. He had something of an underbite. His chin jutted forth just a little ahead of his snout and the white teeth showed plain there. He had heavy, horny brows and it was hard to make out his eyes in the shadow underneath, but maybe it was just because he was gaunt from not eating as he should. There was something about the way his wings lay, spilling down his sides and partially on the ground, that suggested a dead bird.
“Sir, may I approach you?” Ileth said in her best voice.
The dragon’s jaws worked. She heard teeth grinding.
“Certainly, girl. You’re from the Serpentine. I can tell by your speech.” He didn’t bother to raise his head to speak to her.
Ileth came down from the edge of the seating gallery and started across the hippodrome. “My n-name is—”
“I don’t bother with names. When I address you, you’ll know it.”
“I’m a dragon dancer. The Master in Charge sent me here to attend to you.”
“Good of him. Thinking once in a while of those of us in durance vile. It would seem simpler to arrange a suitable exchange of prisoners, less trouble feeding mouths that aren’t doing much, but I suppose the Republic knows its business.”
“I haven’t done my drills yet this morning. May I?”
The dragon snorted. “Go about your business and I will go about mine.” He curled his head away and tucked it under his wing.
She cast about until she found a chair that she could use as a support for both her body and the music box. She draped her overdress on the chair and went to work warming up.
She kept at it most of the morning. Mnasmanus and the other dragons made room for each other about her, watching as they stripped the bones of their breakfast and noisily crunched them down.
Mnasmanus offered a comment now and then to the others, but in Drakine, and quietly enough Ileth couldn’t quite make it out. “You’re right,” Cunescious said to him in Montangyan, “not quite the same without proper costume. And the open air is taking all her scent.”
Fespanarax took it in but never raised his head, apathetic as a sick dog.
Tired, but the enjoyable sort of tired she experienced after dance, she returned to their “prison” and found Galia and Taf sitting on the floor of the sitting room together with a sea of clothing “talking” through pantomime as they held up items. The apparel had a stuffy, medicinal smell to it.
Taf jumped up. “It’s a rag party. Join us, Ileth. Sorry about the smell, it’s to keep out the moths.”
“A rag party?”
“Yes. I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but, well, I felt sorry for all of you last night. It’s one thing for the men of your Vales, I don’t believe they care about anything with their appearance as long as they’ve shaved their necks, but I know you two must have felt it very severely, coming into a house like Chapalaine in . . . I’m sure your attire is fine, perhaps necessary for the Vales and your mannish work, but, you know, families of our significance have a certain standard. I consulted Father and he agreed and we did a collection of some clothes from my mother, my aunts, and the older girls. Not fancy attire, plain as you like things in the Vales, which we wear for cooking or tending to the house or sewing or gardening. Father said nothing above your station and not to insult you. Have I insulted you?”
“No,” Ileth said, head swimming from all the Galantine. “It’s . . . appreciated.”
Ileth wondered if the remaining matters in the peace negotiations couldn’t be solved by putting Taf and Zusya in a room and deciding that whoever quit talking first would have to relinquish the claims still at hazard.
“I’m sweated through,” Ileth said to Galia in Montangyan. “I’ll have a wash first.”
Making similar excuses to Taf, she scrubbed herself quickly in the water-room with the flowery Galantine soap, which produced a fine lather but disappeared quickly, then dressed in her clean shirt and put on her overdress, which chose this moment to have a strap-button break again. The truth was, it didn’t fit her that well anymore and her muscles were strong enough from all the dancing to rupture the seams. She should join the rag party. After food.
She ate some good soft bread but wanted eggs, and they seemed to be out. She returned to Taf and Galia. They were back to pantomime—mostly.
“We’re playing Lovely and Hideous,” Taf said. “It’s the only two words in Galantine your friend knows, and I’m very proud of myself for beginning her education with them. We’re having great fun at Lovely and Hideous. Seems like that’s all we’ll need.”
“I am hungry. Are there any eggs left?”
Galia made a face. “Preece finished them off.”
“Is there a problem?” Taf asked.
“Just hunger,” Ileth said.
“There’s farina,” Taf said, jumping up and opening a crock filled with milk-colored grains. “Ever had it? Nothing like Galantine farina.”
“It’s porridge?” Ileth said.
“Yes. It’s the traditional first meal for a good Galantine baby. Once the babe eats its first farina, the mother and baby—if she’s still alive—get their congratulations from the extended family and neighbors and such. But we hold off on an introduction party until they’re four just to be on the safe side. As you know, a great deal can happen between taking solid food and four.”
Taf showed her how to make it, heating some milk on the stove. “It’s best with milk. I love it. When I have babies I’ll eat it with them. We give it to wet nurses, as much as they like, because their bodies are taxed so. I imagine dancing is similar.”
“You want lots of babies?”
“Why shouldn’t I? My own grandmother had eighteen that lived. Then she started young. She was married at fourteen and Father says he doesn’t want to hear the word swain until I’m sixteen and a half. Why the half? Maybe because it will be in summer and there are more parties. Still over a year away. People still get married at fifteen all the time, but Father says you need the extra year for more mature judgment. You only get to enjoy courting society once, so why rush it?”
“We must be near the same age,” Ileth said. Come to think of it, she would be turning fifteen. If someone had told her a year ago she’d be turning fifteen on a Galantine estate like Chapalaine—well, that could be said of a great many things.
“How interesting. How many did your mother have?”
“I grew up in an orphans’ . . . home.”
“Oh. How tragic. But you’ve triumphed despite that. I mean, riding dragons about. I thought only people like your gallant Dun Huss were allowed to do that.”