Master Kess, the archivist who reminded Ileth of an old gray statue, pitted and weathered, must have been expecting her. He had her contract at hand and placed it on a reading table. You had to stand to read anything in the archives; Master Kess didn’t believe in indulgences such as chairs.
A pair of novices sweeping the floors and dusting moved off to give them privacy. Ileth took in the first page. She’d oathed herself in to the service of the Serpentine as a novice in her first days, and that oath held until she was no longer a dragoneer. Or she died. The apprenticeship contract was a formal promise from the Academy that she’d have a place here. She looked over the first words:
“I (lorca), the undersigned, understanding the consequences and proven ampetis azu releem, do attest in the presence of legal witness affixing seal . . .”
The Contract of Apprenticeship to the Academy of the Serpentine went on and on like that for a full page that was the size of a placard, in elaborate lettering with each thick-stroked black letter edged like a sword and cornered like a temple as though the whole weight of a civilization stood behind them. Mysterious Hypatian legalisms crawled through it like worms in a freshly turned spring field.
After she finished her study, silently buzzing over the arcane phraseology that meant nothing to her like a bee skipping over a weed to move on to the next flower, she raised her face to the archivist. “Done,” she said.
In the light of the reading lamp, the Master Archivist’s pockmarked face also looked fit for curses. “‘Done’ is a carefully chosen word. I can be ‘done’ reading a book or ‘done’ falling out of a tree.”
Ileth had a young lifetime of being careful with her words because they had such a tough time getting out properly.
“It looks worse than it is,” Kess’s apprentice said. He struck Ileth as fidgety, or perhaps he just seemed that way next to Kess, who stood like one of the old columns holding up the temple floor above. “It’s a fancy way of saying the Serpentine Academy will own you for the next six years.”
“You’re lucky, Ileth,” Kess said. “In the time when the man I apprenticed under was himself an apprentice, the contract was entirely in Hypatian. You had to be able to translate it to the archivist’s satisfaction to prove your education. That was before the Directory’s legal reform. These days even—ahem!—indifferently educated souls such as yourself are apprenticed here and we make allowance in deference to republican sensibilities. Not that the old lot were that much better. According to the way old Heem Halveth told it, half of them would memorize the translation until they had it down by rote. Seems to me it would be easier and more useful just to learn your Hypatian from a tutor as a boy.”
Ileth didn’t give a fig about his opinion of her education. She thought about men like Hael Dun Huss, standing here as a spotty teen, reading over the phrasing and wondering if he’d make a good apprentice. He’d probably stood right at this table. It was a great hunk of stone like an altar and seemed likely to have been here two thousand years ago, never mind fifteen or twenty.
“Shall I take you through it?” the apprentice asked. He kept glancing at and then looking away from the pins holding the scar shut around her eyebrow as his fingers fluttered nervously toward the contract. Ileth worried that he’d knock the inkwell over and spoil it.
Ileth nodded. She was also nervous, just better at hiding it. Her stutter would be bad if she spoke. She felt out of her depth in all the elaborate lettering and legalisms.
“Paragraph One, establishing the parties, their competence to make contracts, and the fact that this contract comes under Assembly Law and traditions of the old Diet, which is to be in effect in any and all Provinces, Districts, and Cantonments of the Republic should any matter relating to it arise. Paragraphs Two and Three, the Dragoneers and Dragons of the Serpentine being under General Commission from the Assembly to protect the citizens of the Republic, their property, mail, trade, and reputation, take on as an apprentice at the Academy you, established above, for a term of at least six years so that you may one day serve as a Dragoneer if so appointed. Paragraph Four, you promise to obey any and all lawful orders from any or all superiors according to the ranking and traditions of the Serpentine even at risk of your life, with you having the right to give evidence to a Jury of Honor if you believe one or more orders from a superior unlawfully jeopardizes the Republic or your honor. Paragraph Five, the Serpentine through its Academy will provide you with food and shelter and certain specific tools needed for your duties, and will issue any allowances, inheritances, or incomes as provided for according to terms originally arranged by family, commission, or contract for the purchase of uniforms, arms, and other necessities. Paragraph Six, you shall have the Apprentice Password allowing you through any gates and doors of the Serpentine according to their practices of curfew, holiday, and mercy-leave . . .”
He droned on through the other fifteen paragraphs, the rest being legalisms about priestly rights at burial and storage of property, assorted dooms that would befall her if she deserted, disobeyed orders, or intentionally caused harm to the dragons (the apprentice said that while the word intentionally didn’t appear in the contract, in every case of an actual jury being assembled regarding harm to a dragon, intention figured largely in the arguments so it was traditionally considered an element of the contract, and therefore he added it), and finally added that in the event of a state of war, the contract would be considered extended until such time as peace was reestablished or the Republic had no further need of her and issued a written release.
“We usually still have the apprentice read the final paragraph aloud before signing,” Kess said. “But if you’d rather not, I understand.”
Kess had been present when she’d been sworn in as a novice, when they had to read off their oath. The entire assembly of dragoneers and apprentices had witnessed her embarrassing, stuttering performance.
“I’ll—read it s-silently,” she said. She felt the weight of the moment. She enjoyed the sensation, something like the feeling of a good tool in your hand and a challenging job ahead.
Ileth wondered if anyone backed out at the last moment. Probably very few. Only those who’d lasted through a novice year (or more, in her case), where you could be thrown out for minor infractions or just judged unsuitable for service with the Dragoneers, were offered an apprenticeship. She traced it with her finger as she read:
Knowing the consequences of this action, on my honor I pledge myself, in body and mind, to the Dragoneers of the Serpentine, the Dragons they serve, and our Republic that they jointly protect.
She signed. Just the name Ileth seemed inadequate, but the only additions to her name were from the Galantine aristocracy and wouldn’t do for a document of the Vales and its Republic.
“Better add your place of birth,” Kess said.
That was another problem. She wasn’t at all sure of the circumstances of her birth. But she’d grown up in a lodge in the Freesand, the coastal area of the North Province, so she added of the Freesand.