She could just see a fringe of light around a mountainous cone of rock that sat astride the peninsula. She imagined it must come from the famous lighthouse.
As she searched the landscape, motion caught her eye. A dragon passed overhead, a high shadow, mostly wings and tail. The familiar thrill she always experienced when seeing one of the great, rare beasts warmed her like a hot drink.
The dragon passed directly over the Serpentine and began a long, sweeping turn, riding the wind with the grace of a petrel despite its size. The darkness obscured its color. It dropped from sight behind the fortress. A whistle trilled from the fortress. Its long blast cut through the stiff wind remarkably well, then two quick shrieking hoots that sounded metallic and mechanical. She wondered what two blasts of a whistle meant when a dragon came in for a landing.
Faint, shouted orders came over the wall. It must have landed. She wished she were on the other side again, not because she’d be fed, or dry, but just so she could watch a dragon come in for a landing and see the people attend to it. She wanted to watch its wings fold, its tail curl as it settled so the rider could dismount, then hear it speak to the staff.
She imagined the activity of the dragon’s landing. Too bad there were no trees on the peninsula, so she could climb one and look over the wall.
“I’m going out, blast you,” and a sudden clatter broke her thoughts.
A youth made mostly of arms and legs threw open the door and exploded into the night next to her. He made it to the bottom of the stairs and continued going down even though the stairs stopped, sinking first to his knees before he went on all fours. He gave a great doglike heave and the contents of his stomach struck the little landing with a splat!
Ileth’s empty stomach gave an upward lurch in sympathy.
The youth rocked back on his haunches and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his rough work shirt. He wore loose-fitting canvas clothing that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the sailors of her own northern coastline, right down to the loop-and-peg that you could use to close the collar tight. If she’d greeted him at the Captain’s Lodge she would have taken him for a young visiting shipmate. He had a plain white sash wound about his waist and tied tight, which sailors didn’t, and he lacked the various rings and bracers and even tattoos sailors often wore to record their travels and adventures.
“Are you all-all right?” she asked. In her concern for him the words flowed out easily enough.
He didn’t seem to hear her for a moment, then slowly turned his head.
“I ask myself that more and more,” he said.
She was rehearsing words again when a coughing fit struck.
“And you, are you all right?” he said in turn. He stood and, stepping toward her, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket (a sailor wouldn’t have a pocket handkerchief either), glanced at it and thought better of it, and shoved it back into his clothing.
She stood and backed away a step. “Best keep away. Might pass it to you,” she stammered, and half willed up another cough as if to illustrate her illness. Everyone knew coughs could be passed around like gossip. Most homes in the Freesand had a little space in the rafters for the ill, up sick was how it was usually phrased.
“Mine’s not contagious. It’s from the dragon. Me and a mate had to bring his ale-draft. Auguriscious always wants a whole hogshead when he comes in from a flight. Most dragons take a little wine now and then, but he’s the only one I’ve ever met that likes beer. He burped it back right into my face. What a reek. I’ve been here two years and I’m still not used to it.”
Ileth gave him an encouraging nod and smile.
“They rag me about it. Call me Tosser.”
He had an interesting face. The two halves didn’t quite match.
“That bad?” she managed to say, before a cough caught up with her.
“Like fish guts and rotten eggs. They burn this sort of gunk in the Beehive, but that just adds a sweet overlay to the smell.”
“Oliban,” she said, the word popping out easily. She was proud she knew it. “It’s . . . boiled down tree sap.”
“You been around it?”
“No, just heard about it some-somewhere,” she said. “Never sm-smelled it. I just know its origin . . . it comes from certain coasts. Deserts. Something—about fog a lot of the time and dry air the rest.” All the talk brought on another coughing fit.
“Are you all right?”
“I stutter. Or the . . . the w-word won’t . . . come.”
“Oh, of course. My father does that a bit too. Especially when he’s nervous, or when he’s tired.”
She nodded.
The youth smiled. “You are a student of dragons? Is your father a learned man? We get visitors, men of the sciences, here sometimes.”
She shook her head. “Here as an applicant.” She showed him the placard.
“Haven’t they . . . They’re—oh. I see now. Came too late?”
She nodded in reply.
“I heard at dinner there was an applicant girl who came late, all by herself. That’s you, I take it?”
She just smiled and shrugged in reply.
“Long trip?”
“Twelve d-days, about. Got lost m-more than once.”
“What, all on your own?”
She nodded.
“A girl your age? You’re a credit to your father’s name. From the north? You sound northern.”
“The coast, north of Stavanzer. The Freesand.”
“Ah. I’m from the other end. Practically under the Antonine Falls.”
“What do you do here?”
“I’m trying to become a dragoneer, same as you. Applied. Noviced. Made apprentice last year. Who are your people? Uthrons?”
“Never met one. I’m of . . . of no name.”
“Oh. Didn’t mean to offend. Thought you weren’t offering your name since no one introduced us, so I just assumed—I’m Yael Duskirk.” He bowed, looking uncomfortable.
“Ileth,” she said, bobbing in the quick manner she’d been taught from childhood.
“My people aren’t much of a Name either. My father was in the Auxiliaries and had been about dragons a bit there. Until he got a septic wound and they had to take his leg off above the knee. So he was out, but losing that leg more or less got me in here with a letter. Now Mother’s hoping I can distinguish the family in such a way that we’ll be the Heem Duskirks, or even the Dun Duskirks. Though really, titles don’t count for much inside the Serpentine. People think they’re all aristocratic throwbacks, but they’re not. I’ve given orders to men with a Vor in their name. There are exceptions, but they prove the rule.”