Motion at the base of the stairs roused her back to wakefulness as though she’d heard the Captain’s heavy boots. She blinked crud out of her eyes and shielded them so the light from the little gas-flame didn’t spoil her vision.
A short, fat man in a thick sheepskin vest and a muddy overcoat was leading another girl of her age behind him, tied together about the waist like mountaineers. The girl was in a heavy boat cloak and looked as though she’d been caught in a mudslide, making Ileth feel a little better about her own bedraggled appearance. The girl was saying something about the gate but stopped as soon as she caught sight of Ileth. The short, fat man straightened and let out a long, relieved breath.
“Appearances, miss. We’re here,” the man said, wheezing as he untied the line from the girl’s waist before stepping out of his own much wider loop. The Captain would have offered a few blistering words over the condition of the rope and the knots.
The girl tossed the line away in the manner of one used to discarding tools for which she had no more use.
Ileth doubted their last meal was a handful of berries from the roadside. They both looked like hot breakfasts with a choice of honey or fruit mash.
The girl had a face that was mostly chin and cheekbones, with the deadly sort of prettiness of an ornate dagger. Her outer eyebrows were subtly shaped and ended with something like pen art, the way a manuscript illuminator might add an artful flourish to the beginning and end of a letter. Ileth idly wondered what it would be like to spend an hour having art drawn at the edge of each eye.
“Another miracle,” the new girl said in an urbane accent. “Thank you, Falth. Mother chose well when she named you to see this through.”
“You’re very kind, miss. I hope if you write her an account of your trip, you’ll repeat that.”
“I’ll begin it with that, Falth, and mention it again as a postscript.” Ileth marked the girl’s tight-clenched hands. She was human enough to be anxious, then.
“I’m sure—” the servant began.
“I’m sure I want to get under a roof.”
Obviously a Name, that one. Ileth was northern-bred and had seen only one city, and that from a distance, but she’d still lived in the world enough to tell a Sammerdam hothouse tulip from a pasture-wall morningeye.
The servant moved to help his charge up the stairs to the threshold, but she waved him off. “Stairs I can manage.”
The Name gave Ileth just long enough of a stare to categorize her as nothing having to do with the fortress. “I suppose you want to clean my boots and dry my cloak.”
“Boots are—Boots are my specialty, miss,” Ileth said.
The Name offered a tired smirk. “Here’s a suggestion, meant kindly: at least get up off the ground when conversing. You’ll find yourself with more work if you exhibit some manners.”
Ileth didn’t mind the correction. She was relieved not to be asked about her stutter, for once.
With that business concluded, the Name reached up and tapped the dragon-scale knocker. It amplified her genteel rap admirably.
“State your business,” the raspy voice said, so alike to her own attempt at the red door that it might have come from her memory.
“Santeel Dun Troot, arriving,” the servant Falth announced.
“Has she a letter of introduction?”
“It was sent and accepted this spring,” Falth said, displaying a sort of folded letter-and-envelope in one with a wax seal and a bit of ribbon.
The young woman dropped her heavy cowl. The doll-like arrangement of hair and lace collar stole Ileth’s breath. Her skin was a ceramic white. Straight hair powdered white save for two black strands descending either cheek framed her face from precise bangs, as though serving as no purpose other than a frame for the chalky complexion untouched by dirt or weather.
The Name made a little dip of an obeisance to the unseen presence on the other side of the red door.
It occurred to her that perhaps she should have played the part of casual servant better as the bolt slid open. Once within the fortress, she might get a chance to join the other would-be dragoneers.
“You’re welcome to the Serpentine, applicant,” the warden said. Ileth leaned a bit but couldn’t make out more than a shadowy shape thanks to the glare of the gas-light. “No guardians, consorts, companions, tutors, servants, or pets, though. Your man will have to leave you here.”
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.