“Aren’t you cold, out here in the wind?”
Ileth just nodded. It was better than stuttering.
“You’re not pennymonging, obviously. Are you an applicant?”
This time she paused for a moment before nodding. The admission made her miserable.
Falth stepped up to the door and peeked about the edges, showing a lightness of foot and a grace that surprised her in such a stout man.
“You must be about her age. If they do let you in,” Falth said, his voice measured to just overcome the wind, “I’m sure the Dun Troot family would be most grateful for news, especially if she isn’t doing her utmost. It’s important, supremely important, to her mother and father that she at least earn her apprentice sash. They would be intensely interested if anything stands in the way of that, either in her behavior or in the actions of others. Can you write?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be willing to be a friend to the Name Dun Troot inside the Serpentine?”
Ileth tried to clear the fatigue and disappointment from her mind. What was he after? Better yet, what was he offering? She’d be no use to the Name Dun Troot sitting outside the shabby red door.
“Why—Why me?”
Falth smiled a practiced smile. He waved his hand at the doorstep as if to say, Behold! All the choices I have, rank upon rank of them!
“Maybe if we’d arrived with the others when the gate was open I would have made the offer to another. You’re a northern girl by accent. You northern types don’t accept commissions lightly and are generally reliable once your promise is dragged out of you. And forgive me if I tread heavily, but someone of your age and sex who has found her way here on her own and is quietly sitting in the dark and the wet must have a certain amount of wit and will. More than one boy on his way to the Serpentine has found himself waylaid and forcibly joined to a bargeman’s crew or a mine or a lumber camp. As for girls—well, either you are too innocent to understand the risks you’ve run or you’ve lived in the world and anything I might add would just be insulting to the courage that brought you this far.”
She shrugged in reply. Handy gesture: citified enough to show that she wasn’t just out of the sheep pens, yet noncommittal. The Captain found shrugs objectionable—he liked direct answers in a firm voice—and she was still fresh enough out of his Lodge for its use to thrill her.
“I’ve not m-much hope of being admitted, sir.”
Falth extracted a purse and scriptbook from a hidden recess in his cloak.
She held out her hand. “I won’t be paid to spy on someone.”
“I wasn’t going to. The friendship of the Name Dun Troot can’t be counted in coin such that I’d carry. I have three preaddressed, taxed, and carriage-paid packets. You’ll find ample blank space for any message you wish to write; simply fold them back up as you found them and seal with whatever candle is handy. Three in case one goes amiss. I shall reply with other blanks. Write me in charcoal if you can’t get a quill and ink. But do write.”
“Even charcoal pencils cost,” Ileth said. He’d identified her as a northerner; she might as well act the part.
“I can offer you something more valuable than a few figs.* I’ve spent some time learning what I can of the dragoneers and their ways. I’ll offer you my intelligence for yours. The better your intelligence, the better my replies will be. I may even be able to help get you on the other side of that shabby little privy door up there, in exchange for your promise.”
She gulped. “You—You—You have my promise. My name is Ileth, of the Freesand on the North Coast. I will post you those three bulletins.”
He handed them over to her with a distinct bow of his head—but his head only. Still, the novelty of having a full-grown man make even a perfunctory obeisance gave her a tingle. She felt oddly heartened. If she did make it into the Serpentine, she’d receive such compliments as a matter of course. From the mannered, that is.
He leaned close, his voice a reassuring caress. “Then here is my intelligence: you never know what the dragoneers will consider as a test or illustration of one’s character. Always act as though you are being examined by a jury.” He gestured at the wall above with his chin, much in the same manner he’d directed his charge.
Ileth glanced up. All she saw was the Guard above, a silhouette with that vaguely fore-and-aft-rigged hat of the dragoneers. The sentry didn’t appear to be making any effort to listen to what they were saying, or even watch the interplay between man and girl.
Falth read the confusion that must have crept over her face and continued: “I’ll give you an example: there was one of your age, an apprentice by the name of Sabian, traveling with a pair of dragoneers and their dragons in the Hierophant’s War. They operated out of some small mountainside cave above the tree line in the Ludium, I suppose, as that’s the only range of that height in that war. As usual, while one dragoneer scouted the area, the other hunted until they had sufficient game for a hearty meal for the dragons—dragons must be well fed to fight properly, I’m sure you know—and they left Sabian to dress the game and hang it properly. Their commission went badly. Both dragoneers were killed, one of the dragons was grounded, and in the following efforts to come to the aid of the injured dragon everyone simply forgot about the cave and Sabian.
“The war dragged on and the dragon who hadn’t been injured remembered Sabian. At the first chance he flew to the cave with his new dragoneer. Sabian was still there, after a fashion. They found him seated just outside the cave, frozen like a winter pumpkin, with his still-cocked crossbow across his lap.”
Falth shuddered in the light of the little gas-flame.
“Sabian could have abandoned the cave and found his way back to people, sheltered in a monastery or whatever you find in those mountains until some sort of accommodation was reached and he could be returned to the Serpentine, but he stayed at his post. The Dragoneers have made sure Sabian will never be forgotten again. They commissioned a statue from Therace Apitmothees himself—do you know the man’s work?”
Ileth indicated she didn’t with a shake of her head.
“Well, he’s been dead longer than you’ve been alive now, but even then, his work commanded immense sums. Sabian’s Vigil it’s called. Based on how they found him. It’s in the Serpentine somewhere, I believe. I should think you’ll hear the story if you ever get inside. The point is, Sabian was given orders, and whatever happened to him—I suppose starvation and the cold are the most likely explanations—happened because he’d been given a commission and died rather than fail in his duty. Thought it might give you heart for whatever the Fates have placed on your road, Ileth.”
“I don’t—I don’t see how this helps me. I’m not even inside yet.”