Novice Dragoneer

3

On the morning of the oathing ceremony, Ileth studied the long string of words the Matron placed in front of her. The others had already seen copies their first day in the Serpentine Academy, and again after the failed applicants were dismissed. This was Ileth’s first encounter with the words she was to speak. The dread of the ceremony unfolded from the paper and enveloped her like a burial shroud.

“M-M-Must I say it aloud?” she asked the Matron. “I could . . . sign it, with witnesses.”

The Matron thrust out her lips in disapproval. The expression looked oddly like one of her “sisters” at the Lodge when she imitated a kiss from her latest swain.

“Everyone here has spoken it, from the dragoneers on down, when they enrolled. If you’re going to be here, you’re going to speak it. Even the dragons swear in on the winds or the elements or their fire and water. But by the judgment they swear on something when they join.”

“Could I do it in private?”

“The rules here are the rules.” The Matron thrust the paper into Ileth’s hand and sent her out the door to join the others with something like a shove. “Be grateful the gods gave you a lovely morning for it.”

The Manor had a tall female apprentice whose duty it was to supervise the younger girls. Her name was Galia. She was watchful and confident and still in the dangerously poised manner of a perching hawk. Galia did not talk or flitter about much, which Ileth found refreshing.

Galia put them in line and walked them to the amphitheater. Ileth decided Galia was probably city-bred, as she nipped in and around others as though she’d been doing it since learning to walk. She cut her hair into bangs, an urban fashion that Ileth had been told dated back to Ancient Hypat. She also presented well in her brown uniform dress, since she’d had the time to properly alter it and remove the pilling.

The morning sun was already hot and the air unusually still. Ileth heard bells echoing up from Vyenn.

On she marched them, down into the quarrylike stone amphitheater. She paused them at a little canopy, where a Commonist priestess and her assistant dabbed them with mud under each eye and shook a wet, leafy birch branch over them, reciting some prayers in Hypatian as they were presented to her three at a time.

“Half of you will be gone by next year,” said a man holding a pair of painted mules, probably the priestess’s conveyance. He smiled, happy in his knowledge that so many of them would fail. They shuffled past, hands clasped to suppress the instinct to wipe the mud off their cheeks. “It’s only one in four for the boys,” he added.

Whatever ritual the boys had gone through, they had it worse. Their heads had been so closely cropped that almost nothing remained but a dusting of their original hair color, and their faces were streaked with mud and soot. The boys wore a sort of stablehand uniform of the same soap-faded oat color that might charitably be called “white.” They stood barefoot in patchy trousers that ended somewhat randomly. Some were practically wearing a child’s short pants; others had to roll up the cuffs to keep from stepping on them.

Her chambermates, one of whom was a moon-faced, friendly girl named Quith, said the boys underwent all sorts of humiliations in the first week before they were oathed in. In any case the boys, being the larger contingent, had several apprentices supervising them. They set about arranging them into ranks of ten according to their enrollment order, finally mixing the sexes.

Out on the stage, with an assembly of faces already in the audience and more showing up every minute, Ileth stood, acutely aware that she looked like a bad, last-place finisher in her thick, shapeless overdress at the end of the line of one hundred and nine novices. Their place in the lineup, the Master of Novices took pains to explain, had nothing to do with any kind of grading, it just happened to reflect the order in which their names had been entered on the official roll.

The Master of Novices, Galia, and a few male apprentices counted heads and faces. The new novices silently recited the oath, or double-checked against a printed paper copy. Many had been practicing since the first night they’d slept in the Serpentine.

The audience was formally attired, for the most part. Even Ileth, a newcomer, knew the rankings, from both common tales and her introduction to the Serpentine. The dragoneers were splendid in their velvet dress uniforms of gray and wine-red, high riding boots polished to a gleam, each with a sash for their sword-belt that matched their dragon’s color. Reds and golds predominated, but there were also greens, silvers, blacks, and a white. They were seated closest to the stage but mostly ignored the novices, calling out to comrades they hadn’t seen recently and talking as they waited. Above them, in little groups, were the wingmen, not full dragoneers but wearing the sash of one in black or red or gray, it seemed. Almost all wore swords; carrying arms marked one as a wingman, and some of the swords showed a good deal of pearl and gold at the hilt in defiance of republican simplicity. The wingmen acted as seconds to their dragoneers, flying in their place at need, acting as a pool of fliers for dragons who had not chosen to have a dragoneer, but otherwise supervising the conditioning and feeding of their dragoneer or their dragon. Then there were the apprentices in brown or blue or gray work clothes, rotating through the various specializations as servants who took care of meals, clothing, and tools, flying with them and learning their skills on all but the most dangerous of commissions. Most wore white sashes but there was a smattering of brilliant green, though whether this was some mark of achievement or just an indication that they could afford sammarind Ileth didn’t know. She searched out and marked Yael Duskirk up there in a plain shirt and brown coat. She tried to catch his eye, but he appeared to be watching Galia as she paced about behind the group of novices. Those few from the previous year’s group who were still novices lurked at the back, standing or sitting on the top stairs of the amphitheater, their white dragon-scale pins holding their work jackets closed at the neck.

On the “stage” to either side of them, in high-backed wooden chairs, were the Masters of the Serpentine, senior dragoneers who were no longer tasked to ride dragonback and now saw to the internal workings of the complex machine maintaining dragon and rider that was the Serpentine. Caseen, Master of Novices, sat right at the edge of the stage. As soon as Galia reported to him that all novices of the ’66 draft were present, he stood.

“Welcome, novices. I congratulate you on your achievements so far. But before your service to the Serpentine can begin, we must go through a formality. Perhaps you’ve heard that expression before, go through the formalities, probably as something that must be hurried through to get to a pleasure. For all of us fortunate enough to be a part of the Serpentine, this formality deserves respect, for it is a matter of life and death. You are about to be sworn in to the service of the Republic as protectors of the Vales, and through it our citizens, and to the company of the Serpentine, present or attending to their duties elsewhere. You were taught the oath but have not yet said it aloud to an audience. I hope you have committed the words to a place deeper than memory and considered their consequence.”

With that, they brought out the young dragon.

Ileth thought the dragon looked about as uncomfortable as she felt. It was a male, its scale the color of a brass mirror reflecting a roaring fire. The dragon’s back still had scar tissue visible under new scale where it had uncased its wings sometime in the last year. Perhaps the others had been told the significance of the young dragon to the ceremony while she was on her vigil outside the gate, but Ileth supposed the dragons wished to show that they took the formalities as seriously as the humans and sent a representative, young and new as the novices.

The first rank of ten was instructed to stand and place their right palm on their breast, their left set like a horizontal bar across the small of their back, head dead level and heels together. Some in the ranks behind surreptitiously tested the pose.

At a word from Caseen, the line of ten novices spoke their oath in unison, speaking toward the dragon and the audience. The lines of the oath broke up and came together as this or that novice stumbled over the words or forgot them until prompted. Ileth felt the sweat running down her back go cold and clammy as she agonized over the coming ordeal.

“I, _______________, affirm that I am free, understanding of the consequences, and fit in mind and body to take the following Oath: I, at the Serpentine, on the Midsummer of this, the two thousand nine hundred and sixty-sixth year of the Resolved Hypatian Calendar, promise to serve the Republic, its laws, its citizens, and its possessions. Every oathed dragoneer is my kin, irrespective of family, birth, or altar. I will treat each one and act at all times as though we are of the same Name. I swear I will respect the Serpentine’s best traditions and honor my superiors.

“I will exemplify our discipline and comradeship, proud of the trust those of this company have in me. I will display this pride in appearance, behavior, and speech, keeping myself and my quarters neat; continue my education, taking as example those who came before me; and pass my skills and knowledge on to those who follow behind, leaving the Serpentine better and stronger through my attention to duty. As one of the Republic’s assigns I will attend always to duty; keep well and respect those people, places, and tools necessary to carry out my commissions; and see to it that the dragons of the Serpentine are healthy, content, and certain of my dedication to their needs. Any commission or order lawfully given shall be my sacred duty to fulfill. I will adapt to any circumstance, obtain or improvise and use whatever resource required, and overcome any obstacle to accomplish the same, in the expectation of risk to everything but my honor. In fulfillment of those duties, I will respect the vanquished enemy and will never abandon the wounded or the dead, nor will I under any circumstances break the ancient troth between dragon and dragoneer.

“All this I swear on my honor without reservation or secret intent.”

The first rank, upon completion of the oath, was ordered to turn around, sit, and face the next row, looking up at them from a cross-legged position. Again, they fought through the words, sometimes together, sometimes a bit apart, and then turning, sitting, and listening to the next line.

Finally, the last rank came.

“I . . . Ileth, affirm-affirm that . . . I . . .” she began.

It was just as awful as she imagined.

The rest of her line finished before she was a third of the way through it, and on and on it went. She tried half reading from the Matron’s note and it didn’t help. She tried fixing on the undersized boy with the oversized name she’d met in Joai’s day kitchen. She sensed a restlessness in the audience; they were vague, out of focus, as though her eyes had willed themselves halfway blind. Her blood roared in her ears. Stinging sweat ran into her eyes, turning the audience into even more of a blur. She feared for a moment she’d faint out of sheer embarrassment.

“Of all the curses, we have an idiot,” Santeel Dun Troot, the third from last, muttered to the girl next to her as Ileth lurched through it.

“. . . w-without res-s-res-sa-reservation or s-s-s-se-se-secret intent,” she finished.

And with that, she broke, bending over and crying into her hands.

“Fffft, girl,” the boy next to her said. “It’s done. Straighten up.”

She took her mind off her embarrassment by considering the youth. His head was shaved clean. He must have arrived between Santeel’s and her admittance at the end of the testing. She didn’t remember seeing him arrive; perhaps he came in through the main gate.

She tried to blink away her tears. Cheeks glowing with shame, she wiped her eyes.

Galia and the male apprentices brought the novices to their feet and faced everyone toward the audience again. Ileth shuffled sideways, hiding behind a tall male novice as applause and a few cheers broke out.

The audience in the amphitheater rose and filed out, except for those who stayed to chat with friends, or because they had an interest in one of those onstage.

With that, they had to step forward, one by one, and give their name, year of birth, and place of birth for entry into the rolls. She was glad of the time to collect herself.

“Chest out, chin out,” the boy next to her said quietly, out of the side of his mouth. He had refined features and a restless manner, nervous and quick. He reminded her of a dog bred for running down rabbits. “You’re through it. Look happy.”

“Seal it, you two, the Master is watching,” Santeel Dun Troot, next to him and the third-to-last to have her name enrolled, whispered. Ileth’s Seal it must have been preemptive in nature, as she hadn’t said a word since she finished her oath. The Name flicked her delicate little chin toward the Master of Novices, who was looking at Ileth.

His countenance was unreadable. He was probably just as relieved as she was that the ceremony was over.

She looked up at the fine summer sky. It was a beautiful day. She was in the Serpentine. She was formally enrolled and oathed. She’d sworn herself to the Serpentine, and in a way the Serpentine had sworn itself to her. The Captain couldn’t touch her now, even if he had guessed her destination and attempted to retrieve her. She wondered how much bother he’d gone to over her desertion.

Each novice waited to sign their name on the enrollment. You were to write your name, then beneath it the exact date and place of your birth. By the time the quill came to her it didn’t take the ink well at all; it had been hastily recut at least twice. Santeel Dun Troot made a frustrated yip halfway through her signature and walked away with ink-smeared fingers.

The eastern boy before her was named Zante, born in Vallas, the same birth year as hers, she read.

It was her turn. Writing she could do easily enough.

As she bent and wrote, she felt a prod. Santeel had tried to clean the ink from her finger by discreetly wiping it on Ileth as she asked Zante polite questions about what his father did. Ileth didn’t have to bite her lip; staying silent at an insult came naturally to her. She did, however, make something of a show of turning the roster to Master Caseen when she finished. He scattered a little drying-powder on the fresh ink.

Well, everyone would blame the worn-down pen for her terrible script. Her signature and origin didn’t look much worse than that of Santeel Dun Troot, who’d left an awkward fingerprint on her famous Name. Though Santeel had done a better job with the width of her lines, thicker on the up and down and the curves and thinner right to left and at the inclines and declines, each letter elegantly drawn. She probably had had a tutor in penmanship.

With that, Caseen handed them their first badge of recognition, a little pin brooch fashioned out of a single white dragon scale. “From the Republic,” he said as he passed them out, but by the time Ileth received hers he was shortening it to the Republic. A tall dragoneer with a purple sash and pauldron, very good looking and clean-shaven, handed him the pins from a rich-looking jewelry case.

The brooch wasn’t nearly the size of an actual scale, more of a broken chip filed and shaped. Being organic, no two were quite alike, but all vaguely resembled an arrowhead, with an organic ridge running up from the point. The pin looked exceptionally sturdy. She examined the pin closely. It was a bit scratched up. Maybe novices who departed the Serpentine were forced to give theirs up and they were reused.

Their apprentices instructed them to wear it on the left breast where you could feel your heart beat. Ileth managed to pin hers on using just her left hand, keeping her right casually against her side.

And it was done. Galia quickly walked up and down the line and helped anyone having difficulty with their novice brooch, then led the girls up one of the sets of steps out of the amphitheater. One girl asked if she could wash her face and Galia said, “Not until sunset.”

“I’d no idea we were that desperate,” one of the dragoneers commented to his wingmen as Ileth stepped past him. He wore a bright red sash and an intimidating pauldron of bright, blood-red leather and brass on his sword arm’s shoulder.

The purplish-sashed dragoneer who’d helped hand out the brooches, who’d been following several paces behind Ileth, quickly stepped up and tapped the dragoneer across the back of his neck with the end of a heavy gauntlet. The purple-sashed man had obviously shaved in a hurry before the ceremony. There were three half-healed cuts on his face and neck.

The dragoneer whirled around at the tap, bristling. His wingmen squared up behind him.

“Set an example for a change, Roben,” the purple-sashed dragoneer said, in a low, musical voice, as calmly as if he’d been discussing the day’s sunshine.

“You’ll push me too far, one day,” the one he called Roben said. Roben had several gold teeth. “We’ll see which of us is sharper.”

Ileth felt the loom of someone near her. It was the apprentice, Galia. “What now, Ileth,” she said, exasperation hard in her voice, but fell silent when the purple-sash dragoneer motioned her to be still.

Galia moved to stand just behind the purple-sash dragoneer, putting her body between Roben and Ileth.

The dragoneer who had intervened for Ileth hooked his left thumb in his sword-belt and made a show of stroking his chin, smiling. “A threat? At a swearing-in? Roben, Roben, you forget yourself. Not that I blame you. The rest of us forget about you whenever we can.”

One of Roben’s wingmen made a step to move forward, but Roben stilled him with a gesture. “He’s right.” He turned to Ileth. “I am sorry, novice. It was wrong of me to think that, and saying it aloud requires me to beg the forgiveness of you and those who heard.” He quickly swept the surrounding faces with a glance. He raised his voice slightly, so all could hear: “Congratulations on your entry into the Serpentine. Know you’re of the company and welcome. Satisfied?”

The last was aimed at the purple-sashed dragoneer.

“At your service, sir,” the dragoneer said.

Roben and his companions moved on. The dragoneer watched them go, particularly the way they held their heads together, talking. Galia started to say something, but the dragoneer addressed Ileth.

“Congratulations, novice. I was silently calling for a grace on you the whole way. You reminded me of a sprained runner determined to cross the finish line. You must be the one who sat outside the door for five days, as you were the last on the rolls.”

Ileth nodded. “Th-Tha-Thank you, sir,” she said, instinctively making a girl’s obeisance.

“I’m Hael Dun Huss, dragoneer to Mnasmanus.”

He seemed to expect something in return. “Ileth, sir, applicant f-f-from the F-Freesand.”

“You’re a novice now. Your badge proves it, Ileth. Glad to see a northerner sworn in. There’s often too much of Sammerdam and Asposis in these walls.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said in a voice just above a whisper.

He finally turned to Galia. “Galia, good of you to come to the aid of your novice. Ileth, if no one else has told you, I will; Galia’s one of our finest apprentices. Watch her. Now it’s my turn to ask your forgiveness. Mnasmanus just had a long flight yesterday and I want to tend him.”

He hurried off, holding his sword so its sheath didn’t strike the legs of the others filing out.

Ileth assumed the dragoneer had shared that long and hard flight yesterday, but he didn’t mention it, or even look all that tired. An ideal dragoneer, right out of the poems and songs and tales. As she turned, she saw Galia watching the back of the dragoneer, with amazement, or something like it, in her eyes. Her lips silently formed words that might have been one of our finest.

Hael Dun Huss paid no more attention to the pair but continued on through the press, picking out other novices with a word or two about their homeland as he moved off to the bridge. She watched how well he maneuvered his sword, so the sheath didn’t strike anyone as he navigated the crowd. Odd how much easier she felt from just a few encouraging words. She wondered if there would be trouble between this Dun Huss and the gold-toothed Roben. What if they fought a duel? She knew men fought duels sometimes but knew nothing of the traditions and particulars—there must be questions, accusations, and agreements. Just what she needed in a strange new place. Suppose one of them was killed over her? They’d brought her in without trial; would they throw her out the same way?

No, her imagination was getting the better of her. She’d heard too many romantic tales. It was time to put away these little-girl fantasies.

Galia lined up her novices again. Ileth stepped lively to get behind the Dun Troot girl. “Next stop, the workshops,” the tall apprentice said. “You’ll all get your first work assignments and be issued whatever tools you need. Look after them. You’ll need to have your work clothes cinched and fitted by then, so we have a busy night of sewing ahead of us.”

She moved them off. Santeel Dun Troot decided to reposition her pin and Ileth plowed into her. “Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t your eyes work either?” Santeel asked. She turned away in a huff, her hair flying so that it lashed Ileth’s face.

They walked, the inky quill Ileth had been concealing in her right sleeve now firmly stuck at the back of Santeel’s overdress, just at the buttocks where it waved like a rooster’s tail as she walked.