Chapter 17
ainfall sat in his reception hall with the tablets on his lap. “It’s a sacrifice, but one I’m prepared to make for our sake. Look on the words with me one last time, Wistala.”
The words may have been illustrious, but the reception hall wasn’t much. According to Rainfall, there’d once been a grand set of chairs and trophies in the form of helms, scabbards, and weapons belonging to his grandfather—all long since sold. Only his azure battle sash remained, draped behind the very ordinary chair that sat against the wall opposite the arched door, bereft of the gilding that had once adorned it.
But good light came in through the narrow windows. Yari-Tab protested as she was removed from the sunny ledge in preparation.
“Perhaps you should step into the attendant room, Wistala, until the dwarves have gone. I don’t want to startle our guests.”
Wistala hooked her sii claw in a wall knothole and pulled open the paneled door with a squeak. She closed it again, and found she could see much of the room admirably through the knothole.
“You may show them in now, Yeo Lessup,” Rainfall said.
The lanky boy, in a new suit of clothes and his first pair of attending slippers, raised his eyebrows in surprise at the use of his household title. He gave a little bow as he turned.
“Forstrel,” Rainfall said. “When at court, always finish your bow and then go about your business.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“No need for apologies. Please go about it properly, Yeo Lessup.”
This time the youth bowed and came fully upright before leaving.
Within moments, two dwarves entered the room. They wore riding apparel with long scarves woven into diamond patterns. Their faces were masked behind stiffened leather, with gauze covering their beards. They removed their hats and bowed. The foremost was a little taller and heavier than the one behind, and had golden coins set into his belt.
“Ah, couriers of Chartered Company,” Rainfall said from the humble chair. “I trust the funds sent were adequate for your appearance?”
“Yes, sir,” the foremost answered in easy Parl.
“Well here’s a Hypatian Silver for each of you anyway for being so prompt. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
The masks turned toward each other.
“The signs of the Diadem are not enough?” the foremost said. “We’ll show you our seals, if you like.”
“No need. It’s simply that I wish to be social.”
“Elgee and my nephew Embee, sir, and honored.”
“May I address you as such?” Rainfall asked.
“Of course, sir.”
“Elgee and Embee, this package and the accompanying letter must arrive at the Imperial Library at Thallia intact. Have you been there?”
“I know Thallia well, sir,” Elgee said.
“It is inherently of no great value, but impossible to replace. There should be no danger beyond the usual minor difficulties that go with travel. I would prefer that you go by land rather than water, for the winter winds are coming, and I should hate to lose it to shipwreck.”
“Some thanedoms welcome dwarves better than—,” the smaller one behind said.
Elgee stamped. “No need for that, lad. Sir, you have the word of couriers of the Diadem that it will arrive.”
“Give it to Heloise. If she no longer lives, give it to whoever holds the Hypatian Archive Table-Head. I expect some tokens in return, and would wish you to convey them back here with the same care.”
“Barring delays in Thallia, you should see our masks again before the moon comes about again. Will you write your price and terms?”
The younger dwarf drew a small case from his cloak. Wistala thought it looked like it held paper. The dwarf worked the box, and a fresh length appeared at the top. He offered a quill and ink to his elder, who wrote upon it. He knelt and presented it to Rainfall.
Rainfall read it. “Prices have gone up since I last used your services.”
“The roads have become treacherous,” Elgee countered.
“This covers all expenses?”
“It does. And the bonding: our coin belts shall be yours if aught is lost.”
“Ah, you no longer negotiate each separately. It is acceptable, then. Shall I sign and seal?”
“A signature is all that is necessary from a Knight of the Hypatian Directory, sir,” Elgee said with a short bow.
Rainfall signed the paper revealed at the top of the box. “Ah, how courtly the tongues of the Diadem remain. You should give lessons to your cousins of the Wheel of Fire.”
“They’d rather burn their beards than listen to—,” the younger said with a hiccupping cough that Wistala guessed to be dwarf laughter.
“Keep your tongue behind mask,” Elgee said. “Forgive my nephew, he’s but—”
Rainfall held up his hand. “No, a jest is not out of place after business is concluded. Will you stay and bed this night?”
“Diadem couriers lose not an hour, once commissioned,” Elgee said. “It is written on our cloak-latch. We ride at once. Thank you for your business—and the hot sup. There remains only the portion to be paid.”
“Beneath my chair there is a chest. Would you be so good as to retrieve it?”
The dwarves turned toward each other again; then the younger stepped forward and lifted the small iron box. He passed it to Rainfall, who opened it.
When the accounting was settled, both dwarves bowed low, with more grace than Wistala would have credited them, and Rainfall bowed in return. After his head came back up, the dwarves raised theirs.
“A good journey,” Rainfall said.
“If we are not back by the Winter Solstice, write the Chartered Company and claim your bond. Thank you again.”
With that they left, escorted by Yeo Lessup.
“Wistala, come back. I think there’s one more bit of business, and I want you for this.”
She nosed open the passageway. “Gracious dwarves.”
Rainfall locked his chest with a tiny key, which he returned to a small bag he kept about his neck. “You can’t always trust appearances with dwarves. They mask more than their faces. But the Chartered Company will keep its bargain. Now all there is to do is hope there’s still friendship, or at least honor, at the Imperial Library.”
“What do you wish me to do?”
“Sit and be amused, dragon-daughter. Yeo Lessup, send in your uncle.”
This time the youth bowed properly. Jessup came in, apologizing for the muddiness of his boots and carrying an oilskin-wrapped object the size of one of Mossbell’s larger windows.
“How goes the inn, Jessup?” Rainfall said as he set down his burden in front of him.
“Well enough, sir, but I’ll beg you to help me with my figures again. I thought running an inn meant tapping kegs and keeping the bedding aired, but I never dreamt of all the counting!” Jessup was looking at Wistala again in that funny way of his.
Rainfall said: “I admire a full-grown man who is so attentive to lessons. Is it done?”
“Just about,” Jessup said. “You were right about the paints at Sack Harbor. Such colors! Who knew there were so many.”
“Then let us see.”
He untied a string around the oilskins and removed them.
Wistala blinked and looked at the wooden panel again. There were eyebolts in the top and fretwork to let the air pass through. Was it some kind of miniature door? Wait, it had a design on it, a painted figure. She recognized a long figure, depicted in profile, mostly upright, green and black-clawed.
“It’s you, Wistala,” Rainfall said as the meaning dawned on her.
“I’m calling the inn The Green Dragon,” Jessup said. “And a good inn needs a good sign that travelers remember.”
“If you’ve got no objection,” Rainfall said. “He does this as a form of compliment.”
Wistala understood, but understanding didn’t bring a surcease of confusion. “But the troll, my plan, your brother died . . .”
“All the land round Mossbell and the twin hills honors his bravery and is happier for it,” Jessup said. “I can’t blame you for the troll’s doing.”
“So, do we have your agreement?” Rainfall asked.
“Why do you need it? The man may name his inn as he wishes.”
“I’d be happier to have you touch the sign,” Jessup said.
Wistala didn’t answer, but stepped up to the sign. She extended her sharpest sii claw and dug a chunk of wood out at the eye. “You made the eyeblack round, like a hominid’s eye or a tailvent. Dragons have eyes like a cat.”
“Another story,” Jessup said. “The dragon herself marked the south-side eye, to look in the direction of the fight with the troll. A good story to tell over honey-mead.”
“When do you open?”
Jessup swiped his nose with a sii—fingertip, Wistala corrected herself. “All is in place. I’ve been brewing all summer since I bought out Old Golpramp’s entire supply of clover-honey. You have advised me on wine. My wife is ready to do the baking, and my son the butchery. There is still much sewing needing to be done, but I can make do. I was going to hang the sign tomorrow.”
“Delay another week or two. My old friend Ragwrist leads his troupe south even now, and this is his year to go the north roads. He should stop any day. The presence of his circus would make for a grand door-opening.”
“As my landlord wishes,” Jessup said.
Lada kept to her room. The only time Wistala saw her speak to her grandfather was when a messenger arrived. Forstrel took the letter to his master despite the outcry from Lada.
So great was the fracas that Wistala couldn’t help but attend her host. She found two of the Lessup girls listening outside his library door, whispering to each other.
“What has happened?” Wistala asked.
Both jumped, for Wistala’s steps were light on the rag rugs Widow Lessup had made to save the hall floors from dragonclaw and tailscale.
“The moony girl’s got a thane-letter,” the older of the girls said. “The master insists on reading it before giving it to her.”
Lada exploded out of the library like Auron leaping up onto the egg shelf, and all three listeners instinctively flattened themselves against the wall to get out of her way.
“Beast!” she said to Wistala, clutching the open letter to her breast as she fled to her room.
Wistala went into the library, found Forstrel standing behind Rainfall in his chair.
“I think that last was intended for me, my dear,” Rainfall said.
Wistala had once seen Jessup turn his younger son over on his lap and strike him for starting a fire out of some scrap wood where the inn was being constructed, and couldn’t help but think Lada would benefit from a similar treatment, for she had no snout to tail-snap in Mother’s fashion.
Widow Lessup’s voice intruded through the door as she sent her girls off to work. Forstrel made himself look busy at the bookshelves.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” Widow Lessup asked, her dark eyes hard and angry.
“A little wine, thank you, ye’en,” Rainfall said.
“Perhaps the letter held an offer for her to return to Galahall, that we might have some peace?” Wistala said.
“A brief mention that she was often in his thoughts and that he yearned to see her again,” Rainfall said.
“He’s well consoled by his other wards,” Forstrel said.
“Rumormongering improves nothing, Yeo Lessup,” Rainfall said. “He’s still the thane, and I won’t have that kind of talk. Go save your mother a trip back upstairs, if you please.”
“Why doesn’t the thane just marry her?” Wistala asked after Forstrel left. “Wouldn’t that make his path to ownership that much shorter?”
“Ahh, but Hypatian tradition allows only one wife, so he must choose carefully. Poor Lada is small fry from our river. Hammar has cast his net far at sea looking for a greater catch.”
Wistala digested this. “Have these circumstances been explained to Lada?”
“She will not listen. She’s like a sleepwalker who will not awaken till she falls off a cliff. Let us survey the road and bridge. I won’t have Ragwrist hurling jests as he once did daggers about the state of the roads under my care.”
 
The dwarven couriers returned before Ragwrist arrived, and rather than another formal session in the reception hall, Rainfall invited them to a quiet dinner at the Green Dragon Inn.
While the dwarves saw to their mounts and packhorse in the barn, Rainfall and Jessup together hatched a plan to give the dwarves a fine tale to carry back to their delvings.
Rainfall and Jessup took her in the great common room of the inn, showed her the wide river-stone chimney dividing the kitchen and storerooms from the common room and two of the sleeping rooms upstairs. Rainfall told her what to do when he snapped his fingers once, and then the second time.
She smelled that one of Yari-Tab’s kittens had already installed itself as the inn feline. Ah, there it was, sleeping on the mantel of the smaller fireplace on the outer wall of the common room.
Wistala found the inn rough-hewn and bare compared with the careful workmanship of the interiors of Mossbell, but something about the thickness of the logs and stone-and-masonry walls Jessup had used suggested safety and comfort as much as the carven door-frames and window seats of Mossbell. She recognized a mug, a favorite of Rainfall’s, on a special shelf all its own behind the counter of the common room.
“The landlord’s mug, may it be refilled many times,” said Jessup, taking it down and pouring a sweet-smelling liquid from a tapped keg resting on one side of the bar.
“I see you’ve copied the old style,” Rainfall said, reclining on a lounge next to the big fireplace. A blanket covered his legs. “The first Hypatian posthouses were built much like this, when there were barbarians of doubtful behavior to consider.” He sampled the mead. “Delicious. My compliments to the innkeeper and Old Golpramp for his clover-honey.”
Jessup smiled at being called an innkeeper. He poured himself a pewter mug. “To better days between the Apple and the Whitewater, thanks to troll-killings and dragon hoards.”
Wistala felt she should point out that the coin from Tumbledown would be more appropriately called a “rat hoard,” but she let the hominids talk. Jessup’s family watched her from the doorway to the kitchen. They’d seen Wistala only at a distance until now and stood as still as the painted dragon on the wood panel leaning next to the door.
“Father, the dwarves come,” the youngest of Jessup’s boys shouted as he came in through the door.
“Very well, Wistala, up the chimney.”
Though it was wide, she had a little difficulty backing up it. Her tail end found purchase, and she braced herself with her legs.
“As you bid, we’ve returned with a response from the scroll-sorters,” Elgee said upon entering and after words of introduction. “And a whole host of seals and ribbons their baton contains. Caps are intact, you’ll see, Sir Elf.”
“Thank you. I’ve prepared a purse with the balance of your fee. Would you care for it now?”
“Only if you’ll deduct the cost of a pouring of this fine-smelling mead!”
Rainfall again: “That’s quite impossible, my good dwarf. I rounded up, and there are no pennies within.”
“Then the round and sup besides will be paid by our expense purse. A feast, good Innkeeper, and don’t skimp on the side dishes!”
Wistala shifted her weight in the chimney, wishing Rainfall would play his trick.
More drinking, lip-smacking, and beard-wiping followed. “This is one dragon I’ll be glad to see anytime I’m on the Old North Road,” Embee said.
“Would you like to hear the tale of how the inn came to be named?” Rainfall said.
“Stories always make the food come faster,” Elgee said.
“Then put that kindling on the fire, would you, Embee.”
Wistala saw a short-fingered hand appear, placing the splinters in a stack with plenty of air space between. “Shall I call for the innkeeper’s fire?” Embee asked.
“This inn has all the modern conveniences,” Rainfall said, and snapped his fingers.
Wistala let loose her foua on the stack of wood, which promptly burst into flame. She heard gasps of astonishment from the dwarves. Then she heard a sizzle like fresh meat thrown on a hot stove, and green smoke boiled up the chimney. Wistala hadn’t been expecting that, and as she held her breath, Rainfall snapped his fingers a second time.
She dropped down the chimney and jumped to avoid the small fire. She was a bit clumsy with her tail, knocking the burning wood to the side, but landed credibly.
The dwarves fell backwards off their hearthside bench and did amazing backrolls, coming up with hands at sheath hilt.
“What in the Lavadome?” Elgee sputtered. Embee moved to draw his weapon, but his uncle held his arm.
“Rah-ya,” Rainfall said. “I’m sorry, good dwarves, I couldn’t resist. Please, laugh with me at this little trick. This is the Green Dragon herself.”
“What, have you conjured her?” Embee said.
“Ach, she was hiding up the chimney, blockhead,” Elgee said. “Sorry for the violence of our reaction, sir. Robbers may be found round the keg-tap as well as on the road, and we’re accustomed to being always on our guard when outside the Delvings. Let me replace the spilled drinks.”
When everyone was settled, Wistala told her tale. It came haltingly at first; then the words flowed more smoothly. She found herself imitating the strange, loping, two-by-two run of the troll and mimicking its roars.
The dwarves’ eyes were white behind their masks, and they hardly looked away save to take another mouthful from their mugs until she was finished.
“Well told, good drakka,” Rainfall said. “You have a talent for pleasing an audience.”
Wistala bowed, hoping the dwarves didn’t hear her prrum.
“Will she dine with us?” Elgee said.
“You’ll find your expense purse lighter than you might like when you pay the tally,” Rainfall warned. “I’ve been feeding her these eight months.”
“What’s the price on being able to say you dined with a dragon?” Elgee said.
“Though my grandfather said many’s the time he feared being dined on,” Embee added.
“Keep your—,” Elgee warned.
“Oh, I’m sure he meant it as a joke,” Wistala said. “You dwarves tweak your beards when you jest, and I saw Embee pull at his.”
“So we do,” Elgee said. “Mark! I look forward to telling this tale to my directing partner when I return to the Delvings. A courtly dragon!”
Wistala ate, even tasted a little of the honeymead on her tongue, but found it too sweet. But even a drakka’s appetite, somewhat guarded by Mother’s repeated warnings against gluttony, couldn’t compare to the amount of food the dwarves ate.
When farewells were said and the dwarves installed in their room upstairs, weighted by the vast meal, mead, and Rainfall’s coin purse, Rainfall sat beside the fire with the bit of craft from the Library at Thallia on his lap.
“Aren’t you curious to see this opened, Wistala?”
“Honestly, I am,” she admitted. The “baton” was made of black shining leather, stiffened in some manner, and capped at one end.
“Then open Heloise’s seal, and let us see their answer.”
The wax—it featured what looked like two sets of identical steps rising to a peak—yielded to Wistala’s sii-claw with no trouble at all. The seal held a leather thong closed over a tiny metal nub, which in turn secured the leather cap in place, as tight fitting as a hominid’s footwear covered the feet. Both a rattle and a rustle came from inside, as she turned the tube.
She looked within. Rolled paper, and something glinting. She extracted the thick paper.
“Fine cotton paper, Wistala,” Rainfall said. “I expect good news.”
“I can’t read it.”
“May I?” Rainfall asked.
“Of course.” Wistala handed it to him.
“Ah, it’s in the priestly tongue, the oldest script of Cloud-temple of Thellasa and therefore Hypat, and only used these days for ritual. I shall translate:
 
“Be it known within and without the . . . ahem . . . civilized land that Wistala of Hesstur, having been of service to scholarship and common enlightenment, is recorded among the ancient and exalted order of Librarians, Keepers, and Archivists; is entitled to call herself an Agent in and of the Librarians; is admitted to the commons of all Hypatian Libraries; and is presented with insignia of rank and station in the Hypatian Order, all of which are to be recognized and held for the remainder of her natural life.”
 
A thin hammered disk of gold had been set into wax and pressed hard into the paper. Wistala inspected the device, another triangular shape with a star at the top.
Rainfall smiled at her. “The old phraseology sounds a little ignorant these days. It was used before Hypatia knew of aught but barbarians beyond its borders. How do you like being an Agent-Librarian, Nuum Wistala?”
Nuum? Oh, for an expression easier on dragon-tongues.”
Wistala sniffed the paper: ink and a dry sandlike smell were overlaid by the gold and the wax. “I can’t say yet. What must I do?”
“Avoid swaggering your entitlement about, unless you wish to be laughed at. Even a Surveyor-Mapper will receive more bows, for on his lines are fields and pastures divided. Should you want to take pupils, it is useful, I suppose. Now let us admire your badge of title.”
The badge was a triangular gemstone, about the size of Yari-Tab’s nose, set in silver and fitted on the top with an eyehook for a chain.
“Golden topaz,” Rainfall said. “It matches your eyes nicely. Symbolic of a clear head and clear vision, and enlightenment. The motto on the back reads lun-byedon, ‘light-giver,’ in the old priestly tongue.”
The polish of the stone made the baubles Father used to give Jizara and her seem like dull quartz. “I would like to wear it.”
“It would look well set into one of your scales, I suppose, and all elves would smile, for our victory garlands are of wound green and gold—but you shed them, don’t you? Chain about your neck? But you’ll outgrow anything we can find around here.”
“How do the others at the library wear them?” Wistala asked.
“Some fit them into their hair so they hang just above and between the eyes, an old tradition dating back to the priestly scroll-keepers. Or they will puncture the earlobe and dangle them there by a sort of hook.”
Wistala looked at her reflection in a polished piece of copper near the door. Hominids made a little ritual of gazing at themselves before stepping outside.
“Then I shall fix it in my fringe, at the fore, as I don’t have a hominid head with that grotesque plate of greasy skin above my eyes. You may have to help with your blacksmithing tools. A drakka’s fringe is nerveless, but tough.”
Jessup returned, and he and Rainfall pointed out different features of the public room to Wistala, and Rainfall suggested the addition of a notice-post outside the door. “I fear I’m becoming in danger of being entirely too pleased with myself,” Rainfall said. “Making Wistala a librarian and getting you the rank of postman.”
“Postman? I’m hardly able to read, sir,” Jessup said.
“Oh, I’ll improve you. Without being able to work my gardens, I need more mental diversions, and if I stay within my library all hours, I’ll be thought a hermit. A reliable post will bring visitors to the inn. But before making you postman, I must give Tala her oath of citizenship.”
Jessup dropped his mug, sending mead across the assembly. “A . . . a dragon. A citizen?”
“And why not?” Rainfall said, wiping away the stray mead on his hand with a small cloth he kept in his pocket. “There are precedents, albeit ancient ones. She can understand our laws and take the oath.”
Jessup chuckled. “The teeth will drop out of his skull.”
“But we must hurry. I can administer the citizenship oath, and you shall witness it, Jessup, and then we will have a bill of sale, and it will be done. What say you?”
“I fear.”
“What do you fear?” Wistala asked.
“The course of these events. I don’t want to be the one whose witness frustrated the thane.”
“He’ll count me as an enemy if he does anything to you and yours,” Wistala said coldly.
Rainfall turned. “I must ask you, Wistala, for something of an imposition.”
“Nothing would be too great to my savior and host,” Wistala said.
“I’ll adopt you as my daughter. That confers on you full citizenship after you reside in Hypatia for six years. A simple oath gives you citizenship for now.”
Wistala had been practicing the words daily.
“I’d hoped to hear the words in the Hypatian Hall at Quarryness, but Jessup’s Inn won’t be hurt for having one more story to tell about its sign.”
Jessup looked out the windows, as if fearing hostile eyes in the night.
Rainfall pointed to the floor before him. “It’s customary to touch the hem of the officiant’s robe of state before taking the oath, but I’m afraid this mead-spattered bit of blanket will have to do; it’s the words that matter in the end.”
Wistala laid her sii on his blanket.
“The oath-taker usually kneels before the officiant. But having four legs—”
Wistala folded her sii under her. In consequence her saa and tailvent were raised, but as they were facing in the direction of Galahall, it seemed befitting.
“Do you understand the difference between a truth and a lie, and the seriousness of an oath, Nuum Wistala?”
“I do,” Wistala said.
“Then take the oath.”
“I, Wistala, promise to take up the responsibilities of a Hypatian Citizen. I will obey the Hypatian laws, keep the Hypatian peace, and maintain the Hypatian lands and seas against all enemies. May my strength and honor sustain this oath and Hypatia’s glory from now until the end of days.”
“Rise, Citizen, and never kneel again,” Rainfall said.
“Walls fresh up and already hallowed,” Jessup said. “That reminds me: I should have Mod Feeney in to bless the post and lintels.”
“Jessup, I must beg for a delay in the rites. Wistala and I must go into Quarryness. Wake up Forstrel and tell him to put my saddle on Stog. Oh, and could I trouble you for a pennysworth for Tala?”
“Of course, sir, but she needs no pennies here. As long as I’ve got a bit of bone in back, her meals shall be free under this roof.”
“Not for food, Jessup. She must purchase Mossbell, and while I’d accept her loosest dragonscale, a land sale’s not legal unless it’s in Hypatian coin. And it’s just bad form for me to lend it to her.”
 
Stog could keep a punishing pace when he put his will into his hooves. Wistala loped along the road northward in the evening dark as best as she could, and finally begged him for a ride behind Rainfall’s special strapped saddle.
“Fine,” Stog said. “But sheathe your claws.”
Wistala climbed up, and Stog broke into his buck-trot again.
The night was foggy and turning cold, the moisture thick enough to collect at the branch-tips and drop with soft, wet taps into the fallen leaves. There would be a thick frost by morning, she expected.
“You dragons are supposed to be able to sing,” Stog said. “I’d like to hear a song of the merits of mules. What horse could carry this burden at this pace?”
“Is he complaining about the weight?” Rainfall asked. “My beast-tongue is not that of my forefathers—I’ve been too long in tamer lands.”
“He wants a song,” Wistala said.
“Perhaps it would help pass the time,” Rainfall said. “Beside, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing.”
Wistala cleared her throat. “Drakes and dragons are more fond of these kind of displays, and more skilled, but I’ll do my best:
 
While a horse will carry any fool
If the going’s hard you’ll want a mule!
Twice the load on half the feed,
A mule is tougher than any steed!
But treat him well when put to task
Or he’ll knock you on your—
 
“Ask no more verses of me, I’m out,” Wistala finished.
“Prettier than any nightingale,” Rainfall said. “And a good deal louder.”
“Let’s have it again,” Stog said. “While a horse will carry any fool . . .” he brayed in time to his hoofbeats.
And so, with Stog repeating the verses until dogs whined in complaint, they came into the Quarryness around the midnight hour.
The town was bordered by Rainfall’s road to the east and a great hill to the west. The hillside facing the town was one long cliff, with some wooden scaffolding up the side where men took building stone. A small watercourse cut through the town, bridged in two places by stone. There were several constructs of two or three levels at the center of town around a rather muddy common and a few leafless trees, but the rest of the town was a small warren of narrow, twisting streets.
“The thane allows for division and subdivision of the town parcels,” Rainfall said. “He forgets that the old Hypatian engineering, while somewhat wasteful of space, also prevents fires.”
There were still a few lights in some of the upper windows and galleries of the town, but none strode the streets save for a pair of men Rainfall identified as firewardens—also charged with keeping the peace. Downstream Wistala heard faint notes of music and song.
Rainfall turned Stog into the center of town, just off the main road. He stopped Stog before a stout, triangle-topped building with a silver banner-staff at the peak. “High temple,” Rainfall said, pointing to a grand, round-topped building. “Low temple,” he said, referring to a long, flat-roofed stone-walled building opposite. “Courthouse and muster-hall.”
Ranks of carved men carrying spears and shields decorated the sides. “Bring me right up the steps to the door,” Rainfall said, in beast-tongue, to Stog.
The doors were metal-covered and fitted in such a way that the hinges were concealed.
“There will be a low judge or two within,” Rainfall said. “The law never sleeps, as old Arfold, my law-teacher used to say. Strike the door with your tail, Wistala, and wake them.”
Her scales rang on the metal surface, and the pounding echoed within.
The pair of firewardens watched from the common, talking to each other quietly. One hurried away toward the road.
“Again, please,” Rainfall said.
Wistala pounded on the door again.
A decorative panel in the door suddenly opened. “I rise, I rise. What have you to say that can’t wait until a daylight hour? Is there a murderer to be celled?”
“Good evening, Sobyor,” Rainfall said.
The man’s rather small eyes widened. “Your Honor!”
“Oh, that title’s long since washed to the sea. What are you doing manning the door-minder’s garret, Sobyor? You were once the best low judge in the three north thanedoms.”
“And high judge for three whole days, thanks to you. What in the worlds is that?” he asked, staring at Wistala.
“She’s my legs, if you’ll let me through this door. We’ve some small matters of business to attend, and I’m afraid they cannot wait. Admit us, and help me mind the mule, would you?”
“I’m . . . I’m not to recognize you,” Sobyor said. “Orders from High Judge Kal himself.”
“What authority does Judge Kal have to give you such an order? This is a Hypatian Hall, and I require admittance.”
“I am . . . I am not alone in here,” Sobyor said with a glance to his right.
“Who is in there with you?” Rainfall asked.
“A pair of firewardens.”
“Tell them—,” Wistala started to say.
“Hold your temper,” Rainfall cut in. “Sobyor, how is your practice in Thellass-tongue?”
Mus mis palandam,” Sobyor responded.
“Rah-ya!” Rainfall said. He rattled off a string of speech Wistala didn’t understand, but it meant something to Sobyor.
Opt,” Sobyor replied, shutting the panel.
“What are you about?” Wistala heard a gruff voice inside say. There was a brief rattle inside, perhaps a hand checking the lock on the door.
“My duty,” Sobyor’s voice replied.
Quieter now: “What was all that grotting about?”
The voices faded.
“Wistala, how would you like to perform your first duty in defense of the Hypatian Order?”
“Sir?” Wistala asked, lowering and raising her head.
“There are airing windows up under the overhang of the roof on the side walls of this building. Climb up and see if you can get through one, and open the door.”
Wistala didn’t like leaving Rainfall perched on Stog at the big doorway; it seemed the whole town was laid out to look at the stairs leading up to the Hypatian Hall. She couldn’t imagine what danger to expect, surrounded by paved streets and rain-collectors in the quiet of the night, but she didn’t like it.
The columns were fluted, which served her claws admirably, and alternating grips between sii and saa, she gained the roof despite the slick mist-wet. The roof tiles were long and thicker than her sii, chevron-shapes interlocking as they descended from the peak, and spotted with generations’ worth of bird droppings.
She lowered her head to look under the cornice at the side of the building and saw the gaps Rainfall had mentioned. They were recessed so that it would be hard to see them, let alone shoot arrows or other projectiles into them from the street. Wooden shutters filled the intermittent gaps.
Gripping the roof with one saa and her tail, she managed to poke one open. It gave way on a horizontal pivot-point with a loud—to her—squeak. Flattening herself, she crept in under the shutter.
An entrance gallery yawned below her. She looked down on a row of frozen head tops—larger-than-life busts were on display on the inner side of the walls, and there was little to see beneath but a few benches. The back two-thirds of the building was blocked off by a wide staircase leading up to a semicircular forum, with banners on display above wooden doors.
Wistala heard voices from a smaller half-door set beneath the great stairs.
She lowered her tail and managed to test one of the busts below. It seemed solid enough. She jumped down to it and perched for a moment atop the great man’s head—he had a heavy brow and a nose of a size to equal the fame he must have gained in life to be so immortalized—and from there leaped down to the floor.
The floor was smooth but a little dirty, and had a series of strange divots and channels carved into its surface, not deep at all and useful only in collecting dirt, as far as she could tell. But the object of this exploration was the door.
Or door within a door, rather. There was a smaller portal set in the mighty wooden doors, barred by simple iron bolts set into tubes. She drew back the bolt on the smaller door and opened it.
“Daughter, you are a wonder,” Rainfall said in his elf-tongue.
Wistala took pleasure in hearing the familiar, but wondered if she could ever call Rainfall father—even in elf-tongue.
“I do not think you can ride Stog within unless I open the larger doors,” Wistala said.
“I’ll have to ask you to bear me inside.” He slid off Stog, using a leather strap to lower himself by the hands in the manner of a laborer she’d once seen come down from Jessup’s roof by taking a rope hand-under-hand. Then he switched to his rough beast tongue: “Stog, this shall only take a moment. Don’t befoul the steps, please.”
Once he was seated upon her and holding on to her fringe, she took him through the door.
“Take me to the ingress under the stairs—that’s the attendant-judge’s office.”
Wistala bore him into the hall.
“Locks on a Hypatian hall door. Where are late-riding couriers supposed to shelter, or impoverished travelers? And what’s this . . . the design on the floor’s been taken up!” Rainfall said as they passed the channels in the floor. “Where had the poor gold gone, I wonder . . . gilding the cornices at Galahall, no doubt.”
Flickering light and voices came from beneath the stairs.
Rainfall sighed. “This hall has become a tomb to old ideals. In my grandfather’s time, at this hour there were travelers sleeping beneath the gaze of Iceandler, or Torus the Elder, the smell of pine knots burning in the braziers. I suppose the only crowds nowadays come on Taxing Day.”
Wistala saw at the base of the ingress another door, half wood and half bars, with a sort of cut-off table in the middle and a space just big enough for a man to put his fist through above the table. On the other side, Wistala caught a glimpse of shelving, divided and subdivided into cubbyholes filled with tied scrolls.
Voices and moving shadows came from the other side of the door.
“Careful with that light, there. You’ll burn my ear off. Oh, now I can’t see anything,” Sobyor’s voice echoed out into the hall.
“Take me to the grate,” Rainfall said.
Wistala went down the eight steps to the area before the barred door. Some old, dirty quill-feathers lay on the floor.
“Ahem,” Rainfall said.
Wistala heard quick startled steps inside, but kept her head down and out of sight.
“How did you get in?” a rough voice barked.
“The more interesting question, firewarden, would be by what power you kept me out of a Hypatian Hall.”
Rainfall’s voice returned to its usual soothing melody: “I just need the court’s seal on the two small matters we spoke of earlier, Sobyor,” Rainfall said.
“Prepared, and here’s the logbook, as well,” Sobyor said. “Just as well to have all neat and proper.”
“We’re not to have any business with him,” a shriller voice cut in.
Wistala heard a heavy tread step up to the grate, and smelled gar-locque and onion. The light from inside the room was almost shut off entirely. From seemingly atop her, Sobyor’s voice said: “Best sign it fast, sir. The wardens are restless tonight.”
“Judge Kal will hear every particular!” the shrill voice warned.
“Certain particulars will catch up to the high judge, one of these days,” Rainfall said. She heard him writing. “Wistala, your penny, please.”
She passed it up to Rainfall. “The transaction is witnessed by the court,” Sobyor said. “Make a record of Nuum Wistala’s credentials.”
Sobyor again, quieter: “Is that the—?”
“I must make do as best as I can,” Rainfall said.
“What are you doing, there?” the rough voice said.
“Completing a little court business,” Sobyor said. “You could read it yourself. If you could read.” Wistala smelled a candle and hot wax. “There. Signed, sealed, and seconded in the log.”
“Thank you, Sobyor,” Rainfall said. “You always were the best of men. I’ll leave you to this gloom and the barred doors.” He tapped Wistala.
“This will really get up the thane’s nose,” Sobyor cackled.
As she climbed the stairs bearing Rainfall, Wistala glanced back and got her first look at Sobyor. He was an enormous man, both tall and fat, with thick curly hair. No wonder the firewardens protested his behavior with words only. Sobyor closed one eye at her; then they were back in the entrance hall under the statues.
“That went better than expected,” Rainfall said. “Had there been a hostile low judge on duty, I would have had to submit petitions and so on, which could have slowed us up.”
It seemed a slow enough business to Wistala, who was beginning to wish she’d burned Galahall down with Thane Hammar in it, saving trouble all around. Except that would have brought a frown to Rainfall’s face. He set such a store in his legal niceties.
 
They walked the road a good deal slower on the trip home. Wistala trudged along ahead of Stog to keep the pace comfortable, but even Stog seemed tired. Rainfall passed the time by explaining to Wistala about the importance of the Thanes to the Hypatian Order: they could more effectively lead troops from their thanedom when gathered under a general than strangers and were supposed to be the shield and sword of the other elements of the Hypatian Order, the priesthood and the judges. But military power, pomp, and panoply went to some men’s heads like wine.
Wistala was happy to see the twin hills at the edge of Mossbell’s lands pop out against a suddenly pink sky. The far-off chain of snowy mountaintops to the east glowed orange as the dawn crept up.
Then she heard a frighteningly familiar sound from ahead.
“I hear hoofbeats,” Wistala said. “Many riders.”
“What’s that?” Rainfall asked, waking. Stog halted.
“Riders ahead,” Wistala repeated.
Rainfall looked down at her. “Get off the road, Wistala. I’ll handle them.”
“I hope there’s a few horses from the Galahall stables,” Stog said. “I’ll give them—”
“I’m not leaving you alone,” Wistala said.
“Oh, I suppose your existence is public now. I’d hoped to wait until you were a little older and stronger.”
Wistala sat in front of Stog and waited.
There were seven riders, two riding close to the edge of the road on either side, and the rest in back in a bunch that expanded and contracted as the horses trotted close to each other and then veered away.
The riding party spotted Stog, and the five in back formed into a line, blocking the road.
“Rah-ho,” Rainfall said quietly to himself. “The thane himself rides. This should be an interesting interview.”
Wistala tried to guess which one was the thane. There was a tall powerful man all the way over to the left side in the group of five. He kept looking at the others.
She couldn’t tell if they were arrayed for war, for they wore cloaks against the chill. The two in front had short horse-bows, and all wore helms of silver color—no sign of spears or lances.
The men slowed, walking their horses up, the front two falling in a little closer to the others. One dropped back a little, as well. He was shorter than the others, perhaps some kind of servant to the warriors.
Rainfall bowed from his tied-on seat. “Thane Hammar. How nice toto meet you on a chilly morning. Your countenance always warms me.”
Astonishingly, the one farthest to the rear spoke. “Greetings! Rainfall of Mossbell. I won’t say I was surprised, for I rode looking for you. Your thane recognizes you.”
Rainfall bowed again.
Wistala examined him more closely. He was a youth, as far as she could judge men, perhaps Forstrel’s age, but more slightly framed. Tiny wisps of facial hair at either side of his mouth made his upper lip look as though it had sprouted wings, and his cheeks were spotted. His red horse, though bigger than the ones the others rode, didn’t bring him close to their head-height, and his helm, shinier than the others’, swept up to a forward point like a hawk’s beak, though it seemed overlarge and heavy for so small a head, for its brim came down almost to the bridge of his nose. He kept looking at Wistala from beneath it.
“News!” Hammar said. “I’m sorry to hear of your injury. I had no idea it was so severe, and word has just reached me. I wish to provide comfort.”
“As usual, the thane is all kindness,” Rainfall said. “But there is no need for you to exert yourself in my behalf, or add to your cares. I am managing.”
“I’ll not be dissuaded. Your burdens must be lightened. Especially now that your granddaughter is happily returned to you—”
“Bearing your progeny,” Rainfall said in a sterner tone.
“Please! Pay no attention to rumor,” Hammar said. “The brat might be anyman’s. I’ve heard it was my stableboy. Or possibly one of the gamekeepers.”
Wistala suddenly hated this half-grown bit of tailventing. Like Rainfall’s history lectures or talks on leverage, nothing cleared and settled her mind like seeing, smelling, and hearing.
“I’m shocked to see a girl not yet sixteen so insulted, in so many despicable ways,” Rainfall said.
“Watch your tongue, elf,” the tall man on the left said. “Notch!” He turned his head toward the thane. “I don’t like the look of that creature in front of the mule. It seems ready to jump.”
The two riders with bows put arrows to their strings, but did not draw.
“Wistala, stay still,” Rainfall said.
She tried to keep her tail from moving, but it seemed possessed of a mind of its own.
“The road seems an uncouth place to trade words,” Rainfall said. “Perhaps you can return to Mossbell with us and we may talk over breakfast, once weapons are properly hung up.”
“Goat-milk yogurt is not to my taste,” Hammar said. “I bear a warrant which must be answered in court. You shall appear before Judge Kal to answer. You’re no longer fit to be the master of an imperial estate.”
“Our opinions are alike, then,” Rainfall said.
The thane’s eyes widened. “You are wise to acknowledge your limitations.”
“Advice that might be taken as well as given. Our opinions are alike, but I’ve made my own arrangements. I’ve sold Mossbell.”
The red spots on the thane’s face suddenly seemed darker against his skin. “To whom?”
Nuum Wistala, who you see before you.”
“No! Nuum? This . . . creature?” Hammar said.
“The creature before you is a titled Hypatian,” Wistala said.
“It speaks,” one of the men with the bows said.
“She’s an Agent of the Librarians at Thellasa,” Rainfall said. “And my legal adopted daughter. Daughter, mind you, which takes precedence over granddaughter, should I meet with some unfortunate accident on this highway. The bill of sale is recorded.”
“Ho! You are undone!” Hammar said. “This creature attacked Galahall not three months ago, intent on arson and assassination. I’ll have you hanged for treason next to her hide!”
“Please! Pay no attention to rumor,” Rainfall said in a rather squeaky tone that mimicked Hammar’s. “I heard a two-headed, feathered lizard attacked Galahall. She has but one, and as for feathers, it’s plain to see she bears none.”
“Kill that creature!” Hammar shrieked.
“Pull and loose!” the tall man ordered.
Wistala hugged the road as the archers fired. The sharp strikes hurt, but the arrows bounded off down the road. The men couldn’t have chosen a worse angle to fire upon dragonscale.
Stog screamed piteously, as though mortally wounded, though no arrows came anywhere near him.
She loosed her bladder, and the horses, already unnerved by Stog’s bellows, began to dance at the smell. She shot forward, still piddling, a road-hugging green javelin moving straight for the thane. The thane’s big red horse reared, its front hooves awhirl, and Hammar, perhaps overbalanced by the enormous helm on too slight a body, went backwards out of his seat.
Wistala pounced upon him, pinned his arms with her sii and left one saa pressed against his belly, ready to pierce and gut.
Hammar screamed, almost as loudly as Stog.
“Anyone draws a blade, and I open him,” Wistala said to the men, who were fighting to control their horses.
“Hold, hold everyone!” Rainfall shouted in his deep and commanding tone. Then in beast-tongue: “Quiet, Stog.”
Stog left off his bellows.
“Murder will only make things worse,” Rainfall said. “Hammar, you would spill blood on a road like some common brigand? You bring shame on your title. Let him up, Wistala.”
Wistala, hot anger still in her veins, replied: “Let me at least bite off a finger or two as a reminder not to—”
Hammar squeaked like a rabbit.
“Oh, very well,” she said, releasing him. Rainfall knew the best course of action in this odd little world the hominids called civilization.
Hammar wiped his nose as he rose. “Mark! You think you’re so clever, elf. There are those who know how to deal with dragons. I’ve an acquaintance—”
“Killing a Hypatian Citizen of any line is murder, good thane. Come, let us forget this ever happened. I won’t have Lada’s child growing up fatherless. I will write to you.”
“You are a famous correspondent,” Hammar said, resettling the helm on his head. The tall man retrieved the thane’s horse. “Some might use the word informer. Know! I will write you, and if you do not agree to my terms, you’ll find yourself in court again and again until you turn to wood like your forefathers. Then I’ll have you made into chamberpot-coals.”
His men chuckled. Rainfall came forward with Stog, and they parted. One put hand to hilt, but the thane barked at him and Rainfall passed through.
Wistala watched them until they were out of bowshot, then hurried to catch up with the mule.