goats. Great bronze cauldrons for washing or dyeing the wool rested above hearth fires in the center of the room, circled in turn by drying racks. At the far end, women were setting up tapestry looms.
Josquin weaved through the busy hall toward a petite woman, her red hair streaked with silver, who was assembling a spinning wheel. She wore a blue kirtle over a linen blouse with riotous embroidery up the sleeves.
Josquin bowed low; I took my cue from him and, having no skirts, bowed, too. I discerned the name Baroneta Do Lire in his address, leaving no doubt that this was indeed the chatelaine.
She called Josquin by name; his was clearly a familiar face here. He introduced me in mellifluent tones, and she looked impressed. The goats would have seemed magnificent, spoken of in that voice. Under his breath Josquin said, “Go on. Read.”
I drew Queen Glisselda’s missive to the nobility of Ninys from my satchel, lifted my chin, and smiled. Josquin gave a small, approving nod. I ceremoniously unfolded the parchment and read, Josquin translating my every word into fluid, grandiloquent Ninysh:
Honorable lords
[“and ladies,” I added hastily]
of Ninys, I bear the greetings and respectful good wishes of Queen Glisselda of Goredd
.
You have heard of the inter-draconic conflict in the north. It will inevitably spill south: the Old Ard want to hunt the Southlands again, not just Goredd but Ninys and Samsam as well. Goredd has often borne the brunt of dragon aggression alone. We hold no grudge for the past
—
indeed, we were honored to be a bulwark for the Southlands—but forty years of peace and the dissolution of the knightly orders have left us ill prepared for another onslaught
.
Count Pesavolta has sent the last remaining Ninysh knights to Fort Oversea to train new dracomachists alongside ours. Goredd applauds his generous, cooperative spirit, but more is needed. We rely on the baronets of Ninys, heart and conscience of the south, to do your part
.
Glisselda and Kiggs had agonized over this letter, trying to strike the right balance between urgency and desperation, flattery and guilt-mongering. It went on to list what aid Goredd could use—men, arms, grain, timber, the raw materials for St. Ogdo’s fire, and more. Josquin polished my words in translation, laying them at Baroneta do Lire’s feet like gleaming jewels.
The lady had been winding wool when I began; by the end, she’d dropped her distaff into her lap and placed her hand upon her heart. “Palasho do Lire would be honored to help,” she said (per Josquin’s translation). “We Ninysh know what we owe Goredd, that our beauteous, well-organized country was built upon Goreddi sacrifice. Marie”—this to a woman carrying a basket of wool—“fetch quill and ink. I’ll put my promises in writing.”
This was more than I had hoped for. We acquired the writtenaccount and had dinner with the baroneta in a smaller, goat-free dining room—I could barely sit still, I was so pleased. As we filed out, led toward the guest wing by the steward, I whispered to Josquin, “You were right. There was nothing to fear.”
He quirked a smile and said, “They won’t all be this gracious.”
Abdo and I were quartered together in a sparse guest room with a hearth and two curtained alcove beds. I felt a big-sisterly impulse to see that Abdo got a good night’s sleep. His routines were as elaborate as mine: he cleaned his teeth with a wooden pick, changed into a long tunic he’d brought just for sleeping, wrapped his hair in a silk scarf, and bounced on the bed.
“Friend,” I said after he’d been at it for several minutes, “that’s not really necessary. Don’t tell me your god demands it, either, because I’m not falling for it.”
You only do necessary things before bed?
he asked, still jumping.
“If I don’t wash and oil my scales, they itch,” I said crossly. My kettle was taking forever to boil on the hearth.
Not that
. He stopped and stared
Josquin weaved through the busy hall toward a petite woman, her red hair streaked with silver, who was assembling a spinning wheel. She wore a blue kirtle over a linen blouse with riotous embroidery up the sleeves.
Josquin bowed low; I took my cue from him and, having no skirts, bowed, too. I discerned the name Baroneta Do Lire in his address, leaving no doubt that this was indeed the chatelaine.
She called Josquin by name; his was clearly a familiar face here. He introduced me in mellifluent tones, and she looked impressed. The goats would have seemed magnificent, spoken of in that voice. Under his breath Josquin said, “Go on. Read.”
I drew Queen Glisselda’s missive to the nobility of Ninys from my satchel, lifted my chin, and smiled. Josquin gave a small, approving nod. I ceremoniously unfolded the parchment and read, Josquin translating my every word into fluid, grandiloquent Ninysh:
Honorable lords
[“and ladies,” I added hastily]
of Ninys, I bear the greetings and respectful good wishes of Queen Glisselda of Goredd
.
You have heard of the inter-draconic conflict in the north. It will inevitably spill south: the Old Ard want to hunt the Southlands again, not just Goredd but Ninys and Samsam as well. Goredd has often borne the brunt of dragon aggression alone. We hold no grudge for the past
—
indeed, we were honored to be a bulwark for the Southlands—but forty years of peace and the dissolution of the knightly orders have left us ill prepared for another onslaught
.
Count Pesavolta has sent the last remaining Ninysh knights to Fort Oversea to train new dracomachists alongside ours. Goredd applauds his generous, cooperative spirit, but more is needed. We rely on the baronets of Ninys, heart and conscience of the south, to do your part
.
Glisselda and Kiggs had agonized over this letter, trying to strike the right balance between urgency and desperation, flattery and guilt-mongering. It went on to list what aid Goredd could use—men, arms, grain, timber, the raw materials for St. Ogdo’s fire, and more. Josquin polished my words in translation, laying them at Baroneta do Lire’s feet like gleaming jewels.
The lady had been winding wool when I began; by the end, she’d dropped her distaff into her lap and placed her hand upon her heart. “Palasho do Lire would be honored to help,” she said (per Josquin’s translation). “We Ninysh know what we owe Goredd, that our beauteous, well-organized country was built upon Goreddi sacrifice. Marie”—this to a woman carrying a basket of wool—“fetch quill and ink. I’ll put my promises in writing.”
This was more than I had hoped for. We acquired the writtenaccount and had dinner with the baroneta in a smaller, goat-free dining room—I could barely sit still, I was so pleased. As we filed out, led toward the guest wing by the steward, I whispered to Josquin, “You were right. There was nothing to fear.”
He quirked a smile and said, “They won’t all be this gracious.”
Abdo and I were quartered together in a sparse guest room with a hearth and two curtained alcove beds. I felt a big-sisterly impulse to see that Abdo got a good night’s sleep. His routines were as elaborate as mine: he cleaned his teeth with a wooden pick, changed into a long tunic he’d brought just for sleeping, wrapped his hair in a silk scarf, and bounced on the bed.
“Friend,” I said after he’d been at it for several minutes, “that’s not really necessary. Don’t tell me your god demands it, either, because I’m not falling for it.”
You only do necessary things before bed?
he asked, still jumping.
“If I don’t wash and oil my scales, they itch,” I said crossly. My kettle was taking forever to boil on the hearth.
Not that
. He stopped and stared
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