Marie Brennan - In the Labyrinth of Drakes

He snapped his fingers, and one of the younger men with him leapt to his side. “Naseef ibn Ismail will take you to see the dragons,” he said.

Had he spoken Akhian instead of Scirling, I would have known which “you” he meant. But in my language, we no longer differentiate between the singular and plural of the second person, much less the gender of the one addressed. All I had to go on was his body language, the angle of his shoulders and his head—and these told me that not only his most recent statement, but the one before, were directed at Tom, not the two of us together.

Such behaviour was of a piece with the snubbing Colonel Pensyth had given me in Rumaish, and the countless other snubs I have received in my life. My patience for such things has grown shorter by the year. “Oh, delightful, ” I said, and both Tom and Andrew knew me well enough not to take my bright tone for true. “I should be very glad to see the dragons—as they are, after all, the reason I have come all this way.”

Pensyth would not have been given his post if he were deaf to the nuances of social interaction. He said hastily, “Dame Isabella, perhaps you would like to get started on Lord Tavenor’s papers. Lieutenant Marton can show you those—that will get you out of the sun.”

And out of the way. I wanted to object, for clearly, in Pensyth’s mind, secretarial work was the best use for me. On the other hand, I did not wish to make a scene on my first day; and that hand was double, for our predecessor’s notes were likely to be of more immediate use than the dragons themselves. The latter could only show us what was happening now. The former could show us what had happened up until now.

But for all that, it rankled to give in. I wanted to see the dragons, and I did not want to be excluded. Only a beseeching and sympathetic look from Tom persuaded me. Very well: I would play along, and prove my value in time.

The lieutenant delegated to be my handler led me through an arch to a smaller, dustier courtyard, and past that into a building that was fairly intact. “Lord Tavenor worked in the office here,” he said, gesturing through a doorway to a larger room beyond. I peeked in to find a desk and various shelves, all of them echoingly vacant. The tiled floor was cracked, and the piercework shutters missing bits here and there. “The files themselves are down the hall. Shall I fetch them for you, miss—er, ma’am—er, my lady?”

“Dame Isabella will do,” I said, lowering my veil. Lieutenant Marton did not deserve to be cowed, but for the time being I felt the need to stand on ceremony: if people would not accord me respect of their own free will, then I would enforce it where I could.

“Yes, Dame Isabella,” he said. By the way his posture straightened, I think he almost saluted. Had I been so very commanding? I did not think so; and yet. “What would you like to see first?”

Lacking much in the way of information, I did not even know how to answer that question. “What are my options?”

“There are three major groups of files,” Marton said. “Records of the dragon-breeding project, records of the egg-hatching project, and accounts.”

Certainly not accounts… but the other two categories were quite broad. Ostensibly the breeding programme was the main endeavour here, but all the authorities on dragon naturalism agreed that success, if it were to happen at all, was more likely to come by way of dragons raised from the egg, and thus acclimated to human contact. Whichever choice I made, depending on how thorough Lord Tavenor had been in his record-keeping, I might be looking at mountains of paper.

Well, it could not possibly take me longer to read through his notes than it had taken him to write them, and I might as well start at the beginning. “Is there any sort of diary for the egg-hatching?” I asked. Tom would no doubt be learning something of the other project during his tour. Marton nodded, and I said, “Then bring me that—however many volumes it may be.”

It was not so dauntingly many as it might have been. After all, in the progress of any given egg, there is a long stretch of time wherein nothing much happens. I could skim quickly past Lord Tavenor’s meticulous daily notations of “no change” or weekly measurements, pausing only for the entries of greater substance.

Even so, I had not finished by the time Andrew came in, bearing an enormous tray of food. He looked sheepish and said, “The sheikh laid on a good picnic, but men and women don’t generally eat together here—or so I’m told. Since I’m family, I volunteered to bring you your share.”

I had encountered this kind of practice before, when we were stranded on Keonga. There, however, I had Abby Carew for company, and my son, who by dint of his youth was not yet considered a part of the male sphere. Furthermore, my own unusual gender status there had left me usefully ambiguous, so that I could dine with either sex, as I chose. Here it would be different: as the only woman in the House of Dragons, I would be eating alone every day, unless Andrew was present.

“For today, this will do,” I said. “The sheikh will not be here every day, though, will he? I thought not. The Akhians may keep to their own customs, but I have no intention of separating myself from our Scirling companions going forward. It is too valuable an opportunity for us to discuss our work.”

At least no one had stinted me on food. I persuaded Lieutenant Marton to join us, but even by our efforts combined, we could not finish what had been provided. “You’re not expected to, Dame Isabella,” the lieutenant told me. “It’s a sign of generosity. What’s left over goes to the servants. Most days we’re less formal; we just send somebody to the market to bring back some nosh.”

When the meal was done, I spent a few minutes writing out a list of the supplies I would need—which was virtually everything, as Lord Tavenor had not left so much as a blotter behind. I had brought my desk set with me to Akhia, but would prefer to keep it at the house, so that I could work in the evening if necessary. That done, I immersed myself once more in the records; and there I remained until Tom came in at last.

He must have poked his head in the door some time before; his polite cough had the sound of a man who has been waiting for the room’s occupant to notice him without prompting. “Oh!” I said, putting my pencil in the latest diary as a marker and closing it. “I’m so sorry. Good heavens, is it that late already?” The light in the office had dimmed quite a lot, though I had not noticed it except to tilt the pages toward the window.

“There were a lot of formalities,” Tom said feelingly. “Though it wasn’t all a waste of time. I take it this room out front is meant for a secretary?”

“For Lieutenant Marton, unless we replace him. He asked if I wished to have a second office set up elsewhere in the building. For me, of course, though he did not say it.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose, wondering if my headache meant I should look into getting spectacles. “I, er, may have said I would ask you if you wanted one. People are used to coming here; I do not like the thought of being shuffled off to some dusty corner where I can be ignored.”

“Quite right.” Tom came and perched on the edge of the desk, there being nowhere else to sit save the chair I currently occupied. “This room is big enough for us both; we’re neither of us likely to fill it up with elephant tusks and Erigan masks. We can start out sharing it, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll move elsewhere.”

I gave him a look of wordless gratitude. My eagerness to head off Marton’s condescension had provoked me into taking advantage of my greater social status over Tom, which I ordinarily took care to avoid. Besides, it was he, not I, who was a Colloquium Fellow. If either of us was to have the main office here, it ought to be him.