Seraphina(80)

“The princess’s species-check initiative,” grunted Guntard.

There was only one foolproof way to tell a saarantras: the silver blood. Glisselda was trying to flush out Imlann, if he was concealed at court.

A lutist waved his fish fork dangerously. “Look at her; she has no intention of letting herself get poked!”

Dragons don’t blush; they turn pale. My red cheeks might have banished doubts, but of course they didn’t. I said, “I’ll gladly cooperate. This is the first I’m hearing of it, is all.”

“I told you oafs,” said Guntard, throwing an arm across my shoulders, suddenly my champion. “I don’t care what the rumors say, our Phina’s no dragon!”

The bottom fell out of my stomach. Blue St. Prue. There was a huge difference between “won’t take a jab like the rest of us” and “is rumored to be a dragon in disguise.” I tried to keep my voice light, but it came out squeaky: “What rumor is this?”

Nobody knew who’d started it, but it had run through court the day before like fire over summer fields. I was a dragon. I’d gone not to hunt down the rogue but to warn him. I could speak Mootya. I had devices. I had willfully endangered the prince.

I sat there, stunned, trying to work out who could have said all these things. Kiggs might have, but I was unwilling to believe him so spiteful. No, unwilling was too tepid: it was unthinkable. I had little faith in Heaven, but I had faith in his honor, even when he was angry. Perhaps especially while angry—he struck me as someone who would cleave harder to his principles under duress.

But then who?

“I’m not a dragon,” I said feebly.

“Let’s test that right now,” said Guntard, slapping his palms on the table. “Put everybody’s mind at ease and have a spot of fun, all in one go.”

I recoiled, thinking he intended to stab me—with what, his porridge spoon?—but he rose and grabbed my left arm. I yanked it away ungently, my smile brittle as glass, but rose to follow, hoping he’d feel no need to grab me again if I came willingly. Eyes followed us from all quarters.

We crossed the eerily silent dining hall and stopped at the dragons’ table. There were only two this morning, a pasty male and short-haired female, lowly amanuenses who had not gone hunting Imlann, but were left behind to run the embassy offices. They sat stiffly, rolls halfway to their mouths, staring at Guntard as though he were some talking turnip who had sneaked up on them.

“Your pardon, saarantrai,” cried Guntard, addressing the whole room, tables, windows, serving lads, and all. “You can recognize your own kind by smell. True?”

The saarantrai exchanged a wary glance. “The word of a saarantras does not hold up in court on certain issues, and this is one,” said the male, fastidiously wiping his fingers on the tablecloth. “If you’re hoping to evade the species check, we can’t help you.”

“Not me. Our music mistress, Seraphina. She will submit to the bleed, as will all of us who must, but there have been vicious, hateful rumors circulating and I want them put to rest.” Guntard put one hand to his chest and the other in the air, like a blowhard in a play. “She is my friend, not some vile, deceitful dragon! Smell her and affirm it.”

I couldn’t move; I had wrapped my arms around myself, as if that alone prevented me from spontaneously combusting. The saarantrai had to rise and approach me in order to get close enough to discern anything. The female sniffed behind my ear, holding my hair aside like a dark curtain. The male bent over my left hand theatrically; he’d get a noseful. I’d changed the bandage on my self-inflicted wound this morning, but he would unquestionably discern it. Maybe I smelled edible; my blood was red as any Goreddi’s.

I clenched my teeth, bracing for the blow. The saarantrai stepped away and reseated themselves without a word.

“Well?” demanded Guntard. The entire room held its breath.

Here it came. I said a little prayer.

The female spoke: “Your music mistress is not a dragon.”

Guntard started clapping, like a handful of gravel tossed down the mountainside, and little by little more hands joined in until I was buried under an avalanche of applause.

I gaped at the saarantrai. They could not have failed to smell dragon. Had they assumed I was a bell-exempt scholar and kept quiet out of respect for my supposed research? Perhaps.

“Shame on all of you, believing rumors!” said Guntard. “Seraphina has never been anything but honorable, fair, and kind, a fast friend and an excellent musician—”

The male saar blinked, slowly, like a frog swallowing its dinner; the female gestured toward the sky in a subtle but unmistakable way. My doubts dissolved: they’d smelled me. They’d lied. Maybe they hoped I was an unauthorized dragon, just to spite Guntard and everyone else nodding agreement at all the noble, moral, non-draconian qualities I possessed.

I had never seen the rift between our peoples laid out so starkly. These saarantrai wouldn’t lift a finger for the humans in this room; they might not have turned in Imlann himself. How many dragons would take his side if their choice was between submitting to Goreddi bigotry and breaking the law?

Guntard was still clapping me on the back and extolling my human virtues. I turned and walked out of the hall without my breakfast. I imagined Guntard failing to notice I had gone, clapping at the empty air.