Dragonskin Slippers (16 page)

But I couldn’t afford to lose my slippers.

My stomach was somewhere down by my bare feet, and my heart was beating so slowly that I was sure my blood would congeal in my veins. It wasn’t until Marta jogged my arm that I realised I hadn’t blinked in several minutes.

“Creel? You’re white as a statue. What’s wrong?”

“She took my slippers. The princess took my slippers.” Then I dragged my eyes from the floor to meet Larkin’s innocent gaze. “No, not the princess. You.
You
took my slippers and gave them to her.”

Grabbing Larkin’s shoulders, I shook her hard. She writhed away, but I snatched at one of her braids and yanked it. She screamed and Derda came flying out of her own bedroom to see what the commotion was about.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“She stole my slippers!” I let go of the braid long enough to take hold of her shoulders and shake her again.

“Let go of her!” Derda herself hauled me away from Larkin, who was blubbering and slapping at me.

“When a member of a royal house asks for something,
you give it to her,” Larkin screeched. “You never should have refused her your slippers. She was more than generous to let you have that old gown!”

Derda released my arm and stared at Larkin, her hands on her hips. “Is Creel’s accusation true? You gave Princess Amalia Creel’s slippers?”

“Of course I did. I do not deceive my betters!” Larkin attempted to straighten her gown. It was a grey gown, her best. Or at least it had been: I had torn it when I snatched her by the shoulders. The bodice would need clever stitching, if not replacing, I noticed with satisfaction. “You don’t deserve the duchess’s patronage,” she added. “You have no respect!”

“So, you made a liar of me?” Derda’s eyes were slits.

Larkin quailed. “No, mistress! I merely told the princess that there had been a mistake, that Creel hadn’t understood which slippers Her Highness was asking after.” Then she straightened and glared at me. “I would never complain about serving a princess, like you and Marta. I think it’s an honour.” She tried to smooth her braids, which were tied with new silver ribbons.

My eyes narrowed. There were no ribbons like that in the shop’s supplies. I wondered what else Amalia had given her. “Those were
my
slippers,” I said, wanting to reach out and grab her by the throat. “You had no right –”

“I have every right to seek the patronage of whomever I choose,” Larkin retorted. “I’m not a slave.”

“Even
her
patronage?” Marta was indignant. “You know how horrible Amalia is!”

I felt as though a piece of me were missing. Waves of panic and rage and sorrow kept washing over me. It was almost as bad as when Mother and Father had died. “Larkin,” I said with as much patience as I could muster. “I don’t care if you serve Amalia or the Lord of Death himself. They weren’t your slippers to trade. You have to get them back. Now.”

“I can’t do that.” She shook her head adamantly. “She gave her word that you would receive a gown as payment and I gave my word that I would bring them to her. The deal has been made.”

I turned to Derda. “You have to get my slippers back, please. Princess Amalia will listen to you. You’re making one of the gowns for her bridal tour. Please?”

But Derda shook her head. “Are you mad? We’ve already lied to her once, and she knows it full well. If I try to get those slippers back, Princess Amalia could claim that I’m working with the anti-Roulaini faction that opposes the wedding. I don’t fancy spending ten years in the dungeons because of a pair of shoes.”

All I could do was stand there, clutching my hair and staring from Larkin to Derda in despair. I had bargained with a dragon for those shoes, and now they were gone. I had always known, deep inside, that there was more to the blue slippers than met the eye. They meant something, to the dragons at least.

To the dragons, and to one very spoiled princess.

“What am I going to do?” I whispered the question to myself, but Derda answered.

“You’re going to buy yourself another pair of shoes, and then you’re going to get back to work,” she said in her most brisk voice. “I’m sorry that this happened, but it’s over now, and there will be no more fighting or crying or screaming about it. Is that clear?”

I nodded, dumbfounded. I couldn’t think of what else to do.

“Good. Now, don’t you have a pair of brogues or something to wear?”

“Some old sandals,” I mumbled.

“Hmmm. Marta, take her to a shoemaker and find her some shoes suitable for the shop. Larkin, you will pay half the cost.”

“Only half?” Marta looked outraged. “But, Derda –”

“I said half! Larkin did trade with the princess for the gown, so Creel has been paid for the shoes.”

“Then I shouldn’t have to pay half,” Larkin protested.

“You’ll pay half because I’ve lost face and Creel’s lost her only decent shoes,” Derda shrilled. “Larkin, clean yourself up. Alle, get to work. Marta, Creel, get some shoes and be back as soon as you can.”

Marta and I dressed in silence and made our way out of the shop and down the street. We headed for the same market square where we had spent such a pleasant afternoon the day before. Everything looked different now, in the morning light. Paler and sharper. The paving stones were hard and treacherous beneath the worn soles of my sandals.

Neither of us speaking, I followed Marta into a cobbler’s small shop. The walls were lined with shelves
bearing shoes, and that reminded me with sudden poignancy of Theoradus’s hoard. None of these were as grand as the flowered, feathered, bejewelled and embroidered creations that were his favourites, of course. They were mostly serviceable brown or black leather, the men’s boots grouped on one side of the shop, and the women’s slippers on the other.

In a hushed voice, as though I were ill or someone had just died, Marta told the cobbler that I needed new shoes, ready-made. He nodded his grizzled head, also speaking in a whisper. I realised that there must be something alarming about my appearance to make them act this way.

I stood in the middle of the shop, thinking of Theoradus’s cavern full of shoes. Then that made me think of Shardas’s beautiful caves, with their exquisite windows glowing in a double dozen colours, like all the jewels in the world put on display.

“I’m going to the ball,” I announced abruptly.

The cobbler, who was just coming to offer me a pair of brown calfskin slippers, gave me a wide smile. “Of course you are, maidy,” he said. His voice was slow, as though he thought I were simple.

Without looking at him, I raised my skirts above my ankles so that he could try the fit of the slippers. I looked at Marta instead. I could see that she knew what I meant.

“I’m going to take that cursed ugly gown and rework it, and I’m going to the Merchants’ Ball,” I said.

“I’ll help you,” Marta said. “On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“When you get your shop, I want to work for you.”

“Done.” I looked down at the slippers I was now wearing. They were light brown, almost golden, with a slightly pointed toe and a low heel. They would match the golden gown well enough. I nodded at the shoemaker.

“Done,” I repeated.

Derda made it clear that if I wanted to get that horrid gown reworked for the Merchants’ Ball, I would have to do it in my own time. At first I was confused: she had seemed supportive of the ball before. But then I realised that she had hoped to get several years’ worth of work out of me before I had enough saved to try for the ball. Also, I already had one prestigious client in the Duchess of Mordrel.

So, after sewing morning and evening, marking embroidery patterns on fabric and displaying them to the customers all day, I had to sit and sew some more. Derda didn’t want me wasting her good candles on my gown, either, so I used the last of my wages to buy some of my own. That left me with nothing to spend on embroidery thread, and I needed to decorate the gown with my own handiwork to show it off.

“I’ll pay for it,” Marta offered. “If you’re going to be my mistress, I had better start contributing.”

“I don’t want to take your money,” I argued. “And I’m not sure I want to be your mistress. How about a partner?”

“Then as your partner,” Marta insisted, “I have all the more reason to contribute. Give this money to Derda; she buys the finest embroidery thread in the King’s Seat, so you might as well get it from her.”

Later that day, when the shop was closed and I was sewing next to Marta, Alle nudged me. “I’ll do your hair,” she whispered.

“What?” I dropped my needle, startled.

“For the ball, I’ll do your hair.” She shot a look at Larkin. “It’s not fair, what happened. Marta told me you want to try your luck at the ball. I do beautiful hair.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said.

To my embarrassment, tears welled in my eyes. Marta had also offered to loan me a silk shawl she had received from an admirer. It was cream-coloured, and would go well with the gold gown.

I was touched by the support of the other girls. Except for Larkin. Larkin was ignoring me, wearing an expression that I could only describe as wounded superiority. She kept looking over my head and fiddling with the silver ribbons, smugly drawing attention to this sign of royal favour.

That night I sat in the cushioned seat at the front of the store, saving a candle by using the bright moonlight streaming through the large bay window to see my work. The others had all gone to bed, but I had too much to do.

My first impression of the gold gown had not changed: it was as if the dressmaker had gone completely and utterly insane. In my opinion, even one fist-sized rose on the skirt of a gown was too many. Sixteen of them was outrageous.

My mother had always called sewing her “thinking time”, and now as I sat with my small knife and cut stitches to remove the decorations, I thought. Did I really want my own shop? Did I really want to go to the Merchants’ Ball and woo an investor?

Well, perhaps. And perhaps not. As much as I baulked at the thought of spending my life working for Derda – never being acknowledged for my designs, having room and board deducted from my wages – the idea of being on my own seemed even more daunting.

On top of building up a clientele, I would need to find a shop. I would have rent to pay, and there would be furnishings to buy. I would have to find a supplier for my fabrics and threads. And should I also hire maids to serve tea and cakes to my patrons?

It was almost too much to take in.

But what else was there? This was the only work I knew, the only work I had ever wanted to do. I supposed that I could go and live with Shardas. He had said that he missed my company. I could live with Shardas in his cave, keeping his windows polished and eating peaches by the bushel.

Thinking of Shardas, I remembered his insistence that he would hear me if I ever called his name.
Shardas
,
I thought, straining to project the words out beyond the walls of the King’s Seat.
Shardas, please come. Shardas, I need you
.

But my gold dragon didn’t come.

And he didn’t come the next night, when I finished removing the last of the roses and the long swathes of satin from the gown. I held the velvet up to the moonlight and inspected it, my heart sinking when I realised that the roses had pressed down the pile of the fabric and removing the stitches had left tiny holes all over it. I would have to cover the dress in embroidery to conceal the damage.

There was barely a month left until the ball.

Marta offered to stay up with me the next night and help me design a pattern for the gold gown, but I refused her gently. I wanted to sit in my usual position in the window and call to Shardas with my mind.

If he didn’t come tonight, I thought with despair, perhaps he would never come again. I had thought of little else for three days now, but there was no sign of him.

With a sigh, I lit one of my precious candles and set it in a wooden holder beside the wax tablet I had borrowed from Derda’s supply. I drew the outline of the gown on the tablet, and pricked little dots to indicate where the worst of the stitch holes were. Thinking of Shardas and his gorgeous hoard of windows, I marked the skirt with great panels shaped like pointed arches. It was similar to the basic design of the Duchess of Mordrel’s gown, but on a grander scale. The arched panels on the grey gown had reached only to her knees; these
would extend all the way from the hem to the waist. But what to put inside them? Abstract blocks of colour were too simple, and it seemed a waste to merely fill the panels with flowers. Something truly remarkable was needed. The Triune Gods? Ancient knights in combat? I bit my thumbnail and thought.

When the King’s Guards marched by half an hour later I thought of Prince Luka. I hadn’t had time to read much in the pretty little book he had bought me since that first night. The Lay of Irial would look beautiful done in glass, I mused.

Or in silk.

I picked up a knife and whittled the end of my stylus even sharper, then carefully tried to draw the shape of a maiden in one of the panels I had marked out on the gown design. The maiden Irial in one panel, the dragon Zalthus in another, with the tragic betrayal by her suitor in between, centred on the front of the skirt. And the three panels on the back could show other scenes: Irial playing her harp, Zalthus flying over a forest, the ill-fated hunt in which Irial fell from her horse and came face-to-face with Zalthus for the first time. My hands almost shook with excitement. It was audacious, but I thought I would be able to do it. The Lay of Irial, embroidered in thick segments of colour like a stained glass window. Brilliant!

I fell asleep over the tablets (I had borrowed two more in order to draw my designs with greater detail). When I woke, it was dawn and Larkin was standing over
me. Her expression was sour, as it had been since she traded my shoes to Amalia.

“Didn’t the dragon come?”

I blinked at her, my head still in a fog of sleep. “Pardon?” I looked down at the tablets fanned across my lap. “Don’t you know the Lay?”

“Not
that
dragon,” she said. She pointed at the street in front of the shop. “The gold dragon that came to you before. Why hasn’t it come again?”