Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Oh, yes,” and the girl seemed to relax, and even managed a wider smile, “I know him. He’s into everything. But kindhearted,” she added hastily, glancing up at Iantine. “You’ve had some adventures, too, or so Leopol told me.” Then she indicated his sketch. “You did that so well and so quickly. Why, you can almost hear them bargaining,” she added, pointing to the trader with his mouth open.

  Iantine regarded it critically. “Well, speed is not necessarily a good thing if you want to do good work.” He deftly added a fold to the head trader’s tunic, where he now saw there was a bulge over the belt. “Let’s see if the subject likes it.” He was amazed to hear the edge in his voice. She glanced warily up at him.

  “If that’s what you can do quickly,” she said reassuringly, “I’d like to see what you do when you take your time.”

  He couldn’t resist, and flipped over pages to where he had made a sketch of her oiling Morath.

  “Oh, and I didn’t see you doing this . . .” She reached out to touch it, but he was flipping to the page where he had sketched her and Morath listening to T’dam at the lecture. She’d had one arm draped over her dragon’s neck, and he thought he had captured the subtle bond that prompted the embrace.

  “Oh, that’s marvelous,” and Iantine was amazed to see tears in her eyes. In a spontaneous gesture, she clung to his arm, feasting her eyes on the drawing and preventing him from turning the page over. “Oh, how I’d—”

  “You like it?”

  “Oh, I do,” and she snatched her hands away from his arm and clasped them behind her back, blushing deeply. “I’d . . .” and bit her lip, swaying nervously.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She gave an embarrassed laugh. “I haven’t so much as the shaving of a mark.”

  He tore the sketch out of the pad and handed it to her.

  “Oh, I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t,” and she stepped back, although the look in her eyes told Iantine how much she wanted it.

  “Why not?” He pressed the paper against her, pushing it at her when she continued to resist. “Please, Debera? I’ve had to get my hand back in after my fingers freezing, and it’s only a sketch.”

  She glanced up at him, nervously and with some other fear lurking in the shadows of her lovely green eyes.

  “You should have it, you know, to remind you of Morath at this age.”

  One hand crept from behind her back and reached for the sheet. “You’re very good, Iantine,” she murmured and held the sketch by fingertips as if afraid she’d soil it. “But I’ve nothing to pay . . .”

  “Yes, you do,” he said quickly with sudden inspiration and gestured toward the traders still in their group about the table. “You can be a satisfied customer and help me wheedle another pad out of the traders in return for this drawing of them.”

  “Oh, but . . .” She had shot a quick, frightened glance at the traders, and then, in as quick a change of mood, gave herself a shake, her free hand going to her dragon’s head, as if seeking reassurance. The dragonet turned adoring eyes to her, and Debera’s eyes briefly unfocused, the way Iantine had noticed in riders who paused to talk to their dragons. She let out a breath and faced him resolutely. “I would be glad to say a good word for you with Master Jol. He’s by way of being a cousin of my mother’s.”

  “Is he now?” Iantine said with fervor. “Then let us see if kinship is useful in trading.”

  “I can’t, of course, promise anything,” she said candidly as they moved toward the group. She found it hard to keep the sketch from fluttering. “Oh dear.”

  “Roll it up,” he suggested. “Shall I do it for you?”

  “No, thank you, I can manage.” And she did, making a much tighter job of it than he would.

  The conference was ending as they approached and the participants began to separate.

  “Master Jol?” Debera said, her voice cracking a bit and not reaching very far. “Master Jol,” she said, projecting a firmer tone. Iantine wondered if she was afraid the trader wouldn’t recognize her at all.

  “Is that Debera?” the trader said, peering at her as though he didn’t believe his eyes. Then a broad smile of recollection covered his face and he strode rapidly across the distance between them, hands extended. Debera seemed to shy from such a warm welcome. “My dear, I’d heard that you’d Impressed a dragon.”

  Iantine put a reassuring hand at her waist and gave her an imperceptible forward push.

  “Yes, this is Morath,” and suddenly her manner became sure and proud. Dragon and rider exchanged one of those melting looks that Iantine found incredibly touching.

  “Well, well, my greetings to you, young Morath,” he said, bowing formally to the dragonet, whose eyes began to whirl faster.

  Debera gave her a reassuring little pat. “Master Jol is my mother’s cousin,” she explained to Morath.

  “Which makes me yours as well, my lass,” Jol reminded her. “And very proud to have dragonrider kin. Ah, you’re so like your mother. Did you know that?”

  Iantine watched as Debera’s expression turned sad.

  “Ah, now, I didn’t mean to grieve you, child,” Jol said with instant dismay. “And how happy she would be to see you . . .” He paused and cleared his throat, and Iantine knew the trader was hastily amending what he had started to say. “. . . here, a dragonrider . . .”

  “And out of my father’s control,” Debera finished with droll bitterness. “Had you heard that, too, Master Jol?”

  “Oh indeed,” Master Jol said, grinning even more broadly, his eyes twinkling with a slight hint of malice. “I was right pleased to hear that, indeed and I was. Now, what can I do for you? Some Gather clothes, good lined boots . . . you’ll have come with little if I know your father.”

  Such plain speaking momentarily made Debera uneasy, but her dragonet crowded reassuringly against her.

  “The Weyr has furnished me with everything I need, Master Jol,” she replied with quiet dignity.

  “Master? Am I not cousin to you, young woman?” Jol said with mock severity.

  Now her smile returned. “Cousin, but I thank you, though I do have a favor to ask . . .”

  “And what might that be?”

  Debera flipped open her sketch and showed it to the trader. “Iantine here did this of me, and he has one of you . . .” On cue, Iantine offered his sketch pad, open to the montage. “Only Iantine’s used up his pad and, like me, hasn’t a sliver to spend.”

  Master Jol reached for the pad, his manner altering instantly to a trader’s critical appraisal. But he had only cast an eye over the sketch when he paused, peering more closely at the artist.

  “Iantine, you said?” And when both Debera and Iantine nodded, his smile quirked the line of his generous mouth. “I place the name now. You’re the lad who managed to escape unscathed from Chalkin’s clutches.” Jol offered his free hand to Iantine. “Well done, lad. I’d had wind of your adventure.” He winked, his expression approving. “But then we traders hear everything and learn to sift the fine thread of truth from the chaff of gossip.”

  Then he turned back to the sketch, examining it carefully, nodding his head as his eyes went from one panel to the next. He gave an amused sniff as he took a longer look at himself, pencil cocked behind his ear.

  “You’ve got me to the life, pencil and all,” and he touched the tool to be sure it was in place. “May I?” he asked courteously, indicating a desire to look at the other pages.

  “Certainly,” Iantine said, making a courteous bow. He could have kicked himself when he swayed a bit on his feet.

  “Here now, lad, I know you’re not long recovered from your ordeal,” Jol said, quickly supporting him. “Let’s just take a seat so I can have a good look at everything this pad seems to have on offer.”

  Ignoring Iantine’s protests, Jol led him to the table he had just left and pushed him onto a stool. Debera and Morath followed, Debera looking very pleased with this consideration.

  Jol went through the pad
as thoroughly as Master Domaize would have done, making comments about those Weyrfolk he knew, smiling and nodding a good deal. He also knew when Iantine had left a pose unfinished.

  “Now, what is it you require, Artist Iantine?”

  “More paper, mainly,” Iantine said in a tentative tone.

  Jol nodded. “I believe I do have a pad of this quality paper, but smaller. I bring some in for Waine from time to time. I can, of course, get larger sheets . . .”

  “It’s not as if I’ll be staying around the Weyr until your next round . . .”

  Master Jol dismissed that consideration. “I’ve stores at Telgar Hold and can forward what you need in a day or two.” He gave Iantine a thoughtful glance. “You’ll not be leaving here all that soon, I’d say.” He took the pencil from behind his ear with one hand and the pad from its pouch at his belt with the other. “Now, what exactly are your requirements, Artist Iantine?”

  “Ah . . .”

  “He wants to make sketches of every rider and dragon in the Weyr,” said Leopol, who had eased himself unnoticed close enough to hear what was being said.

  “So you’ve many commissions already, have you?” Master Jol said approvingly, pencil poised over the fresh leaf of his pad.

  “Well, no, not exactly, you see—” Iantine stammered.

  “You’ve three I know of,” Leopol said. “P’tero for M’leng . . . and the Weyrleaders . . .”

  Iantine almost bit Leopol’s nose off. “The Weyrleaders’re different. I will do them in oils, but the sketches are to thank those in the Weyr who’ve been so kind to me.”

  “Doing portraits of an entire Weyr is quite an undertaking,” and Master Jol scribbled a line. “You’ll need a good deal of paper and plenty of pencils. Or would you prefer ink? I stock a very good quality. Guaranteed not to fade or blot.” He looked at Iantine expectantly.

  “But I’ve only this sketch to trade with you,” Iantine said.

  “Lad, you’ve credit with Jol Liliencamp Traders,” Jol said gently, touching his pencil to Iantine’s shoulder and giving it a little push. “I’m not Chalkin, mind you. Not any way, shape, or form.” And he gave a burst of such infectious laughter that Iantine grinned in spite of himself. “Now, give me your requirements straight. But to ease your mind, if you’d finish off this,” and the pencil end tapped the montage, “in watercolor, I’m ready to give you two marks for it. Oh, and I’d like this one of T’dam giving his lecture,” he added, flipping to that page. “That’ll show some folks that dragonriders do something beyond glide about the skies. A mark and a half for that . . .”

  “But . . . but . . .” Iantine floundered, trying to organize his thoughts as well as his needs. Debera was grinning from ear to ear and so was her dragon. “I’ve no watercolors with me—” he began, wishing to indicate his willingness to finish the montage.

  “Ah, but I just happen to have some, which is why I suggested them,” Jol said, beaming again. “Really, this meeting is most serendipitous,” he added, and his smile included Debera. “And this,” he touched the montage again in a very proprietary fashion, “colored up a bit and with glass to protect it, will look very good indeed in my wagon office. Indeed it will. Advertising, I believe the ancestors called it.”

  “Ah, Master Jol?” called someone from one of the trade wagons. “A moment of your time . . .”

  “I’ll be back, lad, just you stay there. You, too, Debera. I’ve not finished with the pair of you yet, no I haven’t.”

  As Iantine and Debera exchanged stunned looks, he trotted off to see what was required of him, tucking the pencil behind his ear again and folding up his pad as he went.

  “I don’t believe him,” Iantine said, shaking his head, feeling weak and breathless.

  “Are you all right?” Debera asked, leaning across the table to him.

  “Gob-smacked,” Iantine said, remembering a favorite expression of his father. “Completely gob-smacked.”

  Debera grinned knowingly. “I think I am, too. I never expected—”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Why? Don’t you trust traders?” Leopol asked, sounding slightly defensive.

  Iantine gave a shaky laugh. “One can trust traders. It’s just I never expected such generosity . . .”

  “How long were you in Bitra?” Debera asked tartly, giving him a long look.

  “Long enough,” Iantine said, grimacing, “to learn new meanings to the word ‘satisfactory.’ ”

  Debera gave him a little frown.

  “Never mind,” he said, shaking his head and patting her hand. “And thank you very much for introducing me to your cousin.”

  “Once he saw that sketch, you really didn’t need me,” she remarked, almost shyly.

  “I believe you ordered these,” said a baritone voice. Rider and Artist looked up in astonishment as a trader deposited an armful of items on the table: two pads, one larger than the other, a neat square box which held a full glass bottle of ink, a sheaf of pens, and a parcel of pencils. “Special delivery.” With a grin, he pivoted and went back the way he had come.

  “Master Jol does pride himself on his quick service,” Leopol said with a wide grin.

  “There now! You’re all set,” Debera said.

  “I am indeed,” and the words came out of Iantine like a prayer.

  CHAPTER IX

  Fort Hold and Bitran Borders, Early Winter

  LORD PAULIN’S MESSAGE to the other Lord Holders and Weyrleaders received a mixed reception: not everyone was in favor of impeachment, despite the evidence presented. Paulin was both annoyed and frustrated, having hoped for a unanimous decision so that Chalkin could be removed before his hold was totally demoralized.

  Jamson and Azury felt that the matter could wait until the Turn’s End Council meeting: Jamson was known to be conservative, but Paulin was surprised by Azury’s reservations. Those who lived in tropical zones rarely understood the problems of winter weather. To be sure, it would be more difficult to prepare Bitra Hold in full winter, which was Azury’s stated concern, but some progress could be made to prepare the hold for the vernal onslaught of Threadfall. Preparations ought to have begun—as in every other hold—two years ago: larger crops sowed, harvests stored, and general maintenance done on buildings and arable lands, as well as the construction of emergency shelters on the main roads and for groundcrews. Not to mention training holders how to combat Thread burrows.

  There was the added disadvantage that Chalkin’s folk seemed generally dispirited anyhow—though that should not be used as an excuse for denying them news of the impending problem.

  And who would succeed to the hold? A consideration that was certainly fraught with problems.

  In his response, Bastom had made a good suggestion: the appointment of a deputy or regent right away until one of Chalkin’s sons came of age; sons who would be specifically, and firmly, trained to hold properly. Not that the new holder had to be of the Bloodline, but following the precepts of inheritance outlined in the Charter would pacify the nervous Lords. To Paulin’s way of thinking, competence should always be the prime decider in succession, and that was not always passed on in the genes of Bloodlines.

  For that matter, Paulin’s eldest nephew had shown a sure grasp of hold management. Sidny was a hard worker, a fair man, and a good judge of character and ability. Paulin was half tempted to recommend him up for Fort’s leadership when he was gone. He had a few reservations about his son, Mattew, but Paulin knew that he tended to be more critical of his own Blood than others were.

  He would definitely suggest Bastom’s idea to the Council: good practice for younger sons and daughters to have actual hands-on experience in running a hold. Considering the state Bitra Hold was in, a team would be required. Such an expedient would certainly reduce the cry of “nepotism.” And give youngsters a chance to display initiative and ability.

  When the last of the replies came in, Paulin gave the young green rider a message for M’shall at Benden Weyr on the result of
the polling. The Weyrleader was sure to be as disappointed as he was. He tried to convince himself that they could still get Bitra Hold right and tight in time for Threadfall. But the sooner it was done, the better. He hoped M’shall could get back to him about locating the Bitran uncle and whether he was competent to take hold. Otherwise a Search must be made of legitimate heirs to—

  “Fragitall,” Paulin muttered, pushing back from his desk and sighing deeply in frustration. One could no longer do a quick Search on the Bloodline program for a comprehensive genealogy. Surely that was one program Clisser had printed out and copied. “Well, we’ll need a copy of whatever form that program’s in,” he told himself, sighing again. To cheer himself up he reviewed the progress report from the new mine.

  They wanted permission to call the hold CROM, an acronym of the founders: Chester, Ricard, Otty, and Minerva. Paulin didn’t see a problem with that but, as a matter of form—especially right now—the request should first be presented to the Council. During the Interval so many procedures had been relaxed, and the leniency was now coming back to plague them, as in the case of Chalkin becoming Lord Holder. At least Paulin was consoled by the knowledge that it was his father, the late Lord Emilin, who had voted Fort on that score. That evidence of bad judgment wasn’t his own error, Paulin knew, even if it was now up to him to rectify the situation.

  There was an abrupt rapping of knuckles on his door, and before he could respond it swung open: the Benden Weyrleader, M’shall, brushed past Mattew to enter.

  “We’ve got to do something now, Paulin,” the Weyrleader said, his expression grim as he hauled off his riding gauntlets and opened up his jacket.

  “You got my message quickly enough . . . Bring klah, Matt,” Paulin said, gesturing for his son to be quick. M’shall’s face looked pinched with the cold of between . . . and more.

  “I got it. And that’s not the end of it. There’s rough weather in Bitra and people freezing to death because they will not leave the border,” M’shall announced.