Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Will not? Or cannot?”

  “More cannot than will not. Though Chalkin sent down orders that none of the ‘ungrateful dissenters’ could expect to reclaim their holdings—punishment for defying him—irrespective of the fact that he’s putting their lives at risk by his notion of holding.”

  “How many are involved?” Paulin’s sense of alarm increased.

  M’shall ruffled thick graying hair that had been pressed down by his helmet. “L’sur says there must be well over a hundred at the main border crossing into Benden; women, children, and elderlies. There are as many or more at other border points, and no shelter at any, bar what the guards are using. The refugees have all been herded into makeshift pens. What’s more atrocious, L’sur saw several bodies hung up by the feet that seemed to have been used as target practice. Benden Weyr cannot ignore such barbarity, Paulin.”

  “No, it can’t, nor can Fort Hold!” Paulin was on his feet and pacing. “If that’s what he calls hold management, he has to be removed.”

  “My thinking, too,” M’shall said, running agitated hands through his hair again. “Another night like last and those people’ll be dead of exposure and starvation. Bridgely concurs with me that something has to be done, now, today. And it’s getting toward a cold night now there. I’ve come to you for Council authority since Bridgely says we’d better do this as properly as possible . . .” He paused, bitter. “Such a situation is not supposed to happen. Those people aren’t defying him. They’re just scared to death and desperate for security which obviously they don’t expect to find in Bitra.” He hitched himself forward in the chair. “Thing is, Paulin, if we hand out supplies, what’s to keep the border guards from just collecting them the moment we take off? So, I think I’ll have to leave a couple of riders as protection . . . which’ll give Chalkin a chance to cry ‘Weyr interference.’ ”

  Paulin felt nauseous. That sort of thing was straight out of the ancient bloody history the settlers had deliberately left behind: evolving a code of ethics and conduct that would make such events improbable! This planet was settled with the idea that there was room enough for everyone willing to work the land that was his or hers by Charter-given birthright.

  “There’s no interference if your riders stay on your side of the border. Besides which, Bitra Hold looks to Benden Weyr for protection—”

  “Thread protection,” M’shall corrected.

  “In a manner of speaking,” and Paulin’s smile was grim, “this is partly Thread protection. They’re looking for what they should have had from their Lord Holder, and who else should they turn to but the Weyr? No,” and Paulin brought one fist down sharply on the desk. “You’re within your rights . . . If you’ve riders willing to volunteer for such duty.”

  “L’sur’s stayed on, or so his dragon told Craigath.”

  “But no firestone,” and Paulin held up a stern finger, “much as some might like to show force.”

  “Oh, I’ve made myself clear on that point, I assure you,” and M’shall gave a bitter twist to his lips. “And we haven’t had any training at Benden recently so there’s not a whisper of flame in any of the dragons. As for disciplining the guards, a short hop and a long drop between would be my preference, but . . .” He held up both hands to assure Paulin of self-restraint.

  At that point Mattew returned with a tray containing steaming cups of klah, soup, and a basket of hot breads. He deposited it on the table and left.

  M’shall didn’t wait for Paulin’s invitation but grabbed up the soup and blew on its surface, sipping as soon as he dared. “That hits the spot, and if you’ve a caldron of it, I’ll take it back with me.” He grinned, licking his lips. “It’s certainly hot enough to survive a jump between.”

  “You may have it, caldron and all. L’sur has stayed on, you say? How about riders at other crossing points?” Paulin asked, stirring sweetener into his klah. M’shall nodded. “Good. Their presence ought to inhibit any further violence.” But that presence was only a deterrent, not assistance. He would like to do more than send soup, but his position at this point, even as Council Chair, might be compromised. “At least the Weyr has a right to take action, and so does Bridgely,” he added thoughtfully. He thumped his fist again. “But I will go personally to see both Jamson and Azury: especially since Chalkin has used such extreme measures. I’m hard-pressed to see the reason for them.”

  M’shall shrugged. “Fort holders have every reason to trust you, Paulin. Bitrans never have had any with Chalkin holding.”

  “What I’d like to do is haul the indecisive, like Jamson and Azury, and show them what’s happening at Bitra. They probably think we’ve exaggerated the situation.”

  “Exaggerated?” M’shall was indignant, and it was as well the cup was empty of soup when he planted it hard on the table. “Sorry. What’s wrong with them?”

  “They wouldn’t behave in such a manner. It’s hard for them to believe another Lord Holder would.”

  “Well,” and M’shall nearly growled, “he would and he has.”

  There was a more circumspect knock on the door, which Matt opened, showing in K’vin.

  “I just heard about the border trouble, M’shall. Zulaya had Meranath bespeak Maruth, so Charanth and I thought to catch you here,” the young Weyrleader said, his expression as grim as Benden’s.

  “So he’s blocked the western borders as well?”

  K’vin nodded. “Telgar has no grounds to object to his closing his borders, but he’s deliberately killing people, turfing them out in this weather. I can’t . . . and won’t . . . permit people to be treated like that.” He fixed an expectant stare on Paulin.

  “M’shall and I have been discussing the intolerable situation. I’ve already polled the Lord Holders with a view to taking immediate action. The response was not unanimous, so even as Council Chair there is little I can do—officially, that is. But as M’shall pointed out, the Weyr has certain responsibilities to protect people. By stretching a point, you could say they’re Threadlost,” and Paulin’s smile was wry, “escaping a hold which is unprepared. So the Weyrs can move where the Council Chair may not.”

  “That’s all I need to know!” K’vin slapped his riding gloves against his thigh to emphasize his approval.

  “Of course,” and Paulin held up one hand in restraint, “you must be careful not to give Chalkin due cause to cite an infringement against Hold autonomy . . .”

  “Not if that includes deliberate mistreatment of people he’s already misled,” K’vin said, his voice rising in alarm.

  “This is not the time to jeopardize the neutrality of the Weyrs, you know,” Paulin said, looking from one to the other. “Thread hasn’t started falling yet.”

  “C’mon, Paulin—” M’shall began in protest.

  “I’m with you in spirit, but as Council Chair, I have to remind you—above and beyond my private opinion—that we don’t have the right to interfere in the government of a hold.”

  “You may not, Paulin,” K’vin said. “But M’shall and I do. There’s truth in what you said about Weyrs protecting people from peril.”

  “From Threadfall . . .” Paulin reminded the younger Weyrleader.

  “From peril,” K’vin repeated firmly. “Freezing to death without shelter from inclement weather constitutes peril as surely as Threadfall does.”

  Paulin nodded approvingly. “I may even forget that you visited here this morning.” He grinned. “M’shall, you don’t happen to know where Chalkin’s remaining uncle lives?”

  “I already thought of that and he’s not there,” M’shall said. “Place was empty. Too empty. I know Vergerin was alive and well last autumn.”

  “How do you mean ‘too empty’ ?” Paulin asked, jotting down the uncle’s name.

  “It had been cleaned out too thoroughly. Not,” and M’shall held up one hand to forestall Paulin’s query, “as if it had been set to rights after a man’s death, but as if to prove no one had been there at all. But Vergerin had cleared
vegetation back from his front court, as every smart holder should. Someone had thrown debris all around to disguise the clearance.”

  “Has Chalkin anticipated us?” Paulin asked in a rhetorical question. Then he looked from one dragonrider to the other. “Rescue those folks before either the weather or Chalkin’s bullies kill them. And I’d like interviews from them, too, once they’re not afraid to talk to outsiders.” Just as M’shall had his hand on the doorknob, Paulin added, “And not so much as a trickle of flame, please. That could get magnified out of all proportion.”

  K’vin pretended wide-eyed shock at such a notion. M’shall glanced around.

  “I didn’t hear that, Paulin,” the Benden Weyrleader said with stiff dignity.

  “As if we would . . .” K’vin said to M’shall as they strode out of Fort Hold.

  “I’d like to,” M’shall said in a taut voice, “that’s the problem. But then, I’ve known Chalkin longer than you.”

  Craigath and Charanth were already on the court, awaiting their riders.

  “You’ll take the western and northern crossings, K’vin?” M’shall asked as they separated to reach their bronzes. “Have you been checking on numbers for transport?”

  “Yes, and had sweep riders checking in ever since Chalkin closed the borders. Zulaya will warn Tashvi and Salda that we’re proceeding. We’ll take all to the Weyr first. The entire Weyr is organized to help.”

  “You’re a good man, K’vin,” and M’shall grinned at his colleague. “So let’s do it!” The Benden Weyrleader launched himself up his dragon’s shoulder and swung neatly between the end ridges.

  We go to help? Charanth asked K’vin.

  Indeed we do. Tell Meranath to have Zulaya put our plan into operation. I’ll meet my wing at the Falls road. And I think we’d better ask Iantine to come along.

  When K’vin returned to Telgar, the first rescue wave was ready to take off at his signal. He paused long enough to haul Iantine behind him on Charanth.

  “Get down as much in black and white as you can, Iantine. I want Chalkin nailed by the evidence.”

  Iantine was all too happy to comply with the request. It would be one way of paying back the arrogant Lord Holder for his snaking ways and meanness. But no sooner had Iantine dropped to the hard-packed snow of the border point than his attitude changed to horrified disgust. Using an economy of line, he sketched the “pen”—ropes looped around trees, and the shivering knots of people forced to stand, for there was not enough room to sit down—in the churned mud of an inadequate space. He drew the haggard faces, the chilled bodies bent inward from cold, or those clumped together to share what warmth they had. Some had been stripped of all but what covered private parts and were surrounded by their fellows in an attempt to keep them from freezing. Some were standing barefoot on the rough rags and boots of their neighbors, feet blue and dangerously white from frostbite. Children wandered weeping with hunger and fatigue or slumped in unconscious bundles in the mud at the feet of the adults. Three elderlies were stiff in death. Bloodied faces and bruised eyes were more common than the unmarked.

  The guards, however, were warm with many layers of clothing, good fires with cooking spits turning to roast the meat of such animals as the refugees had brought with them. Others were tied or penned up for future use. Such belongings as the refugees had brought with them were now piled at the side of the guardhouse or in the barrows or carts lined up behind. Iantine faithfully recorded rings and bracelets, even earrings, inappropriately adorning the guards.

  They had been alarmed at the arrival of the dragonriders, as many as could retreating into the shelter of the stone border facility. That had made it considerably easier to move the refugees. Of course many of them were in such a state of shock and fear that they were as frightened of the dragons and the riders as of the brutal guards.

  Zulaya had brought Weyrfolk with her, and their presence reassured many. So did the blankets and the warm jackets. And the soup: the first sustenance many had had since they had left their holds.

  What Iantine couldn’t put down on paper were the sounds and the smells of that scene. And yet he did . . . In the open mouths of the terrified folk, their haunted eyes, the contortions of their abused bodies, their ragged coverings, the piles of human ordure because the guards had made no provision for that human requirement, and the abandoned belongings and carts.

  Now that he had seen real privation, Iantine realized how lucky he had been in his brief encounter with the Lord Holder of Bitra.

  Iantine returned with the last group, letting his hand rest only in between, sketching as they flew, his pad propped against P’tero’s back.

  “You haven’t stopped a moment,” P’tero shouted over his shoulder. “You’ll freeze your hand up here, you know.”

  Iantine waved it to prove its flexibility and continued to sketch. He was adding details to the men who had been hung by their heels and used as target practice. The men had been cut down—one of the first things the rescuers had done. Iantine had only had time enough to do an outline, but the details—despite all the other sketches he made that day—were vivid in his mind’s eye, and he had to get every one down on paper or he would feel he had betrayed them.

  When the young blue rider deposited him in front of the lower cavern, Iantine, still filling in substance, managed to get himself to a table near enough to the fire to get the good of the warmth—and increase the fluidity of his drawing. His fingers gradually thawed and his pencil raced faster.

  A touch on his shoulder startled him half out of his chair.

  “It’s Debera,” and the green rider placed klah and a bowl of stew in front of him. “Everyone else has eaten. You’d better,” she said severely, wrenching the pencil out of one hand and taking the pad from the other. “You look awful,” she added, peering closely at his face.

  He reached for his pad but she slapped at his hand, swinging it out of his reach.

  “No, you eat first. You’ll draw better for it. Oh, my word!” Her eye was caught by the scene, and her free hand went to her mouth, her eyes widening in shock. “Oh, they couldn’t have.”

  “I sketched what I saw,” he said, exhaling in a remorse that came from his guts and then inhaling the tantalizing odor emanating from the stew. He looked down at it, thick with vegetables and chunks of meat. They really could do miracles with wherry here. He picked up the spoon and began to eat, only then realizing how empty his stomach was. It almost hurt receiving food, and that nearly made him stop eating altogether. Chalkin’s prisoners had been without food for three or four days.

  “They’re all fed now,” Debera murmured.

  Iantine gave her a startled glance and she patted his shoulder reassuringly, as she often patted her Morath.

  “I felt the same way when I ate earlier on.” She sat down across from him. “We’d been going flat out to feed them when Tisha made us all stop to get something to eat, too.” She started turning the pages of his book, the look on her face becoming more and more distressed at each new scene of the tragedy. “How could he?”

  Iantine reached over and gently pulled the sketch pad from her, setting it down, closed between them.

  “He gave the orders—” Iantine began.

  “And knew just what would happen when he did, I know. I’ve met some of his . . . ‘guards.’ Even my father wouldn’t have one about the hold.” She tapped the pad. “No one can ignore that sort of evidence.”

  Iantine gave a snort. “Not with dragonriders verifying what’s in here!” He finished the last of the stew and stretched his legs out under the table, scrubbing at his face, still tingling with his long hours in the unremitting cold of the border crossing.

  “Go to bed, why don’t you, Iantine,” Debera said, rising. She glanced around the cavern, which was occupied by only a few riders and folk finishing their evening meal. “They’ve all been sorted out and you’ll be lucky if you have your room to yourself. But I’d better get some sleep, too. That Morath of mine! She wa
kes positively starved, no matter how much I give her.”

  Iantine smiled at the affection that softened Debera’s voice. He got to his feet, swaying a bit. “You’re right. I need sleep. Good night, Debera.”

  He watched her striding purposefully out of the cavern, at the proud tilt to her head and the set of her shoulders. She’d changed a great deal since she Impressed Morath. He grinned, picked up his pad, and slowly made his way to his quarters.

  He wasn’t sharing with any refugee, but Leopol sprawled on a bed pad along one wall and didn’t even stir as Iantine prepared himself for bed.

  There were more refugees than originally estimated, and while the resources of the two Weyrs were stretched, the Lord Holders immediately sent additional supplies and offered shelter. Some of those rescued were in bad shape from the cold and could not be immediately transferred to the sanctuaries offered by Nerat, Benden, and Telgar Holds.

  Zulaya had headed a rescue team of the other queens and the green riders. She came back, seething with rage.

  “I knew he was a greedy fool and an idiot, but not a sadist. There were three pregnant women at the Forest Road border and they’d been raped because, of course, they couldn’t sue the guards later on a paternity claim.”

  “Are the women all right?” K’vin asked, appalled by yet another instance of the brutality. “We arrived at the North Pass just in time to spare three lads from . . . very unkind attentions by the guards. Where does Chalkin find such men?”

  “From holds that have tossed them out for antisocial behavior or criminal activities, of course,” Zulaya replied, almost spitting in anger. “And that blizzard’s closed in. We moved just in time. If we hadn’t, I fear most of these people would be dead by morning. Absolutely nothing allowed them! Not even the comfort of a fire!”

  “I know, I know,” he said, as bitter about the sadistic behavior as she was. “We should have treated those guards to a taste of absolute cold. Like a long wait between. Only that would have been a clean death.”