Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  “We still can,” Zulaya said in a grating tone. K’vin regarded her in astonishment. She glared at him, clenching her fists at her sides. “Oh, I know we can’t, but that doesn’t keep me from wanting to! Did you take Iantine with you? I thought of how useful on-the-spot sketches might be.”

  “In fact, he asked to come. He’s got plenty to show Lord Paulin and the Council,” K’vin said. He swallowed, remembering the stark drawings that had filled one pad. Iantine’s quick hand had captured the reality, made even more compelling by the economy of line, depicting horrific scenes of deliberate cruelty.

  The Weyrleaders introduced themselves to the first of the refugees and started off by interviewing the old couple.

  “M’grandsir’s grandsir came to Bitra with the then holder,” the man said, his eyes nervously going from one Weyrleader to the other. He kept wiggling his bandaged fingers, though N’ran had assured him the pain and itch had been dulled by fellis and numbweed. “I’m Brookie, m’woman’s Ferina. We farmed it since. Never no reason to complain, though the Holder keeps asking for more tithe and there’s only so much comes out of any acre, no matter who tills it. But he’d the right.”

  “Not to take our sow, though,” his mate said, her expression rebellious. “We needed that ‘un to make more piggies to meet the tithe he set.” Like her man, she laid a stress on the pronoun. “Took our daughter, too, to work in the hold when we wanted her land grant. Said we didn’t work what we had good enough so we couldn’t have more.”

  “Really?” Zulaya said, deceptively mild as she shot K’vin a meaningful glance. “Now that’s interesting, Holder Ferina.”

  K’vin envied Zulaya’s trick of remembering names.

  You could’ve asked me, Charanth said helpfully.

  You’ve been listening?

  The people needed dragons’ help. I listen. We all do.

  When the pity of dragons has also been aroused, surely that’s enough justification for what we’ve just done, thought K’vin, if the Council should turn up stiff. He must remember to tell Zulaya.

  “But he says we got it wrong and we ain’t had no teacher to ask,” the man was saying. “An’ thassa ‘nother thing—we should have a teacher for our kids.”

  “At least so they can read the Charter and know what rights you all do have,” Zulaya said firmly. “I’ve a copy we can show you right now, so you can refresh your memories.”

  The two exchanged alarmed glances.

  “In fact,” Zulaya went on smoothly, “I think we’ll have someone read you your rights . . . since it would be difficult for you to turn pages with bandaged hands, Brookie. And you’re not in much better shape, Ferina.”

  Ferina managed a nervous smile. “I’d like that real well, Weyrwoman. Real well. Our rights are printed out? In the Charter and all?”

  “Your rights as holders are part of the Charter,” Zulaya said, shooting K’vin another unhappy look. “In detailed paragraphs.” She rose to her feet abruptly. ‘Why don’t you sit over there, in the sun, Ferina, Brookie?” and she pointed to the eastern wall, where some of the Weyr’s elderlies were seated, enjoying the warmth of the westering sun. “We’ll make sure you hear it all, and you can ask any questions you want.”

  She helped the two to their feet and started them on their way across the Bowl as K’vin whistled for Leopol.

  “Go get the Weyr’s copy of the Charter, will you, lad?”

  “You want me to read it to them, too?” the boy asked, eyes glinting partly in mischief and partly because he enjoyed second-guessing errands.

  “Smart pants, are we?” K’vin said. “No, I think we need T’lan for this.” He pointed toward the white-haired old brown rider who was serving klah to the refugees. “Just get the Charter now. I’ll request T’lan’s services.”

  Leopol moved off at his usual sprint, and K’vin went over to speak to the elderly brown rider. He had exactly the right manner to deal with nervous and frightened holders.

  Bridgely arrived in Benden Weyr, his face suffused with blood, torn between fury and laughter.

  “The nerve of the man, the consummate nerve!” he exclaimed and threw down the message he carried.

  It landed closer to Irene than M’shall so she picked it up.

  “From Chalkin?” she exclaimed, looking up at Bridgely. “Read it . . . and pour me some wine, would you, M’shall?” the Lord Holder said, slipping into a chair. “I mean, I know that man’s got gall, but to presume . . . to have the effrontery—”

  “Ssssh,” Irene said, her eyes widening as she read. “Oh, I don’t believe it! Just listen, M’shall. ‘This hold has the right to dragon messengers. The appropriate red striped banner has been totally ignored, though my guards have seen dragons near enough to see that an urgent message must be delivered. Therefore I must add . . .’ ” She peered more closely at the written page. “His handwriting’s abominable . . . Ah, ‘dereliction’ . . . really, where does he get off to cry ‘dereliction’ . . . ‘of their prime duty to the other complaints I am forced to lay at their door. Not only have they been interfering with the management of this hold, but they fill the minds of my loyal holders with outrageous lies. I demand their immediate censure. They are not even reliable enough to perform those duties which fall within their limited abilities.’ Limited abilities?” Irene turned pale with fury. “I’ll unlimit him!”

  “Especially when we’ve had an earful of how he treats his loyal holders . . .” M’shall said, his expression grimmer than ever. “Wait a minute. What’s the date on his letter?”

  “Five days ago,” Bridgely answered, with a malicious grin. “He had to send it by rider. From what the fellow told me, Chalkin’s also sent messengers to Nerat and Telgar as well. He wants me, you’ll see in the last paragraph, Irene,” and Bridgely pointed to that section of the missive, “to forward it by a reliable messenger to Lord Paulin, registering his complaint with the Council Chair. I suppose,” and his grin was droll, “I’ll get another one when he finds out about yesterday’s airlift rescue.”

  “The man . . .” Irene paused, unable to find words. “When I think of how he’s treated those poor people . . .”

  “And when he’s called to account, he’ll probably whinge that his guards exceeded their instructions and he’s fired them all,” said Bridgely with a cynical shrug.

  “Oh,” M’shall said brightly, “not all of them.” He scratched the back of his head. “Ah . . . they wanted to know why they couldn’t get to ride a dragon if the riffraff could.”

  “You didn’t, M’shall?” Irene exclaimed, her eyes wide with delighted anticipation, “drop them off on the way, did you?”

  “No,” and M’shall shrugged with mock regret. “But I felt it might be wise to . . . ah, sequester? Yes, that’s the word, sequester certain of them should they be required to stand before the Council and explain exactly what orders they received.”

  “Oh.” Bridgely turned pensive.

  “Oh, I was select, you might say,” and M’shall’s face was grim. “I found out which had had a hand in those killings and took testimony from bereaved witnesses. Not even guards, acting under a Lord Holder’s orders, may execute without trial, you know.”

  “Oh, indeed, and you’ve acted circumspectly,” Bridgely said, nodding with understanding. “Really, I don’t think this can wait until Turn’s End. And I shall so inform Jamson and Azury.”

  “I’d be happy to take you myself,” M’shall said, “and speak for the Weyr. In fact,” and the Weyrleader reached for Chalkin’s written message, “you could deliver this at the same time, Bridgely.”

  “You are all consideration, Weyrleader,” Bridgely said, gesturing grandly and looking exceedingly pleased.

  “My pleasure at any time, Lord Holder.” M’shall swept his arm in an equally grand gesture.

  “Whenever you can spare a moment from your duties, Weyrleader?”

  “Why, I do believe I can spare an hour or two now, since I perceive that it is an appropriate time to
visit the western half of the continent . . .”

  “Oh, will you two stop your nonsense and go!” Irene said, laughter in her voice though she tried to look reproving. But their antics relieved the tension in the Weyr.

  CHAPTER X

  High Reaches, Boll, Ista Weyrs; High Reaches Weyr,

  Fort, and Telgar Holds

  “NOW, REALLY, M’SHALL, Bridgely,” said Jamson, fussing with his robes as he shifted uneasily in his chair. High Reaches was invariably a cold place, and today, in Jamson’s private office, was no exception. The Benden Holder was glad he had riding furs on, and made no attempt to open his jacket nor unglove his left hand after the usual handshake with Jamson. He noted M’shall did the same. “I cannot believe that a Lord Holder would treat the very people he depends on in such a way. Not in midwinter.”

  “With my own eyes I saw it, Lord Jamson,” M’shall said in an unequivocal tone. “And I thought it wise to ask several of the guards to stay in the Weyr so you may learn what their orders were.”

  “But here, Chalkin complains that you have not accorded him the courtesy of conveyance.” Jamson frowned.

  “If you had seen what I have, Lord Jamson, you might find it hard to oblige him,” M’shall said, his face stark.

  “Really, Jamson, don’t be such a prick,” Bridgely said, under no similar restraint of courtesy with his peer. “Nerat and Telgar are taking in refugees as well as Benden. You can speak to any you wish to determine the extent of Chalkin’s perfidy . . .”

  “I’ll gladly convey you where you wish to go,” M’shall offered.

  “I’ve my own Weyr,” Jamson said stiffly, “if I need transport. But it’s not the weather to be traveling about in unnecessarily at all.”

  Which was true enough since the High Reaches Hold was cloaked in snow crusted as hard as ice on the ground.

  “Agreed,” Bridgely said, trying hard not to shiver and wondering at Jamson’s parsimony with fires, or if the heating system in the hold was another victim to technological obsolescence. “So you will grant that only a dire need would bring me out, asking you to change your mind about taking immediate action against Chalkin. People would have frozen to death on Bitra’s borders last night!” And he pointed vigorously eastward.

  “He doesn’t mention that in this,” Jamson said, peering at the letter on the table.

  “Doubtless he’ll circulate a longer letter on that score,” Bridgely said with deep irony. “But what I saw required me to give aid without any delay.”

  “As you know, Lord Jamson,” M’shall put in, “Weyrs are also autonomous and may withhold services with sufficient justification. I feel perfectly justified in refusing him basic courtesies. Come, Bridgely. We’re wasting Lord Jamson’s valuable time. Good day to you.”

  Before the astonished High Reaches Holder could respond to such peremptory behavior, the two men had left the room.

  “My word! And I always considered M’shall to be a sensible man. Thank goodness G’don is a solid, predictable Weyrleader . . . One simply does not impeach a Lord Holder overnight! Not this close to Threadfall.” He buried his hands more deeply into the sleeves of his fur-lined jerkin.

  Azury was so shocked he did not even comment on M’shall’s “dereliction” of services. “I’d no idea, really,” he said.

  In direct contrast to High Reaches, Southern Boll’s weather was hot enough for Bridgely to wish he’d worn a lighter shirt. Although they were well shaded from the morning sun on a porch decorated by a blooming plant with fragrant pink blossoms tangling in clusters, he had to open his collar and roll up his sleeves to be comfortable. Azury had ordered a fruit drink, and by the time it came, Bridgely’s throat was dry enough to appreciate the cool tang.

  “I know Chalkin’s not exactly . . . reliable,” and Azury then grinned wryly. “And I’ve lost sufficient marks in his little games of chance to wonder about his basic honesty. But . . .” He shook his head. “A holder simply doesn’t keep his folk in the dark about something as critical to their survival as Thread. Does he really think it won’t come? That we’re all foolish or stupid?”

  “He is both foolish and stupid,” Bridgely said. “Why else did our ancestors bioengineer the dragons? And develop a totally unique society to nurture and succor the species if not for future need?” He glanced at M’shall, who merely raised his eyebrows. “It isn’t as if we didn’t have graphic proof of the existence of Thread, which was part of our education. Nor tons of records annotating the problem. It’s not something we thought up to inconvenience Chalkin of Bitra.”

  “Preaching to the converted, Bridge,” Azury said. “He’s ten times the fool if he thinks to brace the rest of the planet on this score. But,” and he leaned forward on his wickerwood chair, which creaked slightly, “holders can spin great lies.”

  “And I can spot a whinge and a bitcher as fast as you can, Azury,” Bridgely said, moving to the edge of his chair, which also reacted noisily to the weight shift. “Like this chair. You can interview any of those we’ve taken in . . . and the sooner the better so you can judge the condition they were in before we rescued them.”

  “I think I’d better have an eyes-on at that,” Azury said. He raised one hand quickly. “Not that I doubt you, but impeaching another Lord Holder . . . Nervous-making.”

  “That’s as may be, but having a hold that is totally unprepared for the onslaught of Thread—one that’s adjacent to me,” and Bridgely jabbed a thumb in his chest, “is far more nervous-making.”

  “You’ve a point there,” Azury admitted. He looked over his shoulder and beckoned one of the attendants, asking him to bring his riding gear. “You said that Jamson’s reluctant? Doesn’t impeachment require a unanimous verdict?”

  “It does,” Bridgely said and set his lips in an implacable line.

  Azury grinned, thanking the attendant, who had quickly returned with his gear. “Then you also need me to add weight to a second delegation to High Reaches?”

  “If you feel you can turn Jamson’s opinion?”

  Azury stamped into his boots. “That one’s just perverse enough to hold out, but we’ll see. Tashvi, Bastom, and Franco are involved, and I know Paulin is agitated . . . Who does that leave? Richud of Ista? Well, he will go along with a majority.” He rose. “Now, let’s leave before I swim in my own sweat . . .”

  Azury interviewed each of the fourteen refugees still housed in Benden Weyr as unfit to be transferred elsewhere. He had a chat with three of the guards.

  “Not that they were in a chatting mood,” he said, his light blue eyes vivid with anger in his tanned face, “but they may soon have second thoughts on how much their loyalty is worth to Lord Chalkin. They do claim,” and, as he grinned, his teeth were very white against his skin, “that they were outnumbered by the influx of so many ranting, raving maniacs and had to use force to restrain them until they could receive orders from the hold.”

  “That conflicts with what the ranting raving maniacs say, doesn’t it?” M’shall replied.

  “Oh, indeed,” Azury said, grinning without humor. “And I do wonder that the guards came out of the ranting and raving mass unscathed while all of the maniacs seem to have a variety of injuries. Clearly the truth is being pulled in many directions. But it lies there, limpid as usual, to the eye that sees and the ear that hears.”

  “Well said.” Bridgely nodded.

  “So let’s speak with Richud.”

  It was harder to find the Lord Holder of Ista because he had taken the afternoon off to fish—his favorite occupation.

  The Harbormaster was unable to give any specific direction for a search.

  “The dolphins went with him . . . circle your dragon, and see if he can spot them. Small sloop with a red sail but a lot of dolphins. Richud claims they understand him. He may be right,” and the elderly man scratched his head, grinning with amusement at the notion.

  “They do—according to the records,” Azury said. “My fishers always watch out for them in the Currents.”<
br />
  “Wal, as you wish,” the Harbormaster said, and went back to his tedious accounting of creel weights lifted ashore the previous seven days.

  Craigath flew his passengers in a high-altitude circle, spiraling outward from Ista Harbor. It was he who spotted the craft and, with mighty use of his pinions, dove for it.

  Despite the broad safety band securing him to his position, Azury grabbed frantically at Bridgely, who was sitting in front of him, and Bridgely worried lest his own grip bruise the dragonrider.

  M’shall merely turned his head to grin back at them. The words he spoke—for his mouth moved—were lost in the speed of their descent. Bridgely watched the sea coming nearer and nearer and arched himself slightly backward. He’d ridden often enough not to be alarmed by dragon antics, but never at such an angle or speed. He tightened his hold on his safety straps and argued himself out of closing his cowardly eyes. Just as it seemed as if Craigath would impale himself on the mast of the sloop—which wasn’t all that small to Bridgely’s mind—the bronze went into hover, startling the two crewmen who were watching Richud struggle with a pole bent almost double by his efforts to land the fish he’d hooked.

  “Any time you’re free, Lord Richud,” shouted M’shall between his cupped hands.

  Richud glanced once over his shoulder, then again, and lost control of pole and fish—the reel spinning wildly as pressure ended.

  “Don’t creep up on me like that! Lookit what you made me do! Fraggit. Can’t I ever get an afternoon off? Oh well, what catastrophe’s hit us now? Must be something bad to bring the three of you this far south.”

  He handed his pole to a crewman and came to the starboard side. There was still some distance between him and his visitors.

  “I’d ask you aboard but the bronze would sink us,” he said.

  “No problem,” M’shall said, and his eyes unfocused as he spoke to his dragon. Can you get us a little closer, Craigath?

  Craigath, eyes gleaming bluely and whirling with some speed, set himself down in the water, wings neatly furled to his backbone while, with his left forearm, he took hold of the safety rail, pulling himself, and his passengers, closer to the hull of the ship. The sloop began to heel over at the strength of the dragon’s hold.