Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  The wind left the sail and the boom started to whip around when, just as abruptly, the sail caught wind again and the ship resumed her forward motion and speed.

  M’shall laughed, thumping Craigath on the neck in appreciation of the completed maneuver.

  “What’d he do? How’d he do that? What under the sun?” Richud was looking at the dragon, back at the ship, and then at M’shall in confusion.

  “He’s paddling to keep up so you won’t lose headway,” the Benden Weyrleader said.

  This is fun. I like it, Craigath informed his rider.

  “He’s enjoying himself,” M’shall said.

  “He won’t snap the rail, will he?” Richud asked, staring with some apprehension at the huge forepaw clutching the metal upright.

  The dragon shook his head. It is fragile so I don’t hold it hard.

  M’shall paused a moment. “Good lad. He says he’s well aware of its fragility.”

  “He didn’t say that,” Richud replied, shaking his head in denial. “Fragility?”

  “His very word. Craigath’s got quite a vocabulary. You know how Irene speaks . . . well, he has to keep up with Maruth, doesn’t he?”

  The dragon nodded.

  “Well, I never. Never seen Ronelth or Jemath swim like this, either,” Richud murmured. “So, what urgent matters bring you here?”

  “Chalkin must be impeached as soon as possible. A hold is autonomous until it exceeds its rights,” Bridgely said, and went on to give the Istan Lord Holder details of Chalkin’s heinous behavior.

  “I’d no idea he’d evict so many. Surely it’s winter up there and they’d be in danger of freezing.”

  “They would be and have been,” M’shall said.

  “Their condition was appalling, Richud,” Azury said. “I went to Benden myself to see. And the guard . . .” He dismissed them with a wide gesture. “You know the sort Chalkin hires . . .”

  “Yes, toughnecks, layabouts, ruffians, and scoundrels like those Gather artists of his.” Richud paused in thought. “Has that impeachment clause ever been used?”

  “No, but it was put there as a safeguard. And there’re a lot of people in Bitra who need their safety guarded . . . especially this close to Fall.”

  “Agreed. I’ll go along with you. Only,” and his tone turned entreating, “but not when I have an afternoon off to fish?”

  Craigath let go of the rail and the two groups drifted apart. Suddenly the bronze shuddered from pate to tail.

  I like that. Do it again.

  Who are you talking to, Craigath? M’shall demanded, having had to clutch the neck ridge and lift his legs high above sudden waves sloshing Craigath’s sides. His passengers had reacted as well to keep from a wetting.

  Doll-fins rubbed me.

  Playful, are they? Well, another time, my friend. We still have work to do. “Sorry about that. The dolphins were tickling Craigath.”

  “Dragons are ticklish?” Bridgely asked, startled.

  “Their bellies, yes.”

  Dolphins flowed from under the dragon now, leaping up in the air and diving neatly back into the water as they sped off after the sloop.

  “So, what do we do now? Beard Jamson again?” asked M’shall, stroking the bronze’s neck affectionately. He was amused to see that Richud had retrieved his pole and was evidently baiting his hook.

  “We’d probably have to drag Jamson down to Benden so he can see for himself, as you had to, Azury,” Bridgely said, shivering as he thought of having to return to the frigid High Reaches.

  Take the pictures, suggested Craigath, to his rider’s astonishment. Dragons did not often offer unsolicited opinions, but then M’shall considered Craigath very intelligent.

  “What pictures?” he asked.

  “Pictures?” echoed Bridgely. “What pictures?”

  Maruth says there are pictures. At Telgar

  “At Telgar?”

  “Oh, that young painter,” M’shall and Bridgely said in unison.

  “What painter?” Azury wanted to know.

  Bridgely explained.

  “Very good idea, if Jamson will accept the proof as genuine,” the Southern Boll Holder said skeptically.

  Which was exactly what happened.

  “How can you be sure these are accurate?” the High Reaches Lord Holder said when he had leafed through the vivid and detailed drawings on Iantine’s pad. “I think the whole matter has been exaggerated out of proportion.” He closed the pad halfway on the stark sketch of the hanging men.

  “And you won’t even accept my word, Jamson?” Azury said. “I’ve just been there and spoken to these people . . .” He riffled through the pages and came to one of a holder he’d interviewed. “That fellow, for instance. I spoke to him myself and I’ve no trouble accepting the truth of his story. He was four nights in an animal pen with no food and only the moisture he could get from snow, with his wife and elderly parents. Incidentally, they died of exposure despite all that Benden Weyr could do to try to revive them.”

  “I do not see why, Azury,” Jamson said at his most pompous, “you do not content yourself with running your own hold. Leave Chalkin to run his. He has the right.”

  “But not the right to inflict atrocities on any of his people.” Azury’s reply was heated.

  Jamson regarded him coldly. “A few lazy holders—”

  “A few?” Bridgely exploded in frustration, which, even as he did so, he knew defeated his purpose. “A few hundred is more like it, Jamson. And for that many we should all stir ourselves!”

  “Well, I for one shall not, Bridgely. And that’s final.” He folded his arms across his chest and sat there, glaring at his visitors.

  “Jamson,” Azury said in a very controlled, calm voice as he pushed Bridgely to one side and leaned across the desk toward Jamson, huddled in his furs. “I, too, was skeptical when Bridgely came to me, unwilling to believe his report, much less his solution to the problem. One does not lightly impugn the honor of a peer, and I could not understand why Bridgely was so agitated over a few insignificant holders. Then, too, Bitra is too far to affect anything in my hold. Though I quite took his point that Thread must not be allowed to burrow unchecked anywhere on the Northern Continent. So I conceived that it was my duty, my responsibility, to personally investigate the allegations.

  “I have the witness of my own eyes and ears now. As well as the disparity between what the guards told me and the evidence of my own eyes. The Bitran situation is dire and must be rectified. We cannot, as intelligent, responsible leaders, allow such a situation to fester and spread. It affects the very roots of our society, the strength of the Charter, the fundamentals on which this whole society is based. We cannot ignore it as the internal problem of an autonomous holding. You as an honorable Lord Holder owe it to yourself to investigate the situation. Then you can come to a considered judgment. At least, set your own doubts to rest by going, as I did, to Benden and gather firsthand information.”

  “I have no doubts,” Jamson said. “The Charter clearly states that a Lord Holder has autonomy within his borders. What he does is his business and that’s that. I should certainly protest anyone poking his nose in my business. So I suggest you take your meddling noses and spurious charges out of here, right now!”

  This time he rang a handbell, and when his oldest son opened the door in response, said, “They’re leaving. See them out.”

  Bridgely took in a deep breath, but a sudden short blow to his midriff by Azury robbed him of wind to speak and he was helpless as the Southern Boll Holder dragged him out of the room.

  “No matter what you say, he’s not in a mood to listen,” Azury told him, straightening Bridgely’s jacket in a tacit apology.

  “Lord Azury’s right, I’m afraid,” M’shall said.

  “You came about Bitra?” the son asked, leaning against the heavy office door to be sure it was tightly closed. “I’m Gallian, his eldest and acting steward.”

  “You’ve heard?”

 
“Hmmm, the door was a bit ajar,” Gallian said, not at all penitent about eavesdropping, “and during your last visit. Father’s memory’s slipping a bit so one of us tries to be nearby for important visits. He sometimes gets details muddled.”

  “Any chance you can unmuddle this visit to get his cooperation?”

  “May I see the sketches?” He held one hand out.

  “Certainly,” Bridgely said and put the pad in his hand.

  “Awful,” Gallian said, shaking his head as he viewed the distressing scenes and peering briefly with intent gaze at one or two. “And these are accurate?” he asked Azury.

  “Yes, inasmuch as I verified the condition of some of these people now at Benden Weyr,” Azury said.

  The bell jangled. Gallian thrust the pad at Azury.

  “I’ll do what I can. And not because I already consider Chalkin a thief and a cheat. I must go. See yourselves out, can you?”

  “We can and will.”

  “What could the boy do?” M’shall wanted to know as they ran quickly down the steps to the front door and out into the icy air.

  “One can never tell,” Azury admitted. “Shards, but it’s colder than between here. Get me back to my sun as fast as possible.”

  “Would a stop at Fort Hold be too much to expect from you?” Bridgely asked, grinning at the southerner’s chattering teeth.

  “No, and I expect it’s a tactical necessity in this struggle with Chalkin.”

  M’shall nodded approvingly and, vaulting to Craigath’s back, lent a hand to the other two to mount.

  The ambient temperature at Fort Hold was not warm but a decided improvement over High Reaches. Warmer still was the greeting Paulin gave them, insisting on a hot mulled wine when he heard of their adventures.

  “I don’t expect Jamson will change his mind, especially now that he has been specifically asked to do so,” Paulin said when his guests were settled near the good fire he had on his office hearth. “Jamson’s always been perverse.”

  “Then the son is unlikely to be able to alter him?” Bridgely asked, depressed that they had obviously only polarized Jamson’s opposition.

  “Gallian’s a good man,” Paulin said, temporizing, “but the truth is Jamson’s getting old, as well as odd, and Gallian has taken over a great deal of the management.”

  “Really?” Bridgely was surprised, for, despite his regret for Jamson’s intransigence, the High Reaches Holder had a good reputation and his Hold showed his skill as a manager.

  “Hmmm, yes. In confidence, now, my friends, but Gallian and his mother came to me a year or so ago when they noticed Jamson was having spates of memory loss. Even countermanded orders he had written out himself.”

  “But something like this—impeachment, I mean—Jamson would have to be present. Wouldn’t he?”

  Paulin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “And there is some urgency to our taking action,” Bridgely added. “How could we wait until such time as Gallian thinks he can persuade his father that he said opposite to what he just told us?”

  “We can wait a few weeks . . . now that we’ve removed the refugees from Chalkin’s, ah . . . benevolent management,” Paulin said, but there was a glint in his blue eyes when he turned them on Bridgely that was reassuring.

  Bridgely opened his mouth and then closed it. It would be as well to keep his thoughts—and questions—to himself rather than queer Paulin’s plans.

  “Let me have a look at that pictorial evidence Iantine was clever enough to make,” the Fort Holder asked, and Azury passed him the pad. He went carefully through the sketches. “Remarkable talent the boy has. So few lines to express so much: the cold, the squalor, the agony and the pathetic endurance of these poor folk. Issony mentioned that one of Chalkin’s restrictions over his lessons was that the Charter wasn’t to be included.”

  “He didn’t!” exclaimed Azury, looking up from the pleasurable sipping of the well-spiced wine.

  “That would explain why so few of his holders even knew it existed,” M’shall said in a tense voice. “And didn’t know they had rights, too.”

  “By the way, Clisser’s new teaching program handles that very nicely, indeed,” Paulin said, rising to refill cups from the beaker kept hot by the fire. “Children will learn their rights from the moment they learn to sing ’em.”

  “Really?” Bridgely looked intrigued.

  “With this new Pass upon us, it’s appropriate to redefine quite a few parameters, including the education we give our young folk,” Paulin said. “Rote learning from an early age—and music is a great help in that—has much to commend it, now that we no longer have information at our fingertips.”

  Iantine was painting Zulaya when his sketchbook was returned to him by K’vin.

  “M’shall stopped by with this, and says to tell you it’s been an enormous help,” the Weyrleader said, but his attention was more on Zulaya, posing for her portrait.

  She was seated on the edge of Meranath’s stone couch, where the sleeping dragon lay, her head resting on her forepaws and turned toward her rider. K’vin was very pleased to see that his weyrmate was wearing the red brocade Gather dress, which was artistically draped so that the rich design was displayed. Zulaya had her hair up in an intricate style, held in place by the combs he had given her last Turn’s End, the black diamonds in them sparkling when she moved her head. As she did just then, opening her mouth to speak.

  “Stay still . . . please,” Iantine said, stressing the last word as if he was tired of repeating the order. She snapped her mouth shut and returned to the pose.

  K’vin stepped back, well behind Iantine as he worked, making delicate brush strokes on Zulaya’s painted face. K’vin couldn’t see any difference, but Iantine seemed to be satisfied and started working on highlights for her hair.

  The young man certainly had caught the spirit of his weyrmate, slightly imperious, though the upcurve of her lips suggested humor. K’vin knew that Zulaya found it amusing to be sitting for a portrait at all, and was twitting him about what he should wear to be immortalized. K’vin also knew about Iantine’s project to do miniatures of all the riders. Ambitious, considering there were close to six hundred in the Weyr at the moment. On the one hand, K’vin was grateful there would be the gallery, while on the other hand, he dreaded those who would become casualties.

  “Will it make it any easier not to have pictures?” Zulaya had asked the other night when she had required him to tell her why he was so preoccupied. “We have nothing to remind us of the first occupants of this Weyr. I think I would have liked that. Gives a continuity to life and living.”

  K’vin had supposed it did and decided that he had to have a more positive attitude.

  “It’s not as if we knew who will not be here next year this time,” she added. “But it’d be nice to know that they were here.”

  “How much longer, Iantine?” Zulaya said plaintively. The fingers of the hand she had resting on her thigh twitched. “I can’t feel my feet or my left hand anymore.”

  Iantine gave an exaggerated sigh and laid down the palette, scratching his head with the now free hand as he swished the fine brush in the jar on the table. “Sorry, Zulaya. You should by rights have had a break some time ago. But the light’s perfect and I didn’t want to stop.”

  “Oh, help me up, K’vin,” Zulaya said, holding out a hand. “I don’t usually get a chance to sit still so long . . .”

  K’vin was glad to assist her, and she was stiff enough so that her first steps were awkward. Then she recovered her mobility and walked firmly to the easel.

  “My word, you did do yards today, didn’t you? Filled in that whole panel of the dress and . . . have you got my eyes crossed?”

  Iantine laughed. “No, step a little to this side. Now back again. Do the eyes seem to follow you?”

  Zulaya gave a little shake, widening her eyes. “They do. How do you contrive that? I must say, I’m not so sure I like me watching everything I do.”

  K
’vin chuckled. “You won’t, but your presence hanging in the Lower Cavern may spur the lazy to complete their tasks more quickly.”

  “I’m not sure I like that idea any more than having me leering at me up here.” She turned to the table, mostly covered by Iantine’s paraphernalia. “I had klah sent up not too long ago,” and she cast an accusing eye on Iantine. “It should still be hot.” She unscrewed the lid and steam obediently rose. “It is. Shall I pour for all of us?” Which she was doing even as she spoke.

  “Maybe I should leave now?” Iantine said, looking from one to the other.

  “No,” she said quickly.

  “I wanted to be sure your sketches were safely in your possession,” K’vin said, taking a chair.

  “And did they solve the problem?” Zulaya asked, spooning sweetener into the cups and passing him his. “Come, sit, Iantine. You must be more tired than I am. I’ve been sitting the whole time.”

  Iantine grinned as if, K’vin noted with a twinge of jealousy, totally at his ease with the Weyrwoman. Few were, except Tisha, who treated everyone like an errant child, or Leopol, who was impudent with everyone.

  “So? What’s the result?” She indicated with a wave of her hand that he should speak out in the portraitist’s presence.

  “M’shall’s disgusted. They still don’t have a unanimous decision about impeachment. Jamson’s the holdout.”

  “He’s not always dealing with a full deck,” Zulaya said succinctly, “at least so Mari of High Reaches Weyr told me. And he’s getting worse. Thea takes charge when she can, and that older lad of his—”

  “Gallian’s my age,” K’vin exclaimed. “Can’t they get around that?”

  “Short of making Jamson abdicate, no. At least according to my understanding of the Charter. And it just got refreshed.” She gave K’vin a droll smile. “As well I listened in to what T’lan was reading. I’d forgotten the half of it myself. Have you reread it recently?”