Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  There was wine, biscuits, and cheese for a small in-weyr party. M’leng capped the return celebrations by presenting P’tero with a flat wrapped parcel.

  M’leng’s eyes were shining in anticipation as P’tero untied the string, wondering what on earth this could be.

  “Iantine’s back, you know,” M’leng said, breathlessly watching every movement of P’tero’s hands.

  The other riders were equally excited, and P’tero felt a spurt of petulance that they all knew what this was and were dying to see his reaction.

  Naturally, the picture was picture side down when he finished unwrapping. P’tero was stunned silent when he turned it over, and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head at the scene depicted.

  “But . . . but . . . Iantine wasn’t even there!”

  “He’s so good, isn’t he?” Z’gal said. “Did he get it all right? M’leng described it over and over . . .”

  P’tero didn’t quite know what to say, he was so bewildered. So much of it was what he would have given his right arm to have actually happened. The lion was clawing his backside, M’leng was sprawled under him, and there were more lions climbing up the rock, their vicious intent vivid in their posture, their open mouths showing fangs longer than a dragon’s. P’tero was posed in an obvious act of defending his lover, his head turned, one arm upraised in a fist aimed at the attacking lion’s head. But that wasn’t the worst of the inaccuracies: both riders were fully clothed.

  “P’tero?” M’leng’s voice was quite anxious.

  The blue rider swallowed. “I don’t know what to say!”

  Where am I? Ormonth wanted to know, evidently viewing it through his rider’s eyes, as a dragon sometimes could.

  “There!” and P’tero pointed to the dragons high up in the sky, wings straight up in a landing configuration, claws unsheathed, ready to grab the attacker, eyes a mad whirl of red and orange.

  “Of course, I was unconscious,” M’leng was saying, “but that’s what Ormonth and Sith would have been doing. Wasn’t it?” And he jabbed P’tero warningly.

  “Exactly,” P’tero said hurriedly. And it probably was, although he hadn’t seen it, since he’d been looking in the other direction. “Everything happened so fast . . . It’s almost eerie how Iantine has got it all down in one scene!” The amazement and respect in his voice was not the least-bit feigned.

  “Now,” and M’leng pointed to the wall, “we’ve even got a hook for you to hang it on.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have it?” P’tero suggested hopefully.

  “I’ve a copy of my own. Iantine did two, one for each of us,” M’leng said, beaming proudly at his lover.

  So P’tero had to hang the wretched reminder of the worst day of his life on his own wall, just where he couldn’t miss it every morning of his life when he woke up.

  “You’ll never know how much this means to me,” he said, and that, too, was quite truthful.

  No one thought it the least bit odd that he got very, very drunk on wine that night.

  Ianath comes, Charanth told his rider.

  “So Meranath tells me,” Zulaya said before K’vin could speak. “He wants to know all about our trip south.”

  “I thought he’d given up on that notion to practice on the first Fall in the South,” K’vin said. He tried to sound diffident.

  Then Zulaya put a finger across her lips and pointed to the sleeping Meranath, a signal to K’vin to guard his thoughts to Charanth outside on the ledge. He nodded understanding.

  “You don’t fool me, Kev.” She waggled her finger at him. “You and B’nurrin would give your eyeteeth to be in on the first real Fall—even if it does take place in the South where nothing could be hurt. Or, for that matter, saved.”

  “The grubs haven’t spread across the entire Southern Continent, you know.”

  “That has nothing to do with seeing Thread for the first time in two hundred years.”

  He answered her droll smile with an abashed grin. “We don’t need to have the dragons stoked up or anything,” he said.

  “Yes, but do you really want to have S’nan reproaching you for the rest of your career? That is, if you have one as a Weyrleader with this sort of antic in mind.”

  K’vin gave her a long look. “And don’t tell me you like the fact that Sarai will be leading a queen’s wing in the Fall before you will.”

  Zulaya rocked back in her chair just enough that K’vin realized he had made a palpable hit. She was honest enough to grin back.

  “We don’t even know that’s what’s on B’nurrin’s mind,” she said.

  That’s exactly what was on his mind, however, even after both Zulaya and K’vin enumerated the problems they’d had on that ill-favored excursion to the Southern Continent.

  “In the first place,” B’nurrin said, after repeating Zulaya’s signal to shield their thoughts from their dragons, “we wouldn’t be landing anywhere. And I don’t mean for whole wings to go, Kev,” he added quickly. “Not like it makes sense to fight the first actual Fall we do get—wherever that actually is . . .”

  “And you’re hoping S’nan doesn’t go first,” Zulaya said with a malicious grin.

  “Too right on that,” B’nurrin replied sourly. “He really gets up my nose, you know. I don’t see any harm in having a look. I mean . . .” He paused, steeling himself a moment and staring straight into K’vin’s eyes. “I’ll be frank. I’m scared I’ll be needing clean pants half a dozen times the first Fall I have to lead.”

  “I’ve wondered about that myself,” K’vin admitted drolly. Out of the corner of his eye, he was surprised to notice a fleeting expression of approval on Zulaya’s face. Surely B’ner had never mentioned that even as a remote possibility?

  “So, I figure, if I get a good look at it before I have to act brave and unconcerned . . .”

  “Anyone who isn’t concerned about Thread’s a damn fool,” Zulaya put in.

  “Agreed.” B’nurrin nodded at her, grinning. “So, will you join me?”

  “Because if two of us go, neither of us will be as much to blame?” K’vin asked, one eye on Zulaya’s face.

  B’nurrin scratched his jaw. “Yes, I guess that’s the size of it.”

  “We’re the first you’ve asked?”

  B’nurrin gave a snort. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t suggest it again to S’nan after the way he’s clapped my ears back twice now. I figured you were more likely to than D’miel, though, you know, I think M’shall might come. If the weather’s wrong at Fort and High Reaches, Benden’s might be the first actual Fall we meet.”

  “M’shall might just be amenable at that,” Zulaya said, “though he’s the last one of the whole lot of you to doubt his abilities.”

  “That’s true enough,” B’nurrin said, then his enthusiasm got the better of him. “But look at it this way, even if old S’nan gets to fight this Pass’s first Fall over Fort, we’ll have been to one before him, so to speak.” The Igen Weyrleader grinned with such boyish delight in the scheme that K’vin had to chuckle.

  “How long is there between Southern’s first and ours?” he asked. He was astonished to see that Zulaya was already unrolling Telgar Weyr’s Thread chart onto the table.

  “Roughly two weeks,” she said.

  “So we could go and see and not jeopardize the readiness of our own Weyrs,” B’nurrin said.

  “The first possible Fall over Fort is number seven. Number four is over the Landing site,” Zulaya went on, tapping her finger on the various Thread corridors. “Five’s no good, but six starts offshore of the mouth of Paradise River, not far from where we just were.”

  “What about the first three?” B’nurrin asked, craning his neck to see. “Oh, not really as good for safe coordinates, are they?” Then he looked up in a direct challenge at K’vin. “Will you join me?”

  “I’d like to,” K’vin said decisively, pointedly not looking in Zulaya’s direction.

  “I think I would, too,” she said, surprising both
men. When they regarded her in amazement, she added, “Well, queens’ wings fly a lot lower into danger than the rest of the Weyr does. Makes it quicker for me to change my pants, but that doesn’t mean I want to have to.” Then, when they grinned with relief at her, she asked, “So, does Shanna want to come, too?”

  Grinning even more broadly, B’nurrin said, “Only if you were going.”

  “At least one of you at Igen Weyr has some sense,” Zulaya said. “Let’s just sit on the idea for a few days. Just to be sure.”

  “Who will know, if we don’t mention it?” B’nurrin asked, swiveling around to pointedly regard a sleeping Meranath.

  Paulin took Jamson with him to Bitra Hold. The older Lord Holder was still furious with his son for voting High Reaches Hold in the impeachment. But he had been unable to fault his son’s management during his two-month convalescence. This had indeed restored Jamson to vigorous health, if not tolerance.

  The change in Bitra was obvious from the moment Magrith dropped to the courtyard and Vergerin hurried down the steps to greet his guests. He had been alerted.

  S’nan had insisted on being allowed to convey the two Lord Holders, for he had been as stunned as Jamson by the swiftness of the impeachment.

  “My word!” the Fort Weyrleader said, staring about him. Magrith was staring, too, and Paulin had to suppress a grin since the dragon was looking in one direction, his rider in the other.

  The courtyard was neat, and the recent snow swept from the paving, which showed fresh cement grouting. The road, in either direction, was no longer bordered by straggling bushes and weed trees. The row of cotholds sported fresh roof slates, repaired chimneys, and painted metal shutters, all obviously in good working order. Although some of the hold’s upper windows were already shuttered tight, the facade was no longer festooned with dead vine branches. Sunlight glinted off solar panels that had been cleaned and repaired.

  Piled under a newly built shed were HNO3 tanks, racked for easy usage and the hoses and nozzles hung properly on pegs. Kalvi had told Paulin that he’d been asked to deliver the Bitran consignment within a week of Vergerin taking hold. And the following week he had sent his best teachers to instruct in their use and maintenance.

  Vergerin wore a good tunic over his trousers but they were made of stout material and he had obviously been working before his guests arrived. He greeted Paulin affably and responded courteously to the introduction to Jamson, whose response was frosty.

  “You’ve done a lot since you took over, Vergerin,” Paulin said, giving the man the encouragement of his public support. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible, frankly.”

  “Well,” and Vergerin grinned in the most charming way, “I found Chalkin’s hoard, so I’ve been able to hire in Craftsmen. Even the nearest holders aren’t accustomed to me yet, and . . . shy?”

  “Scared, more likely,” Paulin said dryly.

  “That, too, I’m sure, but I’ve done what I can to supply them with materials to make their own repairs. The hold was in an appalling state, you know.”

  Jamson grunted but his eyes widened as he saw the quiet order and cleanliness of the first reception room. S’nan made approving noises deep in his throat and even ran a finger across the wide table with its attractive arrangement of winter berries and leaves. A drudge, in livery so new the creases hadn’t been lost, was hurrying across the hall with a heavy tray.

  “My office is quite comfortable,” Vergerin said, and gestured for them to enter.

  Paulin noticed that the heavy wooden door gleamed with oil and the brass door plates were polished to a high gloss. The interior had been totally replaced, with worktops, tidy shelving, and bookcases. A scale map of Bitra Hold was nailed up on the interior wooden wall: beneath that was the Northern Continent and, oddly enough, the Steng Valley. Did Vergerin plan to reopen the mines there? A fire burned on the hearth, three upholstered chairs arranged cozily nearby, while a low table evidently awaited the tray. Polished metal vases on the deep window ledge held arrangements of bright orange berries and evergreen boughs: altogether a different room under Vergerin’s management.

  “There’s klah, an excellent broth which I do recommend, and wine, mulled or room temperature,” Vergerin said, gesturing for his three guests to take the comfortable chairs.

  “You’ve a new cook as well, Vergerin?” Paulin asked, and pointed to the steaming pitcher when Vergerin grinned. “I’ll sample the broth, then.”

  Jamson didn’t mind if he did, too, but S’nan wanted the klah.

  “You remember the back staircase, Paulin?” Vergerin said, taking the broth as well and pulling up a straight chair for himself.

  “I do. Was that where the marks were hidden?”

  “Yes, in one of the steps.” Vergerin chuckled. “Chalkin must have forgotten that I knew about that hidey-hole, too. It’s been a lifesaver, both to return unnecessary tithings and to buy in supplies. One thing Chalkin did do correctly was keep records. I knew exactly how much he had extorted from his people.”

  Jamson cleared his throat testily.

  “Well, he did, Lord Jamson,” Vergerin said without cavil. “They hadn’t even enough in stores to get by on this winter, let alone have reserves for Fall. I’m still unloading what we couldn’t possibly use from what Chalkin had amassed.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Chalkin would have weathered all fifty years of the Pass from what he had on hand—but none of his people would have lasted the first year, let alone have the materials to safeguard what they could plant out. Bitra being established after the First Fall, there were no hydroponics sheds, although the tanks are stored below.”

  Jamson gave another snort. “And the gaming? Have you curtailed that?”

  “Both here and elsewhere,” Vergerin said, flushing a little. “I haven’t so much as touched dice or card since that game with Chalkin.”

  “What about his gamesmen?”

  Vergerin’s smile was grim. “They had the choice of signing new contracts with me—for I will not honor the old ones—or leaving. Not many left.”

  S’nan barked out a cackle of a laugh. “Not many would, considering the hazards of being holdless during a Pass. You have done well, Vergerin.” He nodded an emphasis.

  “You’ve had a second chance, Vergerin,” Jamson said, waggling his finger. “See that you continue to profit by such good fortune.” He had finished the broth and now stood. “We will go on a quick survey of the holds, if you please.”

  “Of course,” and Vergerin rose hastily, pushing back his chair. “By horse—”

  “No, no,” Jamson dismissed that. “You’ve no need to accompany us. Better if you don’t.”

  “Now, Jamson,” Paulin began, for it was discourteous of the High Reaches Holder even to suggest Vergerin stay behind.

  “Certainly, as you wish.” Vergerin motioned them to pause at the map and indicated directions. “We’ve managed to complete all the necessary repairs on the holds adjacent or not far from the major link roads. Those high up have had to wait on supplies. I can’t outstay my welcome at Benden Weyr, though M’shall has been far more obliging than I thought he’d be.”

  “It’s to his advantage to oblige,” S’nan said stiffly, at the merest hint of criticism of a Weyrleader.

  Jamson had opened the door into the Hall and stopped so short, staring at the opposite wall, that Paulin nearly walked up his heels. Jamson muttered something under his breath and, pointing at the wall, turned to Vergerin.

  “Why under the sun are you hanging his portrait there?” he demanded, almost outraged.

  Paulin and S’nan peered in the direction indicated.

  And Paulin had to laugh. “When did Iantine get a chance to . . . redo it?” he asked Vergerin, who was also broadly grinning.

  “I got it yesterday.” Vergerin walked across the Hall to stand beneath it. “I think the likeness is now excellent.”

  There was a moment of silence as they all viewed the portrait, now altered to an honest representation of the forme
r Bitran Lord, including close-set eyes, bad complexion, scanty hair, and the mole on his chin.

  S’nan sniffed. “Why would you want his face around at all, Vergerin?”

  “One, to remind me to improve my management of Bitra, and two, because it’s traditional to display the likenesses of previous Lord Holders.” He gestured up the double-sided staircase, where hung the portraits of previous incumbents.

  Jamson harrumphed several times. “And Chalkin? How’s he doing?”

  Paulin shrugged and looked to S’nan.

  “He was supplied with all he needs,” the Weyrleader said. “There is no need to exacerbate his expulsion by further contact.”

  “And his children?” Jamson asked, eyes glinting coldly.

  Vergerin grinned, ducking his head. “I feel they have improved in health, well-being, and self-discipline.”

  “They stood in great need of the latter,” Paulin said.

  “They may surprise you, Lord Paulin,” Vergerin said with a sly smile.

  “I could bear it.”

  “As the branch is bent, so it will grow,” Jamson intoned piously.

  “Come this way,” Vergerin said, putting a finger to his lips to indicate silence.

  He led them down the corridor, toward what Paulin remembered as one of the gaming rooms. They could hear muted singing: Paulin instantly recognized the melody as one of the College’s latest issues. As they got closer to the source he heard the words of the Duty Song. Jamson gave another one of his harrumphs and sniffed.

  Carefully Vergerin opened the door on a mightily altered room. The students—and there were far more of them than Paulin had expected—were seated with their backs to the door. The teacher—and Paulin was surprised to recognize Issony back at Bitra—gave an additional nod to his head to acknowledge their presence as he continued to beat the tempo of the song.

  Children’s voices—even the ones who can’t carry the tune—are always appealing: perhaps it is the innocence of the tone and the guilelessness in their rendition of the song’s dynamics. Even Jamson smiled, but then the verse they were singing was about the Lord Holder’s responsibilities.