Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  Debera lifted the pail down while Morath impatiently nudged off the cover and seemed to inhale the gobbets. Debera allowed her to fill her mouth and then started shielding the pail with her body.

  “You will chew what you eat, Morath, you hear me? You could choke to death and then where would I be?”

  Morath gave her such a look of pained astonishment and reproach that Debera couldn’t remain stern.

  “Chew,” she said, popping a handful of pieces into Morath’s open mouth. “Chew!” she repeated, and Morath obediently exercised her jaws before spreading them wide again for another batch. Debera had not tended the orphaned young animals of her hold without learning some of the tricks.

  Whoever had decided on the quantity, Debera thought, knew the precise size of a dragonet’s belly. Morath’s demands had slowed considerably as Debera reached the bottom of the pail, and the dragonet sighed before she swallowed the last.

  “I see she’s had breakfast,” said T’dam, appearing from behind so suddenly that Morath squawked in surprise and Debera struggled to get to her feet. T’dam’s hand on her shoulder pushed her back down.

  “We’re not formal in the Weyr, Debera,” he said kindly. “Now, lead her over to the lake there,” and he gestured to the right, where Debera recognized the large mounds as sleeping dragonets. “Then, when she wakes up from this feed she’ll be just where you can bathe and oil her.” T’dam grinned. “Before you can feed her again, though . . .” and then he motioned to his left. “Are you squeamish?” he asked.

  Debera took a good look in the direction he pointed and saw six skinned carcasses, swaying from butchering tripods. Weyrlings were busy with knives, carving flesh off the bones or at the table, chopping raw meat into dragonet morsels.

  “Me?” Debera gave a cynical snort. “Not likely.”

  “Good,” T’dam said approvingly. “Some of your peers are. Come now, Morath,” he added in a totally altered tone, loving and kind and wheedling, “you’ll need a little rest, and the sands by the lake are warm in the sun . . .”

  Morath lifted her head, her eyes glistening bluey-green as she regarded the Weyrlingmaster.

  He is a nice man, she said, and began to waddle toward the lake: her swaying belly bulged lumpily with her meal.

  “When you’ve settled her, Debera, be sure to get your own breakfast in the kitchen. Good thing you’re not squeamish,” he said, turning away, but his chuckle drifted back to Debera’s ears.

  It’s awfully far to the lake, isn’t it, Debera? Morath said, puffing.

  “Not really,” Debera said. “Anyway, it’s much too rocky underfoot right here to make a comfortable bed for your nap.”

  Morath looked down her long nose, her left fore knocking a stone out of her path. And sighed. She kept going, Debera encouraging her with every slow step, until they reached the sandier ground surrounding the lake. It had recently been raked, the marks visible between the paw and tail prints of the dragonets. Debera urged Morath farther onto the sand, to an empty spot between two browns who were tightly curled, with wings to shield their eyes from the autumn sun pouring down on them.

  With a great sigh, Morath dropped her hindquarters to the sand with an I’m-not-going-a-step-farther attitude and sank slowly over to her right side. She curled her tail about her, curved her head around under her left wing and, with a sweet babyish croon rumbling in her throat, fell asleep.

  Once again Debera could barely bring herself to leave the dragonet, lost in the wonder of having been acceptable to such a marvelously lovable creature.

  She’d been lonely and lacking in love for so long—ever since her mother had died and her oldest full brother had left the family hold. Now she had Morath, all her very own, and those long years of isolation faded into a trivial moment.

  She’s perfectly safe here, Debera decided finally and forced herself to leave Morath and make her way across that quadrant of the Bowl to the kitchen caverns. Enticing smells of fresh bread and other viands made her quicken her steps. She hoped she’d have enough restraint not to bolt her food like her dragonet.

  The kitchen cavern at Telgar Weyr was actually a series of caves, each with an entrance, varying in size, width, and height. As Debera paused at the entrance of the nearest and smallest one, she saw that hearths or ovens were ranged against the outside wall, each with a separate chimney protruding up the cliff face. Inside, the many long tables where last night’s guests had been entertained were reduced to the number needed by the regular population of the Weyr. But the interior was busy as men and women went about the food preparation tasks.

  “Breakfast’s over there,” a woman said, smiling at Debera and pointing. “Porridge’s still hot and the klah’s fresh made. Help yourself.”

  Debera looked to her left to the farthest hearth, which had tables and chairs set invitingly near it.

  “There’ll be fresh baked bread soon, too, and I’ll bring some over,” the woman added, and proceeded on her own business.

  Debera had only just served herself a heaping of porridge—not a lump in it nor a fleck of burn—and a cup of klah when two boys, looking bewildered and not at all sure of how to proceed, wandered in.

  “The bowls are there, the cups there,” Debera said, pointing. “And use that hunk of towel to hold the pot while you spoon out the cereal. It’s hot.”

  They sent her tentative smiles—they must just be old enough for Impression, she thought, feeling just a trifle older and wiser. They managed, but not without slopping gobs of porridge into the fire and jumping back from the hiss and smell, to get enough in the bowls and to pour klah into their cups.

  “C’mon, sit here, I won’t bite,” she said, tapping her table. They were certainly not a bit sullen or grouchy, like her younger half brothers.

  “You’ve a green, haven’t you?” the first one said. He had a crop of black curls that had recently been trimmed very close to his skull.

  “ ‘Course she has a green, stooopid,” the other lad said, elbowing the ribs of the first. “I’m M’rak, and Caneth’s my bronze,” he added with a justifiable smirk of pride.

  “My bronze is Tiabeth,” the black-haired boy said, equally as proud of his dragon, but added modestly, “I’m S’mon. What’s yours named?”

  “Morath,” and Debera found herself grinning broadly. Did all new riders feel as besotted as this?

  The boys settled into chairs and began to eat, almost as eagerly as dragonets. Deliberately, Debera slowed the rhythm of her spoon. This porridge was really too good to gulp down: not a husk nor a piece of grit in it. Obviously Telgar tithed of its best to the Weyr, even with such a staple as oats for porridge. She sighed, grateful for more than Impressing Morath yesterday.

  The boys suddenly stopped, spoons half lifted to their mouths, and warned, Debera turned quickly. Bearing down on their table was the unmistakable bulk of Tisha, the headwoman of the cavern. Her broad face was wreathed with a smile as generous as she was.

  “How are you today? Settling in all right? Need anything from stores? Parents will pack your Gather best and you really need your weeding worst,” she said, her rich contralto voice bubbling with good humor. “Breakfast all right? Bread’s just out of the oven and you can have all you want.” She had halted by Debera’s chair, and her hands, shapely with long strong fingers, patted Debera’s shoulders lightly, as if imparting a special message to her along with that pressure. “You lack something, come tell me, or mention it to T’dam. You weyrlings shouldn’t worry about anything other than caring for your dragonets. That’s hard work enough, I’m telling you, so don’t be shy, now.” She gave Debera a little extra pat before she removed her hands.

  “I didn’t think to bring with me the gown you lent me last night,” Debera said, wondering if that’s what the subtle message was.

  “Heavens above, child,” Tisha said, big eyes even wider in her round face, “why, that dress was made for you, even if we didn’t know you’d be coming.” Her deep chuckle made her large breasts and
belly bounce.

  “But it’s far too good a dress—” Debera began in protest.

  Tisha patted Debera’s shoulder again. “And fits you to perfection. I love making new clothes. My passion, really, and you’ll see: I’m always working on something.” Pat, pat. “But if I’d no one in mind when I cut and sewed it last year, I couldn’t have worked better for you if I’d tried. The dress is yours. We all like to have something pretty to wear on Seventh Day. Do you sew?” she asked, eyeing Debera hopefully.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Debera answered, lowering her eyes, for she remembered her mother with work in her hands in the evenings, embroidering or sewing fine seams in Gather clothes. Gisa barely managed to mend rips, and certainly neither of her daughters was learning how to mend or make garments.

  “Well, I don’t know what holder women are doing with their young these days. Why, I had a needle in my hand by the time I was three . . .” Tisha went on.

  The boys’ eyes were glazing over at the turn of the conversation.

  “And you’ll learn to sew harnesses, my fine young friends,” she said, wagging a finger at them. “And boots and jackets, too, if you’ve a mind to design your own flying wear.”

  “Huh?” was M’rak’s astonished reaction. “Sewing’s fer women.”

  “Not in the Weyr it isn’t,” Tisha said firmly. “As you’ll see soon enough. It’s all part of being a dragonrider. You’ll learn. Ah, now, here’s the bread, butter, and a pot of jam.”

  Sure enough, another ample woman, grinning with the pleasure of what she was about to bestow on them, deposited the laden tray on the table.

  “That should help, thank you, Allie,” Tisha said as Debera added a murmur of appreciation and S’mon remembered his manners, too. M’rak made no such delay in grabbing up a piece of the steaming bread and cramming it into his mouth.

  “Wow! Great!”

  “Well, just be sure you don’t lose it, preparing your dragonet’s next meal,” Tisha said, and moved off before the astonished bronze rider had absorbed her remark.

  “What’d she mean by that?” he asked the others.

  Debera grinned. “Hold bred?”

  “Naw, m’family’s weavers,” M’rak said. “From Keroon Hold.”

  “We have to cut up what our dragonets eat, though, don’t we?” S’mon said in a slightly anxious voice. “From the . . . the bodies they got hung up?”

  “You mean cut it off the things that wore the meat?” M’rak turned a little pale and swallowed.

  “That’s what we mean,” Debera said. “If you like, I’ll do your carving and you can just cut up. Deal?”

  “You bet,” M’rak said fervently. And gulped again, no longer attacking the rest of the bread that hung limply from his fingers. He put the slice down. “I didn’t know that was part of being a dragonrider, too.”

  Debera chuckled. “I think we’re all going to find out that being a dragonrider is not just sitting on its neck and going wherever we want to.”

  A prophesy she was to learn was all too accurate. She didn’t regret making the bargain with the two youngsters—it was a fair distribution of effort—but it did seem that she spent her next weeks either butchering or feeding or bathing her dragonet, with no time for anything else but sleeping. She had dealt with orphaned animals, true, but none the size nor with the appetite capacity of dragonets. Morath seemed to grow overnight, as if instantly transferring what she ate to visible increase—which meant more to scrub, oil, and feed.

  “It’s worth it. I keep telling myself,” Sarra murmured one day as she wearily sprawled onto her bed.

  “Does it help?” Grasella asked, groaning as she turned on her side.

  “Does it matter?” put in Mesla, kicking her boots off.

  “All that oil is softening my hands,” Debera remarked in pleased surprise, noticing the phenomenon for the first time.

  “And matting my hair something wicked,” Jule said, regarding the end of the fuzzy plait she kept her hair in. “I wonder when I’ll have time to wash it again.”

  “If you ask Tisha, she’ll give you the most marvelous massage,” Angie said, stretching on her bed and yawning. “My leg’s all better.”

  She and her Plath had tripped each other up and she’d pulled all the muscles in her right leg so badly that at first they feared she’d broken a bone in the tumble. Plath had been beside herself with worry until Maranis had pronounced the damage only a bad wrenching. The other girls had helped Angie tend Plath.

  “All part of being a dragonrider,” T’dam had said, but he exhibited sympathy in making sure he was at hand to assist her, too. “Nothing you won’t grin about later.”

  Although the room in which Lord Chalkin sat so that the newly certified Artist Iantine could paint his portrait of the Lord Holder was warmer than any other chamber in Bitra that Iantine had occupied, he sighed softly in weariness. His hand was cramped and he was very tired, though he was careful not to reveal anything to his odious subject.

  He had to do a bang-up job of this portrait as fast as possible or he might not leave this miserable hold until the spring. Fortunately, the first snow was melting and, if he finished the painting, he’d leave before the paint was dry. And with the marks he’d been promised!

  Why he had ever thought himself able to handle any problem that could occur on a commission, he did not know. Certainly he had been warned: more about not gambling with any Bitrans, to be sure, had he had any marks to wager. But the warnings had been too general. Why hadn’t Ussie told him how many other people had been defrauded by the Bitran Lord Holder? The contract had seemed all right, sounded all right, and was as near to a total disaster as made no never mind. Inexperienced and arrogant, that’s what he was. Too self-assured to listen to the wisdom of the years of experience Master Domaize had tried to get through his thick head. But Master Domaize had a reputation for letting you deal with your own mistakes—especially the ones unconnected with Art.

  “Please, Lord Chalkin, would you hold still just a moment longer? The light is too good to waste,” Iantine said, aware of the twitching muscles in Chalkin’s fat cheeks. The man didn’t have a tic or anything, but he could no more be still in his fancy chair than his children.

  Impishly, Iantine wondered if he could paint a twitch—a muscle rictus—but it was hard enough to make Chalkin look good as it was. The man’s muddy brown, close-set eyes seemed to cross toward the bridge of his rather fleshy, bulbous nose—which Iantine had deftly refined.

  Master Domaize had often told his students that one had to be discreet in portraying people, but Iantine had argued the matter: that realism was necessary if the subject wanted a “true” portrait.

  “True portraits are never realistic,” his master had told him and the other students in the vast barn of a place where classes were held. “Save realism for landscapes and historical murals, not for portraits. No one wants to see themselves as others see them. The successful portraitist is one who paints with both tact and sympathy.”

  Iantine remembered railing about dishonesty and pandering to egos. Master Domaize had looked over the half spectacles he now had to wear if he wanted to see beyond his nose and smiled that gentle knowing smile of his.

  “Those of us who have learned that the portraitist must also be the diplomat make a living. Those of us who wish to portray truth end up in a craft hall, painting decorative borders.”

  When the commission to do miniatures of Lord Chalkin’s young children had been received at Hall Domaize, there had been no immediate takers.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Iantine demanded when the notice had stayed on the board for three weeks with no one’s initials. He would shortly sit his final exams at Hall Domaize and had hopes to pass them creditably.

  “Chaikin’s what’s wrong with it,” Ussie said with a cynical snort.

  “Oh, I know his reputation,” Iantine replied, blithely flicking a paint-stained hand, “everyone does. But he sets out the conditions,” and he tapped t
he document, “and they’re all the ones we’re supposed to ask for.”

  Ussie smothered a derogatory laugh in his hand and eyed him in the patronizing way that irritated Iantine so. He knew he was a better draughtsman and colorist than Ussie would ever be, and yet Ussie always acted so superior. Iantine knew his general skills were better, and improving, because, of course, in the studio, everyone had a chance to view everyone else’s work. Ussie’s anatomical sketches looked as if a mutant had posed as the life model . . . and his use of color was bizarre. Ussie did much better with landscapes and was a dab hand at designing heraldry shields and icons and such peripheral artwork.

  “Yes, but you’ll have to live in Bitra Hold while you’re doing it, and coming into winter is not the time to live there.”

  “What? To do four miniatures? How long could it take?” Iantine had a sevenday in mind. Even for very small and active children that should be sufficient.

  “All right, all right, so you’ve always managed to get kids to sit still for you. But these are Chalkin’s and if they’re anything like him, you’ll have the devil’s own time getting them to behave long enough to get an accurate likeness. Only, I sincerely doubt that an ‘accurate’ likeness is what is required. And I know you, Ian . . .”

  Ussie waggled a finger at him, grinning more broadly now. “You’ll never be able to glamorize the little darlings enough to satisfy doting papa.”

  “But—”

  “The last time a commission came in from Chalkin,” Chomas said, joining in the conversation, “Macartor was there for nine months before his work was deemed ‘satisfactory.’ ” Chomas jabbed his finger at the clause that began “on the completion of satisfactory work,” and said, “He came back a ghost of himself and poorer than he’d started out.”

  “Macartor?” Iantine knew of the journeyman, a capable man with a fine eye for detail, now doing murals for the new Hall at Nerat Hold. He tried to think of a reason Macartor had not been able to deal well with Chalkin. “Great-man for detail but not for portraiture,” he said.