Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Ah, the poor laddie,” Tisha said, and called out orders for a double portion of stew to be brought immediately, and bread and sweetening and some of the fruit that had been sent up from Ista.

  By the time Iantine had finished the meal, he felt he had made up for the last four days. His feet and hands were tingling despite the numbweed and salve. When he stood to go relieve himself, he wobbled badly and clutched at the chair for support.

  “Have a care, lad, filling the stomach was only half your problem,” Tisha said, moving to support him with far more alacrity than her bulk would suggest. She gestured for P’tero to lend a hand.

  “I need to—” Iantine began.

  “Ach, it’s on the way to the sleeping cavern,” Tisha said, and drew one of his arms over her shoulder. She was as tall as he.

  P’tero took up the packs again, and between them they got him to the toilet room. And then into a bed in an empty cubicle. Tisha checked his feet again, applied another coat of numbweed and tiptoed out. Iantine only made sure that his packs—and the precious fee—were in the room with him before he fell deeply asleep.

  While he slept, messages went out—to Hall Domaize and to Benden Weyr and Hold, since Iantine nominally looked to Benden. Although Iantine had taken no lasting harm, M’shall recognized yet another instance of Chalkin taking unfair advantage. Irene had already sent in a substantial list of abuses and irregularities in Chalkin’s dealings—generally with folk who had no recourse against his dictates. He held no court in which difficulties could be aired and had no impartial arbiters to make decisions.

  The big traders, who could be counted on for impartial comment, bypassed Bitra and could cite many examples of unfair dealings since Chalkin had assumed holding fifteen years before. The few small traders who ventured in Bitra rarely returned to it.

  Following that Gather and its decision to consider deposing Chalkin, M’shall had his sweep riders check in every minor hold to learn if Chalkin had duly informed his people of the imminence of Thread. None had, although Lord Chalkin had increased his tithe on every household. The manner in which he was conducting this extra tithe suggested that he was amassing supplies for his own good, not that of the hold. Those in a more isolated situation would certainly have a hard time obtaining even basic food supplies. That constituted a flagrant abuse of his position as Lord Holder.

  When Paulin read M’shall’s report, he asked if Chalkin’s holders would speak out against him. M’shall had to report that his initial survey of the minor holders indicated a severe lack of civic duty. Chalkin had his folk so cowed, none would accuse him—especially this close to a Pass—for he still had the power to turn objectors out of their holds.

  “They may change their minds once Thread has started,” K’vin remarked to Zulaya.

  “Too late, I’d say, for any decent preparations to be made.”

  K’vin shrugged. “He’s really not our concern, for which I for one am thankful. At least we rescued Iantine.”

  Zulaya gave a wry chuckle. “That poor lad. Starting his professional career at Bitra? Not the best place.”

  “Maybe that’s all he could aspire to,” K’vin said.

  “Not if he’s from Hall Domaize,” Zulaya said tartly. “Wonder how long it’ll take his hands to recover?’

  “Thinking of a new portrait?” K’vin asked, amused.

  “Well, he’s down an eighth of what he needs,” she said.

  K’vin gave her a wide-eyed look. “You wouldn’t . . .”

  “Of course I wouldn’t,” she said with an edge to her voice. “He needs something in his pocket of his own. I admire a lad who’d endure Bitra for any reason. And Iantine’s was an honorable one in wanting to pay the transfer fee.”

  “Wear that red Hatching dress when you sit for him,” K’vin said. Then rubbed his chin. “You know, I might have my portrait done, too.”

  Zulaya gave him a long look. “The boy may find it as hard to leave Telgar Weyr as it was Bitra.”

  “With a much fuller pouch and no maintenance subtracted . . .”

  “And soap and hot water and decent food,” Zulaya said. “According to Tisha, he’ll need feeding up. He’s skin and bones.”

  When the singing woke Iantine, he was totally disoriented. No one had sung a note at Bitra Hold. And he was warm! The air was redolent of good eating odors, too. He sat up. Hands, feet, and face were stiff but the tingling was gone. And he was exceedingly hungry.

  The curtain across the cubicle rustled and a boy’s head popped through.

  “You’re awake, Artist Iantine?” the lad said.

  “Indeed, I am,” and Iantine looked around for his clothes. Someone had undressed him and he didn’t see his own clothes.

  “I’m to help you if you need it,” the boy said, pushing halfway through the curtains. “Tisha laid out clean clothes.” He wrinkled a snub nose. “Yours were pretty ripe, she said.”

  Iantine chuckled. “They probably were. I ran out of soap for washing three weeks ago.”

  “You was at Bitra. They charge for everything there.” The boy threw up both arms in disgust. “I’m Leopol,” he added. Then he lifted the soft slippers from the pile on the stool. “Tisha said you’d better wear these, not your boots. And you’re to use the salve first . . .” He held up the lidded jar. “Dinner’s ready.” Leopol then licked his lips.

  “And you must wait your meal until I’m ready, huh?”

  Leopol nodded solemnly and then grinned. “I don’t mind. I’ll get more because I waited.”

  “Is food in short supply at this Weyr?” Iantine asked jokingly as he began to dress in the clean gear. Odd how important simple things, like freshly laundered clothing, assumed the level of luxury when you’ve had to do without.

  Leopol helped him spread the salve on his feet. They were still tender to the touch. Even the act of applying the salve made them suddenly itchy. Fortunately, the numbweed, or whatever it was, reduced that sensation.

  When he had relieved himself again and gingerly washed face and hands, he and Leopol made their way to the Lower Cavern, where the evening meal was in progress.

  The lad led him to a side table near the hearth which had been set for two. Instantly, cooks descended with plates overflowing with food, wine for him and klah for Leopol.

  “There now, Artist man,” the cook said, nodding appreciation as Iantine attacked the roast meat, “eat first and then the Weyrleaders would like a few words with you, if you’re not too tired.”

  Iantine murmured thanks and understanding and addressed himself single-mindedly to his food. He would have had additional servings of the main course but his stomach felt uneasy: too much good food after several days of semifasting, probably. Leopol brought him a large serving of the sweet course but he couldn’t finish it all because the back of his throat felt raw and sore. He would have gone back to his bed then but he saw the Weyrleaders advancing on him. Leopol made a discreet exit, grinning reassurance at him. Iantine tried to stand in courtesy to his hosts but he wobbled on his numbed feet and dropped back into the chair.

  “We don’t stand much on ceremony here,” Zulaya said, gesturing for him to stay seated as K’vin pulled out one chair for her.

  He carried the wineskin from which he filled all the glasses. Iantine took a polite sip—it was a nice crisp wine—but even the one sip made his stomach feel more sour.

  “Messages have been sent, and acknowledgments received, that you’ve been rescued,” K’vin said, grinning over the last word. “Master Domaize was becoming worried so we saved him a messenger to Bitra.”

  “That’s very good of you, Zulaya, K’vin,” Iantine said, thankful that part of his training at Hall Domaize had included knowing the important names in every hold, Weyr, and Hall. “I certainly appreciated P’tero’s rescue.”

  Zulaya grinned. “He’ll be dining on that one for the rest of the year. But it proves the wisdom of sweep riding even during the Interval.”

  “You should know,” Iantin
e blurted out, “that Lord Chalkin doesn’t believe there will be a Pass.”

  “Of course not,” K’vin replied easily. “It doesn’t suit him to. Bridgely and M’shall would like a report from you, though, concerning your visit there.”

  “You mean, there’s something that can be done about him?” Iantine was amazed. Lord Holders were autonomous within their borders. He hadn’t known there’d be any recourse.

  “He may do himself in,” Zulaya said with a grim twist of her lips.

  “That would be wonderful,” Iantine said. “Only,” and now honesty forced him to admit this, “he didn’t really do anything to me . . .”

  “Our Weyr Artist may not be trained,” K’vin said, “but Wane informed me that it doesn’t take seven weeks to do four miniatures.

  “I actually painted twenty-two to get four that they liked,” Iantine said, clearing his throat grimly. “The hooker in the contract was the word ‘satisfactory.’ ”

  “Ah,” Zulaya and K’vin said in chorus.

  “I ran out of paint and canvas because I brought only what I thought I’d need . . .” He lifted his hands, then rubbed them because they were beginning to itch again. “Then the children all got measles, and so, rather than have anything deducted from the fee for room and board, I agreed to freshen up the hold murals . . . only I hadn’t brought that sort of paint and had to manufacture the colors . . .”

  “Did he charge you for the use of the equipment?” Zulaya asked, to Iantine’s astonishment.

  “How’d you know?” When she only laughed and waved at him to continue his telling, Iantine went on. “So I excavated what I needed in the midden.”

  “Good on you . . .” Zulaya clapped her hands, delighted by his resourcefulness.

  “Fortunately, most of the raw materials for pigments are readily available. You only have to find and make the colors up. Which I’d have to do anyhow. Master Domaize was good about passing on techniques like that.

  “Then I finally got them to accept the miniatures, which weren’t exactly miniature size anymore, by the way, just before the first blizzard snowed me in.” Iantine flushed. His narrative showed him to be such a ninny.

  “So? How’d your contract go then?” Zulaya shot K’vin a knowing look.

  “I was a bit wiser. Or so I thought,” he said with a grimace, and then told them the clauses he’d insisted on.

  “He had you on the drudges’ level at Bitra?” Zulaya was appalled. “And you a diploma’d Artist? I would certainly protest about that! There are certain courtesies which most holds, Halls, and Weyrs accord a journeyman of a Craft, and certainly to an Artist!”

  “So, when Lord Chalkin finally accepted his portrait, I made tracks away as fast as I could!”

  K’vin clapped him on the shoulder, grinning at the fervor with which that statement came out.

  “Not that my conditions improved that much,” Iantine added quickly, and then grinned, “until P’tero rescued me.” His throat kept clogging up and he had to clear it again. “I want to thank you very much for that. I hope I didn’t keep him from proper duties.”

  “No, no,” K’vin said. “Mind you, I’m not all that sure why he was over Bitra, but it’s as well he was.”

  “How are your hands?” Zulaya said, looking down at him as he washed his itching fingers together.

  “I shouldn’t rub the skin, should I?”

  Zulaya spoke over her shoulder. “Leopol, get the numbweed for Iantine, please.”

  The young journeyman hadn’t noticed the boy’s discreet presence, but he was just as glad he didn’t have to walk all the way to his cubicle to get the salve.

  “It’s just the aftereffects of cold,” he said, looking at his fingers, and noticing what Tisha had—pigment under the nails. He curled his fingers, ashamed to be at a Weyr table with dirty hands. And a deep shiver went down his spine.

  “I was wondering, Iantine,” Zulaya began, “if you’d feel up to doing another portrait or two. The Weyr pays the usual rates, and no extras charged against you.”

  Iantine protested. “I’d gladly do your portrait, Weyrwoman. It is of yourself you were speaking, isn’t it?” That first shiver was followed by another, which he did his best to mask.

  “You’ll do it only if you are paid a proper fee, young man,” Zulaya said sternly.

  “But—”

  “No buts,” K’vin put in. “What with preparations for a Pass, neither Zulaya nor I have had the time to commission proper portraits. However, since you’re here . . . and willing?”

  “I’m willing, all right, but you don’t know my work and I’m only just accredited—”

  Zulaya caught his hands in hers, for he’d been wildly gesticulating in both eagerness and an attempt to disguise another spasm.

  “Journeyman Iantine, if you managed to do four miniatures, two formal portraits, and refresh murals for Chalkin, you’re more than qualified. Didn’t you know that it took Macartor five months to finish Chalkin’s wedding-day scene?”

  “And he had to borrow marks from an engineer to pay off the last of his ‘debt’?” K’vin added. “Here’s Waine to greet you. But you’re not to start work again until you’re completely recovered from the cold.”

  “Oh, I’m recovered, I’m recovered,” Iantine said, standing up as the Weyrleaders did, determined to control the next set of shiverings.

  After they had introduced him to the little man, Waine, they left him, circulating to other tables as the Weyr relaxed. There was singing and guitar playing from one side of the room, cheerful noises, above a general level of easy conversation. That was something else Iantine only now realized had been totally absent at Bitra Hold: music, talk, people relaxing after a day’s work.

  “Heard you ran afoul a’ Chalkin?” Waine said, grinning and ducking his head. Then he brought from behind his back a sheaf of large-sized paper sheets, neatly tied together, and a handful of pencils. “Thought you might need ’em, like,” he said shyly. “Heard tell you used up all at Bitra.”

  “Thank you,” Iantine replied, running his fingers appreciatively over the fine sheets and noticing that the pencils were of different weights of carbon. “How much do I owe you?”

  Waine laughed, showing gaps in his teeth. “You been at Bitra too long. I’ve colors, too, but not many. Don’t do more’n basics.”

  “Then let me make you a range of paints,” Iantine said gratefully, gritting his teeth against yet another onslaught of ague. “You know where to find the raw stuff around here and I’ll show you how I make the tints.”

  Waine grinned toothlessly again. “That’s a right good trade.” He held out a hand and nearly crushed Iantine’s fingers with his enthusiasm. But he caught the paroxysm of almost uncontrollable shivering that Iantine could not hide.

  “Hey, man, you’re cold.”

  “I can’t seem to stop shivering, for all that I’m on top of the fire,” and Iantine had to surrender to the shaking.

  “TISHA!”

  Iantine was embarrassed by Waine’s bellow for assistance but he didn’t resist when he was bundled back into his quarters and the medic summoned while Tisha ordered more furs, hot water bottles, aromatics to be steeped in hot water to make breathing easier. He made no resistance to the medication that was immediately prescribed for him because, by then, his head had started to ache. So did his bones.

  The last thing he remembered before he drifted off to an uneasy sleep was what Maranis, the medic, said to Tisha.

  “Let’s hope they all have it at Bitra for giving it to him.”

  Much later Leopol told him that Tisha had stayed by his bedside three nights while he burned of the mountain fever he had caught, compounding his illness by exposure on the cold slopes. Maranis felt that the old woodsman might be a carrier for the disease: himself immune but able to transmit the fever.

  Iantine was amazed to find his mother there, when he woke from the fever. Her eyes were red with crying and she burst into tears again when she realized he was
no longer delirious. Leopol also told him that Tisha had insisted she be sent for when his fever lasted so long.

  To Iantine’s astonishment, she didn’t seem as pleased to receive the transfer fee as he was to give it.

  “Your life isn’t worth the fee,” she told him finally when he was afraid she was displeased with the missing eighth mark he’d had to give the woodsman. “And he nearly killed you for that eighth.”

  “He’s a good lad you have for a son,” Tisha said with an edge to her voice, “working that hard to earn money from Chalkin.”

  “Oh yes,” his mother hastily agreed as she suddenly realized she ought to be more grateful. “Though whyever you sought to please that old skinflint is beyond me.”

  “The fee was right,” Iantine said weakly.

  “Don’t take on so, now, Ian,” Tisha said when his mother had to return to the sheephold. “She was far more worried about you than about the marks. Which shows her heart’s in the right place. Worry makes people act odd, you know.” She patted Iantine’s shoulder. “She wanted to take you home and nurse you there, you know,” she went on reassuringly. “But couldn’t risk your lungs in the cold of between. I don’t think she liked us taking care of you!” She grinned. “Mothers never trust others, you know.”

  Iantine managed a grin back at Tisha. “I guess that’s it.”

  It was Leopol who restored Iantine’s peace of mind.

  “You got a real nice mother, you know,” he said, sitting on the end of the bed. “Worried herself sick about leaving until P’tero promised to convey her again if you took any turn for the worse. She’d never ridden a dragon before.”

  Iantine chuckled. “No, I don’t think she has. Must have frightened her.”

  “Not as much,” and now Leopol cocked a slightly dirty finger at the journeyman, “as you being so sick she had to be sent for. But she was telling P’tero how happy your father would be to have those marks you earned. Real happy. And she near deafened P’tero, shouting about how she’d always known you’d be a success and to get the whole fee out of Chalkin was quite an achievement.”