Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  “She did?” Iantine perked up. His mother had been bragging about him?

  “She did indeed,” Leopol said, giving an emphatic nod to his head.

  Leopol seemed to know a great deal about a lot of matters in the Weyr. He also never seemed to mind being sent on errands as Iantine made a slow convalescence.

  Master Domaize paid him a visit, too. And it was Leopol who told the convalescent why the Master had made such a visit.

  “That Lord Chalkin sent a complaint to Master Domaize that you had skivved out of the hold without any courtesy and he was seriously considering lodging a demand for the return of some of the fee since you were so obviously very new at your Art, and the fee had been for a seasoned painter, not a young upstart.” Leopol grinned at Iantine’s furious reaction. “Oh, don’t worry. Your Master wasn’t born yesterday. M’shall himself brought him to Bitra Hold and they said that there was not a thing wrong with any of the work you’d done for that Lord Chalkin.” Leopol cocked his head to one side, regarding Iantine with a calculating look. “Seems like there’s a lot of people wanting to sit their portraits with you. Didja know that?”

  Iantine shook his head, trying to absorb the injustice of Chalkin’s objection. He was speechless with fury. Leopol grinned.

  “Don’t worry, Iantine. Chalkin’s the one should worry, treating you like that. Your Master and the Benden Weyrleader gave out to the Lord Holder about it, too. You’re qualified and entitled to all the courtesies of which you got none at Bitra Hold. Good thing you didn’t get sick until after Zulaya and K’vin had a chance to hear your side of the story. Not that anyone would believe Chalkin, no matter what he says. Did you know that even wherries won’t roost in Bitra Hold?”

  Convalescence from the lung infection took time and Iantine fretted at his weakness.

  “I keep falling asleep,” he complained to Tisha one morning when she arrived with his potion. “How long do I have to keep taking this stuff?”

  “Until Maranis hears clear lungs in you,” she said in her no-nonsense tone. Then she handed him the sketch paper and pencils that Waine had given him his first night in the Weyr. “Get your hand back in. At least doing what you’re best at can be done sitting still.”

  It was good to have paper and pencil again. It was good to look about the Lower Caverns and catch poses, especially when the poser didn’t realize he was being sketched. And his eye had not lost its keenness, and if his fingers cramped now and then from weakness, strength gradually returned. He became unaware of the passage of time nor did he notice people coming up behind him to see what he was drawing.

  Waine arrived with mortar, pestle, oil, eggs, and cobalt to make a good blue. The man had picked up bits of technique and procedures on his own, but picking things up here and there was no substitute for the concentrated drill that Iantine had had: drills that he once despised but now appreciated when he could see what resulted from the lack of them.

  Winter had set in, but on the first day of full sun, Tisha insisted on wrapping him up in a cocoon of furs to sit out in the Bowl for the “good of fresh air.” As it was bath time for the dragonets, Iantine was immediately fascinated by their antics and began to appreciate just how much hard work went into their nurture. It was also the first chance he’d ever had of seeing dragonets. He knew the grace and power of the adult dragon and their awesome appearance. Now he saw the weyrlings as mischievous—even naughty, as one ducked her rider into the lake—and endlessly inventive. None of this last Hatching were ready to fly yet, but some of the previous clutch were beginning to take on adult duties. He had firsthand observation of their not-so-graceful performances.

  The next day he saw P’tero and blue Ormonth in the focus of some sort of large class. As he wandered over, he saw that not only the weyrlings from the last three Hatchings were attending, but also all youngsters above the age of twelve. Ormonth had one wing extended and was gazing at it in an abstract fashion, as if he’d never seen it before. The expression was too much for the artist in Iantine and he flipped open his pad and sketched the scene. P’tero noticed, but the class was extremely attentive. What T’dam was saying slowly reached through Iantine’s absorption with line and pose.

  “Now, records show us that the worst injuries occur on wing edges, especially if Thread falls in clumps and the partners are not sharp enough to avoid ’em. A dragon can fly with one-third of his exterior sail damaged . . .” and T’dam ran his hand along the edge of Ormonth’s wing. “However,” and T’dam looked up at Ormonth, “if you would be good enough to close your wing slightly, Ormonth,” and the blue did so. “Thank you . . .” T’dam had to stand slightly on tiptoe to reach the area of the inner wing. “Injuries in here are far more serious, as Thread can, depending on the angle of its fall, sear through the wing and into his body. This,” and he now ducked under the wing and tapped the side, “is where the lungs are and injury here can even be . . . fatal . . .”

  There was a gasp around the semicircle of his students. “That’s why you have to be sharp every instant you’re in flight. Go between the instant you even suspect you’ve been hit . . .”

  “How do we know?” someone asked.

  “Ha!” T’dam propped his fists on his thick leather belt and paused. “Dragons are very brave creatures for the most part, considering what we ask them to do. But,” and he stroked Ormonth in apology, “they have exceedingly quick responses . . . especially to pain. You’ll know!” He paused again. “Some of you were here when Missath broke her sail bone, weren’t you?” and he pointed around the group until he saw several hands raised. “Remember how she squealed?”

  “Went right through me like a bonesaw,” a big lad said and shivered convulsively.

  “She was squealing the instant she lost her balance and actually before she snapped the bone. She knew she would hurt even as she fell. Now, you don’t have quite the same immediacy in Threadfall, since you’ll be high on adrenaline, but you’ll know. So, this brings up a point that we make constantly in all training procedures, always, ALWAYS, have a point to go to in your head. During Fall, it had better be the Weyr since everyone here,” and now the sweep of his hand included those Iantine recognized as nonriders, “will be ready to help. Don’t make the mistake of coming in too low. Going between will have stopped Thread burrowing farther into your dragon . . .” A muted chorus of disgust and fearfulness greeted that concept. “. . . so you can make as orderly a landing as injuries permit. What you don’t need is a bad landing, which could compound the original Thread score. Start encouraging your dragon as soon as you know he’s been hit. Of course, you may be hit, too, and I appreciate that, but you’re riders and you can certainly control your own pain while seeing to your dragon’s. He’s the important one of you, remember. Without him you don’t function as a rider.

  “Now, the drill is,” and once again he swept his glance around his students, “slather!” He picked up the wide brush from the pail at his feet and began to ply it on Ormonth’s wing: water, to judge the way it dripped. The blue regarded the operation with lightly whirling eyes. “Slather, slather, slather,” and T’dam emphasized each repetition with a long brush stroke. “You can’t put too much numbweed on a dragon’s injuries to suit him or her,” and he grinned at the female green riders, “and the injury will be numb in exactly three seconds . . . at least the outer area. It does take time to penetrate through the epidermis to what passes for the germinative layer in a dragon’s hide. So you may have to convince your dragon that he’s not as badly hurt as he or she feels he or she is. Your injured dragon needs all the reassurance you can give him or her . . . No matter how bad you think the injury looks, don’t think that at the dragon. Tell him or her what a great brave dragon they are and that the numbweed is working and the pain will go away.

  “Now, if a bone has been penetrated . . .”

  “Why, you’ve got P’tero to the life,” said an awed voice softly in Iantine’s ear, and he shot a glance at the tall lad standing behind him: M’le
ng, green Sith’s rider, and P’tero’s special friend. Iantine had seen the two riders, always together, in the kitchen cavern. “Oooh, is there any chance I could have that corner?” And he tapped the portion that contained P’tero and Ormonth.

  M’leng was a handsome young man, with almond-shaped green eyes in an angular face. The light breeze in the Bowl ruffled tight dark brown curls on his head.

  “Since I owe P’tero my life, let me make a larger sketch for you . . .”

  “Oh, would you?” And a smile animated M’leng’s rather solemn face. “Can we settle a price? I’ve marks enough to do better than Chalkin did you.” He reached for his belt pouch.

  Iantine tried to demur, pleading he owed P’tero.

  “ ‘Ter was only doing his duty for once,” M’leng said with a touch of asperity. “But I really would like a proper portrait of him. You know, what with Threadfall coming and all, I’d want to have something—” M’leng broke off, swallowed, and then reinforced his pleading.

  “I’ve to do a commission for the Weyrleaders,” Iantine said.

  “Is that the only one?” M’leng seemed surprised. “I’d’ve thought everyone in the Weyr would be after you . . .”

  Iantine grinned. “Tisha hasn’t released me from her care yet.”

  “Oh, her,” and M’leng dismissed the headwoman, with a wave of his hand. “She’s so fussy at times. But there’s nothing wrong with your hand or your eye . . . and that little pose of P’tero, leaning against Ormonth, why, it’s him!”

  Iantine felt his spirits rise at the compliment, because the sketch of the blue rider was good—better than the false ones he had done at Bitra Hold. He still cringed, remembering how he allowed himself to compromise his standards by contriving such obsequious portrayals. He hoped he would never be in such a position again. M’leng’s comment was balm to his psyche.

  “I can do better . . .”

  “But I like the pose. Can’t you just do it? I mean,” and M’leng looked everywhere but at Iantine, “I’d rather P’tero didn’t know . . . I mean . . .”

  “Is it to be a surprise for him?”

  “No, it’s to be for me!” And M’leng jabbed his breastbone with his thumb, his manner defiant. “So I’ll have it . . .”

  At such intransigence, Iantine was at a loss, and hastily agreed before M’leng became more emotional. M’leng’s eyes filled and he set his mouth in a stubborn line.

  “I will, of course, but a sitting would help. . .”

  “Oh, I can arrange that, so he still doesn’t know. You’re always sketching,” and that came out almost as an accusation. Iantine, thanks to the lecture he had been overhearing, was considerably more aware of the dangers dragons, and their riders, would shortly face. If M’leng was comforted by having a portrait of his friend, that was the least he could do.

  “This very night,” M’leng continued, single-minded in his objective, “I’ll see we sit close to where you usually do. I’ll get him to wear his good tunic so you can paint him at his very best.”

  “But suppose—” Iantine began, wondering how he could keep P’tero from knowing he was being done.

  “You do the portrait,” M’leng said, patting Iantine’s ann to still his objections. “I’ll take care of P’tero,” and he added under his breath, “as long as I have him.”

  That little afterthought made the breath stop in Iantine’s throat. Was M’leng so sure that P’tero would die?

  “I’ll do my best, M’leng, you may be sure of that!”

  “Oh, I am,” M’leng said, tossing his head up so that the curls fell back from his face. He gave Iantine a wry smile. “I’ve been watching how you work, you see.” He extended a hand soft with the oils riders used to tend their dragons. Iantine took it and was astonished at the strength in the green rider’s grip. “Waine said a good miniature—which is what I want,” and he patted his breast pocket to show the intended site of the painting, “by a journeyman is priced at four marks. Is that correct?”

  Iantine nodded, unable to speak for the lump in his throat. Surely M’leng was dramatizing matters. Or was he? In the background, Iantine could hear T’dam advising his listeners on the types and severity of injuries and the immediate aid to be given to each variety.

  What a bizarre, and cruel, lecture to give to the weyrlings! And yet, the thought stopped him, was it not kinder to be truthful now and ease the shock of what could possibly happen?

  “This evening?” M’leng said firmly.

  “This very evening, M’leng,” Iantine said, nodding his head.

  When the green rider had left him, it took the journeyman some long moments before he could return to his sketching.

  Well, this was one thing he could do as a gift to the Weyr for all the kindnesses to him—he could leave behind a graphic gallery of everyone currently living in Telgar Weyr.

  CHAPTER VII

  Fort Hold

  CLASSES WERE ALSO being held that same day in Fort Hold. In the College assembly room, Corey, as Head Medic, was conducting a seminar for healers from all over Pern, who had been flown in for a three-day clinic. This included a first-aid session dealing with both human and dragon injuries. She was assisted by the Fort Weyr medic, N’ran, who had originally studied animal medicine before he inadvertently Impressed brown Galath. Galath was, on this occasion, outside, enjoying the sun, while a green dragon, who was small enough to fit in the Hall, was being used for demonstration purposes much as Ormonth was at Telgar Weyr.

  “Now we have been able to duplicate the records of Doctors Tomlinson, Marchane, and Lao, which include some fading photos of actual injuries. Lunch is fortunately sufficiently in the future,” she said with a quirky smile. Then her expression turned sober. “The verbal descriptions are worse, but it’s necessary to impress on all those who have to deal with ground injuries how incredibly fast,” she ticked off one finger, “how horrendous Thread is,” another and then with a sigh, “and how quickly we must act to . . .” Her pause was longer now. “. . . to limit suffering.”

  Murmurs answered her, and she could see that some of the audience had paled. Others looked defiant.

  “From what I, and my staff,” and she indicated those in the front seats, “have determined, there is little option. The alternative of getting into cold between as the dragons can is not available to us . . . Yes?”

  “Why not? If that’s an alternative . . .”

  “For them, not us,” she said firmly. “Because all the records emphasize the speed with which Thread . . . consumes organic material. Too swiftly to call a dragon, even if any were available in your locale. A whole cow goes in less than two minutes.”

  “Why, that’s not even time to . . .” a man began, and his voice trailed off.

  “Precisely,” Corey said. “If a limb is scored, there’s the chance it could be amputated before the organism spread over the body . . .”

  “Shards! You can’t just—” another man began.

  “If survival means loss of just a limb, it can be done.”

  “But only if you’re right there . . .”

  Corey recognized him as a practitioner in a large hold in Nerat.

  “And many of us will be right there,” Corey said firmly, “with the groundcrews, sharing their dangers . . . and hopefully saving as many as we can.” She managed a wry smile. “Any body of water handy is useful since Thread drowns. Quickly, according to reports. Depending on the site of the injury, water can impede the ingestion long enough for an amputation to be performed. Even a trough is sufficient.” She glanced down at her notes. “Thread needs oxygen as well as organic material. It drowns in three seconds.”

  “What if it’s burrowed into flesh?”

  “Three seconds. Flesh does not have the free oxygen necessary for Thread life. Ice, too, can retard progress, but that isn’t always available, either.

  “Let us assume that we have, somehow, halted the organism’s progress but we have a bad scoring and/or an amputation. Numbweed, numbweed,
numbweed! And bless this planet for inventing something it didn’t know we’d need so badly. In the case of an amputation, of course, proceed with standard practices, including cautery. That at least would eliminate any final vestige of Thread. There will be significant trauma so fellis is recommended . . . If the patient is still conscious.”

  She glanced down at her notes. “Tomlinson and Marchane also indicate that the mortality rate, due to heart failure or stroke, is high in Thread injuries. Lao, who practiced until the end of the First Pass, notes that often patients, who had received slight scores, successfully treated, died from the pathological trauma of being scored. In preparing our groups for this problem, do stress that Threadscore can be successfully treated.”

  “If we can move fast enough,” a man said facetiously.

  “That’s why it’s important for a medic to accompany as many groundcrew teams as possible. And why first-aid procedures must be taught to every hold and hall within your practice. There are only so many of us, but we can teach many what to do and cut down on fatalities.

  “And,” Corey went on, “we must emphasize that all nonessential personnel are to stay safely indoors until groundcrews report the area safe.

  “Now, we will go on to dragon injuries since these, too, will occur and those of us on the spot may need to assist the dragon and rider. They will have the one advantage we can’t provide—the chance to go between and freeze the attacking organism. But the score will be just as painful.

  “The larger proportion of draconic injuries are to the wing surfaces . . . If you please, Balzith,” and she turned to the patient green dragon, who obediently extended her wing as the medic conducted that section of her lecture.

  When they had adjourned for lunch, prior to discussing other problems—such as hygiene and sanitation within small and medium holds where the amenities were not as efficient as in the larger population centers—Corey was approached by Joanson of South Boll and Frenkal of Tillek Hold, both senior medics.