Dragonseye

by Anne McCaffrey

  “You did it to me. You did it all,” Chalkin said and shrieked louder than his children when Vergerin, with an expressionless face, slowly pivoted away from him.

  Then Lady Nadona saw Vergerin and her cries turnied raucous with hatred.

  “You’ve taken my husband and now you stand there to take my hold, my children’s inheritance . . . Oh, Franco, how can you let them do this to your sister?” She fell against the Neratian’s chest.

  Franco’s expression was far from repentant as he quickly unwound her plump arms from his neck with the help of Zulaya and the Istan Laura. Nadona was still in her nightdress with a robe half closed over the thin garment. Richud had the two boys by the arm, and his spouse had the two weeping little girls, who certainly didn’t understand what was happening but were hysterical because their mother was. Irene took some pleasure in applying the slaps that cut Nadona’s histrionics short.

  Paulin took Vergerin by the arm and led him toward the nearest door, which turned out to be Chalkin’s office. Decanters and glasses were part of the appointments, and Paulin hurriedly poured two glasses. Vergerin took his and drank it down, the draught restoring some color to his face. He exhaled deeply.

  Paulin, impressed by the man’s control in a difficult situation, clapped his shoulder and gripped it firmly.

  “It can’t have been easy,” he said.

  Vergerin murmured, then straightened himself. “What was hardest,” and his smile was wry, “was knowing what a consummate idiot I had been. One can forgive almost anything except one’s own stupidities.”

  Despite the thick stone walls, the screams and bellows continued, the sound altering slightly as Chalkin was hauled out of the hold and down the courtyard steps.

  Lady Nadona was markedly absent. Despite her hysterics, she had decided quickly enough that she could not leave her darling children to the mercies of unfeeling men, and women, and would sacrifice herself to remain behind, while Chalkin went into exile. She was exceedingly well acquainted with her own rights as granted by the Charter, to the clause and relevant subparagraphs.

  More shouting and confused orders! With an exasperated sigh, Paulin went to the shuttered window and threw it open on the most extraordinary scene: five men struggling to lift Chalkin to Craigath’s back while the dragon, eyes whirling violently with red and orange, craned his neck about to see what was happening. Abruptly Chalkin’s body relaxed and was shoved into position on Craigath’s neck. M’shall leaped to his back and waited while two other Weyrmen roped first Chalkin to M’shall and then the collection of sacks and bags which would accompany the former Lord Holder into exile.

  Craigath took off with a mighty bound and brought his wide wings down only once before he disappeared between.

  “An island exile?” Vergerin asked, pouring himself another glass of wine.

  “Yes, but not the same one we sent the guards to. Fortunately, there’s a whole string of them.”

  “Young Island would be the safest one,” Vergerin said dryly, sipping the wine. Then he made a face, looking down at the glass. “Wherever does he get his wines?”

  Paulin smothered a laugh. “He’s got no palate at all. Or did you like the idea of your nephew on an active volcanic island?”

  “He’s quick-witted enough to survive that. Does Nadona stay on?”

  “Her children are young, but you would be perfectly within your rights to relegate her to a secluded apartment and take over the education and discipline of the children.”

  Vergerin gave a shudder of revulsion.

  “Oh, there might be something worth saving in them, you know,” Paulin said magnanimously.

  “In Chalkin and Nadona’s get? Unlikely.” Then Vergerin walked to the cabinet where hold records should be kept and, on the point of opening the doors, turned back to Paulin. “Should I start right in? Or wait for the Conclave’s decision?”

  “Since we didn’t know whether or not you had escaped Chalkin’s grasp, we decided to let competent younger sons and daughters see what order they could contrive. However, since you would know a lot more about this hold than they could, would you take overall charge?”

  Vergerin exhaled and a smile of intense relief lit his features. “Considering what I know of the state of this hold and the demoralization of its holders, I’ll need every bit of assistance I can muster.” He shook his head. “I don’t say my late brother was the best holder in Pern, but he would never have countenanced the neglect, much less Chalkin’s ridiculous notion that Thread couldn’t return because it would reduce the gaming he could do.”

  There was a polite rap on the door, and when Paulin answered, Irene poked her head in.

  “We managed to get the kitchen staff to prepare some food. I can’t vouch for more than that the klah is hot and the bread fresh made.”

  Vergerin looked down at himself. “I couldn’t possibly eat anything until I’ve washed.”

  Irene grinned. “I thought of that and had a room, and a bath, prepared for you. Even some clean clothing.”

  “Fresh bread and good hot klah will go down a treat,” Paulin said, gesturing for Vergerin to precede him out of the room.

  “No, my Lord Holder, after you,” Vergerin said with a courtly gesture.

  “Ah, but my soon to be Lord Holder, after you . . .”

  “I didn’t realize I smelled that bad,” Vergerin said ruefully and led the way out.

  He was looking about him now, Paulin noticed, as if assessing the condition of the place. He stopped so short that Paulin nearly bounced off him. Pointing to the inner wall where Chalkin’s portrait by Iantine was ostentatiously illuminated, he pivoted, eyes wide, his expression incredulous.

  “My nephew . . . never . . . looked . . . like that,” he said, laughter rippling through his tone.

  Paulin chuckled, too, having his first good look at the representation.

  “I believe it took the artist some time to paint a . . . satisfactory portrait of your nephew.”

  “With so little to work on . . . but I can’t have that hanging there,” Vergerin exclaimed. “It’s . . . It’s . . .”

  “Ludicrous?” Paulin suggested. Poor Iantine, to have had to prostitute his abilities to create that!

  “That will do for starters.”

  Paulin leaned close to Vergerin, trying not to inhale because the warmth of the Hall was increasing the pong of manure emanating from Vergerin’s clothing.

  “I don’t think you’ll hurt the artist’s feelings by removing it from such a prominent place.”

  “Would he consider repainting it to a closer likeness to the model?” Vergerin asked. “That would remind me of my youthful follies as well as how not to manage a hold.”

  “Iantine’s here. Helped us get in, in fact You can ask him yourself.”

  “After I’ve had that bath,” Vergerin said, and continued on his way to the stairs and cleanliness.

  Younger sons and daughters were conveyed in from every major hold, dressed and prepared to work hard. If some were disappointed that Vergerin had been found, they hid it well, which did them no disservice. By the time a substantial breakfast had been served, Vergerin had spoken to each of the eight young men and women about what area of responsibility they should assume.

  Irene put a wing of Benden riders at Vergerin’s disposition to use in contacting the larger holdings in Bitra to announce Chalkin’s impeachment and exile.

  By then M’shall had returned. “I dumped him and his packages on Island Thirty-two. You’ll need to know that for the records. It’s rather a nice place. Too bad he gets it.”

  “Did you have any trouble with him?” Paulin asked.

  M’shall looked amused as he unbuckled his flight gear. “With the wallop Bastom gave him? He was still unconscious when I left him. Near a stream.” He made a face. “I should have dumped him in it. Serve him right for what he did to those he had in cold storage.”

  By mid-morning matters seemed to be in Vergerin’s complete control and the Council me
mbers felt able to leave Bitra Hold.

  Iantine begged a ride from K’vin for himself and Chalkin’s portrait.

  “When are you coming to Benden Hold?” Bridgely wanted to know, catching the young portraitist coming down the courtyard steps.

  “Lord Bridgely, I am sorry not to be ready quite yet,” Iantine said.

  Bridgely jabbed his finger at the painting. “You’re not letting that take precedent, are you?” And he scowled.

  “No, never,” Iantine said, recoiling slightly. Then he grinned. “Not that it will take me long to change the face on it. But it’s last on my list. I’ve to finish K’vin’s portrait and a few more of the Telgar riders and then I’ll come. I can probably make it after Turn’s End.”

  “Well, I’ll give you until then, young man, but no longer,” Bridgely said, sounding aggrieved. Then he smiled to allay Iantine’s obvious anxiety. “Don’t worry about it, lad. I just want to know where my lady and I fit into your appointment calendar.”

  With that he walked away.

  K’vin was hiding his grin behind his gloved hand. “One can be too successful, you know,” he said, then gestured for Iantine to mount Charanth while he held the painting, which he passed up to the artist when he was settled. “I’m glad you’re going to fix this.”

  “Lord Holder Vergerin specifically requested me to. And I must say, I’m glad to do the sitter . . . justice.”

  “Justice?” K’vin laughed as he landed neatly between the bronze neck ridges. “I think that’s possibly a dirty word to Chalkin now.”

  Iantine grunted as the dragon suddenly launched himself. Not only was Iantine going to be able to set right that inaccurate portrait—he felt he had demeaned himself and Hall Domaize by succumbing to Chalkin’s coercion in spite of having no viable alternative—but he had given himself more time at Telgar Weyr. And Turn’s End was nearing. Turn’s End and the festivities that the midwinter holiday always incurred. Maybe then he could come to some agreement with Debera.

  Dragonriders could and often did take mates from nonriders. It would have been easier if his profession was one that he could offer the Weyr in return for staying on in Telgar. But once Morath was able to fly, Debera could fly him wherever his commissions took him.

  That is, if she felt anywhere near the same about him as he did about her. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he’d be in a Weyr at all. He could almost have thanked Chalkin for being the catalyst on that score: almost. Until he remembered the stark horror of what Chalkin had done at the borders and in the cold storage cells. He shuddered.

  “Thought you’d be used to this by now,” K’vin said, leaning back to speak into Iantine’s ear.

  “It isn’t this,” Iantine said, shaking his head and grinning. He thoroughly enjoyed flying and, after the first experience with the utter cold and nothingness of between, had not been nervous about that transfer. He took a firmer grip on the strings about the painting. Charanth was now high enough above Bitra Hold to go between. Meranath, bearing Tashvi and Salda as well as Zulaya, zoomed up beside his right wing, the dragon’s golden body gleaming in the bright morning sun as her riders waved at him.

  As he waved back Iantine was surprised to think it was still morning. The invasion of Bitra Hold had begun in such early hours that the day was not that old. So much happened these days!

  Blackness! Iantine couldn’t feel the cord on the painting, his butt on Charanth’s neck, and then they were out in the sun, hanging over Telgar’s familiar cone.

  Far below, above the prow of Telgar Hold, a sparkle announced Meranath’s arrival. The big bronze now turned gracefully on one wing and headed down toward the Weyr.

  For Iantine this happened all too swiftly, for he saw so much more from this vantage point than he did from the ground: the dragons sleeping in the sun on their weyr ledges, the younger riders practicing catch and throw with firestone sacks, even the weyrlings getting their morning scrub around the lake. Debera would be among them. He tried to see if he could identify her and Morath, but at that height details were lost. Two dragons, browns both, were eating their kill farther down the valley. Another rider burst into the air above the watchrider, who gestured broadly for him to land. Then Charanth had spiraled close enough to be identified, too, and welcomed back. Iantine could feel a rumble in the bronze’s body. Did dragons speak out loud to each other? He had to tighten his hold on the painting or have the wind of their descent pull it free.

  As they dropped, K’vin turned his head. “At the cavern?”

  “Please,” and Iantine nodded, struggling to keep a grip on the painting. Not that losing it would bother him, but then he’d have to waste another board.

  He swung his leg over and slid down Charanth’s shoulder as quickly as he could.

  “My thanks, K’vin,” he said, grinning up, having to shield his eyes from the sun.

  “Not needed. You more than earned it with today’s doings.”

  Charanth rumbled again, his gently whirling blue eyes focused on Iantine, who saluted him in gratitude. Then the bronze leaped up, flapped his wings twice and was landing on the ledge of the Weyrwoman’s quarters.

  “You’re back, you’re back, and safe,” and Leopol came racing out of the Lower Cavern, leaping toward Iantine, who put out a restraining hand so the boy wouldn’t carom off the edge of the painting.

  “What have you done now?” Leopol demanded, taking care not to batter it.

  “It’s to be redone,” Iantine said, knowing the uselessness of avoiding Leopol’s interest.

  “Oh, the Chalkin portrait?” Leopol reached for it and Iantine pivoted, putting his body between it and the lad’s acquisitive hands.

  “You’re clever, aren’t you?”

  “Yup,” and Leopol’s grin bore not a single trace of remorse. “So? What happened when you deposed him?”

  Iantine stopped in his tracks and stared at him. “Deposed whom?”

  Leopol planted his fists on his belt, cocked his head and gave Iantine a long and disgusted look, finally shaking his head.

  “One, you rode away on a Fort Weyr dragon. Two, you’ve been gone overnight so something was up. Especially when the Weyrleaders are gone, too. Three, we all know that Chalkin’s for the chop, and four, you come back with a portrait and it isn’t one you’ve done here.” Leopol spread his hands. “It’s obvious. The Lords and Leaders have got rid of Chalkin. Impeached, deposed, and exiled him. Right?” He grinned at the summation, cocking his head over the other shoulder. “Right?” he repeated.

  Iantine sighed. “It’s not my place to confirm or deny,” he said tactfully, and started again for his quarters.

  Leopol dodged in front, halting him again. “But I’m right about Chalkin, aren’t I? He won’t get ready for Threadfall, he’s been far too hard on his people, and half the Lord Holders owe him huge sacks of marks in gambling debts.”

  Iantine stopped. “Gambling debts?” He brushed past Leopol, determined to get to the dubious safety of his room without giving anything away to such a gossip as Leopol.

  “Ah, Iantine.” Tisha caught sight of him and moved her bulk with surprising speed and agility through the tables to intercept him. “Did they catch Chalkin all right? Did he struggle? Did that spouse of his go with him? Which frankly would surprise me. Did they find Vergerin alive? Will he take hold or does he have to wait till the Conclave at Turn’s End?”

  Leopol bent double with laughter at Iantine’s expression.

  “Yes, no, no, yes, and I don’t know,” he said in reply to her rapid-fire questions.

  “You see? I’m not the only one,” Leopol said, hanging onto a chair with one hand to keep his balance while he brushed laugh tears from his eyes with the other, thoroughly delighted with himself and Iantine’s reaction.

  “I’d like to hear all, Iantine,” Tisha said, and deposited the klah mugs and the plate of freshly baked cookies on the table nearest him. “Do. Sit. You’ve had a hard day already and it’s not noon yet.”

 
; “I’ll take it and put it very carefully in your room,” Leopol said, grabbing hold of the wrapped painting and then snatching it out of Iantine’s unconsciously relaxed grip. “And I won’t look until you tell me I can.”

  “No, wait, Leo,” Tisha said. “I want to see what Chalkin considered ‘satisfactory.’ ”

  “Do I have no privacy around here?” Iantine demanded, raising his hands in helplessness. “Is there no way to keep secrets?”

  “Not in a well-run Weyr there isn’t,” said Tisha. “Eat. Drink. And, Leo, take the basket I made ready for K’vin up to his weyr. I didn’t see Zulaya and Meranath so she may have stopped over at Telgar Hold.”

  His knees weakened, as did his resolve, and Iantine collapsed into the chair Tisha had invitingly pulled out for him.

  “Shall I?” Leopol asked in his best wheedling tone, one hand on the cord knot.

  “I’m not sure I could stop you,” Iantine said, and caught the pad he had stuffed inside the wrapping as Leopol made short work of opening it.

  Iantine put the pad to one side. He didn’t really want to show the latest drawings he’d done. The two castrated rapists had died shortly after he finished the sketches. He intensely regretted how pleased he had been with their sentences. Had they had any idea of what additional torment Chalkin would inflict on them when they asked to be returned to their hold? No, or they wouldn’t have gone. Then Iantine caught Tisha’s sharp eye on his face and wondered if she had read his expression, which he had tried to keep blank. Fortunately, the much glamorized Chalkin stared out of the painting at them, and Tisha’s first good look sent her into gales of laughter, with Leopol whooping nearly as loud.

  The headwoman had an infectious laugh under any condition: a mere chuckle from her would have anyone in her vicinity grinning in response. Iantine was in sore need of a good laugh, and if his inner anxieties kept him from joining in wholeheartedly, at least he was made to grin.

  Tisha’s amusement alerted the rest of the Weyrfolk to Iantine’s return, and the table was shortly surrounded by people having a good laugh over what Chalkin had considered to be a “satisfactory portrait” of himself. Iantine sated their curiosity by giving a brief report of what had happened. Everyone was much relieved that Chalkin was not only no longer Bitra’s Lord, but also that he had been exiled far from the mainland.