Dragonseye (17 page)

Such plain speaking momentarily made Debera uneasy, but her dragonet crowded reassuringly against her.

“The Weyr has furnished me with everything I need, Master Jol,” she replied with quiet dignity.

“Master? Am I not cousin to you, young woman?” Jol said with mock severity.

Now her smile returned. “Cousin, but I thank you, though I do have a favor to ask . . .”

“And what might that be?”

Debera flipped open her sketch and showed it to the trader. “Iantine here did this of me, and he has one of you . . .” On cue, Iantine offered his sketch pad, open to the montage. “Only Iantine’s used up his pad and, like me, hasn’t a sliver to spend.”

Master Jol reached for the pad, his manner altering instantly to a trader’s critical appraisal. But he had only cast an eye over the sketch when he paused, peering more closely at the artist.

“Iantine, you said?” And when both Debera and Iantine nodded, his smile quirked the line of his generous mouth. “I place the name now. You’re the lad who managed to escape unscathed from Chalkin’s clutches.” Jol offered his free hand to Iantine. “Well done, lad. I’d had wind of your adventure.” He winked, his expression approving. “But then we traders hear everything and learn to sift the fine thread of truth from the chaff of gossip.”

Then he turned back to the sketch, examining it carefully, nodding his head as his eyes went from one panel to the next. He gave an amused sniff as he took a longer look at himself, pencil cocked behind his ear.

“You’ve got me to the life, pencil and all,” and he touched the tool to be sure it was in place. “May I?” he asked courteously, indicating a desire to look at the other pages.

“Certainly,” Iantine said, making a courteous bow. He could have kicked himself when he swayed a bit on his feet.

“Here now, lad, I know you’re not long recovered from your ordeal,” Jol said, quickly supporting him. “Let’s just take a seat so I can have a good look at everything this pad seems to have on offer.”

Ignoring Iantine’s protests, Jol led him to the table he had just left and pushed him onto a stool. Debera and Morath followed, Debera looking very pleased with this consideration.

Jol went through the pad as thoroughly as Master Domaize would have done, making comments about those Weyrfolk he knew, smiling and nodding a good deal. He also knew when Iantine had left a pose unfinished.

“Now, what is it you require, Artist Iantine?”

“More paper, mainly,” Iantine said in a tentative tone.

Jol nodded. “I believe I do have a pad of this quality paper, but smaller. I bring some in for Waine from time to time. I can, of course, get larger sheets . . .”

“It’s not as if I’ll be staying around the Weyr until your next round . . .”

Master Jol dismissed that consideration. “I’ve stores at Telgar Hold and can forward what you need in a day or two.” He gave Iantine a thoughtful glance. “You’ll not be leaving here all that soon, I’d say.” He took the pencil from behind his ear with one hand and the pad from its pouch at his belt with the other. “Now, what exactly are your requirements, Artist Iantine?”

“Ah . . .”

“He wants to make sketches of every rider and dragon in the Weyr,” said Leopol, who had eased himself unnoticed close enough to hear what was being said.

“So you’ve many commissions already, have you?” Master Jol said approvingly, pencil poised over the fresh leaf of his pad.

“Well, no, not exactly, you see—” Iantine stammered.

“You’ve three I know of,” Leopol said. “P’tero for M’leng . . . and the Weyrleaders . . .”

Iantine almost bit Leopol’s nose off. “The Weyrleaders’re different. I will do them in oils, but the sketches are to thank those in the Weyr who’ve been so kind to me.”

“Doing portraits of an entire Weyr is quite an undertaking,” and Master Jol scribbled a line. “You’ll need a good deal of paper and plenty of pencils. Or would you prefer ink? I stock a very good quality. Guaranteed not to fade or blot.” He looked at Iantine expectantly.

“But I’ve only this sketch to trade with you,” Iantine said.

“Lad, you’ve credit with Jol Liliencamp Traders,” Jol said gently, touching his pencil to Iantine’s shoulder and giving it a little push. “I’m not Chalkin, mind you. Not any way, shape, or form.” And he gave a burst of such infectious laughter that Iantine grinned in spite of himself. “Now, give me your requirements straight. But to ease your mind, if you’d finish off this,” and the pencil end tapped the montage, “in watercolor, I’m ready to give you two marks for it. Oh, and I’d like this one of T’dam giving his lecture,” he added, flipping to that page. “That’ll show some folks that dragonriders do something beyond glide about the skies. A mark and a half for that . . .”

“But . . . but . . .” Iantine floundered, trying to organize his thoughts as well as his needs. Debera was grinning from ear to ear and so was her dragon. “I’ve no watercolors with me—” he began, wishing to indicate his willingness to finish the montage.

“Ah, but I just happen to have some, which is why I suggested them,” Jol said, beaming again. “Really, this meeting is most serendipitous,” he added, and his smile included Debera. “And this,” he touched the montage again in a very proprietary fashion, “colored up a bit and with glass to protect it, will look very good indeed in my wagon office. Indeed it will. Advertising, I believe the ancestors called it.”

“Ah, Master Jol?” called someone from one of the trade wagons. “A moment of your time . . .”

“I’ll be back, lad, just you stay there. You, too, Debera. I’ve not finished with the pair of you yet, no I haven’t.”

As Iantine and Debera exchanged stunned looks, he trotted off to see what was required of him, tucking the pencil behind his ear again and folding up his pad as he went.

“I don’t believe him,” Iantine said, shaking his head, feeling weak and breathless.

“Are you all right?” Debera asked, leaning across the table to him.

“Gob-smacked,” Iantine said, remembering a favorite expression of his father. “Completely gob-smacked.”

Debera grinned knowingly. “I think I am, too. I never expected—”

“Neither did I.”

“Why? Don’t you trust traders?” Leopol asked, sounding slightly defensive.

Iantine gave a shaky laugh. “One can trust traders. It’s just I never expected such generosity . . .”

“How long were you in Bitra?” Debera asked tartly, giving him a long look.

“Long enough,” Iantine said, grimacing, “to learn new meanings to the word ‘satisfactory.’ ”

Debera gave him a little frown.

“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head and patting her hand. “And thank you very much for introducing me to your cousin.”

“Once he saw that sketch, you really didn’t need me,” she remarked, almost shyly.

“I believe you ordered these,” said a baritone voice. Rider and Artist looked up in astonishment as a trader deposited an armful of items on the table: two pads, one larger than the other, a neat square box which held a full glass bottle of ink, a sheaf of pens, and a parcel of pencils. “Special delivery.” With a grin, he pivoted and went back the way he had come.

“Master Jol does pride himself on his quick service,” Leopol said with a wide grin.

“There now! You’re all set,” Debera said.

“I am indeed,” and the words came out of Iantine like a prayer.

CHAPTER IX

Fort Hold and Bitran Borders, Early Winter

L
ORD
P
AULIN’S MESSAGE
to the other Lord Holders and Weyrleaders received a mixed reception: not everyone was in favor of impeachment, despite the evidence presented. Paulin was both annoyed and frustrated, having hoped for a unanimous decision so that Chalkin could be removed before his hold was totally demoralized.

Jamson and Azury felt that the matter could wait until the Turn’s End Council meeting: Jamson was known to be conservative, but Paulin was surprised by Azury’s reservations. Those who lived in tropical zones rarely understood the problems of winter weather. To be sure, it would be more difficult to prepare Bitra Hold in full winter, which was Azury’s stated concern, but some progress could be made to prepare the hold for the vernal onslaught of Threadfall. Preparations ought to have begun—as in every other hold—two years ago: larger crops sowed, harvests stored, and general maintenance done on buildings and arable lands, as well as the construction of emergency shelters on the main roads and for groundcrews. Not to mention training holders how to combat Thread burrows.

There was the added disadvantage that Chalkin’s folk seemed generally dispirited anyhow—though that should not be used as an excuse for denying them news of the impending problem.

And who would succeed to the hold? A consideration that was certainly fraught with problems.

In his response, Bastom had made a good suggestion: the appointment of a deputy or regent right away until one of Chalkin’s sons came of age; sons who would be specifically, and firmly, trained to hold properly. Not that the new holder
had
to be of the Bloodline, but following the precepts of inheritance outlined in the Charter would pacify the nervous Lords. To Paulin’s way of thinking, competence should always be the prime decider in succession, and that was not always passed on in the genes of Bloodlines.

For that matter, Paulin’s eldest nephew had shown a sure grasp of hold management. Sidny was a hard worker, a fair man, and a good judge of character and ability. Paulin was half tempted to recommend him up for Fort’s leadership when he was gone. He had a few reservations about his son, Mattew, but Paulin knew that he tended to be more critical of his own Blood than others were.

He would definitely suggest Bastom’s idea to the Council: good practice for younger sons and daughters to have actual hands-on experience in running a hold. Considering the state Bitra Hold was in, a team would be required. Such an expedient would certainly reduce the cry of “nepotism.” And give youngsters a chance to display initiative and ability.

When the last of the replies came in, Paulin gave the young green rider a message for M’shall at Benden Weyr on the result of the polling. The Weyrleader was sure to be as disappointed as he was. He tried to convince himself that they could still get Bitra Hold right and tight in time for Threadfall. But the sooner it was done, the better. He hoped M’shall could get back to him about locating the Bitran uncle and whether he was competent to take hold. Otherwise a Search must be made of legitimate heirs to—

“Fragitall,” Paulin muttered, pushing back from his desk and sighing deeply in frustration. One could no longer do a quick Search on the Bloodline program for a comprehensive genealogy. Surely that was one program Clisser had printed out and copied. “Well, we’ll need a copy of whatever form that program’s in,” he told himself, sighing again. To cheer himself up he reviewed the progress report from the new mine.

They wanted permission to call the hold CROM, an acronym of the founders: Chester, Ricard, Otty, and Minerva. Paulin didn’t see a problem with that but, as a matter of form—especially right now—the request should first be presented to the Council. During the Interval so many procedures had been relaxed, and the leniency was now coming back to plague them, as in the case of Chalkin becoming Lord Holder. At least Paulin was consoled by the knowledge that it was his father, the late Lord Emilin, who had voted Fort on that score. That evidence of bad judgment wasn’t his own error, Paulin knew, even if it was now up to him to rectify the situation.

There was an abrupt rapping of knuckles on his door, and before he could respond it swung open: the Benden Weyrleader, M’shall, brushed past Mattew to enter.

“We’ve got to do something
now,
Paulin,” the Weyrleader said, his expression grim as he hauled off his riding gauntlets and opened up his jacket.

“You got my message quickly enough . . . Bring klah, Matt,” Paulin said, gesturing for his son to be quick. M’shall’s face looked pinched with the cold of
between . . .
and more.

“I got it. And that’s not the end of it. There’s rough weather in Bitra and people freezing to death because they will not leave the border,” M’shall announced.

“Will not? Or cannot?”

“More cannot than will not. Though Chalkin sent down orders that none of the ‘ungrateful dissenters’ could expect to reclaim their holdings—punishment for defying him—irrespective of the fact that he’s putting their lives at risk by his notion of holding.”

“How many are involved?” Paulin’s sense of alarm increased.

M’shall ruffled thick graying hair that had been pressed down by his helmet. “L’sur says there must be well over a hundred at the main border crossing into Benden; women, children, and elderlies. There are as many or more at other border points, and no shelter at any, bar what the guards are using. The refugees have all been herded into makeshift pens. What’s more atrocious, L’sur saw several bodies hung up by the feet that seemed to have been used as target practice. Benden Weyr cannot ignore such barbarity, Paulin.”

“No, it can’t, nor can Fort Hold!” Paulin was on his feet and pacing. “If that’s what he calls hold management, he
has
to be removed.”

“My thinking, too,” M’shall said, running agitated hands through his hair again. “Another night like last and those people’ll be dead of exposure and starvation. Bridgely concurs with me that something has to be done, now, today. And it’s getting toward a cold night now there. I’ve come to you for Council authority since Bridgely says we’d better do this as properly as possible . . .” He paused, bitter. “Such a situation is not supposed to
happen.
Those people aren’t defying
him.
They’re just scared to death and desperate for security which obviously they don’t expect to find in Bitra.” He hitched himself forward in the chair. “Thing is, Paulin, if we hand out supplies, what’s to keep the border guards from just collecting them the moment we take off? So, I think I’ll have to leave a couple of riders as protection . . . which’ll give Chalkin a chance to cry ‘Weyr interference.’ ”

Paulin felt nauseous. That sort of thing was straight out of the ancient bloody history the settlers had deliberately left behind: evolving a code of ethics and conduct that would make such events improbable! This planet was settled with the idea that there was room enough for everyone willing to work the land that was his or hers by Charter-given birthright.

“There’s no interference if your riders stay on your side of the border. Besides which, Bitra Hold looks to Benden Weyr for protection—”

“Thread protection,” M’shall corrected.

“In a manner of speaking,” and Paulin’s smile was grim, “this is partly Thread protection. They’re looking for what they should have had from their Lord Holder, and who else should they turn to but the Weyr? No,” and Paulin brought one fist down sharply on the desk. “You’re within your rights . . . If you’ve riders willing to volunteer for such duty.”

“L’sur’s stayed on, or so his dragon told Craigath.”

“But no firestone,” and Paulin held up a stern finger, “much as some might like to show force.”

“Oh, I’ve made myself clear on that point, I assure you,” and M’shall gave a bitter twist to his lips. “And we haven’t had any training at Benden recently so there’s not a whisper of flame in any of the dragons. As for disciplining the guards, a short hop and a long drop
between
would be
my
preference, but . . .” He held up both hands to assure Paulin of self-restraint.

At that point Mattew returned with a tray containing steaming cups of klah, soup, and a basket of hot breads. He deposited it on the table and left.

M’shall didn’t wait for Paulin’s invitation but grabbed up the soup and blew on its surface, sipping as soon as he dared. “That hits the spot, and if you’ve a caldron of it, I’ll take it back with me.” He grinned, licking his lips. “It’s certainly hot enough to survive a jump
between
.”

“You may have it, caldron and all. L’sur has stayed on, you say? How about riders at other crossing points?” Paulin asked, stirring sweetener into his klah. M’shall nodded. “Good. Their presence ought to inhibit any further violence.” But that presence was only a deterrent, not assistance. He would like to do more than send soup, but his position at this point, even as Council Chair, might be compromised. “At least the Weyr has a right to take action, and so does Bridgely,” he added thoughtfully. He thumped his fist again. “But I will go personally to see both Jamson and Azury: especially since Chalkin has used such extreme measures. I’m hard-pressed to see the reason for them.”

M’shall shrugged. “Fort holders have every reason to trust you, Paulin. Bitrans never have had any with Chalkin holding.”

“What I’d like to do is haul the indecisive, like Jamson and Azury, and
show
them what’s happening at Bitra. They probably think we’ve exaggerated the situation.”

“Exaggerated?” M’shall was indignant, and it was as well the cup was empty of soup when he planted it hard on the table. “Sorry. What’s wrong with them?”

“They wouldn’t behave in such a manner. It’s hard for them to believe another Lord Holder would.”

“Well,” and M’shall nearly growled, “he would and he has.”

There was a more circumspect knock on the door, which Matt opened, showing in K’vin.

“I just heard about the border trouble, M’shall. Zulaya had Meranath bespeak Maruth, so Charanth and I thought to catch you here,” the young Weyrleader said, his expression as grim as Benden’s.

“So he’s blocked the western borders as well?”

K’vin nodded. “Telgar has no grounds to object to his closing his borders, but he’s deliberately killing people, turfing them out in this weather. I can’t . . . and won’t . . . permit people to be treated like that.” He fixed an expectant stare on Paulin.

“M’shall and I have been discussing the intolerable situation. I’ve already polled the Lord Holders with a view to taking immediate action. The response was not unanimous, so even as Council Chair there is little I can do—officially, that is. But as M’shall pointed out, the Weyr has certain responsibilities to protect people. By stretching a point, you could say they’re Threadlost,” and Paulin’s smile was wry, “escaping a hold which is unprepared. So the Weyrs can move where the Council Chair may not.”

“That’s all I need to know!” K’vin slapped his riding gloves against his thigh to emphasize his approval.

“Of course,” and Paulin held up one hand in restraint, “you must be careful not to give Chalkin due cause to cite an infringement against Hold autonomy . . .”

“Not if that includes deliberate mistreatment of people he’s already misled,” K’vin said, his voice rising in alarm.

“This is not the time to jeopardize the neutrality of the Weyrs, you know,” Paulin said, looking from one to the other. “Thread hasn’t started falling yet.”

“C’mon, Paulin—” M’shall began in protest.

“I’m with you in spirit, but as Council Chair, I have to remind you—above and beyond my
private
opinion—that we don’t have the
right
to interfere in the government of a hold.”

“You may not, Paulin,” K’vin said. “But M’shall and I do. There’s truth in what you said about Weyrs protecting people from peril.”

“From Threadfall . . .” Paulin reminded the younger Weyrleader.

“From peril,” K’vin repeated firmly. “Freezing to death without shelter from inclement weather constitutes peril as surely as Threadfall does.”

Paulin nodded approvingly. “I may even forget that you visited here this morning.” He grinned. “M’shall, you don’t happen to know where Chalkin’s remaining uncle lives?”

“I already thought of that and he’s not there,” M’shall said. “Place was empty. Too empty. I know Vergerin was alive and well last autumn.”

“How do you mean ‘too empty’ ?” Paulin asked, jotting down the uncle’s name.

“It had been cleaned out too thoroughly. Not,” and M’shall held up one hand to forestall Paulin’s query, “as if it had been set to rights after a man’s death, but as if to prove no one had been there at all. But Vergerin had cleared vegetation back from his front court, as every smart holder should. Someone had thrown debris all around to disguise the clearance.”

“Has Chalkin anticipated us?” Paulin asked in a rhetorical question. Then he looked from one dragonrider to the other. “Rescue those folks before either the weather or Chalkin’s bullies kill them. And I’d like interviews from them, too, once they’re not afraid to talk to outsiders.” Just as M’shall had his hand on the doorknob, Paulin added, “And not so much as a trickle of flame, please. That could get magnified out of all proportion.”

K’vin pretended wide-eyed shock at such a notion. M’shall glanced around.

“I didn’t hear that, Paulin,” the Benden Weyrleader said with stiff dignity.

“As if we would . . .” K’vin said to M’shall as they strode out of Fort Hold.

“I’d like to,” M’shall said in a taut voice, “that’s the problem. But then, I’ve known Chalkin longer than you.”

Craigath and Charanth were already on the court, awaiting their riders.

“You’ll take the western and northern crossings, K’vin?” M’shall asked as they separated to reach their bronzes. “Have you been checking on numbers for transport?”

“Yes, and had sweep riders checking in ever since Chalkin closed the borders. Zulaya will warn Tashvi and Salda that we’re proceeding. We’ll take all to the Weyr first. The entire Weyr is organized to help.”