Dragonseye (27 page)

“You’re riding with me, Teacher,” a voice said. “Don’t want you walking off the rim!”

Clisser shook himself to attention. “Yes, yes, of course.” He smiled up at the brown rider, who extended a hand.

Clisser reached up to grasp the proffered hand. “Oh, thank you,” he said to the dragon, who had not only turned his head but helpfully lifted his forearm to make an easier step up.

Then he was astride the big dragon, settling himself, snapping on the safety strap.

“I’m ready.”

Clisser did catch his breath, though, when the dragon seemed to just fall off the rim into the blackness of Benden’s Bowl. He grabbed at the security of the safety strap and then almost cracked his chin on his chest as the dragon’s wings caught the air and he soared upward.

They were facing east, and the malevolence of the Red Star was dimmed by the glow of Rukbat rising, altering the rogue planet’s aspect to one of almost negligible visibility, almost anonymity, in the brightening sky.

Amazing!
thought Clisser.
I must remember to jot that down.
But he knew he never would. And Pernese literature was thus saved another diarist, he amended. Clisser saw that the rider, too, had his eyes fastened on the magnificent spectacle. He must savor this ride. The dragon veered northward, pivoting slowly on his left wing tip. The dragons would soon have more important journeys to make. Clisser did observe the majestic snowcapped mountains of the Great Northern Range, tinted delicate shades of orange by the rising sun. What Iantine could make of such a scene! Then abruptly all he could see was the black nothingness of
between.

“What happens if you wear your fingers out?” Leopol asked Iantine.

The Artist hadn’t even been aware of the lad’s presence, but the comment—because Iantine was sketching the scene of the dragonets so fast that his elbow was actually aching—caused him to burst out laughing, even though he didn’t pause for a moment.

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of it happening, though, if that’s any consolation.”

“Not to me, but for you,” Leopol said, cocking his head in his characteristically impudent fashion.

“I’ll miss you, you know,” Iantine said, grinning down at the sharp expression on Leopol’s face.

“I should hope so, when I’ve been your hands, feet, and mouth for months now,” was the irrepressible answer. “You could take me with you. I’d be useful,” and Leopol’s expression was earnest, his gray eyes clouded. “I know how you like your paints mixed, your brushes cleaned, and even how to prepare wood or canvas for portraits.” His pathetic stance could have persuaded almost anyone.

Iantine chuckled and ruffled the boy’s thick black hair. “And what would your father do?”

“Him? He’s winding himself up for Threadfall.” A discreet question to Tisha had produced the information that a bronze rider, C’lim, was the boy’s father; the mother had died shortly after Leopol’s birth. But he, like every other child of the Weyr, had become everyone’s child, loved and disciplined as the need arose. “He doesn’t half pay attention to me anymore.”

Which was fair, Iantine thought, since Leopol had become
his
shadow. “Tisha?”

“Her? She’ll find someone else to mother.”

“Well, I will ask but I doubt you’d be allowed. The other riders think you’ll Impress a bronze when you’re old enough.”

Leopol tossed off that future with a shrug. What he could do
now
was more important than what might be three or four years in the future. “D’you
have
to go?”

“Yes, I
have
to go. I’m in grave danger of overstaying my welcome here.”

“No, you’re not,” and Leopol looked significantly toward the lake, where the weyrlings were having their customary bath. “And you haven’t drawn
all
the riders yet.”

“Be that as it may, Leo, I’m due at Benden to do the holders, and that’s a commission I’ve been owing since I started my training at Hall Domaize.”

“When you do those, will you come straight back? You haven’t done Chalkin’s face like he really is, you know, and it isn’t as if you were doing anyone else out of a place to sleep.” Leopol’s face was completely contorted now by his dismay. “Debera really wants you to stay, you know.”

Iantine shot him an almost angry look. “Leopol?” he said warningly.

“Aw,” and the boy screwed his boot toe into the dirt, “everyone knows you fancy her, and the girls say that she’s gone on you. It’s only Morath who’s the problem. And she doesn’t have to be. Soon as she can fly, she’ll have a weyr and you’ll have some privacy.”

“Privacy?” Iantine knew that Leopol was precocious, but . . .

Leopol cocked his head and had the grace not to grin. “Weyrs’re like that. Everyone knows everyone else’s secrets.”

Iantine hung amid irritation: relief in the information about Debera, and amusement that his carefully hidden interest was so transparent. He had never thought about loving someone so much that their absence could cause physical discomfort. He never thought he would spend sleepless hours reviewing even the briefest of conversations; identify a certain voice in a crowded cavern; have to rub out sketches of imagined meetings and poses which his fingers did of their own accord. He kept close guard on his sketch pads because there were far too many of Debera—and the ever-present Morath. Morath liked him, too. He knew that because she’d told him she did.

That, actually, had been the first encouraging sign he’d had. He had tried, adroitly, to figure out how significant that might be, as far as Debera’s awareness of him was concerned. He’d ask while he was sketching a rider, as if only politely inquiring about what was closest to his model’s heart anyway. It appeared that a dragon could talk to anyone he or she wished. They did so for reasons of their own, which sometimes they did not discuss with their riders. Or they did. None of the other weyrlings, even the greens with whom Iantine was now quite familiar, spoke to him. It was Morath who counted. Not that the green dragon—who was the largest of that color from that clutch—ever explained herself. Nor did Iantine ask. He merely treasured the immense compliment of her conversation.

She did ask to see his sketch pad once. He noticed the phenomenon of the pad reflected in every one of the many facets of her eyes. They’d been bluey-green at the time, their normal shade, and whirling slowly.

“Do you see anything?”

Yes. Shapes. You put the shapes on the pad with the thing in your hand?

“I do.” How much could a dragon see with that kind of optical equipment? Still, Iantine supposed it would be useful when Thread was falling from all directions. As the dragon eye protruded out from the head, it obtained overhead images, too. Good design. But then, dragons
had
been designed, though no one nowadays could have managed the genetic engineering. It was one thing to breed animals for specific traits, but to begin from the first cell to create a totally new creature? “Do you like this one of Debera oiling you?” He tapped his pencil on the one he’d done that morning.

It looks like Debera. It looks like me?
and there was plaintive surprise in Morath’s contralto voice. That was when Iantine realized that Morath sounded very much like her rider. But then, that was only logical since they were inseparable.

Inseparable! That’s what bothered him most. He knew that his love for Debera would be constant. But any love left over from Morath for him could scarcely match his commitment. Did it have to? After all, he was totally committed to his work. Could he fault her for being equally single-minded? There was, however, a considerable difference between loving a dragon and loving to paint. Or was there?

Maybe it was as well, Iantine thought, tucking his pencil behind his ear and closing his pad, that he was going to Benden after Turn’s End. Maybe if Debera—and Morath—were out of sight, they might also go out of mind and his attachment would ease off.

“You got your Turn’s End clothes ready? Need ironing or anything?” Leopol asked, his expression wistful.

“You did ’em yesterday and I haven’t worn ’em yet,” he said, but he ruffled the boy’s thick hair again and, looping his arm over the thin shoulders, steered him to the kitchen. “Let’s eat.”

“Ah, there’s not much to eat,” Leopol said in disgust. “Everyone’s getting ready for tonight.”

“They’ve been getting ready all week,” Iantine said. “But there’s bread and cold meats set out.”

“Huh!”

Iantine noticed that Leopol had no trouble making himself several sandwiches of what was available and had two cups of soup and two apples. He noted that he had no trouble eating, either, though some of the smells emanating from the ovens—and all were in use—were more appetizing than lunch. He intended to enjoy himself this evening.

Then Leopol, eyes wide with excitement, leaped from the table. “Look, look, the musicians are here!”

Glancing outward, Iantine saw them dismounting from half a dozen dragons. They were laughing and shouting as instruments were carefully handed down from dragon-backs and carisaks were passed around. Tisha sailed out, her assistants with her, and shortly everyone was in the cavern and being served a lunch considerably more complicated than soup and sandwiches. Leopol was in the thick of it, too, the rascal, and the recipient of a huge wedge of iced cake. Iantine selected a good spot against the wall, sharpened his pencil with his knife, and opened his pad. This was a good scene to preserve. If he got them down on paper now, maybe he could listen to the music this evening without itchy fingers. As he worked he realized that Telgar had rated some of the best musicians, called back from wherever their contracts had taken them, for Turn’s End celebrations. He’d finish in time for the concert and that would be that for the day!

It wasn’t, of course. But then, he found it hard not to sketch exciting moments and scenes. Especially as he didn’t want to leave this pad anywhere that it could be casually opened. And he could listen to the music just as well while drawing. Sketching also kept his hands where they should be and not itching to go around Debera’s shoulder or hold her hand. Sketching did allow him some license, for he could always apologize that he didn’t realize his leg was against hers, or that their shoulders were touching or he was bending his body close to hers. After all, he was so busy sketching, he wouldn’t be noticing externals.

If Debera had found the contact unpleasant or annoying, she could have moved her leg away from his, or moved about on the bench. But she didn’t seem to mind him overlapping her from time to time in the zeal to get this or that pose. Truth was, he was totally conscious of her proximity, the floral fragrance that she used that didn’t quite hide the “new” smell of the lovely pale green dress she was wearing. Green was her color and she must know that: a gentle green, like new leaves, which made her complexion glow. Angie had told him the color of Debera’s Turn’s End gown, so he’d bought a shirt of a much deeper green so that they’d go together. He liked the way she’d made a coronet of her long hair, with pale green ribbons laced in and dangling down her back. Even her slippers were green. He wondered if there’d be dancing music, too, but there usually was at Turn’s End. Although maybe not, what with the “Landing Suite” first. He bent to ask her to reserve dances for him but she shushed him.

“Listen, too, Ian,” she said in a soft whisper, gesturing to his pad. “The words are as beautiful as the music.”

Iantine glanced forward again, only now realizing that there were singers, too. Had he been that rapt in being next to Debera without Morath?

I’m here. I listen, too.

Morath’s voice startled him, coming into his head so unexpectedly. He gulped. Would the dragon always be able to read his mind?

He asked the question again, more loudly, in his own head. There was no reply. Because there
was
no reply? Or because there was none needed to such an obvious question?

But Morath hadn’t sounded upset that he was luxuriating in Debera’s proximity. She had sounded pleased to be there and listening. Dragons liked music.

He glanced over his shoulder to the Bowl and could see along the eastern wall the many pairs of dragon eyes, like so many round blue-green lanterns up and down the wall of the Weyr where dragons made part of the audience.

He began then, obediently, to listen to the words, and found himself drawn into the drama unfolding, even tho’ he’d known the story from childhood. The musicians called it the “Landing Suite,” and this verse was about leaving the great colony ships for the last time. A poignant moment, and the tenor voice rose in a grateful farewell to them where they would orbit over Landing forever, their corridors empty, the bridge deserted, the bays echoing vaults. The tenor, with creditable breath control, let his final note die away as if lost in the vast distance between the ships and the planet.

A respectful pause followed, and then the ovation which his solo had indeed merited burst forth. Quickly Iantine sketched him, taking his bows, before he stepped back into the ensemble.

“Oh, good, Ian. He was just marvelous,” Debera said, craning her head to watch what he was doing. She kept right on clapping, her eyes shining. “He’ll be delighted you did him, too.”

Iantine doubted that and managed a smile that did not echo the stab of jealousy he felt because Debera’s interest had been distracted from him.

She likes you, Ian,
said Morath as if from a great distance, though she was ranged with the other still flightless dragonets on the Bowl floor.

Ian?
he echoed in surprise. Other riders had told him that while dragons would talk to people other than their own rider, they weren’t so good at remembering human names. Morath
knows
my name?

Why shouldn’t I? 1 hear
it
often enough.
And Morath sounded sort of tetchy.

Morath may never know just how much that remark means to me, Iantine thought, taking in a deep breath that swelled his chest out. Now, if he could just get her by herself alone . . .

But she’s never alone, now that she’s my rider