Dragonseye (10 page)

“You mean cut it off the things that wore the meat?” M’rak turned a little pale and swallowed.

“That’s what we mean,” Debera said. “If you like, I’ll do your carving and you can just cut up. Deal?”

“You bet,” M’rak said fervently. And gulped again, no longer attacking the rest of the bread that hung limply from his fingers. He put the slice down. “I didn’t know that was part of being a dragonrider, too.”

Debera chuckled. “I think we’re all going to find out that being a dragonrider is not just sitting on its neck and going wherever we want to.”

A prophesy she was to learn was all too accurate. She didn’t regret making the bargain with the two youngsters—it was a fair distribution of effort—but it did seem that she spent her next weeks either butchering or feeding or bathing her dragonet, with no time for anything else but sleeping. She had dealt with orphaned animals, true, but none the size nor with the appetite capacity of dragonets. Morath seemed to grow overnight, as if instantly transferring what she ate to visible increase—which meant more to scrub, oil,
and
feed.

“It’s worth it. I keep telling myself,” Sarra murmured one day as she wearily sprawled onto her bed.

“Does it help?” Grasella asked, groaning as she turned on her side.

“Does it matter?” put in Mesla, kicking her boots off.

“All that oil is softening my hands,” Debera remarked in pleased surprise, noticing the phenomenon for the first time.

“And matting my hair something wicked,” Jule said, regarding the end of the fuzzy plait she kept her hair in. “I wonder when I’ll have time to wash it again.”

“If you ask Tisha, she’ll give you the most marvelous massage,” Angie said, stretching on her bed and yawning. “My leg’s all better.”

She and her Plath had tripped each other up and she’d pulled all the muscles in her right leg so badly that at first they feared she’d broken a bone in the tumble. Plath had been beside herself with worry until Maranis had pronounced the damage only a bad wrenching. The other girls had helped Angie tend Plath.

“All part of being a dragonrider,” T’dam had said, but he exhibited sympathy in making sure he was at hand to assist her, too. “Nothing you won’t grin about later.”

Although the room in which Lord Chalkin sat so that the newly certified Artist Iantine could paint his portrait of the Lord Holder was warmer than any other chamber in Bitra that Iantine had occupied, he sighed softly in weariness. His hand was cramped and he was very tired, though he was careful not to reveal anything to his odious subject.

He had to do a bang-up job of this portrait as fast as possible or he might not leave this miserable hold until the spring. Fortunately, the first snow was melting and, if he finished the painting, he’d leave before the paint was dry. And
with
the marks he’d been promised!

Why he had ever thought himself able to handle any problem that could occur on a commission, he did not know. Certainly he had been warned: more about not gambling with any Bitrans, to be sure, had he had any marks to wager. But the warnings had been too general. Why hadn’t Ussie told him how many other people had been defrauded by the Bitran Lord Holder? The contract had
seemed
all right,
sounded
all right, and was as near to a total disaster as made no never mind. Inexperienced and arrogant, that’s what he was. Too self-assured to listen to the wisdom of the years of experience Master Domaize had tried to get through his thick head. But Master Domaize had a reputation for letting you deal with your own mistakes—especially the ones unconnected with Art.

“Please, Lord Chalkin, would you hold still just a moment longer? The light is too good to waste,” Iantine said, aware of the twitching muscles in Chalkin’s fat cheeks. The man didn’t have a tic or anything, but he could no more be still in his fancy chair than his children.

Impishly, Iantine wondered if he could paint a twitch—a muscle rictus—but it was hard enough to make Chalkin look good as it was. The man’s muddy brown, close-set eyes seemed to cross toward the bridge of his rather fleshy, bulbous nose—which Iantine had deftly refined.

Master Domaize had often told his students that one had to be discreet in portraying people, but Iantine had argued the matter: that realism was necessary if the subject wanted a “true” portrait.

“True portraits are never realistic,” his master had told him and the other students in the vast barn of a place where classes were held. “Save realism for landscapes and historical murals, not for portraits. No one wants to see themselves as others see them. The successful portraitist is one who paints with both tact and sympathy.”

Iantine remembered railing about dishonesty and pandering to egos. Master Domaize had looked over the half spectacles he now had to wear if he wanted to see beyond his nose and smiled that gentle knowing smile of his.

“Those of us who have learned that the portraitist must also be the diplomat make a living. Those of us who wish to portray truth end up in a craft hall, painting decorative borders.”

When the commission to do miniatures of Lord Chalkin’s young children had been received at Hall Domaize, there had been no immediate takers.

“What’s wrong with it?” Iantine demanded when the notice had stayed on the board for three weeks with no one’s initials. He would shortly sit his final exams at Hall Domaize and had hopes to pass them creditably.

“Chaikin’s what’s wrong with it,” Ussie said with a cynical snort.

“Oh, I know his reputation,” Iantine replied, blithely flicking a paint-stained hand, “everyone does. But he sets out the conditions,” and he tapped the document, “and they’re all the ones we’re supposed to ask for.”

Ussie smothered a derogatory laugh in his hand and eyed him in the patronizing way that irritated Iantine so. He knew he was a better draughtsman and colorist than Ussie would ever be, and yet Ussie always acted so superior. Iantine
knew
his general skills were better, and improving, because, of course, in the studio, everyone had a chance to view everyone else’s work. Ussie’s anatomical sketches looked as if a mutant had posed as the life model . . . and his use of color was bizarre. Ussie did much better with landscapes and was a dab hand at designing heraldry shields and icons and such peripheral artwork.

“Yes, but you’ll have to
live
in Bitra Hold while you’re doing it, and coming into winter is not the time to live there.”

“What? To do four miniatures? How long could it take?” Iantine had a sevenday in mind. Even for very small and active children that should be sufficient.

“All right, all right, so you’ve always managed to get kids to sit still for you. But these are Chalkin’s and if they’re anything like him, you’ll have the devil’s own time getting them to behave long enough to get an accurate likeness. Only, I sincerely doubt that an ‘accurate’ likeness is what is required. And I know you, Ian . . .”

Ussie waggled a finger at him, grinning more broadly now. “You’ll never be able to glamorize the little darlings enough to satisfy doting papa.”

“But—”

“The last time a commission came in from Chalkin,” Chomas said, joining in the conversation, “Macartor was there for nine months before his work was deemed ‘satisfactory.’ ” Chomas jabbed his finger at the clause that began “on the completion of satisfactory work,” and said, “He came back a ghost of himself and poorer than he’d started out.”

“Macartor?” Iantine knew of the journeyman, a capable man with a fine eye for detail, now doing murals for the new Hall at Nerat Hold. He tried to think of a reason Macartor had not been able to deal well with Chalkin. “Great-man for detail but not for portraiture,” he said.

Ussie’s eyebrows raised high in his long face and his gray eyes danced with mischief.

“So, take the commission and learn for yourself. I mean, some of us
need
some extra marks before Turn’s End, but not so badly as we’d go to Bitra Hold to earn ’em. You know the reputation there for gambling? They’d sooner stop breathing than stop gambling.”

“Oh, it can’t be half as bad as they say it is,” Iantine replied. “The sixteen marks, plus keep and travel expenses, is scale.”

Ussie ticked the points off on fingers. “Travel? Well, you’d have to pay your own way there—”

“But he specifies travel . . .” Iantine protested, tapping that phrase impatiently.

“Hmmm, but
you
have to pay out for the travel there and account for every quarter mark you spent. Take you a few days to sort out right there. Chalkin’s so mingy no decent cook stays with him, ditto for housekeeper, steward, and any other staff, so you may end up having to cook your own meals . . . If he doesn’t charge you for the fuel to cook with. The hold’s not got central heating, and you’d want a room fire this time of the year in that region. Oh, and bring your own bedfurs, he doesn’t supply them to casual workers . . .”

“Casual? A portraitist from Hall Domaize is
not
classified as a casual worker,” Iantine said indignantly.

“At Bitra, my friend, everyone’s casual,” Chomas put in. “Chalkin’s never issued a fair service contract in his life. And read
every single word
on the page if you are foolish enough to take the commission. Which, if you had the sense of little green apples, you won’t.” Chomas gave a final decisive nod of his head and continued on his way to his own workstation, where he was doing fine marquetry work on a desk.

However, Iantine had a particular need for the marks the commission would bring him. With his professional diploma all but in his hand, he wanted to start repaying what he owed his parents. His father wanted to avail of Iantine’s land allotment to extend his pasturage, but he didn’t have the marks to pay the Council transfer fees: never a huge amount, but sufficient so that Iantine’s large family would have to cut back on what few luxuries they had to save the sum. It was therefore a matter of self-esteem and pride for Iantine to earn the fee.

His parents had given him a good start, more than he deserved, considering how seldom he had been at the hold since his twelfth birthday. His mother had wished him to be a teacher, as she had been before her marriage. She had taught all the basics to him, his nine siblings, and the children in the other nearby Benden mountain sheep and farm holds. And because he had shown not only a keen interest in learning, but also discernible skill in sketching—filling every inch of a precious drawing book with studies of every aspect of life on the hillside hold—it had been decided to send him to the College. His help would be missed, but his father had reluctantly agreed that the lad showed more aptitude with pen and pencil than shepherd’s crook. His next youngest brother, who had the temperament for the work, had been ecstatic to be promoted to Iantine’s tasks.

Once at the College, his unusual talent and insights were instantly recognized and encouraged. Master Clisser had insisted that he do a portfolio of sketches: “animal, mineral, and floral.” That had been easy to collect since Iantine constantly sketched and had many vignettes of unsuspecting classmates: some done at times he should have been doing other lessons. One in particular—a favorite with Master Clisser—was of Bethany, playing her guitar, bending over the instrument for intricate chording. Everyone had admired it, even Bethany.

His portfolio was submitted to several private Craft Halls which taught a variety of skills, from fine leather tooling to wood, glass, and stone workings. None of those on the West Coast had a place for another student, but the woman who was master weaver in Southern Boll had said she would contact Master Domaize in Keroon, one of the foremost portraitists on Pern, for she felt the boy’s talent was in that direction.

To Iantine’s astonishment, a green dragon had arrived one morning at the College, available to convey him back for a formal interview with Domaize himself. Iantine wasn’t quite sure what excited him most: the ride on the dragon
between,
the prospect of meeting Master Domaize, or the thought of being able to continue with art as a possible profession. Afterward, Master Domaize, having set him the task of sketching himself, had accepted him as a student and sent off a message to his parents that very day, arranging terms.

Iantine’s family had been astounded to receive such a message. Still more astonishing had been the information that Benden’s Lord and Lady Holder were willing to pay more than half his fees.

Now he must earn as much as he could, as soon as he could, to show his family that their sacrifices had not been wasted. Undoubtedly Lord Chalkin would be difficult. Undoubtedly there would be problems. But the marks promised for the commission would pay the Land Transfer fee. So he’d initialed the contract, a copy was made for Master Domaize’s files, and it had been returned to Lord Chalkin.

Chalkin had demanded, and received, a verification of Iantine’s skill from his Master and then returned the signed contract.

“Best reread it, Ian,” Ussie said when Iantine waved the document about in triumph.

“Why?” Iantine glanced down the page and pointed to the bottom lines. “Here’s my signature, and Domaize’s, alongside Chalkin’s. That is, if that’s what this scrawl is supposed to be.” He held it out to Ussie.

“Hmm, looks all right, though I haven’t seen Chalkin’s hand before. My, where did they find this typewriter? Half the letters don’t strike evenly.” Ussie passed the document back.

“I’ll see if there’re any other examples of Lord Chalkin’s signature in the files,” Iantine said, “though how—and why—would he deny the contract when he himself proposed it?”

“He’s a Bitran, and you know how they are. Are you sure that’s your signature?” Ussie grinned as Iantine peered with a suspicious glare at his own name. Then Ussie laughed.

“Sure, I’m sure it’s mine. Look at the slant of the t. Just as I always make it. What are you driving at, Ussie?” Iantine felt the first twinges of irritation with Ussie’s attitude.

“Well, Bitrans are known to forge things. Remember those bogus Land Transfer deeds five years ago? No, I don’t suppose you’d have heard about them. You’d’ve still been a schoolboy.” With an airy wave of his hand, Ussie left a puzzled and worried Iantine.