Dragonseye (12 page)

So, grudgingly and after making him touch up each of the four not-so-miniature paintings to the point where he was ready to break something—their heads for preference—the Lord and Lady Holder considered the four paintings satisfactory. The final critiquing had lasted well into the night, which was dark and stormy: the winds audible even through the three-meter-thick cliff walls.

So, as he descended wearily but in great relief to the lower-floor cubicle, he became aware of the intense chill in this level. The temperature in the big Hall had been somewhat warmed by the roaring fires in the four hearths, but there was no heating down here. In fact, it was so cold that Iantine did no more than loosen his belt and remove his boots before crawling onto the hard surface that was supposed to be a mattress. It looked and felt like something recycled from the ships of the First Crossing. He curled up in the furs, more grateful than ever that he’d brought his own, and fell asleep.

Arctic temperatures swirling about his face roused him. His face was stiff with cold and, despite the warmth of his furs, when he tried to stretch his body, his muscles resisted. He had a crick in his neck and he wondered if he’d moved at all during the night. Certainly it was cold enough to have kept in the warm of the furs. But he had to relieve himself.

He crammed his feet into boot leather that was rigid with ice and, wrapping his furs tightly about himself, made his way down the corridor to the toilet. His breath was a plume of white, his cheeks and nose stung by the cold. He managed his business and returned to his room only long enough to throw on his thickest woolen jumper. With half a mind to throw his furs around him for added warmth, he ran up the several flights of stone steps, past walls that dripped with moisture. He paused at the first window on the upper level: solidly snowed closed. He went up the next short flight and opened the door into what should have been the relatively warmer kitchen area.

Had every fire in the place gone out overnight? Had the spit boys frozen on their bed shelf? As he turned his head in their direction, his glance caught at the window. Snow was piled up against the first hand’s breadth of it. He moved closer and looked out at the courtyard but it was all one expanse of unbroken snow. Indeed, where the courtyard should have stepped down to the roadway, the snow was even, concealing any depression where the road should have been. No one moved outside. Nor were there any tracks in the expanse of snow-covered court to suggest that anyone had tried to come in from one of the outer holds.

“Just what I needed,” Iantine said, totally depressed by what he saw. “I could be trapped here for weeks!”

Paying for room and board. If only the kids hadn’t come down with measles . . . If only he hadn’t already freshened up the murals . . . How would he survive? Would he have any left of his original fee—that had seemed so generous—by the time he could leave this miserable hold?

Later that morning, when half-frozen people had begun to cope with the effects of the blizzard, he struck another bargain with the Holder Lord and Lady: and very carefully did he word it. Two full-sized portraits, each a square meter on skybroom wood to be supplied by Lord Chalkin, one of Lady Nadona and one of Lord Chalkin, head and shoulder in Gather dress, with all materials and equipment to make additional pigments supplied by the hold; maintenance for himself and quarters on an upper floor with morning and evening fuel for a fire on the hearth.

He completed Lady Nadona’s portrait without too much difficulty—she would sit still, loved nothing better than to have a valid excuse for doing nothing. Halfway through the sitting, though, she wanted to change her costume, believing the red did not flatter her complexion as well as the blue. It didn’t, but he talked her out of changing and subtly altered her naturally florid complexion to a kinder blush and darkened the color of her pale eyes so that they seemed to dominate her face. By then he’d heard enough of the supposed resemblance between herself and Luccha so that he improved on it, giving her a more youthful appearance.

When she wanted to change the collar of her dress, he improvised one he remembered seeing in an Ancient’s portrait—a lacy froth that hid much of the loose skin of her neck. Not that he had painted
that
in, but the lace softened the whole look of her.

He had not been as lucky with Chalkin. The man was psychologically unable to sit still—tapping his fingers, swinging one leg as he crossed and uncrossed them, twitching his shoulders or his face, making it basically impossible to obtain a set pose.

Iantine was nearly desperate now to finish and leave this dreadful place before another snowstorm. The young portraitist wondered if Chalkin’s delays, and the short periods in which he would deign to sit, were yet another ploy to delay him—and rake back some of the original fee. Though Chalkin had even invited him to come into the gaming rooms—the warmest and most elegant rooms in the hold, Iantine had managed to excuse himself somehow or other.

“Do sit still, Lord Chalkin, I’m working on your eyes and I cannot if you keep moving them about in your face,” Iantine said, rather more sharply than he had ever addressed the Lord Holder before.

“I beg your pardon,” Chalkin said, jerking his shoulders about angrily.

“Lord Chalkin, unless you wish to be portrayed with your eyes crossed,
sit still for five minutes!
I beg of you.”

Something of Iantine’s frustration must have come across because Chalkin not only sat still, he glared at the portraitist. And for longer than five minutes.

Working as fast as he could, Iantine completed the delicate work on the eyes. He had subtly widened them in the man’s face and cleared up the edemic pouches that sagged below them. He had made the jowly face less porcine and subtracted sufficient flesh from the bulbous nose to give it a more Roman look. He had also widened and lifted the shoulders to give a more athletic appearance and darkened the hair. Further, he had meticulously caught the fire of the many-jeweled rings. Actually, they dominated the painting, which he felt would find favor with Lord Chalkin, who seemed to have more rings than days of the year.

“There!” he said, putting down his brush and standing back from the painting, satisfied in himself that he had done the best job possible: that is, the best job that would prove “satisfactory” and allow him to leave this ghastly hold.

“It’s about time,” Chalkin said, slipping down from the chair and stamping over to view the result.

Iantine watched his face, seeing that flash of pleasure before Chalkin’s usual glum expression settled back over his features. Chalkin peered more closely, seeming to count the brush strokes—although there were none, for Iantine was too competent a technician to have left any.

“Watch the paint. It’s not yet dry,” Iantine said quickly, raising his arm to ward off Chalkin’s touch.

“Humph,” Chalkin said, shrugging his shoulders to settle his heavy jerkin. He affected diffidence, but the way he kept looking at his own face told Iantine that the man was finally pleased.

“Well? Is it satisfactory?” Iantine asked, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

“Not bad, not bad, but . . .” and Chalkin once again put out a finger.

“You will not smear the paint, Lord Chalkin,” Iantine said, fearing just that and another session to repair the damage.

“You’re a rude fellow, painter.”

“My title is Artist, Lord Chalkin, and do tell me if this portrait is satisfactory or not!”

Chalkin gave him a quick nervous glance, one facial muscle twitching. Even the Lord of Bitra Hold knew when he had pushed someone too hard.

“It’s not bad . . .”

“Is it satisfactory, Lord Chalkin?” Iantine put all the pent-up frustration and anxiety into that question.

Chalkin shifted one shoulder, screwed up his face with indecision and then hastily composed his features in the more dignified pose of the portrait before him.

“Yes, I believe it is satisfactory.”

“Then,” and now Iantine took Lord Chalkin by the elbow and steered him toward the door, “let us to your office and complete the contract.”

“Now, see here—”

“If it is satisfactory, I have honored that contract and you may now settle with me for the miniatures,” Iantine said, guiding the man down the cold corridor and to his office. He tapped his foot impatiently as Chalkin took the keys from his inside pocket and opened the door.

The fire within was so fierce that Iantine felt sweat blossom on his forehead. At Chalkin’s abrupt gesture, he turned around while the man fiddled with whatever it was he had in his strongbox. He heard, with infinite relief, the turn of the metal lock and then silence. A slamming of a lid.

“Here you are,” said Chalkin coldly.

Iantine counted out the marks, sixteen of them, Farmermarks, but good enough since he would be using them in Benden, which didn’t mind Farmermarks.

“The contracts?”

Chalkin glared but he unlocked the drawer and extracted them, almost flinging them across the desk at Iantine. Iantine signed his name and turned them back to Chalkin.

“Use mine,” Iantine said when Chalkin made a show of finding a good pen in the clutter on his desk.

Chalkin scrawled his name.

“Date it,” Iantine added, wishing to have no complaint at a later time.

“You want too much, painter.”

“Artist, Lord Chalkin,” Iantine said with a humorless smile and turned to leave. At the door he turned again, “And don’t touch the painting for forty-eight hours. I will not come back if you smear it. It was satisfactory when we left the room. Keep it that way.”

Iantine returned to collect his good brushes, but left what remained of the paints he had had to make. Last night, in a hopeful mood, he had packed everything else. Now, he took the stairs up two and three at a time, stored his brushes carefully, stuffed the signed and dated contracts into his pack, shrugged into his coat, rolled up his sleeping furs, looped both packs in one hand, and was halfway down the stairs again when he met Chalkin ascending.

“You cannot leave now,” Chalkin protested, grabbing his arm. “You have to wait until my wife has seen and approved my portrait.”

“Oh, no, I don’t,” Iantine said, wrenching free of the restraining hand.

He was out the main door before Chalkin could say another word, and ran down the roadway between the soiled snowbanks. If he was benighted on the road in the middle of a snowstorm, he would still be safer than staying one more hour at Bitra Hold.

Luckily for him, he found shelter during that next storm in a woodman’s holding some kicks away from the main hold.

CHAPTER VI

Telgar Weyr, Fort Hold

“G
UESS WHAT
I
FOUND
?” P’tero cried, ushering his guest into the kitchen cavern. “Tisha, he’s half frozen and starving of the hunger,” the young green rider added, hauling the tall fur-wrapped figure toward the nearest hearth and pushing him into a chair. He deposited the packs he was carrying onto the table. “Klah, for the love of little dragons, please . . .”

Two women came running, one with klah and the other with a hastily filled bowl of soup. Tisha came striding across the cavern, demanding to know what the problem was, who had P’tero rescued and from where.

“No one should be out in weather like this,” she said as she reached the table and grabbed up the victim’s wrist to get a pulse. “All but froze, he is.”

Tisha pulled aside the furs wrapped about his neck and then let him take the cup. He cradled the klah in reddened fingers, blowing before he took his first cautious sip. He was also shivering uncontrollably.

“I spotted an SOS on the snow—lucky for him that the sun made shadows or I’d never have seen it,” P’tero was saying, thoroughly pleased with himself. “Found him below Bitra Hold . . .”

“Poor man,” Tisha interjected.

“Oh, you’re so right there,” P’tero said with ironic fervor, “and he’ll never return. Not that he’s told me all . . .” and P’tero flopped to a chair when someone brought him a cup of klah. “Got out of Chalkin’s clutches intact,” P’tero grinned impishly, “and then survived three nights in a Bitran woodsman’s hold . . . with only a half cup of old oats to sustain him . . .”

Through his explanation, Tisha ordered hot water bottles, warmed blankets, and, taking a good look at the man’s fingers, numbweed and frostbite salve.

“Don’t think they’re more than cold,” she said, removing one of his hands from its fevered grip on the hot cup and spreading the fingers out, lightly pinching the tips. “No, no harm done.”

“Thank you, thank you,” the man said, returning his fingers to the warm cup. “I got so cold stamping out that emergency code . . .”

“And out of doors in such weather with no gloves,” Tisha chided him.

“When I left Hall Domaize for Bitra Hold, it was only autumn,” he said in a grating voice.

“Autumn?” Tisha echoed, widening her fine eyes in surprise. “How long were you at Bitra Hold, then?”

“Seven damned weeks,” the man replied, spitting out the words in a disgusted tone of voice. “I thought a week at the most . . .”

Tisha laughed, her belly heaving under her broad apron. “What under the stars took you to Bitra in the first place? Artist, are you?” she added.

“How’d you know?” The man regarded her with surprise.

“Still have paint under your nails . . .”

Iantine inspected them and his cold-reddened face flushed a deeper red. “I didn’t even stop to wash,” he said.

“As well you didn’t, considering the price Chalkin charges for such luxuries as soap,” she said, chuckling again.

The woman returned with the things Tisha had ordered. While they ministered to the warming of him, he clung with one hand or the other to the klah. And then to the soup cup. His furs, which had kept him from freezing to death, were taken to dry at one fire; his boots were removed and his toes checked for frostbite, but he had been lucky there, too, so they were coated with salve for good measure and then wrapped in warm toweling, while warmed blankets were snugged about his body. Salve was applied to his hands and face and then he was allowed to finish the hot food.

“Now, your name, and whom shall we contact that you’ve been found?” Tisha asked when all this had been done.

“I’m Iantine,” he said, and then he added in wry pride, “portraitist from Hall Domaize. I was contracted to do miniatures of Chalkin’s children . . .”

“Your first mistake,” Tisha said, chuckling.

Iantine flushed. “You’re so right, but I needed the fee.”

“Did you come away with any of it?” P’tero asked, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Oh, that I did,” the journeyman replied so fiercely that everyone grinned. Then he sighed. “But I did have to part with an eighth at the woodsman’s hold. He had little enough to share but was willing to do so.”

“At a profit, I’m sure . . .”

Iantine considered that for a moment. “I was lucky to find any place to wait out the storm. And he did share . . .” He shrugged briefly, and a dejected look crossed his features as he sighed. “Anyway, it was he who suggested I make a sign in the snow to attract any dragonrider. I’m just lucky one saw me.” He nodded thanks to P’tero.

“No problem,” the blue dragonrider said airily. “Glad I came.” He leaned toward Tisha across the table. “He’d’ve been frozen solid in another day.”

“Were you long waiting?”

“Two days after the storm ended, but I spent the nights with ol’ Fendler. If you’re hungry enough, even tunnel snake tastes good,” Iantine added. How long had it been since he’d eaten a decent meal?

“Ah, the poor laddie,” Tisha said, and called out orders for a double portion of stew to be brought immediately, and bread and sweetening and some of the fruit that had been sent up from Ista.

By the time Iantine had finished the meal, he felt he had made up for the last four days. His feet and hands were tingling despite the numbweed and salve. When he stood to go relieve himself, he wobbled badly and clutched at the chair for support.

“Have a care, lad, filling the stomach was only half your problem,” Tisha said, moving to support him with far more alacrity than her bulk would suggest. She gestured for P’tero to lend a hand.

“I need to—” Iantine began.

“Ach, it’s on the way to the sleeping cavern,” Tisha said, and drew one of his arms over her shoulder. She was as tall as he.

P’tero took up the packs again, and between them they got him to the toilet room. And then into a bed in an empty cubicle. Tisha checked his feet again, applied another coat of numbweed and tiptoed out. Iantine only made sure that his packs—and the precious fee—were in the room with him before he fell deeply asleep.

While he slept, messages went out—to Hall Domaize and to Benden Weyr and Hold, since Iantine nominally looked to Benden. Although Iantine had taken no lasting harm, M’shall recognized yet another instance of Chalkin taking unfair advantage. Irene had already sent in a substantial list of abuses and irregularities in Chalkin’s dealings—generally with folk who had no recourse against his dictates. He held no court in which difficulties could be aired and had no impartial arbiters to make decisions.

The big traders, who could be counted on for impartial comment, bypassed Bitra and could cite many examples of unfair dealings since Chalkin had assumed holding fifteen years before. The few small traders who ventured in Bitra rarely returned to it.

Following that Gather and its decision to consider deposing Chalkin, M’shall had his sweep riders check in every minor hold to learn if Chalkin had duly informed his people of the imminence of Thread. None had, although Lord Chalkin had increased his tithe on every household. The manner in which he was conducting this extra tithe suggested that he was amassing supplies for his own good, not that of the hold. Those in a more isolated situation would certainly have a hard time obtaining even basic food supplies. That constituted a flagrant abuse of his position as Lord Holder.

When Paulin read M’shall’s report, he asked if Chalkin’s holders would speak out against him. M’shall had to report that his initial survey of the minor holders indicated a severe lack of civic duty. Chalkin had his folk so cowed, none would accuse him—especially this close to a Pass—for he still had the power to turn objectors out of their holds.

“They may change their minds once Thread has started,” K’vin remarked to Zulaya.

“Too late, I’d say, for any decent preparations to be made.”

K’vin shrugged. “He’s really not our concern, for which I for one am thankful. At least we rescued Iantine.”

Zulaya gave a wry chuckle. “That poor lad. Starting his professional career at Bitra? Not the best place.”

“Maybe that’s all he could aspire to,” K’vin said.

“Not if he’s from Hall Domaize,” Zulaya said tartly. “Wonder how long it’ll take his hands to recover?’

“Thinking of a new portrait?” K’vin asked, amused.

“Well, he’s down an eighth of what he needs,” she said.

K’vin gave her a wide-eyed look. “You wouldn’t . . .”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” she said with an edge to her voice. “He needs something in his pocket of his own. I admire a lad who’d endure Bitra for any reason. And Iantine’s was an honorable one in wanting to pay the transfer fee.”

“Wear that red Hatching dress when you sit for him,” K’vin said. Then rubbed his chin. “You know, I might have my portrait done, too.”

Zulaya gave him a long look. “The boy may find it as hard to leave Telgar Weyr as it was Bitra.”

“With a much fuller pouch and no maintenance subtracted . . .”

“And soap and hot water and decent food,” Zulaya said. “According to Tisha, he’ll need feeding up. He’s skin and bones.”

When the singing woke Iantine, he was totally disoriented. No one had sung a note at Bitra Hold. And he was warm! The air was redolent of good eating odors, too. He sat up. Hands, feet, and face were stiff but the tingling was gone. And he was exceedingly hungry.

The curtain across the cubicle rustled and a boy’s head popped through.

“You’re awake, Artist Iantine?” the lad said.

“Indeed, I am,” and Iantine looked around for his clothes. Someone had undressed him and he didn’t see his own clothes.

“I’m to help you if you need it,” the boy said, pushing halfway through the curtains. “Tisha laid out clean clothes.” He wrinkled a snub nose. “Yours were pretty ripe, she said.”

Iantine chuckled. “They probably were. I ran out of soap for washing three weeks ago.”

“You was at Bitra. They charge for everything there.” The boy threw up both arms in disgust. “I’m Leopol,” he added. Then he lifted the soft slippers from the pile on the stool. “Tisha said you’d better wear these, not your boots. And you’re to use the salve first . . .” He held up the lidded jar. “Dinner’s ready.” Leopol then licked his lips.

“And you must wait your meal until I’m ready, huh?”

Leopol nodded solemnly and then grinned. “I don’t mind. I’ll get more because I waited.”

“Is food in short supply at this Weyr?” Iantine asked jokingly as he began to dress in the clean gear. Odd how important simple things, like freshly laundered clothing, assumed the level of luxury when you’ve had to do without.

Leopol helped him spread the salve on his feet. They were still tender to the touch. Even the act of applying the salve made them suddenly itchy. Fortunately, the numbweed, or whatever it was, reduced that sensation.

When he had relieved himself again and gingerly washed face and hands, he and Leopol made their way to the Lower Cavern, where the evening meal was in progress.

The lad led him to a side table near the hearth which had been set for two. Instantly, cooks descended with plates overflowing with food, wine for him and klah for Leopol.

“There now, Artist man,” the cook said, nodding appreciation as Iantine attacked the roast meat, “eat first and then the Weyrleaders would like a few words with you, if you’re not too tired.”

Iantine murmured thanks and understanding and addressed himself single-mindedly to his food. He would have had additional servings of the main course but his stomach felt uneasy: too much good food after several days of semifasting, probably. Leopol brought him a large serving of the sweet course but he couldn’t finish it all because the back of his throat felt raw and sore. He would have gone back to his bed then but he saw the Weyrleaders advancing on him. Leopol made a discreet exit, grinning reassurance at him. Iantine tried to stand in courtesy to his hosts but he wobbled on his numbed feet and dropped back into the chair.

“We don’t stand much on ceremony here,” Zulaya said, gesturing for him to stay seated as K’vin pulled out one chair for her.

He carried the wineskin from which he filled all the glasses. Iantine took a polite sip—it was a nice crisp wine—but even the one sip made his stomach feel more sour.

“Messages have been sent, and acknowledgments received, that you’ve been rescued,” K’vin said, grinning over the last word. “Master Domaize was becoming worried so we saved him a messenger to Bitra.”

“That’s very good of you, Zulaya, K’vin,” Iantine said, thankful that part of his training at Hall Domaize had included knowing the important names in every hold, Weyr, and Hall. “I certainly appreciated P’tero’s rescue.”

Zulaya grinned. “He’ll be dining on that one for the rest of the year. But it proves the wisdom of sweep riding even during the Interval.”

“You should know,” Iantine blurted out, “that Lord Chalkin doesn’t believe there will be a Pass.”

“Of course not,” K’vin replied easily. “It doesn’t suit him to. Bridgely and M’shall would like a report from you, though, concerning your visit there.”

“You mean, there’s something that can be done about him?” Iantine was amazed. Lord Holders were autonomous within their borders. He hadn’t known there’d be any recourse.

“He may
do
himself in,” Zulaya said with a grim twist of her lips.

“That would be wonderful,” Iantine said. “Only,” and now honesty forced him to admit this, “he didn’t really
do
anything to me . . .”

“Our Weyr Artist may not be trained,” K’vin said, “but Wane informed me that it doesn’t take seven weeks to do four miniatures.

“I actually painted twenty-two to get four that they liked,” Iantine said, clearing his throat grimly. “The hooker in the contract was the word ‘satisfactory.’ ”

“Ah,” Zulaya and K’vin said in chorus.

“I ran out of paint and canvas because I brought only what I
thought
I’d need . . .” He lifted his hands, then rubbed them because they were beginning to itch again. “Then the children all got measles, and so, rather than have anything deducted from the fee for room and board, I agreed to freshen up the hold murals . . . only I hadn’t brought that sort of paint and had to manufacture the colors . . .”