Dragonseye (25 page)

“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 members 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.

“Too good for him, really,” someone said.

“Ah, but he’s lord of all he surveys, ain’t he? Suit him!”

“No one was hurt?”

“Who’s going to take hold there now, with so much to do so close to Fall?”

Iantine answered as circumspectly as he could, though he was amazed at how accurately the Weyrfolk had guessed what had happened. They also seemed to know a great deal about a hold that was not beholden to Telgar Weyr. He didn’t think he’d talked much about his uncomfortable stay at Bitra, so they must have had their information from other sources. Weyrfolk did get to travel more than holders, so perhaps their level of information was more comprehensive.

Riders drifted in, early for the noontime meal and just as interested in what had happened at Bitra Hold. Some of the older ones remembered the wager that had cost Vergerin the holding, and knew other details about that Bloodline that certainly showed them well informed.

Iantine was grateful for the klah and cookies Tisha had brought and equally pleased to have Leopol bring him bread, cheese, and the sliced wherry meat that was being served for lunch. He did have a moment’s anxiety when he saw K’vin, at the edge of the crowd, gesturing for his attention. Maybe he shouldn’t have said a thing.

He told Leopol to take the notorious portrait to his quarters, bundled his pad under his arm—because he knew nothing would keep Leopol from looking at it—and then made his way to K’vin. Since he had obviously told all he was going to tell, he was allowed to pass, with good-natured mauling on his way.

“I’m sorry, Weyrleader, if I was speaking out of turn . . .” K’vin regarded him with widened eyes. “Speaking out of turn? Ha, they probably had figured out everything on their own. What could you possibly tell them that they didn’t know?”

“How many people Chalkin had in those appalling cells,” Iantine said, blurting out the words before he realized what he was saying.