Dragonseye (28 page)

Iantine stifled a groan that he wanted neither dragon nor rider to hear and compressed his thoughts as far down in his head as he could. Would it all be worth it? He wondered. And tried to divorce himself from Debera for the rest of the concert.

He didn’t pay as close attention to the second and third parts of the “Landing Suite,” which brought events up to the present. A cynical section of his mind noticed that Chalkin’s impeachment was not mentioned, but then it was a very recent incident which the composer and lyricist would not have known about. He wondered would it ever make history. Chalkin would love it. Which might well be why no one would include him. That’d be the final punishment—anonymity.

Dinner was announced at the conclusion of the suite, and the big cavern was efficiently reorganized for dining. In the scurry and fuss of setting up tables and chairs, he got separated from Debera. The panic it caused him made it extremely clear that he could not divorce his emotions from the girl. When they found each other again, her hand went out to him as quickly as his to her, and they remained clasped while they waited in line to collect their food.

Iantine and Debera finally found seats at one of the long trestle tables where everyone was discussing the music, the singers, the orchestration, how lucky they were to be in a Weyr that got preferential treatment. There was, of course, a tradition of music on Pern, brought by their ancestors and encouraged by not only the Teaching Hall but also Weyr and Hold. Everyone was taught how to read music from an early age and encouraged to learn to play at least one instrument, if not two or three. It was a poor hold indeed that could not produce a guitar or at least pipes and a drum to liven winter nights and special occasions.

The meal was very good—though Iantine had to concentrate on tasting it. Most of his senses were involved in sitting thigh to thigh with Debera. She was quite volatile, talking to everyone, with a great many things to say about the various performances and the melodic lines that she particularly liked. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes very bright. He’d never seen her so elated. But then, he knew he was feeling high with an almost breathless anticipation of the dancing. He’d have her in his arms then, even closer than they were now. He could barely wait.

He had to, for of course on First Day, ice cream, the special and traditional sweet, was available and no one would want to miss that. It was a fruit flavor this year, creamy, rich, tangy with lots of tiny fruit pieces, and he was torn between eating slowly—which meant the confection might turn sloppy since the Lower Cavern was warm indeed—or gulping it down firm and cold. He noticed that Debera ate quickly, so he did.

As soon as the diners finished, they dismantled the tables and pushed back the chairs so there’d be space for the dancing. The musicians, reassembling in smaller units so that the dance music would be continuous, were tuning up their instruments again.

When all was ready, K’vin led Zulaya, resplendent in the red brocade dress of her portrait, onto the floor for their traditional opening of the dance. Iantine caught himself wanting to sketch the distinguished-looking couple, but he’d hidden his pad in the pile of tables and had to content himself with storing the details in his mind. He’d never seen Zulaya flirt so with K’vin, and the Weyrleader was responding gallantly. He did notice some riders talking among themselves, their eyes on the two Leaders, but he couldn’t hear what was said, and while the glances were speculative, it wasn’t his business.

Next the wing leaders handed their partners out on the floor for three turns before the wing seconds joined them. Then Tisha, partnered by Maranis, the Weyr medic, whirled very gracefully in among the dancers. The first dance ended but now the floor was open to everyone. The next number was a brisk two-step.

“Will you dance with me, Debera?” Iantine asked with a formal bow.

Eyes gleaming, head held high and smiling as if her face would split apart, Debera responded with a deep dip. “Why, I was hoping you’d ask, Iantine!”

“I get the next one,” Leopol cried, appearing unexpectedly beside them, looking up at Debera, his eyes exceedingly bright.

“Did you sneak some wine tonight?” Iantine asked, suspicious.

“Who’d give me any?” Leopol replied morosely.

“No one would give you anything you couldn’t take another way, Leo,” Debera said. “But I’ll keep you a dance. Later on.”

And she stepped toward the floor, Iantine whisking her away from the boy as fast as he could.

“Even for a Weyr lad, he’s precocious,” Debera said, and she held up her arms as she moved into his.

“He is at that,” Iantine replied, but he didn’t want to talk about Leopol at all as he swung her lithe body among the dancers and eased them away to the opposite side of the floor from Leopol.

“He’ll follow, you know, until he gets his dance,” she said, grinning up at him.

“We’ll see about that,” and he tightened his arms possessively around her strong slender body.

Will I dance when I’m older?
Iantine clearly heard the green dragon ask.

Startled, he looked down at Debera and saw by the laughter in her eyes that the dragon had spoken to them both.

“Dragons don’t dance,” Debera said in her fond dragon-tone. Iantine had noticed that she had a special one for Morath.

“They sing,” Iantine said, wondering how he was ever going to eliminate Morath from the conversation long enough to speak about
them.

She’ll listen to anything you say.
Morath’s voice, so much like Debera’s, sounded in his head.

Iantine grimaced, wondering how under the sun he could manage any sort of a private conversation with his beloved.

I won’t listen then.
Morath sounded contrite.

“How long do you think you’ll be at Benden, Ian?” Debera asked.

He wondered if Morath had spoken to her, too, but decided against asking, though he didn’t want to discuss his departure at all. Certainly not with Debera, the reason he desperately wanted to stay at Telgar.

“Oh,” he said as casually as he could, “I’d want to do my best for Lord Bridgely and his Lady. They’ve been my sponsors, you see, and I owe them a lot.”

“Do you know them well?”

“What? Me? No, my family’s mountain holders.”

“So were mine.”

“Were?”

Debera gave a wry laugh. “Don’t let’s talk about families.”

“I’d far rather talk about us,” he said and then mentally kicked himself for such a trite response.

Debera’s face clouded.

“Now what did I say wrong?” He tightened his arms on her reassuringly. Her expression was so woeful.

She’s been upset about something Tisha told the weyrlings yesterday. I know I said I wouldn’t interfere but sometimes it’s needed.

“You didn’t,” Debera said at the same time, so he wasn’t sure who had said what, since the voices were so alike.

“But something is troubling you?”

She didn’t answer immediately but her hands tightened where they gripped him.

“C’mon, now, Deb,” and he tried to jolly her a bit. “I’ll listen to anything you have to say.”

She gave him an odd glance. “That’s just it.”

“What is?”

“You wanting to talk to me, dance with only me and—”

“Ooooh,” and suddenly Iantine had a hunch. “Tisha gave all the riders that ‘don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for at Turn’s End’ lecture?” She gave him a startled look. And he grinned back at her. “I’ve been read that one a time or two myself, you know.”

“But you don’t know,” she said, “that it’s different for dragonriders. For green riders with very immature dragons.” Then she gave him a horrified look as if she hadn’t meant to be so candid. “Oh!”

He pulled her closer to him, even when she resisted, and chuckled. All those casual questions he’d asked dragonriders explained all that she didn’t say.

“Green dragons are . . . how do I put it, kindly? Eager, loving, willing, too friendly for their own good . . .”

She stared up at him, a blush suffusing her cheeks, her eyes angry and her body stiffening against the rhythm of the dance. They were about to pass an opening, one of the corridors that led back to the storage areas of the Weyr. He whirled them in that direction despite her resistance, speaking in a persuasively understanding tone.

“You’re the rider of a young green and she’s much too young for any sexual stimulation. But I don’t think a kiss will do her any damage, and I’ve
got
to kiss you once before I have to go to Benden.”

And he did so. The moment their lips touched, although she tried to resist, their mutual attraction made the contact electric. She could not have resisted responding—even to preserve Morath’s innocence.

Finally, breathless, they separated, but not by more than enough centimeters to let air into their lungs. Her body hung almost limply against his, and only because he was leaning against the wall did Iantine have the strength to support them both.

That’s very nice, you know.

“Morath!” Debera jerked her body upright, though her hands clenched tightly on his neck and shoulder. “Oh . . . dear, what have I done?”

“Not as much to her as you have to me,” Iantine said in a shaky voice. “She doesn’t sound upset or anything.”

Debera pushed away to stare up at him—he thought she had never looked so lovely.

“You heard Morath?”

“Hmmm, yes.”

“You mean, that wasn’t the first time?” She was even more startled.

“Hmmm. She knows my name, too,” he said, plunging in with a bit of information that he knew might really distress her, but now was the time to be candid.

Debera’s eyes widened even more and her face had paled in the glowlight of the corridor. She leaned weakly against him.

“Oh, what do I do now?”

He stroked her hair, relieved that she hadn’t just stormed off, leaving all his hopes in crumbs.

“I don’t think we upset Morath with that little kiss,” he said softly.

“
Little
kiss?” Her expression went blank. “I’ve never been kissed like that before in my life.”

Iantine laughed. “Me neither. Even if you didn’t want to kiss me back.” He hugged her, knowing that the critical moment had passed. “I have to say this, Debera: I love you. I can’t get you out of my mind. Your face . . . and . . .” he added tactfully because it was also true, “. . . Morath’s decorate the margin of every sketch I draw. I’m going to miss you like . . . like you’d miss Morath.”

She caught in her breath at even the mention of such a possibility.

“Iantine, what can I say to that? I’m a dragonrider. You know that Morath is always first with me,” she said gently, touching his face.

He nodded. “That’s as it should be,” he said, although he heartily wished he could be her sole and only concern.

“I’m glad you do know that, but Ian . . . I don’t know what I feel about you, except that I did like your kiss.” Her eyes were tender and she glanced shyly away from him. “I’m even glad you did kiss me. I’ve sort of wanted to know . . .” she said with a ripple in her voice, but still shy.

“So I can kiss you again?”

She put her hand on his chest. “Not quite so fast, Iantine! Not quite so fast. For my sake as well as Morath’s. Because . . .” and then she blurted out the next sentence, “I know I’m going to miss you . . . almost . . . as much as I’d miss Morath. I didn’t know a rider could be so involved with another human. Not like this. And,” she increased pressure on the hand that held them apart because he wanted so to kiss her for that, “I can’t be honestly sure if it’s not because Morath rather likes you, too, and is influencing me.”

I am not,
said Morath firmly, almost indignantly.

“She says . . .” Debera began as Iantine said, “I heard that.”

They both laughed and the sensual tension between them eased. He made quick use of the opportunity to kiss her, lightly, to prove that he could and that he did understand about Morath. He had also actually asked as many questions about rider liaisons as discretion permitted. What he’d learned had been both reassuring and unsettling. There were more ramifications to human affairs than he had ever previously suspected. Dragonrider-human ones could get very complicated. And the green dragons being so highly strung and sexually oriented were the most complex.

“I guess I’m lucky she talks to me at all,” Iantine said. “Look, love, I’ve said what I’ve wanted to say. I’ve heard what Morath has to say, and we can leave it there for now. I’ve got to go to Benden Hold, and Morath has to . . . mature.” He gently tightened his arms around his beloved. “If I’m welcome to come back . . . to the Weyr, I will return. Am I welcome?”

“Yes, you are,” Debera said as Morath also confirmed it.

“Well, then . . .” He kissed her lightly, managing to break it off before the emotion that could so easily start up again might fire. “. . . let us dance, and dance and dance. That should cause no problems, should it?”

Of course, the words were no sooner out of his mouth than he knew that having her so close to him all evening was going to be a trial of his self-control.

His lips tingled as he led her back, her fingers trustingly twined into his. The dance was only just ending as he put his arms around her, so they managed just one brief spin. Since he now felt far more secure, he did let Leopol partner Debera for one fast dance, lest he’d never hear the last of it from the boy. Other than that surrender, he and Debera danced together all night, cementing the bond that had begun: danced until the musicians called it a night.

He was going to hate to be parted from her, more now because they did have an understanding—of sorts—but there was no help for it. He had the duty to Benden Hold.

CHAPTER XV

New Year
258
After Landing; College,
Benden Hold, Telgar Weyr

O
N THE FIRST OFFICIAL DAY
of the new year, 258 AL, Clisser had a chance to review the four days of Turn’s End. Frantic at times, certainly hectic despite the most careful plans and the wealth of experience, the main performances—the First Day “Landing Suite,” and Second Day Teaching Songs and Ballads—had gone very well: far better than he had anticipated given the scanty rehearsals available for some of the performers. Fort’s tenor, for instance, had been a bit ragged in his big solo: he really should have held that final note the full measure. Sheledon glowered from the woodwind section: he’d’ve sung the part himself but he hadn’t the voice for it. But then, the only solos that Sheledon wouldn’t find fault with would be Sydra’s, and she never failed to give a splendid performance. Bethany’s flute obbligatos had been remarkable, matching Sydra’s voice to perfection.

Paulin had been on his feet time after time, applauding the soloists and, at the finale, surreptitiously brushing a tear from his eye. Even old S’nan looked pleased, also fatuous, but on the whole Clisser was relieved at the reception. He hoped the two performances had been popular elsewhere on the continent. A great deal of work had been put into rehearsals from folks who had little spare time as it was.

The Teaching Songs and Ballads had been just as well received, with people going about humming some of the tunes. Which was exactly what the composers had hoped for. Fortunately, honors were even between Jemmy and Sheledon for catchy tunes. He caught himself humming the Duty Song chorus. That had gone particularly well. He wouldn’t have to deal with a laborious copying of the Charter once youngsters learned
those
words by heart. It certainly fit the bill. Copies of all the new songs were being made by the teachers themselves, who would then require their students to transcribe them, and that saved a lot of effort for his College.

Really, a printing press of some kind must be put high on the list of Kalvi’s engineering staff. They’d managed quite a few small motor-driven, solar panel gadgets, why not a printing press? But that required paper, and the forests were going to be vulnerable for the next fifty years no matter how assiduous the Weyrs were in their protective umbrella.

One tangle of Thread could destroy acres of trees in the time it took to get a groundcrew to the affected area.

He sighed. If only the organics plastic machinery were still operating . . . but the one unit housed in the Fort storage had rusted in the same flooding that had ruined so much else.

“’Ours not to wonder what were fair in life,’ ” he quoted to himself, “which is a saying I should get printed out to remind me that we’ve got what we’ve got and have to make do.”

He couldn’t help but feel somewhat depressed, though. There had been some high moments these last few days and it was hard to resume normal routine. Not every one in the teaching staff was back, though all should have checked in by late evening. He’d hear then how the performances went elsewhere. He’d have to wait to learn how the new curriculum was working. By springtime he’d know what fine tuning would be needed. He could count on Sallisha for that, he was sure. By springtime Thread would fall and the easy pace they had all enjoyed would be a memory.

Ah, that was what he had to do. He’d put it off long enough—write up the roster for groundcrews drafted from students over fifteen and teachers. He’d promised that to Lord Paulin and, what with everything else, never produced it. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer, then stopped, put it back, and picked up a sheet from the reuse pile. A clean side was all he needed. Mustn’t waste or he’d want soon enough.

Lady Jane herself led Iantine to his quarters, asking all the gracious questions a hostess did: Where had he been for Turn’s End? Had he enjoyed himself? Had he had the opportunity to hear the splendid new music from the College? What instrument did he play? What did he hear from his parents? He answered as well as he could, amazed at the difference between his reception here and the one he’d had at Bitra. Lady Jane was a fluttery sort of woman, not at all what he would have expected as the spouse of a man like Bridgely. She must be extremely efficient under all that flutter, he thought, contrasting the grace, order, and appearance of the public rooms with those at Bitra, and seeing a vast difference between the two.

No low-level living for him here, either. Lady Jane led him onto the family’s floor, urging the two drudges who were carrying the canvases and skybroom wood panels to mind their steps and not damage their burdens.

She opened the door, presenting him with the key, and he was bemused as he followed her into a large dayroom, at least ten times larger than the cubicle at Bitra, on the outside of the hold so that it had a wide, tall window, facing northeast. It was a gracious room, too, the stone walls washed a delicate greeny-white, the furnishings well-polished wood with a pleasing geometric pattern in greens and beige on the coverings.

“I do know that Artists prefer a north light, but this is the best we can do for you on that score . . .” Benden’s Lady fluttered her hands here and there. They were graceful, small hands, with only the wide band of a spousal ring on the appropriate finger. Another contrast to the Bitran tendency to many gaudy jewels.

“It’s far more than I expected, Lady Jane,” he said as sincerely as he could.

“And I’m sure it’s far more than you had at Bitra Hold,” she said with a contemptuous sniff. “Or so I’ve been told. You may be sure that Benden Hold would never place an Artist of your rank and ability with the drudges. Bitrans may lay claim,” and her tone expressed her doubt, “to having a proper Bloodline, but they have never shown much couth!” She noticed him testing the sturdiness of the easel. “That’s from stores. It belonged to Lesnour. D’you know his work?”

“Lesnour? Indeed.” Iantine dropped his hand from the smoothly waxed upright. Lesnour, who’d lived well past the hundred mark, had designed and executed Benden Hold’s murals and was famed for his use of color. He’d also compiled a glossary of pigments available from indigenous materials, a volume Iantine had studied and which had certainly helped him at Bitra.

Lady Jane pushed open the wooden door into the sleeping room. Not large but still generous in size: he could see the large bed, its four posts carved with unusual leaves and flowers, probably taken from Earth’s botany. She pointed at the back to the third room of the suite: a private toilet and bath. And the whole suite was warm. Benden had been constructed with all the same conveniences that Fort Hold boasted.

“This is much more than I need, Lady Jane,” Iantine said, almost embarrassed as he dropped his carisak to the floor of the dayroom.

“Nonsense. We know at Benden what is due a man of your abilities. Space,” and she gave a graceful sweep of her hand about the room, “is so necessary to compose the thoughts and to allow the mind to relax.” She did another complicated arabesque with her hands and smiled up at him. He smiled back at her, trying to act gracious rather than amused at her extravagant manner. “Now, the evening meal will be served in the Great Hall at eight and you’ll dine at the upper table,” she said with a firm smile to forestall any protests. “Would you care to have someone put at your disposal to help with your materials?”

“No, thank you most kindly, Lady Jane, but I’m used to doing for myself.” Maybe he could have borrowed Leopol for a few weeks? There was certainly enough space for the boy to be accommodated in with him.

So she left, after he once again expressed his profuse thanks for the courtesies.

He prowled about the rooms, washed his hands and face, learning that the water came very hot out of the spigot. The bath had been carved out of the rock, deep enough for him to immerse himself completely, and sufficiently long to lie flat out in the water. Even the Weyr hadn’t such elegant conveniences.

He unpacked his clothing so the wrinkles would hang out of his good green shirt and began setting up his workplace. And then sat down in one of the upholstered chairs, plunked his feet down on the footstool, leaned back and sighed. He could get accustomed to this sort of living, so he could! Except for the one lack—Debera.

He wondered briefly if Lady Jane would flutter while she posed for him. And how would he pose her? Somehow he must put in the flutter of her but also her grace and charm. He wondered what instrument she played with those small hands. If only Debera weren’t so far away.

Iantine might not have been pleased to know that she was at that very moment the subject of discussion between the Weyrleaders at Telgar.

“No,” Zulaya was saying, shaking her head, “she has more sense than to jeopardize Morath. And I think Iantine would not risk his standing with the Weyr in an indiscretion. I understand from Leopol that Iantine wants to come back. Tisha wasn’t worried about
that
pair. They may have danced till the musicians quit, but they were visible all the time. Then, too, Debera’s hold-bred. Jule’s the one I might be worried about, especially since she and T’red have been weyrmates.”

“They’re not now?” K’vin asked sharply.

“Of course not,” and Zulaya dismissed his anxiety on that and then grinned up at him. “T’red’s biding his time. He knows he’d better.”

K’vin sighed and checked off another matter discussed with Zulaya. “Let’s see—a tenth-month Hatching, so by this fourth month, the greens won’t be flying yet.”

“Oh, now, I’d say Morath might. If she keeps growing at the same rate, her wings’ll be strong enough to test by late spring. But we don’t need to include the latest Hatching in our calculations, K’vin,” she said, and leaned toward him and the lists he was compiling. “They’ve got all the site-recognition training to do, the long-range flights to build wing muscle. If we don’t need to force their training, let’s not. We’ve got fifty years to use them . . .”

“Do we?” and K’vin tossed his pencil to the table, leaning back and sighing.

Zulaya reached a hand across to tap his arm reassuringly. “Don’t fret so, Kev,” she said. “That can’t change events. I think that the group we’re going to have trouble with is not the babies, but the elderlies. Those old riders’re going to insist on being assigned to fighting wings, you know.”

K’vin closed his eyes, shaking his head as if he could somehow lose that problem. “I know, I know,” he said, all too aware that he couldn’t avoid making a decision there. “They’ll be more of a liability than the youngsters ever would—trying to show that they’ve lost nothing to their age.”

“Well, the dragons won’t have,” she said, and then she, too, sighed. “But we can’t baby them: that’s not fair. And the dragons’ reflexes are as fast as ever. They’ll protect their riders . . .”

“But who’ll protect the rest of the wing from slow reflexes? You know how close Z’ran and T’lel came to disaster yesterday morning?”

“They were showing off,” Zulaya said. “Meranath chewed the two browns out as if they were weyrlings.”

“We won’t have time for that during a Fall . . .” K’vin rubbed the ache in the back of his neck. “I’ve called a safety-strap check for the entire Weyr.”

“Kev,” she said gently, “we had one last week. Don’t you remember?”

“We can’t have enough,” he snapped back at her, and then shot her a look of apology.

“It’s the waiting that’s getting to you,” Zulaya said with a rueful smile. “To all of us.”

K’vin gave a snort. “So do we pray that Thread falls early?”

“I wouldn’t wish that on us, but we could legitimately go south on an excursion . . .”

“
Not
,” he objected emphatically, “another Aivas expedition.”

“No, no!” She laughed at his vehemence. “But we could check on the Tubberman grubs: see how much farther they have penetrated. We should do so soon now anyhow, since we’re supposed to check on their spread. A trip away, out of this cold, would lift spirits. After the excitement of Turn’s End, First Month is always a letdown. Who knows? We might even find some of those spare parts Kalvi’s always whingeing about.”

“Spare parts?” K’vin asked.

“Yes, ones lost in the Second Crossing storm.”

“Now that’s a real lost cause,” K’vin said.

“Whether it is or not, it provides a training exercise in the sun, away from here and all of that,” and she pointed at the disorder of lists and reports on the table.

“Where would we go?” K’vin sat upright in his chair, examining the possibility.

“Well, we should check the original site at Calus . . .” She retrieved the relevant chart from the storage cabinet and brought it to the table. K’vin hastily cleared a space. “Then look along the Kahrainian coast where the Armada had a long stop for repairs.”

“That’s all been gone over so often . . .”

“And not much retrieved. Anyway, it’s not so much what we find, but more that we went for a look,” Zulaya said with a droll grin.

“The entire Weyr?”

“Well, the fighting wings, certainly. Leave the training ones here, give them responsibility . . . and see how they like it.”

“J’dar had better be in charge,” K’vin said, glancing to see if she agreed.

She shrugged. “J’dar or O’ney.”

“No, J’dar.”

Oddly enough, she gave him a pleased smile. He hadn’t expected that, since she had specifically named O’ney, one of the oldest bronze riders. He tried to defer to her judgment whenever possible, but he’d noticed that O’ney tended to be unnecessarily officious.

“Now, this is as far as grubs had migrated on last winter’s check,” she said, running her finger along Rubicon River.

“How’re the grubs supposed to get across that?” K’vin asked, tapping the contour lines for the steep cliffs that lined the river, gradually tapering down above the Sea of Azov.

“The Agric guys say they’ll either go around or be carried across the river as larvae in the digestive tracts of wherries and some of those sport animals that were let loose. They have been breeding, you know.”

Zulaya was teasing now, since she knew very well that Charanth had had to rescue him from a very large, hungry orange-and-black-striped feline. Charanth had been highly insulted because the creature had actually then attacked him, a bronze dragon! The incident was a leveling one for both rider and dragon.