Dragonseye (Red Star Rising)

Telgar Weyr

Iantine asked to be allowed out again on the next sunny day, so he was in the Bowl when the travelling traders arrived. The entire complement of the caverns flocked out to greet them.

Iantine furiously sketched the various scenes around him: the big dusty carts with their multiple teams of the heavy-duty ox-types which had been bred for such work. They had been one of the last bio-engineering feats from Wind Blossom, whose grandmother had done such notable work creating the dragons of Pern.

Iantine had seen traders come and go on their routes since childhood, and fondly remembered the stellar occasions when the Benden trading group had arrived at their rather remote sheep hold. More specifically, he recalled the taste of the boiled sweets, flavored by the fruits which grew so abundantly in Nerat, which the traders passed out by the handful. Once, there’d been fresh citrus, a treat of unsurpassed delight to himself and his siblings.

For a remote holding, having travelers drop by was almost as good as a Gather. To Iantine’s surprise, weyrfolk were equally delighted. Despite the fact that they could usually find a dragon to convey them wherever they wanted to go, the arrival of the traders was even better than tithe trains.

(The tithe wagons were a different matter, since everyone had to pitch in to store the produce given to the support of the Weyr.) And traders brought the news of all the Holds and Halls along the way.

There were as many clusters of folks just talking, Iantine noticed, as examining goods in the stalls the Liliencamps set up. Tables and chairs were brought out from the Lower Cavern; klah and the day’s fresh bread and rolls were being served.

Leopol, always on hand for Iantine, brought over a midmorning snack and hunkered down to give the artist the latest news.

“They’ve been setting up sheltered halts,” he said between bits of his own sweet roll, “along the road to here. They won’t stop doing their routes just because Thread’s coming. But they gotta prepare for it. Half of what they got on those big wagons right now is materials for safe havens. Course, they can use what caves there are, but no more camping out in the open.”

“That’s going to cramp their style,” and he grinned broadly.

“But if ya gotta, ya gotta. See,” and one jam-stained finger pointed to a group of men and women seated with the two Weyrleaders.

“They were all hunched over maps spread out on the table. They’re checking the sites over so’s everyone here’ll know where they might be if they’re caught out in a Fall.”

“Who trades through Bitra?” Iantine asked with considerable irony.

Leopol snorted. “No-one in their right mind! Specially now.”

“Didja hear that Chalkin’s closed his borders to keep his own people in? Didja know that Chalkin doesn’t believe Thread’s coming?” The boy’s eyes widened in horrified dismay at such irreverence.

“And he never told his holders it is?”

“Actually I got that distinct impression while I was there,” Iantine said, “more from what wasn’t said and done than what was. I mean, even Hall Domaize was stocking food and supplies against Threadfall. They’d talk enough about odds and wagers at Bitra, but not a word about Thread.”

“Did they sucker you into any gaming?” Leopol’s avid expression suggested he yearned for a positive answer.

Iantine shook his head and grinned at his eager listener.

“In the first place, I’d been warned.”

“Isn’t everyone warned about Bitrans at Gathers?”

“And then, I didn’t have any spare marks to wager.”

“Otherwise you’d have lost your commission fer fair, Leopol murmured, his eyes still round with his unvoiced speculations of the disaster Iantine had avoided.

“I’d say Chalkin’s gambling in the wrong game if he thinks ignoring Thread will make it not happen,” Iantine said.

“Shelters are going to have to be huge,” he added, gesturing towards the solid beasts who were being led to the lake to drink.

Either they were accustomed to dragonets from coming to Telgar Weyr, or they were so phlegmatic they didn’t care.

However, the weyrlings had never seen them before in their short lives, so they reacted with alarm at the massive cart beasts, squealing with such fright that dragons, sleeping in the pale wintry sun on their weyr ledges, woke up to see what the fuss was about. Iantine grinned.

He did a rapid sketch of that in a corner of the page. At the rate he was going, he’d use up even this generous supply of paper.

“Well, they’ve had to use a lot of sheet roofing, I know,” Leopol said. “The Weyr contributes, too, ya know, since the Liliencamps have to detour to get up to us.”

Iantine had never given any thought to the support system required to serve a Weyr and its dragons. He had always assumed that dragons and riders took care of themselves from tithings, but he was acquiring a great respect for the organization and management of such a facility.

In a direct contrast with what he had seen at Bitra, everybody in the Weyr worked cheerfully at any task set them and took great pride in being part of it. Everyone helped everyone else; everyone seemed happy.

To be sure, Iantine had recently realized that his early childhood had been relatively carefree and happy. His learning years at the College had also been good as well as productive; his apprenticeship to Hall Domaize had proceeded with only occasional ups and downs as he struggled to perfect new techniques and a full understanding of Art.

Bitra Hold had been an eye-opener. So, of course, was the Weyr, but in a far more positive manner. Grimly, Iantine realized that one had to know the bad to properly appreciate the good. He smiled wryly to himself while his right hand now rapidly completed the sketch of the Weyrleaders in earnest collaboration with the Liliencamp trail bosses.

That Bloodline had been the first of the peripatetic traders, bringing goods and delivering less urgent messages on their way from one isolated hold to another. A Liliencamp had been one of the more prominent First Settlers. Iantine thought he’d been portrayed in the great Mural in Fort Hold, with the other Charterers: a smallish man with black hair, depicted with sharp eyes and a pad of some sort depending from his belt, and Iantine had of course noted them several writing implements stuffed in his chest pocket, and one behind his ear. It had seemed such a logical place to store a pencil that Iantine had taken to the habit himself.

He peered more closely at the trail bosses. Yes, one of them had what looked like a pencil perched behind one ear - and he also had an empty pouch at his belt: one that probably accommodated the pad on the table before him.

But, even with such wayside precautions, would such traders be able to continue throughout the fifty dangerous years of a Pass? It was one thing to plan and quite another, as Iantine had only just discovered, to put plans into operation. Still, considerable hardship would result in transporting items from Hall to Hold to Weyr during Threadfall, especially since dragons would be wholly involved in protecting the land from Thread. They could not be asked to perform trivial duties.

After all, dragons were not a transportation facility; they had been bio-engineered as a defensive force, and conveying people and goods was only an Interval occupation.

He wondered if the traders had any paper in their great wagons.

Not that he had even a quarter mark left in his pouch, but maybe they’d take a sketch or two in trade.

As quickly as he neatly could, he filled his last empty page with a montage: the train entering the Weyr Bowl, people rushing out to meet it, the goods being exhibited, deals being made, with the central portion the scene of the trail bosses discussing shelters with the Weyrleaders. He held the pad at arm’s length and regarded it critically.

“That’s marvelous,” a voice said behind him, and he twisted about in surprise.

“Why, you did it in a flash!” The green rider, her dragonet lounging beside her, smiled self-consciously, her green eyes shining with something akin to awe. Leopol had pointed this new rider out to him the other day and related the circumstances of her precipitous arrival at the Hatching.

“Debera?” he asked, remembering the name. She gasped, slightly recoiling from him in her startlement. Her dragon came immediately alert, eyes twirling faster with alarm. “Oh, say, I didn’t mean to.”

“Easy, Morath, he means me no harm,” she said to the dragon and then smiled reassuringly up at him. I was just surprised you’d know my name.”

“Leopol,” and Iantine pointed his pencil to where the boy stood in earnest bargaining with a trader lad about the same age, “used to tell me everything that happened in the Weyr while I was recovering.”

“Oh, yes,” and the girl seemed to relax and even managed a wider smile, “I know him. He’s into everything. But kindhearted,” she added hastily, glancing up at Iantine. “You’ve had some adventures, too, or so Leopol told me.”

Then she indicated his sketch. “You did that so well and so quickly. Why, you can almost hear them bargaining,” she added, pointing to the trader with his mouth open.

Iantine regarded it critically. “Well, speed is not necessarily a good thing if you want to do good work.” He deftly added a fold to the head trader’s tunic, where he now saw there was a bulge over the belt.

“Let’s see if the subject likes it.” He was amazed to hear the edge in his voice. She glanced warily up at him.

“If that’s what you can do quickly,” she said reassuringly. “I’d like to see what you do when you take your time.”

He couldn’t resist and flipped over pages to where he had made a sketch of her oiling Morath.

“Oh, and I didn’t see you doing this.” She reached out to touch it, but he was flipping to the page where he had sketched her and Morath listening to T’dam at the lecture.

She’d had one arm draped over her dragon’s neck and he thought he had captured the subtle bond that had prompted the embrace.

“Oh, that’s marvelous,” and Iantine was amazed to see tears in her eyes. In a spontaneous gesture, she clung to his arm, feasting her eyes on the drawing and preventing him from turning the page over.

“Oh, how I’d…”

“You like it?”

“Oh, I do,” and she snatched her hands away from his arm and clasped them behind her back, blushing deeply. “I do.” and bit her lip, swaying nervously.

“What’s the matter?”

She gave an embarrassed laugh. “I haven’t so much as the shaving of a mark.”

He tore the sketch out of the pad and handed it to her.

“Oh, I couldn’t… I couldn’t,” and she stepped back, although the look in her eyes told Iantine how much she wanted it.

“Why not?” He pressed the paper against her, pushing it at her when she continued to resist. “Please, Debera? I’ve had to get my hand back in after my fingers freezing, and it’s only a sketch.” She glanced up at him, nervously and with some other fear lurking in the shadows of her lovely green eyes.

“You should have it, you know, to remind you of Morath at this age.” One hand crept from behind her back and reached for the sheet.

“You’re very good, Iantine,” she murmured and held the sketch by fingertips as if she was afraid she’d soil it. “But I’ve nothing to pay.”

“Yes, you have,” he said quickly with sudden inspiration and gestured towards the traders still in their group about the table.

You can be a satisfied customer and help me wheedle another pad out of the traders in return for this drawing of them.

“Oh, but…” She had shot a quick, frightened glance at the traders and then, in as rapid a change of mood, gave herself a shake, her free hand going to her dragon’s head as if seeking reassurance. The dragonet turned adoring eyes to her and Debera’s eyes briefly unfocused, the way Iantine had noticed in riders who paused to talk to their dragons. She let out a breath and faced him resolutely.

“I would be glad to say a good word for you with Master Jol. He’s by way of being a cousin of my mother’s.”

“Is he now?” Iantine said with fervor. “Then let us see if kinship is useful in trading.”

“I can’t, of course, promise anything,” she said candidly as they moved towards the group. She found it hard to keep the sketch from fluttering. “Oh dear.”

“Roll it up,” he suggested. “Shall I do it for you?” he added.

“No, thank you, I can manage.” And she did, making a much tighter job of it than he would have done.

The conference was ending as they approached and the participants began to separate.

“Master Jol?” Debera said, her voice cracking slightly and not reaching very far. “Master Jol,” she repeated, projecting a firmer tone. Iantine wondered if she was afraid the trader wouldn’t recognize her at all.

I”s that Debera?” the trader said, peering at her as if he didn’t believe his eyes. Then a broad smile of recollection covered his face and he strode rapidly across the distance between them, hands extended.

Debera seemed to shy from such a warm welcome.

“My dear, I’d heard that you’d Impressed a dragon.” Iantine put a reassuring hand at her waist and gave her an imperceptible forward push.

“Yes, this is Morath,” and suddenly her manner became sure and proud. Dragon and rider exchanged one of those melting looks that Iantine found incredibly touching.

“Well, well, my greetings to you, young Morath,” he said, bowing formally to the dragonet, whose eyes began to whirl faster.

Debera gave her a reassuring little pat. “Master Jol is my mother’s cousin,” she explained to Morath.

“Which makes me yours as well, my lass,” Jol reminded her.

“And very proud to have dragon rider kin. Ah, you’re so like your mother. Did you know that?” Iantine watched as Debera’s expression turned sad.

“Ah, now, I didn’t mean to grieve you, child,” Jol said with instant dismay. “And how happy she would be to see you.” he paused and cleared his throat so that Iantine knew the trader was hastily amending what he had started to say, “here, a dragon rider.”

“And out of my father’s control,” Debera finished with droll bitterness. “Had you heard that too, Master Jol?”

“Oh, indeed,” Master Jol said, grinning even more broadly, his eyes twinkling with a slight hint of malice. “I was right pleased to hear that, indeed and I was.”

“Now, what can I do for you? Some Gather clothes, good lined boots - you’ll have come with little if I know your father.” Such plain speaking momentarily made Debera uneasy, but her dragonet crowded reassuringly against her.

“The Weyr has furnished me with everything I need, Master Jol.” she replied with quiet dignity.

“Master? Am I not cousin to you, young woman?” Jol asked with mock severity.

Now her smile returned. “Cousin, but I thank you, though I do have a favor to ask…

“And what might that be?”

Debera flipped open her sketch and showed it to the trader. “Iantine here did this of me. and he has one of you…” On cue, Iantine offered his sketch pad, open to the montage.

“Only Iantine’s used up his pad and, like me, hasn’t a sliver to spend.”

Master Jol reached for the pad, his manner altering instantly to a trader’s critical appraisal. But he had only cast an eye over the sketch when he paused, peering more closely at the artist.

“Iantine, you said?” And when both Debera and Iantine nodded, his smile quirked the line of his generous mouth.

“I place the name now. You’re the lad who managed to escape unscathed from Chalkin’s clutches.” Jol offered his free hand to Iantine. “Well done, lad! I’d had wind of your adventure.”

He winked, his expression approving. “But then we traders hear everything and learn to sift the fine thread of truth from the chaff of gossip.”

Then he turned back to the sketch, examining it carefully, nodding his head as his eyes went from one panel to the next.

He gave an amused sniff as he took a longer look at himself, pencil cocked behind his ear.

“You’ve got me to the life, pencil and all, and he touched the tool to be sure it was in place. May I?” he asked courteously, indicating a desire to look at the other pages.

“Certainly,” said Iantine, making a polite bow. He could have kicked himself when he swayed a bit on his feet.

“Here now, lad, I know you’re not long recovered from your ordeal,” Jol said, quickly supporting him. Let’s just take a seat so I can have a good look at everything this pad seems to have on offer.”

Ignoring Iantine’s protests, Jol led him to the table he had just left and pushed him onto a stool. Debera and Morath followed, Debera looking very pleased with this consideration.

And Jol went through the pad as thoroughly as Master Domaize would have done, making comments about those Weyr folk he knew, smiling and nodding a good deal. He also knew when Iantine had left a pose unfinished.

“Now, what is it you require, Artist Iantine?”

“More paper, mainly,” Iantine said in a tentative tone.

Jol nodded. “I believe I do have a pad of this quality paper, but smaller. I bring some in for Waine from time to time. I can, of course, get larger sheets.”

“It’s not as if I’ll be staying around the Weyr until your next round.”

Master Jol dismissed that consideration. “I’ve stores at Telgar Hold and can forward what you need in a day or two.” He gave Iantine a thoughtful glance. “You’ll not be leaving here all that soon, I’d say.” He took the pencil from behind his ear with one hand and the pad from its pouch at his belt with the other.

“Now, what exactly are your requirements, Artist Iantine?”

“Ah, He wants to make sketches of every rider and dragon in the Weyr,” said Leopol, who had eased himself unnoticed close enough to hear what was being said.

“So you’ve many commissions already, have you?” Master Jol asked approvingly, pencil poised over the fresh leaf of his pad.

“Well, no, not exactly, you see,” Iantine stammered.

“You’ve three I know of,” said Leopol. “P’tero for M’leng And the Weyrleaders.”

Iantine almost bit Leopol’s nose off. “The Weyrleaders’re different. I will do them in oils, but the sketches are to thank those in the Weyr who’ve been so kind to me.”

“Doing portraits of an entire Weyr is quite an undertaking, and Master Jol scribbled a line. “You’ll need a good deal of paper and plenty of pencils. Or would you prefer ink? I stock a very good quality. Guaranteed not to fade or blot.” He looked at Iantine expectantly.

“But I’ve only this sketch to trade with you,” Iantine said.

“Lad, you’ve credit with Jol Liliencamp Traders,” Jol told him gently, touching his pencil to Iantine’s shoulder and giving it a little push. “I’m not Chalkin, mind you. Not any way, shape or form.” And he gave a burst of such infectious laughter that Iantine grinned in spite of himself.

“Now, give me your requirements straight. But to ease your mind, if you’d finish off this,” and the pencil end tapped the montage, “in water color, I’m ready to give you two marks for it.

“Oh, and I’d like this one of T’dam giving his lecture…” he added, flipping to that page. “That’ll show some folks that dragon riders do nothing beyond glide about the skies. A mark and a half for that.”

“But… but…” Iantine floundered, trying to organize his thoughts as well as his needs. Debera was grinning from ear to ear and so was her dragon. “I’ve no water colors with me.” he began, wishing to indicate his willingness to finish the montage.

“Ah, but I just happen to have some, which is why I suggested them,” said Jol, beaming again. “Really, this meeting is most serendipitous,” he added, and his smile included Debera. “And this,” he touched the montage again in a very proprietary fashion, coloured up a bit and with glass to protect it, “will look very good indeed in my wagon office. Indeed it will. Advertising, I believe the ancestors called it.”

“Ah, Master Jol?” called someone from one of the trade wagons. “A moment of your time.”

“I’ll be back, lad, just you stay there. You, too, Debera. I’ve not finished with the pair of you yet, so I haven’t.” As Iantine and Debera exchanged stunned looks, he trotted off to see what was required of him, tucking the pencil behind his ear again and folding up his pad as he went.

“I don’t believe him,” Iantine said, shaking his head, feeling weak and breathless.

“Are you all right?” Debera asked, leaning across the table to him.

“Gob-smacked,” Iantine told her, remembering a favorite expression of his father’s. “Completely gob-smacked!”

Debera grinned knowingly. “I think I am, too. I never expected.”

“Neither did I!”

“Why? Don’t you trust traders?” Leopol asked, sounding slightly defensive.

Iantine gave a shaky laugh. “One can trust traders. It’s just I never expected such generosity.”

“How long were you in Bitra?” Debera asked tartly, giving a long look.

“Long enough,” Iantine said, grimacing, “to learn new meanings to the word ‘satisfactory’” Debera gave him a little frown.

“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head and patting her hand. “And thank you very much for introducing me to your cousin.”

“Once he saw that sketch, you really didn’t need me,” she remarked, almost shyly.

“I believe you ordered these,” said a baritone voice. Rider and artist looked up in astonishment as a trader deposited an armful of items on the table: two pads, one larger than the other, a neat square box which held a full glass bottle of ink, a sheaf of pens and a parcel of pencils. “Special delivery.” With a grin, he pivoted and went back the way he had come.

“Master Jol does pride himself on his quick service,” Leopol said with a wide grin.

“There now! You’re all set,” said Debera.

“I am indeed,” and the words came out of Iantine like a prayer.