Dragonseye (Red Star Rising)

Weyrling Barracks and Bitra Hold

An insistent, increasingly urgent sense of hunger nagged Debera out of so deep a sleep she was totally disoriented.

The bed was too soft, she was alone in it, and neither the sounds nor smells around her were familiar.

I really am most terribly hungry and I know that you were very tired but my stomach is empty, empty, empty. MORATH Debera shot bolt upright and cracked her poll on the underside of the dragonet’s head because Morath had been leaning over her bed.

“Ouch! Oh, dearest, I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Standing up in the bed, Debera wrapped apologetic arms about Morath, stroking her cheeks and ear knobs reassuring her with murmurs of regret and promises to never hurt her again.

The little dragon refocused her eyes, whirling lightly, but with only the faintest tinge of the red of pain and alarm which dissipated quickly with such ardent reassurances.

Your head is much harder than it looks, she said, giving hers a little shake.

Debera rubbed underneath the jaw where the contact had been made.

“I’m so sorry, dearest,” and then she heard a giggle behind her and swiveling around, half in anger, half in reflexive defense, she saw that she was not alone in the weyrling barracks. The blonde girl from Ista… Sarra, that was her name… was sitting on the edge of her bed, folding clothes into the chest. Her dragonet was still curled up in a tight mound from which a slight snore could be heard.

“Ooops, no offence intended.” Sarra said, smiling with such good nature that Debera immediately relaxed. “You should have seen the looks on your faces. Morath’s eyes nearly crossed when you cracked her.”

Debera rubbed the top of her head, grimacing, as she descended from the bed.

“I was so deeply asleep… I couldn’t think where I was at first.”

“Morath’s been as good as she could be,” Sarra said. “T’dam said to dress for dirty work. We’re supposed to bathe and oil them after their first nap of the day.” That was when Debera remembered the pile of things she had not properly sorted the previous night.

Does dressing take long? Morath asked plaintively.

“No, it doesn’t, love,” and, turning her back in case Sarra might be embarrassed, Debera hauled off the nightdress and threw on the garments on the top of the pile - not new, certainly, but suitable for rough work.

The socks were new, knitted of a sturdy cotton, and she was especially grateful for them since the pair she had had on yesterday had already been worn several days. She stamped her feet into her own boots and stood.

“I’m ready, dear,” she said to the little green who stepped down off the raised platform and promptly fell on her nose.

Sarra jumped the intervening bed to help right Morath, struggling so hard to keep from laughing that she nearly choked. Once Debera saw that Morath had taken no hurt, she grinned back at the Istan.

“Are they always this?”

Sarra nodded. “So T’dam told us. You’ll find a pail of meat just outside the door. We get a break this first morning,” and she wrinkled her nose in a grimace, “but after today, it’s up at the crack of dawn and carve up our darlings’ breakfasts.” There was a long snorting snore from Sarra’s green and she whirled, waiting to see if the dragonet was waking up. But the snore trembled into a tiny soprano “ooooooh” and then resumed its rhythm.

“Did she do that all night long?” Debera asked.

I am SO hungry.

Debera was all apologies, and so was Sarra who sprinted ahead to fling open both leaves of the door, making a flourishing bow for their exit. Morath immediately crowded against Debera, pushing her to the right, her young nose detecting the enticing smell in the two covered pails on the rack outside the barracks.

Debera lifted the pail down while Morath impatiently nudged off the cover and seemed to inhale the gobbets.

Debera allowed her to fill her mouth and then started shielding the pail with her body.

“You will chew what you eat, Morath, you hear me? You could choke to death, and then where would I be?” Morath gave her such a look of pained astonishment and reproach that Debera couldn’t remain stern.

“Chew,” she said, popping a handful of pieces into Morath’s open mouth. “Chew!” she repeated and Morath obediently exercised her jaws before spreading them wide again for another batch. Debera had not tended the orphaned young animals of her hold without learning some of the tricks.

Whoever had decided on the quantity, Debera thought, knew the precise size of a dragonet’s belly. Morath’s demands had slowed considerably as Debera reached the bottom of the pail and the dragonet sighed before she swallowed the last.

“I see she’s had breakfast,” said T’dam, appearing from behind so suddenly that Morath squawked in surprise and Debera struggled to get to her feet. T’dam’s hand on her shoulder pushed her back down.

“We’re not formal in the Weyr, Debera,” he said kindly.

“Now, lead her over to the lake there,” and he gestured to the right where Debera recognized the large mounds as sleeping dragonets

“Then, when she wakes up from this feed she’ll be just where you can bathe and oil her.” T’dam grinned. “Before you can feed her again, though…” and then he motioned to his left. “Are you squeamish?” he asked.

Debera took a good look in the direction he pointed and saw six skinned carcasses, swaying from butchering tripods.

Weyrlings were busy with knives carving flesh off the bones, or at the table chopping raw meat into dragonet morsels.

“Me?” Debera gave a cynical snort. “Not likely.”

“Good,” T’dam said approvingly. “Some of your peers are.”

“Come now, Morath,” he added in a totally altered tone, loving and kind and wheedling, you’ll need a little rest and the sands by the lake are warm in the sun.

Morath lifted her head, her eyes glistening bluey-green as she regarded the Weyrlingmaster.

He is a nice man, she said and began to waddle towards the lake; her swaying belly bulged lumpily with her meal.

“When you’ve settled her, Debera, be sure to get your own breakfast in the kitchen. Good thing you’re not squeamish” he said, turning away, but his chuckle drifted back to Debera’s ears.

It’s awfully far to the lake, isn’t it, Debera? Morath said, puffing.

“Not really,” Debera said. “Anyway, it’s much too rocky underfoot right here to make a comfortable bed for your nap.”

Morath looked down her long nose, her left fore knocking a stone out of her path. And she sighed. She kept going, Debera encouraging her with every slow step, until they reached the sandier ground surrounding the lake. It had recently been raked, the marks visible between the paw- and tail-prints of the dragonets Debera urged Morath further on to the sand, to an empty spot between two browns who were tightly curled with wings to shield their eyes from the autumn sun pouring down on them.

With a great sigh, Morath dropped her hindquarters to the sand, with an I’m not going a step further attitude and sank slowly over to her right side. She curled her tail about her, curved her head around under her left wing and, with a sweet babyish croon rumbling in her throat, fell asleep.

Once again, Debera could barely bring herself to leave the dragonet, lost in the wonder of having been acceptable to such a marvelously lovable creature.

She’d been lonely and lacking in love for so long - ever since her mother had died and her oldest full brother had left the family Hold.

Now she had Morath, all her very own, and those long years of isolation faded into a trivial moment.

“She’s perfectly safe here,” Debera told herself finally, and forced herself to leave Morath and make her way across that quadrant of the Bowl to the kitchen caverns. Enticing smells of fresh bread and other viands made her quicken her steps.

She hoped she’d have enough restraint not to bolt her food like her dragonet.

The kitchen cavern at Telgar Weyr was actually a series of caves, each with an entrance, varying in size, width and height.

As Debera paused at the entrance of the nearest and smallest one, she saw that hearths or ovens were ranged against the outside wall, each with a separate chimney protruding up the cliff face. Inside, the many long tables where last night guests had been entertained were reduced to the number needed by the regular population of the Weyr.

But the interior was busy as men and women went about food preparation tasks.

“Breakfast’s over there,” a woman said, smiling at Debera and pointing. “Porridge’s still hot and the klah’s fresh made. Help yourself.”

Debera looked to her left to the farthest hearth, which had tables and chairs set invitingly near it.

“There’ll be fresh-baked bread soon, too, and I’ll bring some over,” the woman added and proceeded on her own business.

Debera had only just served herself a heaping of porridge - not a lump in it, nor a fleck of burn - and a cup of klah when two boys, looking bewildered and not at all sure of how to proceed, wandered in.

“The bowls are there, the cups there,” Debera said, pointing.

“And use that hunk of towel to hold the pot while you spoon out the cereal. It’s hot.”

They sent her tentative smiles - they must just be old enough for Impression, she thought, feeling just a trifle older and wiser. They managed - but not without slopping gobs of porridge into the fire and jumping back from the hiss and smell - to get enough in the bowls and to pour klah into their cups.

“C’mon, sit here, I won’t bite,” she said, tapping her table.

They were certainly not a bit sullen or grouchy, like her younger half brothers

“You’ve a green, haven’t you?” the first one asked. He had a crop of black curls that had recently been trimmed very close to his skull.

“Course she has a green, stupid” the other lad said, elbowing the ribs of the first. “I’m M’rak, and Caneth’s my bronze,” he added with a justifiable smirk of pride.

“My bronze is Tiabeth,” the black haired boy said, equally as proud of his dragon, but added modestly, “I’m S’mon.”

“What’s yours called?”

“Morath,” and Debera found herself grinning broadly. Did all new riders feel as besotted as this?

The boys settled into chairs and began to eat, almost as eagerly as dragonets Deliberately Debera slowed the rhythm of her spoon.

This porridge was really too good to gulp down: not a husk nor a piece of grit in it. Obviously Telgar tithed of its best to the Weyr, even with such a staple as oats for porridge. She sighed, grateful for more than Impressing Morath yesterday.

The boys suddenly stopped, spoons half lifted to their mouths and, warned, Debera turned quickly. Bearing down on their table was the unmistakable bulk of Tisha, the head woman of the Lower Cavern. Her broad face was wreathed with a smile as generous as she was.

“How are you today? Settling in all right? Need anything from stores? Parents will pack your Gather best, and you really need your weeding worst,” she said, her rich contralto voice bubbling with good humor. “Breakfast all right?”

“Bread’s just out of the oven and you can have all you want.” She had halted by Debera’s chair and her hands, shapely with long strong fingers, patted Debera’s shoulders lightly as if imparting a special message to her along with that pressure.

“You lack something, come tell me, or mention it to T’dam. You weyrlings shouldn’t worry about anything other than caring for your dragonets. That’s hard work enough, I’m telling you, so don’t be shy, now.” She gave Debera a little extra pat before she removed her hands.

“I didn’t think to bring with me the gown you lent me last night,” Debera said, wondering if that’s what the subtle message was.

“Heavens above, child,” said Tisha, big eyes even wider in her round face, “why, that dress was made for you, even if we didn’t know you’d be coming.” Her deep chuckle made her large breasts and belly bounce.

But it’s far too good a dress… Debera began in protest.

Tisha patted Debera’s shoulder again. “And fits you to perfection. I love making new clothes. My passion really, and you’ll see: I’m always working on something.” Pat, pat. “But if I’d no-one in mind when I cut and sewed it last year, I couldn’t have worked better for you if I’d tried. The dress is yours. We all like to have something pretty to wear on Seventh Day.

Do you sew?” she asked, eyeing Debera hopefully.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Debera answered, lowering her eyes for she remembered her mother with work in her hands in the evenings, embroidering or sewing fine seams in Gather clothes. Gisa barely managed to mend rips, and certainly neither of her daughters was learning how to mend or make garments.

“Well, I don’t know what holder women are doing with their young these days. Why, I had a needle in my hand by the time I was three -“, Tisha went on.

The boys’ eyes were glazing over at the turn of the conversation.

“And you’ll learn to sew harness, my fine young friends,” she said, wagging a finger at them. “And boots and jackets, too, if you’ve a mind to design your own flying wear.”

“Huh?” was M’rak’s astonished reaction. “Sewing’s fer women. “

“Not in the Weyr, it isn’t,” Tisha said firmly. “As you’ll see soon enough. It’s all part of being a dragon rider. You’ll learn.”

“Ah, now, here’s the bread, butter and a pot of jam.”

Sure enough, another ample woman, grinning with the pleasure of what she was about to bestow on them, deposited the laden tray on the table.

“That should help, thank you, Allie,” Tisha said as Debera added a murmur of appreciation and S’mon remembered his manners, too. M’rak made no such delay in grabbing up a piece of the steaming bread and cramming it into his mouth.

“Wow! Great!”

“Well, just be sure you don’t lose it, preparing your dragonet’s next meal,” Tisha said and moved off before the astonished bronze rider had absorbed her remark.

“What’d she mean by that?” he asked the others.

Debera grinned. “Hold-bred?”

“Naw, m’family’s weavers,” M’rak said. “From Keroon Hold.”

“We have to cut up what our dragonets eat, though, don’t we?” S’mon asked in a slightly anxious voice.

“From the bodies they got hung up?”

“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 agreed 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 dragon rider too.”

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

A prophecy 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,” said Jule, 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 dragon rider 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 also 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 this 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 towards 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.

“Chalkin’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 draughts man 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 art work.

“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 seven-day 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,” said Chomas, 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”. “He came back a ghost of himself and poorer than he’d started out.”

“Macartor?” Iantine knew of the painter. 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 why Macartor had not been able to deal well with Chalkin. “Great man for detail, but not for portraiture,” he said.

Ussie’s eyebrows rose high in his long face and his grey 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 stingy 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 bed-furs, 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 work station, where he was doing fine marquetry 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 himself 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 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 when he should have been doing other lessons. One in particular - a favorite with Master Clissex - 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 places 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 lay 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. He had been in a worse state on his return because 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 re-read 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 Master Domaize’s, alongside Chalkin’s. That is, if that’s what this scrawl is supposed to be.” He held it out to Ussie.

“Hmmm, 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.

When he brought the matter up to his master, Domaize could produce a sample of Lord Chalkin’s signature on a document much creased and worn. Domaize also put his glasses up to his eyes and peered at his own name on the current contract.

“No, this is mine, and I recognize your slanting t-bar.” He put the document in the to-do tray. “We’ll copy it into our workbook.”

“If you have any trouble though, at Bitra Hold, let me know instantly.”

“It’s much easier to sort things out when they start, you know. And don’t,” and here Master Domaize had waggled a stern finger at him, “allow them to entice you into any games of chance, no matter how clever you think you are. Bitrans make their living at gaming. You can’t compete at their level.”

Iantine had promised faithfully to eschew any gaming. He’d never had much interest in such things, being far more likely to sketch the players than join the game. But gambling was not a thing that the Master would have meant, Iantine was learning. What did fall into that category: especially the nuances of the word satisfaction. Such a simple word that can be so misconstrued. As he had done.

He had done not four miniatures, but nearly twenty, using up all the materials he had brought with him so that he had had to send for more from Hall Domaize since the wood used in miniatures had to be specially seasoned or it would warp, especially in a damp environment like Bitra Hold. He had done the first four on the canvas he had brought with him for the job, only to discover - along with a long list of other objections from Lord Chalkin and his wife, Lady Nadona that canvas was not satisfactory” If it isn’t the best quality,” and she ran one of her almost dragon-talon nails across one canvas, snagging a thread so badly the surface was unusable, “it doesn’t last long.”

“Skybroom wood is what you should be using.”

“Skybroom wood is expensive.”

“You’re being very well paid for these miniatures,” she said.

“The least we can expect is the best grade of materials.”

“Skybroom wood was not stipulated in the contract.”

“Did it have to be?” she demanded haughtily. “I made sure that Domaize Hall has the very highest standards.”

“Master Domaize provided me with the best canvas,” and he pushed his remaining frames out of her reach. “He said that is what he always supplies. You should have stipulated skybroom wood in the contract if that’s what you wanted.”

“Of course it would be what I wanted, young man. The very best is none too good for my children.”

“Is there any available in the Hold?” he asked. At least with skybroom you could clean off unsatisfactory work without the risk of damaging the surface.

“Of course.”

That was his first mistake. Nevertheless, at that point he was still eager to do a proper job to the best of his abilities.

However, what skybroom there was turned out to be substantial lumber, being cured for furniture, and not thin enough to be used for miniatures: miniatures’ which were now twice the ordinary size.

“High on the list of unsatisfactory” were the poses of the children, although these had been suggested by the Lady Holder herself.

“Chaldon doesn’t look at all natural,” Lady Nadona said. “Not at all. He looks so tense, hunching his shoulders like that.”

“Whyever did you not tell him to sit up straight?” Iantine forbore to mention that he had done so frequently, and within Lady Nadona’s hearing. “And you’ve given him such an odious scowl.”

“Which had been Chaldon’s natural expression.”

“Standing?” he suggested, cringing at the thought of arguing any of them into standing for the sittings”. He’d had enough trouble getting them to sit still. They were, as Ussie had foreseen, not biddable and had such short attention spans that he could never get them to strike the right pose, or assume an even halfway cheerful expression.

“And why on earth did you paint on such a small canvas”?

“I’ll need to use a magnifying glass,” Lady Nadona had said, holding Chaldon’s likeness away from her as far as her arm would reach.

Iantine had known enough about his patroness by then to suppress a remark about her farsightedness.

“This is the customary size for a miniature -“

“So you say,” she replied repressively. “I want something I can see when I’m on the other side of the room.”

As she was generally on the other side of her room whenever her children were in her vicinity, the need was understandable. They were the messiest pre-adolescents Iantine had ever encountered: plump, since they were indolent by nature, dressed in ill-fitting apparel since the Hold’s seamstress was not particularly adept, and constantly eating: generally something that ran, smeared or left crumbs on their chins and tunics. None of them bathed frequently enough and their hair was long, greasy and roughly cut. Even the two girls showed no feminine interest in their appearance. One had hacked her hair off with a knife…

except the long tress she wore down the back, strung with beads and little bells. The other had thick braids which were rarely redone unless whatever fastened the end had got lost.

Iantine had struggled with the porcine Chaldon, had realized that the child could not be depicted naturally and tried to retain enough resemblance so that others would know which child had been painted.

“But his portrait was unsatisfactory”. Only the youngest, a sturdy lad of three who said nothing beyond ‘No’ and carried a stuffed toy with him from which he could not be parted, was deemed marginally ‘satisfactory’. Actually the dirty bear was the best part of Briskin’s portrait.

Iantine had tried to romanticize Luccha’s unusual hairstyle and was told that she’d look better with proper hair which he could certainly add in if he was any good at all. And why did she have such an awkward expression on her face, when Luccha had the sweetest smile and such a lovely disposition?

(Especially when she was busy trying to unite the Hold’s cats by tying their tails together, Iantine had added mentally. Bitra Hold did not have a single unscathed animal, and the spit-boy said they’d lost seven dogs to accidents that year already.) Luccha’s mouth was set aslant in her face, the thin lips usually compressed in a sour line.

Lonada, the second daughter, had a pudding face, with small dark holes for eyes, and her father’s nose: bad enough in a male, but fatal for a female.

Iantine had also had to buy a lock from the Hold steward to prevent his sleeping-furs from walking out of the narrow little cubicle in which he was quartered. He knew his packs had been searched the first day; probably several times by the variety of smeared fingerprints left on the paint pots. As he had brought nothing of real value with him - not having many possessions - he hadn’t worried.

Holds usually had one light-fingered person, and the Hold steward usually knew who it was and retrieved what had gone astray from guests’ rooms.

But when Iantine found his paint pots left open to dry out, he protested. And paid for a lock. Not that he felt all that secure, for if there was one key to that lock, there could be duplicates. But his furs did remain on his bed. And glad he was to have them, for the thin blanket supplied was holey and ought to have been torn up for rug lengths long since.

That was the least of his problems at Bitra Hold, however.

Having heard all that was wrong with the next set of miniatures he managed to produce, a third larger than the first, Iantine began to have a somewhat clearer grasp of just how the parents envisaged their offspring. On his fifth set, he nearly won the accolade of satisfactory”. Nearly. Then the children, one after another, succumbed to an infant disease that resulted in such a rash that they could not possibly sit”.

“Well, you’d better do something to earn your keep,” Chalkin told his contract portraitist when Lady Nadona had announced the children were isolated.

The contract says I will have room and board - - -, Chalkin held up a thick forefinger, his smile not the least bit humorous. When you are honoring that contract - But the children are sick Chalkin had shrugged. That’s neither here nor there. You are unable to honor the specific conditions of the contract.

Therefore you are not entitled to be fed and housed at the Hold’s expense. Of course, I can always deduct your leisure time from the fee… The smile deepened vindictively.

“Leisure…” Iantine had been so enraged that the protest burst from him before he could suppress it. No wonder, he thought, shaking with the control he had to enforce on himself, no-one else at Hall Domaize would sign with Bitra.

“Well,” Chalkin went on, as if he were a reasonable man, “what else does one call it if you are not engaged in the lab ours which you are contracted for?” Iantine had to wonder if Chalkin knew how necessary it was for him to earn the exact fee promised. Iantine had held no conversations with anyone in the Hold; they were so sullen and uncommunicative a group at their best - which was usually at mealtimes - that he hoped he’d be spared them at their worst. He had steadfastly refused to have a little game with cooks or guards, which accounted for a good deal of the general animosity towards him. So how would anyone know anything about his personal life or his reasons for working here?

So, instead of already being on his way home with a satisfactory contract fulfilled and the marks for the transfer fee heavy in his pouch, Iantine spent his leisure time touching up the faces of Chalkin’s ancestors in the main Hall murals.

“Good practice for you, I’m sure,” Chalkin had said, all too amiably, as he made his daily inspection of this project. “You’ll be better equipped to do satisfactory portraits of this generation.” Pig faces, all of them, with the ancestral bulbous nose, Iantine noticed.

Oddly enough, one or two of the ancestresses had been very pretty girls, far too young and attractive for the mean-mouthed men they had been contracted to. Too bad the male genes dominated.

Of course, Iantine had had to make up batches of the special paints required for mural work, having initially had no idea that such would be required. He also found his supplies of the oil paints drastically reduced by the repeated ‘unsatisfactory’ portraits. He had the choice of sending back to Hall Domaize for additional supplies and paying transport charges, plus having to wait for them to reach him - or finding the raw materials and manufacturing the colors himself - which was the better option.

“How much?” he exclaimed in shock when the head cook told him what he’d have to pay for the eggs and oil he needed to mix into his pigments.

“Yiss, an’ that doan include cost of hiring the equipment,” the cook added, sniffing. The man had a perpetually running nose, sometimes dripping down his upper lip. But not, Iantine devoutly hoped, into whatever he was in the process of preparing.

“I have to hire bowls and jars from you?” Iantine wondered how the cook could have become infected with Chalkin’s greed.

“Well, if I ain’t using em, and you is, you should pay for the use, seems like.” He sniffed so deeply Iantine wondered there could be any mucus left in his sinus cavities. “Shoulda brought yer stuff with ye if ye’d need it. Lord Holder sees you usin” things from his kitchen and one of us’ll be paying for it. Won’t be me!” And he sniffed again, shrugging one dirty white shoulder as emphasis.

“I came with adequate supplies and equipment for the work I was hired to do,” Iantine said, curbing an intense desire to shove the man’s face in the thin soup he was stirring.

“So?”

Iantine had walked, stiff-legged with fury, out of the kitchen.

He tried to tell himself that he was learning, the very hardest way, how to deal with the client.

Finding the raw materials for his pigments had proved nearly as difficult since it was, after all, coming on to deep winter here in the Bitran hills. He discovered a hefty hunk of stone with a rounded end that would do as a pestle, and then a hollowed-out rock that would act as a mortar. He had found a whole hillside of the sabsab bush whose roots produced a yellow color; enough raw cobalt to get blue, and the paw berry leaves that boiled up one of the finest pure reds with neither tint nor tinge of orange or purple. With the greatest of luck he also came across ochre mud. Rather than rent” containers, he used chipped crockery he unearthed from the midden heap. He did have to pay the price of best oil for the substandard stuff which was all the cook would sell him.

And that mark, he was sure, would never be passed on to Lord Chalkin as fee.

He managed to get enough saucers or mugs - they used a very cheap pottery in Bitra Hold - to hold the different colors he needed. He hadn’t quite finished the repair work when Chaldon recovered sufficiently from the rash to be able to sit/ stand once more.

Chaldon had lost weight during the fever which accompanied the emergence of the rash. He was also lethargic and, as long as Iantine could think up funny stories to tell as he worked, he stayed reasonably still. Calling himself the worst kind of panderer, Iantine made the boy resemble the best looking of the ancestors he’d relimned. The boy was certainly pleased and ran off to find his mother, shouting that he did look like Greatgranddaddy, just as she always said he did.

The same ploy did not quite work on Luccha’s portrait when she had recovered. Her skin was sallower, she’d lost hair and too much weight to improve her undistinguished looks. While he had aimed for her great-grandmother thrice removed, she didn’t have the right facial structure and even he had to admit the result was unsatisfactory.

“Her illness,” he’d mumbled when Chalkin and Nadona recited the long catalogue of dissimilarities between their daughter and the portrait.

He did better with Lonada and Briskin who, several kilos lighter, had the look of his great-uncle - pinch-faced, lantern jawed and big-eared. Iantine had judiciously reduced the size of those ears even as he wondered what artist had got away with such unflattering appendages on great-uncle.

He redid Luccha’s after the other two: she’d put on some weight and her color was better - not much, but better. And he set her eyes wider in her face, which improved her no end.

Too bad it couldn’t be done to the model. He vaguely remembered that the First Settlers had been able to remodel noses and bob ears and stuff like that.

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 critique had lasted well into the night, which was dark and stormy: the winds audible even through the three-thick-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 on to 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 stayed 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.

lIe paused at the first window on the upper level: solidly snowed closed. Then 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 anything 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 thick on sky broom wood to be supplied by Lord Chalkin, one of Lady Nadona and one of Lord Chalkin, head and shoulders 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. Half-way 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 which 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 so 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,” said Chalkin, 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 oedemic pouches which 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 to be diffident, but the way he kept looking at his own face told Iantine that the man was finally pleased.

“Well? Is it satisfactory?” asked Iantine, 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,” said Iantine, fearing just that and then 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.

Chalk in 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 towards 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 wherever it was he had 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 Farmer-marks.

The contracts?” Chalkin glared but he unlocked the drawer and extracted them, almost flinging them across the desk at Iantine, who 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 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, so 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 half-way 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,” said Iantine, wrenching free of the restraining hand.

He was out of the main door before Chalkin could say another word, and ran down the roadway between the soiled snow banks. 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 woodsman’s holding some klicks away from the main Hold.