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.”