Not only was Iantine going to be able to set right that inaccurate portrait - he felt he had demeaned himself and Hall Domaize by succumbing to Chalkin’s coercion, in spite of having no viable alternative - but he had given himself more time at Telgar Weyr. And Turn’s End was nearing: Turn’s End and the festivities that the mid-winter holiday always incurred. Maybe then he could come to some agreement with Debera.
Dragonriders could and often did take mates from non riders It would have been easier if his profession was one that he could offer the Weyr in return for staying on in Telgar.
But, once Morath was able to fly, Debera could fly him wherever his commissions took him.
That is, if she felt anywhere near the same about him as he did about her. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he’d be in a Weyr at all. He could almost have thanked Chalkin for being the catalyst on that score: almost. Until he remembered the stark horror of what Chalkin had done at the borders and in the cold storage cells.
He shuddered.
“Thought you’d be used to this by now,” K’vin said, leaning back to speak into Iantine’s ear.
“It isn’t this,” Iantine said, shaking his head and grinning.
He thoroughly enjoyed flying and, after the first experience with the utter cold and nothingness of between, had not been nervous about that transfer. He took a firmer grip on the strings about the painting. Charanth was now high enough above Bitra Hold to go between.
Meranath, bearing Tashvi and Salda as well as Zulaya, zoomed up beside his right wing: the dragon’s golden body gleaming in the bright morning sun as her riders waved at him.
As he waved back, Iantine was surprised to think it was still morning. The invasion of Bitra Hold had begun in such early hours that the day was not that old. So much happened these days!
BLACKNESS! Iantine couldn’t feel the cord on the painting, his butt on Charanth’s neck, and then they were out in the sun, hanging over Telgar’s familiar cone.
Far below, above the prow of Telgar Hold, a sparkle showed that Meranath had arrived. The big bronze now turned gracefully on one wing and headed down towards the Weyr.
For Iantine, this happened all too swiftly, for he saw so much more from this vantage point than he did from the ground: the dragons sleeping in the sun on their weyr ledges, the younger riders practicing catch and throw with firestone sacks, even the weyrlings getting their morning scrub around the lake. Debera would be among them. He tried to see if he could identify her, and Morath, but at that height details were lost. Two dragons, browns both, were eating their kill further down the valley. Another rider burst into the air above a watch rider who gestured broadly for him to land. Then Charanth had spiraled close enough to be identified, too, and welcomed back. Iantine could feel a rumble in the bronze’s body. Did dragons speak out loud to each other? He had to tighten his hold on the painting or have the wind of their descent pull it free.
As they dropped, K’vin turned his head. “At the Cavern?”
“Please,” and Iantine nodded, struggling to keep a grip on the painting. Not that losing it would bother him, but then he’d have to waste another board.
He swung his leg over and slid down Charanth’s shoulder as quickly as he could.
“My thanks, K’vin,” he said, grinning up, having to shield his eyes from the sun.
“Not needed. You more than earned it with today’s doings.” Charanth rumbled again, his gently whirling blue eyes focused on Iantine who saluted him in gratitude. Then the bronze leaped up, flapped his wings twice and was landing on the ledge of the Weyrwoman’s quarters.
“You’re back, you’re back, and safe,” and Leopol came racing out of the Lower Cavern, leaping towards Iantine who put out a restraining hand so the boy wouldn’t carom off the edge of the painting.
“What have you done now?” Leopol demanded, taking care not to batter it.
“It’s to be redone,” Iantine said, knowing the uselessness of avoiding Leopol’s interest.
“Oh, the Chalkin portrait?” Leopol reached for it and Iantine pivoted, putting his body between it and the lad’s acquisitive hands.
You’re clever, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” and Leopol’s grin bore not a single trace of remorse.
“So? What happened when you deposed him?” Iantine stopped in his tracks and stared at him.
“Deposed whom?” Leopol planted his fists on his belt, cocked his head and gave Iantine a long and disgusted look, finally shaking his head.
“One, you rode away on a Fort Weyr dragon. Two, you’ve been gone overnight so something was up. Especially when the Weyrleaders are gone, too. Three, we all know that Chalkin’s for the chop, and four, you come back with a portrait and it isn’t one you’ve done here.” Leopol spread his hands. “It’s obvious. The Lords and Leaders have got rid of Chalkin. Impeached, deposed and exiled him. Right?” He grinned at the summation, cocking his head over the other shoulder.
“Right?” he repeated.
Iantine sighed. “It’s not my place to confirm or deny,” he said tactfully, and started again for his quarters.
Leopol dodged in front, halting him again. “But I’m right about Chalkin, aren’t I? He won’t get ready for Threadfall, he’s been far too hard on his people and half the Lord Holders owe him huge sacks of marks in gambling debts.”
Iantine stopped. “Gambling debts?” He brushed past, determined to get to the dubious safety of his room without giving anything away to such a gossip as Leopol.
“Ah, Iantine.” Tisha caught sight of him and moved her bulk through the tables with surprising speed and agility to intercept him.
“Did they catch Chalkin all right? Did he struggle? Did that spouse of his go with him, which frankly would surprise me? Did they find Vergerin alive? Will he take Hold, or does he have to wait till the Conclave at Turn’s End?” Leopol bent double with laughter at Iantine’s expression.
“Yes, no, no, yes and I don’t know,” he answered in reply to her rapid-fire questions.
“You see? I’m not the only one,” Leopol said, hanging on to a chair with one hand to keep his balance while he brushed laugh tears from his eyes with the other, thoroughly delighted with himself and Iantine’s reaction.
“I’d like to hear all, Iantine,” Tisha said and deposited the klah mugs and the plate of freshly baked cookies on the table nearest him.
“Do sit. You’ve had a hard day already and it’s not noon yet.”
“I’ll take it and put it very carefully in your room,” Leopol said, grabbing hold of the wrapped painting and then snatching it out of Iantine’s unconsciously relaxed grip. “And I won’t look until you tell me I can.”
“No, wait, Leo,” said Tisha. “I want to see what Chalkin considered ‘satisfactory’”
“Do I have no privacy around here?” Iantine demanded, raising his hands in helplessness.” Is there no way to keep secrets?”
“Not in a well-run Weyr, there isn’t,” said Tisha. “Eat. Drink. And, Leo, take the basket I made ready for K’vin up to his weyr. I didn’t see Zulaya and Meranath, so she may have stopped over at Telgar Hold.”
His knees weakened, as did his resolve, and Iantine collapsed into the chair Tisha had invitingly pulled out for him.
“Shall I?” Leopol asked in his best wheedling tone, one hand on the cord knot.
“I’m not sure I could stop you,” Iantine said, and caught the pad he had stuffed inside the wrapping as Leopol made short work of opening.
Iantine put the pad to one side. He didn’t really want to show the latest drawings he’d done. The two castrati had died shortly after he had finished the sketches. He intensely regretted how pleased he had been with their sentences. Had they had any idea of what additional torment Chalkin would inflict on them when they asked to be returned to their Hold?