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"I've brought food for you, Journeyman."
"Hmm, what?" The voice behind him spoke clearly, but it took Rodney a second to process the words. He didn't look up from the elaborately inked hide. If this were an accurate scale model—the aerodynamic principles were certainly valid, he had enough first-hand flight experience to know that for certain, and in that case—he waved a hand at the movement in the corner of his eye. "Great, put it over there." The construct's mass was on the high side, if that could be cut down—hollow out the frame, maybe. He scratched a couple notes on the side, careful not to write over the main design.
He heard the clatter of a wooden tray being set on the table behind him, but the distracting fidgeting remained, hovering at the edge of his vision, rustling parchments. And here he'd lugged everything to this watchtower specifically to avoid disturbances. "Yes?" Rodney snapped, finally looking up and trying to remember if Kyohtt Hold were into that new fad of tipping drudges. He'd thought Kyohtt was more traditional than that, but it wasn't like he could be bothered to keep up with these things, and he felt around his breeches pockets for any quarter-marks he might have on him.
The young woman at his side drew back a step, ducking her head to avoid meeting his eyes. "Ah—I brought you lunch, Journeyman."
"Yeah, I heard." Rodney didn't know much about fashion, but that red shift was brighter than he was used to seeing on the people who brought him meals, and the scarlet-dyed belt was finely tooled. He frowned. "You're not a drudge, are you."
The woman—girl, really, she couldn't be much older than his own eighteen Turns—dropped her head lower, sleek black hair shining in the afternoon sunlight. "No, Journeyman. I'm Miko—"
Rodney snapped his fingers. "Oh, right, Holder Kusanagi's daughter." He'd been introduced to the Holder's family, including the daughter, when he had arrived this morning. In Rodney's defense, it had been very early, just past dawn, and he'd only had a single cup of klah. Besides, he could hardly be expected to remember peoples' faces when he couldn't see their faces. She still hadn't looked up.
Still hadn't left yet, either. "So, um, Kyohtt's so small, the holder's daughter brings meals?" Rodney inquired, with a single longing glance at the diagram he had been studying. Teyla had smacked enough basic manners into him that he forwent ignoring the girl in favor of that study, but it was a near thing. If Teyla knew how fascinating this project was, she'd surely forgive him...
"No, Journeyman," Miko murmured, fiddling with the parchments stacked on the table next to her. "It's just—the drudges were a little—that is, they're all busy, and the tunnels to this watchtower from the lower caverns are cramped and winding. And they're...reluctant to cross outside at present."
"Huh? But it's not raining," and Rodney glanced at the sun beaming through the open window, "and Threadfall's a good sevenday away."
Miko coughed delicately. "It's not that. Only that the courtyard is...occupied."
"Occupied?" Rodney leaned back on the bench to get a better look out the window, and realized what she meant. Kyohtt was indeed a small Hold, and its courtyard was so narrow that it couldn't accommodate the entire sprawl of a nearly full-grown bronze dragon. Shepparth had been forced into a pretzel knot, neck and tail tucked in to give him room to spread his wings and soak up the sun as he dozed.
It wouldn't be a problem if Shepparth were sitting watch up on the reaches like a normal dragon, instead of lazing about like the world's biggest feline. "Oh, sorry about that," Rodney said. "Tell the drudges to just step on his tail, if it gets in the way."
"It—" Miko's head finally jerked up, and she opened and closed her mouth a couple times before stammering out, "It's not that your dragon is at all a trouble, but—the drudges, they've rarely had a chance to see a dragon on the ground..."
Rodney blinked. "You mean they're scared? Of Shepparth? He's a dragon, not a feral watch-wher." He considered. "Or Ramoth on a bad day. But seriously, they'd have more to worry about from a canine pup. Pups will bite people."
"I know, Journeyman," Miko said quickly. "I've attended a Hatching myself. Even so, a bronze such as you ride is magnificently intimidating..."
"Intimidating? Magnificent? Are you hearing this?"
I am now, Shepparth said, his mental voice a sleepy drawl. Sounds about right.
"If she were talking about Mnementh, maybe. Or O'Neill's Danielth, maybe I could see 'magnificent' then."
Is she talking about the dragon or the rider, anyway? Shepparth asked. That's what I've been wondering.
"What?" Rodney spluttered. "What do you mean, is she talking about—but that would—"
He realized that Miko's wide eyes had grown exponentially larger; any bigger and they might pop out of their sockets. Mentally cursing his inability to address his dragon silently—it wasn't that he couldn't do it, but it was difficult to remember to, and no one at the weyr cared—Rodney muttered, "Uh, excuse me. I was, um, asking Shepparth to move his lazy ass. Make room for people to get by, will you?" he asked, unnecessarily raising his voice toward the window to make his point.
Whatever, Shepparth grumbled, but he consented to shifting back against the stone wall, flattening the uneven spikes along his neck, and furled his wings enough to clear the path from tower to caverns.
Miko was still staring at him, though, and Rodney noticed with dread that a rose blush had risen along her cheeks. Oh, shells and shards, she couldn't possibly—they'd just met this morning, that wasn't enough time for her to get a crush, was it?
But bronze-riders are so magnificently intimidating, Shepparth remarked, snickering.
Rodney gritted his teeth. Most people didn't have to put up with this. R'dek's Lornth never snickered at him, at least not that he'd ever mentioned to Rodney.
"Look," he said, "I'm sorry about the trouble Shepparth's causing. We'll be gone by tomorrow—by tonight, even, if your brother will let me borrow his notes, I'll bring them back with me and study them at the weyr."
Miko started, almost flinching, looking suddenly down at the hides and parchment on the table. "You—you mean these—my brother's ideas—they're worthy of your attention?"
"They're pretty fascinating, actually," Rodney said. "The principles are sound, and there's some ideas I haven't seen before—your brother's old to apprentice to the Smiths, but I might be able to convince Master Lee to make an exception, we want someone who can invent things such as this. Even if we can't build the actual devices, I can think of a few modifications of the basic technology that might be feasible."
"Really?" Miko asked, and now she was blushing in earnest, staring at him, and Rodney realized that in his excitement over the technological diagrams, he was looking right back at her, meeting her eyes and probably giving her all the wrong ideas and by the bloody Star, this was yet another problem with being a dragonrider. No one got romantic designs on a precocious journeyman Smith. Not that a rider would really be marriageable material for even a minor Holder's daughter, but there was something about Shepparth, in all his spiky indolent bronze magnificence, that drew women, Weyr-staff and Holders alike.
And once drawn, they tended to end up closing in on Rodney, him being the human side of the equation. He'd had more offers since Impressing Shepparth two Turns ago than he'd gotten in his whole short life before (which was zero, but that wasn't the point.) Not enough to have figured out the best way to turn them down, however, and Shepparth was no help whatsoever, making endless fun whenever Rodney accidentally made them cry. For all that he tended to get cranky if Rodney chose to spend any time with the women in question.
Now, though, Rodney had much more interesting things to do than flirting. "Well, thank you for bringing me lunch, anyway, now I'm going to have to—what are you doing?"
Miko jumped, and the pile of parchments she had been flipping through fell over onto the dusty floor. "S-sorry!" she gasped, and quickly bent down to pick them up. "I didn't—I was only—I'm sorry, Journeyman!"
"It's okay," Rodney said, feeling a bit guilty, with her sounding almost near tears already, as if he himself were as scary as the drudges found his dragon. He crouched beside her, gathered up the fallen parchments—not cured hides, but the new light wood-pulp material that displayed ink lines so clearly and distinctly. Miko's brother's handwriting was neat and delicate, his tiny script as legible as a practiced Harper's. "Nothing torn, no harm done. Listen, could you ask your brother something for me? I know your father said he's going to be out overseeing the fields until tomorrow night, but if you could get a message to him—I'd like to be able to talk over these designs with him in person."
"Of—of course, Journeyman."
"You can call me Rodney," Rodney told her absently. "Now, this is..." One of the dropped parchments he hadn't noticed before—now that was an angle he hadn't even considered. Though thinking it could be accomplished with wind-power was absurd...wave-power, perhaps, if the wheel were placed in the ocean—or else utilize gusts off a dragon's wings, if he had Shepparth fix himself in place and flap—
"Then—enjoy your lunch, Journeyman Rodney," Miko said, and fled the watchtower. Rodney didn't look up from the diagram until she was already down the steps and out the door. He glanced out the window in time to see her hurry past Shepparth, skirting a wide berth around the foot he had stretched almost onto the path, as if she were afraid it was splayed there as a trap.
Admittedly, each of the five curved talons tipping that foot were bigger and longer than his hand, but after two Turns in a Weyr Rodney didn't see much to fear in such details. He did, however, issue a scolding, "Hey!" when Shepparth happened to yawn just as Miko was passing his head. Said head was a good two hand-spans longer than she was tall, and Shepparth's gleaming teeth were in excellent condition to rip apart herd beasts and wherries. Not to mention his breath, which could intimidate even wingleaders. Or knock them flat on their asses, at least.
Miko tripped and broke into a run, scurrying back into the safety of the hold's main chambers. Rodney shook his head. "These people aren't very comfortable with having a dragon around," he chastised, "and you are not helping."
Aren't you done yet? Shepparth asked, rolling onto his back and letting his wings flop over the path again.
"No, I am not, which you would know if you'd been paying attention to anything I've said. These designs are extremely interesting. You know we've always had stories of being able to fly without dragons—this may well be a step on the way to figuring out how our ancestors managed that trick."
Yeah, sure, interesting.
"You're the one who loves flying, I thought you'd at least care about how you're able to do it to begin with."
I know how to fly. I've got wings.
"Yes, but you know, according to the principles I've studied, a dragon's wings shouldn't be able to support its mass. Especially given the old adage that a dragon can carry as much as it thinks it can carry—scientifically speaking that shouldn't be possible, but in practice—"
Shepparth's snore would have rattled the window's shutters, had they been closed. The drudges probably heard it down in the kitchens—probably would've mistaken it for a roar, too. Now no one would be bringing him dinner. Rodney sighed. "Fine, be that way."
Still poring over the parchments, he reached behind himself for the tray Miko had brought. The doughy buns, stuffed with meats, were not what he was used to, but easy to eat with his hands as he read. The sauce on the meat was tangier than he liked, he'd never cared for sour foods, and the flavor was one he hadn't tasted for some time.
He was still chewing his first bite when he recognized it—that weird yellow fruit from Nerar that he'd only had the once, that had made him so sick. He hastily spat out the bite onto the tray, stared at it. The tingling of his lips—was that the sour taste? Or just his imagination? "Shepparth?"
The dragon was only a warm presence in the back of his mind, sincerely asleep—Shepparth really could drop off as easily as a napping feline. "Shepparth," Rodney said again, getting up, because it wasn't just a tingle now but a prickling, and his skin felt hot and flushed and itchy as if his tunic's collar were coated in sand.
Rodney? Shepparth's awakened voice in his inner ear was louder than the rapid thudding of his heartbeat. What's wrong?
"It's—I don't know, I ate something wrong—this happened before—" Rodney said, or tried to say, but his throat felt squeezed tight as his skin, trapping the words inside his chest—his breath, too, and he bent over the table, trying to force in that vital air. He needed to get to the main chambers—Kyohtt was a minor hold, but they had to have a Healer or two.
Rodney!
Everything got suddenly darker—the sunlight outside the window was cut off by the looming shadow of his dragon's head, helped along by the black spots that had started clustering before his eyes. Rodney blinked—he could blink, but he couldn't breathe, and before he could reach the stairs his legs gave out and dropped him on the watchtower floor.
"Shepparth," he wheezed, trying to order his racing thoughts, tell his dragon what he needed.
Rodney, hold on! and Shepparth's voice was as sharp as a command, like he was a wingleader or a Master Smith.
But Rodney had never been especially good at obeying anyone's orders, even his own dragon's. He felt himself slump to the side, couldn't catch himself in time, and not even Shepparth's echoing bellow was enough to rouse him. They really were not making a good impression on this hold at all, and that was a shame considering at least one person of actual measurable intelligence lived here—a pity Rodney had never had a chance to meet him—
Rodney, please!
Then there was blackness, not as cold as between, but as absolute.
"Great Faranth in her shell, what is that?" Carson cried, leaping to his feet. He wasn't the only one; in the kitchens outside his chamber he heard the crash of dropped pottery breaking on the floor. No one spoke up in apology or reprimand, however, all the drudges and cooks holding their breaths at that awful, unearthly scream.
Unlike most of them, who had lived in Kyohtt Hold all their lives, Carson had only been here for a few months, studying local herb remedies. He originally haled from the Beckett cothold, beholden to Ruatha, where dragonriders had always patrolled. And after years apprenticing at the Healer's Hall, he was fairly familiar with the beasts, enough to recognize that no other creature could make such a sound. Still, he had never heard a dragon roar like that—he had heard tell of the keening they made when they lost one of their own, but this was a more wrenching cry than anything he'd imagined.
Yet it wasn't nearly as rattling as the sudden, snarled command. Healer, come! Now!
Carson jerked and stared around himself, but he was alone in his chamber, for all it had sounded as if someone were shouting directly in his ear. The stranger's voice was loud enough to reverberate through his skull.
NOW!
Carson staggered, caught himself on his desk and pushed himself into motion. The voice was strangely directionless and yet he could follow it, out into the kitchens and up the stairs, while the head cook called behind him, "Healer? Where are you going?"
In the entry arch he almost bumped into two bolder drudges, who had peeked out into the courtyard but now were scrambling back inside as if Thread were falling a sevenday early. "You can't go out there, Healer!" one of them babbled. "The dragon—it's gone feral, it'll devour you—"
"Nonsense," Carson said, "dragons don't eat people, and they don't go feral, either."
Though he wondered if he might be mistaken about that, as he hurried out into the courtyard to find the bronze dragon reared up on its haunches. Its wings stretched from wall to wall, and it was clawing at the watchtower, had already torn loose chunks of mortared stone, now rubble at its feet.
"Och, what are you doing?" Carson asked before he could help himself, and the dragon's great head swung around on its serpentine neck. Its crest of ruffled spikes was bristling, and its eyes gleamed in the sun, swirling with violent oranges and violets, a hurricane trapped within crystal.
Carson took an involuntary step back, every animal instinct in him telling him to run before the bloodthirsty beast sprang upon him. But the voice sounded in his head again, clarion clear and terrifyingly insistent, undeniable: Help him.
The dragon swept its wings up to balance, sending dust clouds swirling through the courtyard, then rocked forward on its haunches to lower its front paws to the ground, swiftly but cautiously, almost gently, if that could apply to such a creature.
Cradled in its talons was a limp form, and for a sickening instant Carson thought the dragon had been eating after all. But there was no blood, that he could see—Help him! the voice repeated, and Carson stumbled forward as the dragon so very carefully laid its burden on the path.
It was the dragonrider, Carson realized. He'd only seen the man for a moment, hurrying across the hold's main hall this morning, but he wore a rider's boots and leather breeches, though he'd taken off the thick riding jacket in the spring day's warmth.
Then Carson realized the man's condition and his healer's training came into the fore, drowning out any hesitation or questions. He dropped to his knees and examined his patient. Skin flushed and pebbled with virulent rash, hot to the touch but his hands were growing cold, and his breath was stopped in his throat, blocked—his heart was still beating, too quickly, but that wouldn't last long without the breath. There was no time to spare. He'd seen this a few times before; occasionally the bite of a spring-bug caused a similar effect in particularly unlucky persons. The only treatments had to be administered immediately—
"Bring my kit!" he shouted toward the entryway, at the drudges and holder children clustered there watching. "The brown leather parcel, now!" and he bent back over the dragonrider, rolling him onto his side to help his breathing and loosening his tunic, digging his fingers into those pressure points which might open his throat enough to allow a little air to pass.
And all the while, questions were thrumming in his head: Is it poison? Who did this? Can you save him? Is he—will he—help him! vibrating between rage and terror so quickly it was dizzying—overwhelming panic, and none of it Carson's own; he'd always been good in emergencies.
He didn't quite understand it, until he heard a petrified shriek, and looked over to see the dragon had arched its head down and parted its jaws in a guttural growl, blocking the way of a girl who had dared step out of the entryway's arch—the Holder's daughter Miko, who had shrunk back, trembling so hard she couldn't flee.
She was holding Carson's brown bag. "Get out of the way, you mad beastie!" Carson cried. "If you want your rider to live, he needs those medicines now!"
The dragon reared back, wings opening—Sorry, Carson heard, as distinctly as if there were a man standing before him and speaking—and the healer waved frantically for Miko to approach. She ran, tripping over her dress—her best Gather-day reds, he noticed, and wondered why—and then he was rummaging through his kit, siphoning the proper drug into the syringe and stabbing the spike into the dragonrider's arm.
Miko was teary, pale and still quivering. "Is he—Journeyman Rodney, what's wrong with him?"
"Don't know for certain," Carson said as he worked. The remedy would take effect quickly—quickly enough, he could only hope. "It could be a bug bite," though he didn't see any marks, "or could be something he ate."
Miko clapped her hands over her mouth, more tears coming. "The lunch I brought him—"
Poison? and there was an anger sharp and lethal as fangs in that resonating word.
"No!" Carson snapped, and then forced his voice calm, assuring the girl, "Not poison—it wouldn't be your fault, even if it were the food, lass. A few people are like this, can't eat things that are fine and healthy for anyone else—"
Rodney?
Under Carson's hands, the dragonrider gasped and drew a choked breath, and another. "That's it, lad," the healer encouraged, rubbing his back. "Breathe easy, now."
The dragonrider shuddered, opened hazy sky-blue eyes. "Shepparth?" he asked weakly.
The looming dragon dipped its head low, less than a man's height above them, and rumbled, not a growl, but a crooning so deep that Carson felt the ground shake under him.
I'm here, Rodney, and the phantom voice was softer than Carson had thought possible, not that headache-inducing intensity but gentle, as gentle as the dragon's talons had cradled its rider's body, so quietly tender it made Carson uncomfortable to hear it.
"You had quite a scare, lad," Carson told the rider. "And gave your dragon a good one, too, by the way he's been carrying on."
The rider squinted at him as Carson helped him sit up, pulling away jerkily, dazed acceptance giving way to confused doubt. He was quite young, Carson could tell now that the swelling was going down, several Turns younger than the healer, but the suspicion in his expression matured his face, the side of his mouth drawn down belligerently. "Who're you?"
"Carson. I'm a Healer," Carson said patiently.
"A dragon healer?"
"No, not last I checked," Carson said, glancing up at the bronze's watchful eyes. The orange had faded to a slight less discomfiting yellow, but they were still whirling wildly. "Now—it's Rodney, is it? Let's get you inside, Rodney, you'll need rest, and more medicines before you're well."
With Miko's help he got Rodney to his feet, but the dragon moved to bar their way, spread wings blocking the sun and front talons planted on the path. Miko squeaked and shrank back, though she didn't let Rodney fall.
Carson steeled himself. "Shepparth," he said firmly, "your rider needs remedies and comfortable bed-rest. You've done all you can for him, now kindly get out of the way and let me help him. There's a good beastie," and he nodded in satisfaction as the dragon reluctantly edged back, off the path.
Shepparth didn't try to get any closer, not enough to spook the gawking drudges, but he watched as the healer and Miko helped Rodney inside, eyes shimmering gold and violet. At the entryway, Carson looked back to the dragon. "I'll do all I can for him," he promised.
"I'll be fine, you big idiot," the dragonrider mumbled, head drooping, "so stop freaking out the people trying to help me." His hoarse whisper wasn't loud enough for the dragon to hear, Carson shouldn't think, but the healer heard the bronze snort all the same, as if in answer, though no articulated voice sounded in his head.
The Healer—Carson, Shepparth reminded him, several times—settled Rodney on a rush mattress more comfortable than his bed in the weyr, and then proceeded to contradict this hospitality by forcing not one but three noxious potions on him. Not only were they foul-tasting, but they made Rodney's head spin as if they were spiked with strongwine, muddling his thoughts so much that he spent a good long time just lying quietly, trying to determine if he were awake or asleep. It seemed like if he were asleep, he ought to be more active in his dreaming; but if he were awake then the room shouldn't be growing and shrinking in irregularly pulsing intervals around him.
He couldn't get far enough along in this chain of logic to come to any conclusions, however, and presently Carson—the man's eyes couldn't possibly be that blue, could they? Almost the hue of Shepparth's when he was amused, not a human color at all; most likely a dream, then—came and sat him up to drink yet another mug of something thick and slimy, with an awful bitter aftertaste. "Try to sleep, lad," the healer said in his dreams when he'd finished the draught, patting his arm. "You'll feel better when you wake up."
You should listen to him, Rodney, Shepparth advised. He's a good Healer.
"Oh, and you're an expert on human healers now?" Rodney asked, aloud, he thought, though Carson didn't look surprised.
Not all of them, Shepparth said, more patiently than the dragon usually sounded. But he saved you, so I know he's good.
Shepparth's logic was, as usual, ludicrous, but Rodney's mind was too drug-addled for him to argue it. He wasn't, however, so far gone that he couldn't hear the particular controlled quality of Shepparth's calm, the underlying tension he was trying to hide. "Are you okay?"
I'm fine, Shepparth said, then allowed, though I don't think they like me here very much. They've got guards with bludgeons and axes standing by the courtyard entryway now.
"What?" Rodney struggled to sit up against waves of dizziness. "That's—they—"
Carson was at his bedside again, fretting, "Easy, Rodney, lad, just relax for now."
"But Shepparth—"
S'okay, Shepparth told him. It's kind of funny, that they seriously think they could stop me, if I really had to get inside to you.
"Your dragon's fine," Carson told him. "No Holder would ever actually raise a weapon against a dragon. They're just a little put out about their wrecked watchtower, that's all. As soon as you're properly on your feet, you'll be able to explain. Now, rest up. Your wee beastie will calm if you do."
"Beastie?" Rodney slurred incredulously—that was almost as bad as magnificent—but Shepparth rumbled a warm chuckle in his mind, and Rodney closed his eyes and let himself sink into the potions' woozy dreams.
When Rodney came awake again, it was completely; his head still felt fuzzy, but at least he could place thoughts in a straight line. A faint scritching sound had roused him, but this stopped when he sat up. It was darker, sunlight no longer glimmering through the doorway, but a glowbasket cast soft illumination over the chamber's stone and plaster walls.
He blinked into the light, and then it was covered. "Oh, I'm sorry!" whispered a nervous voice nearby. "I didn't mean to wake you, I only wished to know that you would awaken well. Here, it's water."
A cup was pushed into Rodney's hands, and he looked over to see the Holder's daughter Miko, sitting on a bench drawn up to his bedside, with her hair down and parchments and a slate piled in her lap. She clasped her hands over these, bowed her head. "Journeyman Rodney, I am so sorry—it was the food I had had made for you, that sickened you so, Healer Carson told me. I know this is unforgivable, but—"
"It wasn't your fault," Rodney said. His voice was a rough croak, even after he sipped the water, but at least he had the breath to speak; that was always a plus. "Getting sick like that, it's just something that happens to me."
Oh, is it? So is it going to happen again? Shepparth sounded sleepily annoyed, though Rodney knew the dragon hadn't actually been asleep; he could remember the distant assurance of Shepparth guarding his dreams. You could've mentioned this before!
"It hasn't happened for years!" Rodney protested. "Not since I was a kid—I didn't know it could still happen to me, and I didn't remember what did it, until I tasted that sauce. And besides, this time was worse than it was then—I didn't know it could be that bad," and he shuddered, recalling the feeling of his throat closing over the air he needed, his vision going black.
Thinking about it was a bad idea, because Shepparth made a snarling, hissing sound audible through however many walls were between him and the dragon, and Miko shivered and hunched further over. Rodney could see her face was tear-streaked behind the ebony curtain of her hair.
"Sorry," he said hastily, "really, I'm sorry. It's okay now, I'm okay." He wasn't sure which one of them he was talking to, actually, but he reached out and gingerly patted Miko's shoulder. "Um, please," he said, "you don't have to cry. I'm fine now."
"I..." Miko sniffled, and he was terrified the girl was going to start sobbing in earnest and Shepparth would never let him hear the end of it. But instead she wiped her face with her hands, swallowed and made an attempt at a smile. It would have been cuter if her face wasn't blotchy from crying. "Healer Carson says you probably shouldn't go between tomorrow, but in case you leave anyway—I wanted to show you this before you did. It's more of—more of my brother's work, he gave it to me."
"Really? Show me!" Putting down the water cup, Rodney reached out eagerly. Nausea and muzziness could wait; there was science to do.
Obediently Miko handed over the parchments and the slate, etched with a couple graphs drawn in the same neat hand as the diagrams he had looked over this morning. Rodney's vision was still a bit blurred; irritably he rubbed his eyes, squinted at the writing as Miko unshielded the glowbasket. Yes, this explained a couple points he had questioned, and that was a clever solution to the mass problem he had posed—she must have given her brother his notes from earlier, this slate was a direct response, though the final equation was incomplete, as if he'd been interrupted partway through...
Rodney suddenly remembered the soft scratching sound he had heard when he had awoken. Just like a stylus on slate. He looked up, frowning, into Miko's brown eyes, fixed on him, though no sooner had his head raised than she flushed and looked away.
Rodney frowned deeper. "This is your work, isn't it. Not your brother's—he doesn't even exist, I bet."
"No, no, I have four elder brothers," Miko whispered.
"Yeah, I'm sure you do," Rodney said, "but none of them did this," and he tapped on the slate, careful not to erase any of the chalk lines.
Miko didn't say anything, her head still down and turned away.
"But this is great!" Rodney exclaimed. "I wanted to talk to you about the frequency harmonics of these fan-things, what would you call them, propellers—you're totally wrong about the metallic resistance, and the way you were fudging the friction coefficients is just stupid, but you might be onto something with the—what, are you crying again?" Her thin shoulders were once more shaking. "Sorry, I'm sorry," Rodney blustered, "my friend Teyla keeps telling me I can be a little bit harsh with my criticism, occasionally, that's why all the Smith apprentices hate me. But see, this is why you need to come with me to the Smith crafthall, most of the masters are much nicer than I am."
Miko shook her head. "I can't," she said. "My father—he forbade me to tell you these figures were my own. He was proud to show them to you, if they were worthy, but if he found out—"
"Why?" Rodney burst out. "That's ridiculous, it's much easier to explain the details of this science if I can talk to you about it. And it's not like you can study to be a Smith anonymously, what, are you supposed to get lessons by fire-lizard-delivered letter?"
"But I can't be a Smith," Miko protested. "I'm a woman."
"So?"
"Women don't become Smiths," Miko said quietly.
"Huh? Of course they do." Though when he thought about it he couldn't recall meeting any female apprentice or journeyman Smiths (except for Sam, and look at how that had turned out), and certainly none of his Masters had been matrons. Still, this was absurd. "They can be Harpers and Healers, so why not Smiths?"
Rodney, are you undermining civilization as we know it again? Shepparth inquired suspiciously.
"What? No!"
So you're just making girls cry again.
"No, I'm—" Only Miko was, great big tears rolling silently down her cheeks. "Oh, by the First Egg—listen, this work," and he tapped the slate again, "it's really good. It's good enough that I think you should be a Smith—no, that you have to be. We need these ideas. And I can say so, because I'm not supposed to be a Smith myself—dragonriders are supposed to only care about riding, once they Impress, but I had actual important things to do, even if I had a dragon—"
Thanks a lot, Shepparth muttered.
Rodney ignored him. "—so I stayed a Smith anyway. And now the Mastersmith thinks it's pretty useful, having a Smith who can get around easily, that's why he asks us to go check out things like these ideas of yours. The Weyrleader, he's maybe not as happy with it, but it's not like Benden doesn't have plenty of other bronze-riders...so, um. Yeah. You should come back with us, Shepparth and I can take you to the Smith Crafthall. And your father won't have any say in it. It's not like we'll hear him between. So...please stop crying?"
"I—I—" Miko whimpered, then gulped a few times and valiantly stanched the tears. "T-thank you, Journeyman Rodney—"
"Rodney," Rodney corrected. "You don't have to call me Journeyman until you're an apprentice. So for the next couple days, it's Rodney."
"Thank you, Rodney," Miko said, and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek before he figured out what she was doing. Then she was out the door.
At least she was thoughtful enough to leave her latest diagrams behind. Rodney leaned back against the pillow with a sigh. She was quite intelligent—close to amazing, really—but did she have to cry so much? Also his head was pounding and his stomach roiling and he felt sweaty and feverish and shards, she was probably so teary because she'd almost got to see him die earlier today, and that had to be upsetting. It was upsetting to him, certainly.
He picked up the cup, finished the water. It helped his dry throat and settled his stomach a little, but not his bladder. Groaning, he sat up again, dropped his feet off the bed and onto the cold stone floor.
Rodney? Shepparth's voice was subdued, atypically non-intrusive. Like he was hesitant to disturb Rodney's so complicated business of walking across the floor.
Well, maybe he had a point; it took a fair bit of effort to stabilize himself without leaning on the bed for help. "You're being awfully quiet," he remarked to his dragon, to distract himself from the slow seasick swing of the room around him.
It really won't happen again?
"What? A woman becoming a Smith? Probably lots of times. It should've already. Otherwise it's tantamount to deliberately ignoring half of the great ideas we might have! Well, almost half, since I'm in the male half, and that'll throw the proportions off, but by the averages—"
Shepparth's growl wasn't really aloud, but Rodney winced anyway. At least he'd gotten to a wall to rest against for a moment before moving on. His legs were wobbly as wet clay. "No," he said. "Or, yeah...I don't know. I hope it doesn't happen again, but I don't know. I'll have to be careful about what I eat, I guess."
Shepparth was silent. "Sorry," Rodney offered. "It's kind of embarrassing, huh. I mean, if we went out heroically fighting Thread, that'd be one thing, but a piece of food...I've told you before, I'm not really rider material, you could've picked someone more—"
This time Shepparth's growl was out loud, and probably gave more than a few innocent holders nightmares.
Once Rodney had reached the chamber pots and relieved himself, he made his unsteady way to the hold's entryway arch. They still had two guards standing watch, keeping a wary, weary eye on the dragon filling their courtyard. Shepparth had coiled into a ball, wings closed against his sides for warmth. His great eyes gleamed in the night, flickering like golden-green torches.
When Rodney stumbled, one of the watchmen caught his elbow. "Uh, good evening, Rider," he said. "Shall I walk with you back to your chambers?"
"I'm fine," Rodney said, shrugging him off. "And you can go to bed, the big scary dragon's not going to eat anybody tonight, I swear."
He took a few steps forward into the courtyard, heard the watchman start to follow and then jump back as Shepparth extended his neck to swoop his head down. Rodney steadied himself against his dragon's muzzle, scratched the suede-soft skin below his eyes. "Hey," he said, closing his eyes and leaning against Shepparth's warmth.
Hey, Shepparth said. Sorry about freaking out the holders.
"Sorry about freaking you out," Rodney mumbled.
You're not eating anything ever again until I've tasted it first, Shepparth stated in the decided manner of a bronze dragon big enough to always get his way.
Rodney yawned. "That's gonna make breakfast in the hold tomorrow interesting," he remarked, and dropped gratefully into the cradle of Shepparth's forelegs, the living warmth of his dragon curling around him as he drifted back to sleep.
Carson woke from a doze when his forehead bumped his desktop, jerked up and looked around himself with a start. It was dark, late in the night, but he hadn't gone to bed yet because—yes, right, Rodney. The young dragonrider had seemed much improved, sleeping peacefully and his symptoms hadn't recurred all day, but Carson had wanted to check on him one last time. It was a tricky business, this individual sickness of his; he'd only encountered its like a couple times before. The lad was lucky Carson had been here. The hold's headwoman probably wouldn't have known what to do, but as a Healer scholar, Carson was familiar with all manner of exotic conditions.
Yawning, he made his way to the sequestered chamber where he had left Miko watching over Rodney, to find not only the holder's daughter gone, but Rodney as well.
It occurred to Carson that the two might not be unrelated—Miko had been interested, if he had any eye for a young lady's fancies—but no, even a bronze-rider wouldn't have been up for a dalliance tonight, not in Rodney's condition. He should be sound asleep, so where...
Troubled, Carson hurried out to the entryway—if anyone would know the rider's whereabouts, the dragon would. If Rodney were in trouble he would have assumed the dragon would put up a fuss again—though if a rider actually lost their life, didn't a dragon usually vanish between for good—
He was relieved to find the dragon still in the courtyard, moonlight silvering its enormous green-bronze form. The men supposed to be watching it had put down their bludgeons and were squatting to play dice on the cobblestone, though they sprang up at Carson's approach and made an effort to look presentable. "Healer," one said. "Uh—the dragon's asleep, looks like, so..."
"The dragon's not my concern, but have you seen his rider?"
The watchman pointed out in the courtyard. As he did, the dragon's head came up and around, so that Carson could see the sleeping figure tucked secure in its embrace, looking tiny as a doll and utterly safe. The healer took a breath, braced himself and strode forward, all the way to the dragon's side.
The bronze watched placidly, not moving, and didn't stop Carson from coming close enough to check Rodney's pulse. It was measured, and his breaths came deep and even; sound asleep from the medicines, but definitely on the mend. Carson nodded in satisfaction, then looked up at Shepparth's watching gold eyes. "He'll be all right," he whispered. "You've a strong one here, luckily enough."
The dragon dipped its head in a definite nod, then ducked its head back down, neck curved in until its muzzle was almost brushing Rodney's hair. Carson stepped back, out of the creature's way. "You take care of him then, beastie," he murmured, and headed back inside.
He was at the entryway, the watchmen staring at him with nervous admiration, when he heard the dragon's voice, low and heartfelt, tell him, Thank you.