What T’dam was saying slowly reached through Iantine’s absorption with line and pose.
“Now, records show us that the worst injuries occur on wing edges, especially if Thread falls in clumps and the partners are not sharp enough to avoid em. A dragon can fly with one third of his exterior sail damaged” and T’dam ran his hand along the edge of Ormonth’s wing.
“However,” and T’dam looked up at Ormonth, “if you would be good enough to close your wing slightly, Ormonth,” and the blue did so.
“Thank you “ T’dam had to stand slightly on tip-toe to reach the area of the inner wing. Injuries in here are far more serious as Thread can, depending on the angle of its fall, sear through the wing and into his body. This,” and he now ducked under the wing and tapped the side, is where the lungs are and injury here can even be fatal.” There was a gasp around the semi-circle of his students.
“That’s why you have to be sharp every instant you’re in flight. Go between the instant you even suspect you’ve been hit.”
“How do we know?” someone asked.
“Ha!” T’dam propped his fists on his thick leather belt and paused. “Dragons are very brave creatures for the most part, considering what we ask them to do. But,” and he stroked Ormonth in apology, “they have exceedingly quick responses… especially to pain.
“You’ll know!” He paused again. “Some of you were here when Missath broke her sail bone, weren’t you?” and he pointed around the group until he saw several hands raised. “Remember how she squealed?”
“Went right through me like a bone cutter.” a big lad said and shivered convulsively.
“She was squealing the instant she lost her balance and actually before she snapped the bone. She knew she would hurt even as she fell.”
“Now, you don’t have quite the same immediacy in Threadfall since you’ll be high on adrenalin, but you’ll know. So, this brings up a point that we make constantly in all training procedures, always, ALWAYS have a point to go to in your head. During Fall, it had better be the Weyr since everyone here,” and now the sweep of his hand included those Iantine recognized as non-riders, “will be ready to help.
“DON’T make the mistake of coming in too low. Going between will have stopped Thread burrowing further into your dragon…” A muted chorus of disgust and fearfulness greeted that concept. ”So you can make as orderly a landing as injuries permit. What you don’t need is a bad landing which could compound the original Thread score. Start encouraging your dragon as soon as you know he’s been hit. Of course, you may be hit too, and I appreciate that, but you’re riders and you can certainly control your own pain while seeing to your dragon’s.
“He’s the important one of you, remember.
“Without him you don’t function as a rider.
“Now, the drill is,” and once again he swept his glance around his students, “slather!” He picked up the wide brush from the pail at his feet and began to ply it on Ormonth’s wing: water, to judge the way it dripped. The blue regarded the operation with lightly whirling eyes.
“Slather, slather, slather,” and T’dam emphasized each repetition with a long brush stroke. “You can’t put too much numb weed on a dragon’s injuries to suit him or her,” and he grinned at the female green riders, “and the injury will be numb in exactly three seconds at least the outer area. It does take time to penetrate through the epidermis to what passes for the germinative layer in a dragon’s hide. So you may have to convince your dragon that he’s not as badly hurt as he or she feels. Your injured dragon needs all the reassurance you can give… No matter how bad you think the injury looks, don’t think that at the dragon. Tell him or her what a great brave dragon they are, and that the numb weed is working and the pain will go away.
“Now, if a bone has been penetrated - - -
“Why, you’ve got P’tero to the life,” said an awed voice softly in Iantine’s ear, and he shot a glance at the tall lad standing behind him: M’leng, green Sith’s rider, and P’tero’s special friend. Iantine had seen the two riders, always together, in the kitchen cavern. Oooh, is there any chance I could have that corner?” And he tapped the portion which contained P’tero and Ormonth.
M’leng was a handsome young man, with almond-shaped green eyes in an angular face. The light breeze in the Bowl ruffled tight dark brown curls on his head.
“Since I owe P’tero my life, let me make a larger sketch for you.”
“Oh, would you?” And a smile animated M’leng’s rather solemn face.
“Can we settle a price? I’ve marks enough to do better than Chalkin did you!” He reached for his belt pouch.
Iantine tried to demur, pleading he owed P’tero.
“Tero was only doing his duty for once,” M’leng said with a touch of asperity. “But I really would like a proper portrait of him. You know, what with Threadfall coming and all, I’d want to have something…” M’leng broke off, swallowed, and then reinforced his pleading.
“I’ve to do a commission for the Weyrleaders…” Iantine said.
“Is that the only one?” M’leng seemed surprised. “I’d’ve thought everyone in the Weyr would be after you.”
Iantine grinned. “Tisha hasn’t released me from her care yet.”
“Oh, her,” and M’leng dismissed the head woman with a wave of his hand. “She’s so fussy at times. But there’s nothing wrong with your hand or your eye… and that little pose of P’tero, leaning against Ormonth, why it’s him!”
Iantine felt his spirits rise at the compliment because the sketch of the blue rider was good - better than the false ones he had done at Bitra Hold. He still cringed, remembering how he had allowed himself to compromise his standards by contriving such obsequious portrayals. He hoped he would never be in such a position again. M’leng’s comment was bal to his psyche.
“I can do better But I like the pose.”
“Can’t you just do it? I mean,” and M’leng looked everywhere but at Iantine, “I’d rather P’tero didn’t know… I mean…”
“Is it to be a surprise for him?”
“No, it’s to be for me!” And M’leng jabbed his breastbone with his thumb, his manner defiant. “So I’ll have it.”
At such intransigence, Iantine was at a loss and hastily agreed before M’leng became more emotional. His eyes had filled and he set his mouth in a stubborn line.
“I will, of course, but a sitting would help.”
“Oh, I can arrange that, so he still doesn’t know. You’re always sketching,” and that came out almost as an accusation.
Iantine was - thanks to the lecture he had been overhearing considerably more aware now of the dangers dragons, and their riders, would shortly face. If M’leng was comforted by having a portrait of his friend, that was the least Iantine could do.
“This very night,” M’leng continued, single-minded in his objective, “I’ll see we sit close to where you usually do. I’ll get him to wear his good tunic so you can paint him at his very best.”
“But suppose…” Iantine began, wondering how he could keep P’tero from knowing he was being done.
“You do the portrait,” M’leng said, patting Iantine’s arm to still his objections. “I’ll take care of P’tero - - -“ and he added under his breath, “as long as I have him.”
That little afterthought made the breath stop in Iantine’s throat. Was M’Leng so sure that P’tero would die?
“I’ll do my best, M’leng, you may be sure of that!”
“Oh, I am,” said M’leng, tossing his head up so that the curls fell back from his face. He gave Iantine a wry smile. I’ve been watching how you work, you see.” He extended a hand soft with the oils riders used to tend their dragons. Iantine took it and was astonished at the strength in the green rider’s grip.