Dragonquest (25 page)

Two minor Holders, from Nerat to judge by their devices, bore down on D'ram and G'narish.

“As you love your dragons, pretend you knew about the lizards,” Robinton said in an urgent undertone to the two. D'ram started to protest but the anxious Holders closed in with a barrage of eager questions on how to acquire a fire lizard just like Meron's.

Recovering first, G'narish answered with more poise than Robinton thought he'd have. Pressing against the stone wall, the Harper inched his way up the stairs, to push in around the women clustered about Lord Asgenar, his lady Famira and F'lar.

“
LORD HOLDERS, OF MAJOR AND MINOR DEGREE, PRESENT YOURSELF FOR THE CONCLAVE
,” boomed out the Telgar Hold guard captain. A brass chorus of dragons echoed from the heights, satisfactorily stunning the guests into momentary silence.

The Captain repeated his summons and abjured the crowd to make room.

Lord Asgenar handed Famira his egg, murmuring something in her ear and pointing into the Hall. He stepped aside, gesturing for Lessa and Famira to pass inside. As well they did, for the Holders were now massing up the stairs. Robinton tried to signal F'lar but the dragonman was struggling toward Kylara, against the current. She was arguing heatedly with Meron who gave an angry shrug, left her and began shoving roughly into the Hall, past more polite Holders.

There was another exodus, Robinton noticed, of Craftmasters who congregated near the kitchen.

F'lar needs the Harper

Robinton glanced around him, wondering who had spoken, amazed that so soft a voice had reached him over the gabbling. He was alerted by a dissonant twang of strings and, turning his head unerringly toward the sound, spotted Brudegan up on the sentry walk with Chad, from the look of him. Had the resident Harper of Telgar Hold found a way to overhear the Conclave?

As Robinton changed his direction for the tower steps, a dragonrider confronted him.

“F'lar wants you, Masterharper.”

Robinton hesitated, looking back to the two harpers who were urgently signaling him to hurry.

Lessa listens.

“Did you speak?” Robinton demanded of the rider.

“Yes, sir. F'lar wants you to join him. It's important.”

The Harper looked toward the dragons and Mnementh dipped his head up and down. Robinton shook his, trying to cope with another of this day's astonishing shocks. A piercing whistle reached him from above.

He pursed his lips and gave the “go-ahead” sequence, adding in its different tempo the tune for “report later.”

Brudegan strummed an “understand” chord with which Chad apparently disagreed. Marks for the journeyman, Robinton thought, and whistled the strident trill for “comply.” He wished the harpers had as flexible a code as the one he'd developed for the Smith—and where was he?

That was one man easily spotted in a crowd but, as Robinton followed the dragonrider, he didn't see a smithcrafter anywhere. Of course, the impact of the distance-writer would be anticlimactic to the introduction of the lizards. Robinton felt sorry for the Smith, quietly perfecting an ingenious means of communication only to have it overshadowed by Threadeating miniature dragons. Creatures who could be Impressed by non-weyrfolk. The average Pernese would be far more struck by a draconic substitute than by any mechanical miracle.

The dragonrider had led him to the watchtower to the right of the Gate. When Robinton looked back over his left shoulder, Brudegan and Chad were no longer visible on the sentry walk.

The lower floor of the tower was a single large room, the stone stairs which rose to the right side of the sentry walk were on the far wall. Sleeping furs were piled in one corner in readiness for such guests as might have to be lodged there that night. Two slit windows, facing each other on the long sides of the room, gave little light G'narish, the Igen Weyrleader, was unshielding the glow basket in the ceiling as the Harper entered. Kylara was standing right under it, glaring furiously at T'bor.

“Yes, I went to Nabol. My queen lizard was there. And well I did, for Prideth saw Thread sign across the High Reaches Range!” She had everyone's attention now. Her eyes gleamed, her chin lifted and, Robinton noted, the shrewish rasp left her voice. Kylara was a fine-looking female, but there was a hard ruthlessness about her that repelled him.

“I flew instantly to T'kul.” Her face twisted with anger. “He's no dragonman! He refused to believe me. Me! As if
any
Weyrwoman wouldn't know the sign when she sees it I doubt he's even bothered with sweepriders. He kept harping on the fact that Thread had fallen six days ago at Tillek Hold and couldn't be falling this soon at High Reaches. So I told him about Falls in the western swamp and north Lemos Hold, and he still wouldn't believe me.”

“Did the Weyr turn out in time?” F'lar interrupted her coldly.

“Of course,” and Kylara drew herself up, her posture tightening the dress against her full-bosomed body.
“I
had Prideth sound the alarm.” Her smile was malicious. “T'kul had to act. A queen can't lie. And there isn't a male dragon alive that will disobey one!”

F'lar inhaled sharply, gritting his teeth. T'kul of the High Reaches was a taciturn, cynical, tired man. However justified Kylara's actions were, her methods lacked diplomacy. And she was contemporary weyrfolk. Oh, well, T'kul was a lost cause anyhow. F'lar glanced obliquely at D'ram and G'narish, to see what effect T'kul's behavior had on them. Surely now . . . They looked strained.

“You're a good Weyrwoman, Kylara, and
you
did well. Very well,” F'lar said with such conviction that she began to preen and her smile was a smirk of self-satisfaction. Then she stared at him.

“Well, what are you going to do about T'kul? We can't permit him to endanger the world with that Oldtime attitude of his.”

F'lar waited, half-hoping that D'ram might speak up. If just one of the Oldtimers . . .

“It seems that the dragonriders had better call a conclave, too,” he said at length, aware of the tapping of Kylara's foot and the eyes on him. “T'ron of Fort Weyr must hear of this. And perhaps we'd all better go on to Telgar Weyr for R'mart's opinion.”

“Opinion?” demanded Kylara, infuriated by this apparent evasion. “You ought to ride out of here now, confront T'kul with flagrant negligence and . . .”

“And what, Kylara?” F'lar asked when she broke off.

“And—well—there must be something you can do!”

For a situation that had never before arisen? F'lar looked at D'ram and G'narish.

“You've got to
do
something,” she insisted, swinging toward the other men.

“The Weyrs are traditionally autonomous . . .”

“A fine excuse to hide behind, D'ram . . .”

“There can be no hiding now,” D'ram went on, his voice rough, his expression bleak. “Something will have to be done. By
all
of us. When T'ron comes.”

More temporizing? F'lar wondered. “Kylara,” he said aloud, “you mentioned your lizard eating Thread.” There was a lot more to be discussed in this matter than T'kul's incredible behavior. “And may I inquire how you knew your lizard had returned to Nabol?”

“Prideth told me. She Hatched there so she returned to Nabol Hold when you frightened her at Southern.”

“You had her at High Reaches Weyr, though?”

“No. I told you. I saw Thread over the High Reaches Range and went to T'kul. First! Once I'd roused the Weyr, I realized that there might have been Thread over Nabol so I went to check.”

“And told Meron about the premature Threadfall?”

“Of course.”

“Then?”

“I took the lizard back with me. I didn't want to lose her again.” When F'lar ignored that jibe, she went on. “I picked up a flame thrower, so naturally I flew with Merika's wing. Scant thanks I got for my help from that Weyrwoman.”

She was telling the truth, F'lar realized, for her emotions were very much in evidence.

“When my lizard saw Thread falling, she seemed to go mad. I couldn't control her. She flew right at a patch and—ate it”

“Did you give her firestone?” D'ram asked, his eyes keen with real interest

“I didn't have any. Besides, I want her to mate,” and Kylara's smile had a very odd twist to it as she stroked the lizard's back. “She'll burrow, too,” she added, extolling her creature's abilities. “A ground crewman said he'd seen her enter one. Of course I didn't know that until later.”

“Is the High Reaches Hold clear of Thread now?”

Kylara shrugged indifferently. “If they aren't, you'll hear.”

“How long did Threadfall continue after you saw it? Were you able to determine the leading Edge when you flew over to Nabol?”

“It lasted about three hours. Under, I'd say. That is, from the time the wings
finally
got there.” She gave a condescending smile. “As to the leading Edge,
I'd
say it must have been high up in the Range,” and she dared them to dispute it, hurrying on when no one did. “It'd fall on bare rock and snow there. I did sweep the Nabol side but Prideth saw no sign.”

“You did extremely well, Kylara, and we are exceedingly grateful to you,” F'lar said, and the other Leaders endorsed his commendations so firmly that Kylara smiled expansively, turning from one man to another, her eyes glittering with self-appreciation.

“We've had five Falls now,” F'lar went on gravely, glancing at the other Leaders, trying to see how far he could continue in his move to consolidate himself as their spokesman. T'kul's defection had shaken D'ram badly. What T'ron's reaction would be, F'lar didn't try to guess, but if the Fort Weyrleader found himself in a minority of one against the other four Leaders, would he decide to act against T'kul, even if it did mean siding with F'lar? “At Tillek Hold, eight days ago; Upper Crom Hold, five; high Lemos Hold north, three; Southern far west, two; and now High Reaches Hold. Undoubtedly Thread fell in the Western Sea but there is no question that Falls are more frequent and increasing in scope. No point on Pern is safe. No Weyr can afford to relax its vigil to a traditional six-day margin.” He smiled grimly. “Tradition!”

D'ram looked about to argue, but F'lar caught and held his eyes until the man slowly nodded.

“That's easy to say, but what are you going to do about T'kul? Or T'ron?” Kylara had just realized no one was paying her any attention. “He's just as bad. He refuses to admit times have changed. Even when Mardra deliberately . . .”

There was a brisk knock on the door but it swung open instantly, to admit the giant frame of Fandarel.

“I was told you were here, F'lar, and we are ready.”

F'lar scrubbed at his face, regretting the diversion.

“The Lord Holders are in Conclave,” he began and the Smith grunted acknowledgment, “and there has been another unexpected development . . .”

Fandarel nodded toward the fire lizard on Kylara's arm. “I was told about them. There are many ways to fight Thread, of course, but not all are efficient. The merits of such creatures remain to be seen.”

“The merits—” Kylara began, ready to explode with outrage.

Robinton the Harper was beside her, whispering in her ear.

Grateful to Robinton, F'lar turned to attend the Smith, who had stepped to the door, obviously wanting the dragonmen to accompany him. F'lar was reluctant to see the distance-writer. It wouldn't receive the attention it deserved from the Lords or the people or the riders. The distance-writer made so much more sense in this emergency than unreliable lizards. And yet, if they did eat Thread . . .

He paused on the threshold, looking back toward Kylara and the Harper. Robinton looked directly at him.

Almost as if the Harper read his mind, F'lar saw him smile winningly down at Kylara (though F'lar knew the man detested her).

“F'lar, do you think it's wise for Kylara to go out into that mob? They'll scare the lizard,” said the Harper.

“But I'm hungry—” Kylara protested. “And there's music—” as the nearby thrum of a gitar was plainly audible.

“That sounds like Tagetarl,” Robinton said, with a bright grin. “I'll call him in and send you choice victuals from the kitchen. Far better than struggling with that noisome rabble out there, I assure you.” He handed her to a chair with great courtesy, motioning behind his back to F'lar to leave.

As they stepped out into the bright sunlight, the crowd swirling noisily around them, F'lar saw the merry-faced young man, gitar in hand, who had answered the Harper's whistle. Undoubtedly Robinton would be free to join them in a few moments if he read matters rightly. The young journeyman would definitely appeal to Kylara's—ah—nature.

Fandarel had set up his equipment in the far corner of the Court, where the outside wall abutted the cliff-Hold, a dragonlength from the stairs. Three men were perched atop the wall, carefully handing something down to the group working on the apparatus. As the Weyrleaders followed Fandarel's swath through the press of bodies (the fellis blossom fragrance had long since given way to other odors), F'lar was the object of many sidelong glances and broken conversations.

“You watch, you'll see,” a young man in the colors of a minor Hold was saying in a carrying voice. “Those dragonmen won't let
us
near a clutch . . .”

“The Lord Holders, you mean,” another said. “Fancy anything trusting that Nabolese. What? Oh. Great shells!”

Now, if everyone on Pern could possess a fire lizard, wondered F'lar, would that really solve the problem?

More dragons in the sky. He glanced up and recognized T'ron's Fidranth and Mardra's queen, Loranth. He sighed. He wanted to see what Fandarel planned with his distance-writer before he had to tackle T'ron.