Dragonquest (28 page)

“But they can perpetuate their grievances . . .”

“Lessa, how many queens went?”

“Loranth, the Weyr queen at High Reaches and the other two . . . Oh!”

“Yes. All old queens, well past their prime. I doubt Loranth will rise more than once. The clutches at High Reaches have produced only one queen since they came forward. And the young queen, Segrith, stayed, didn't she, with Pilgra?”

Lessa nodded and suddenly her face cleared. She eyed him with growing exasperation. “Anyone would think you've been planning this for Turns.”

“Then anyone could call me a triple fool for underestimating T'ron, closing my mind to the facts in front of me and defying fortune. What's the mood among Holders and crafters?”

“Relief,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I admit the laughter has a slightly hysterical tinge, but Lytol and Robinton were right. Pern will follow Benden . . .”

“Yes, until my first mistake!”

She grinned mischievously at him, waggling a finger under his nose. “Ah-ha, but you're not allowed to make mistakes, Benden. Not while . . .”

He caught her hand, pulling her into the crook of his arm, disregarding the stabbing pain at his waist for the triumph of her instant response, the surrender in her slender body. “Not while I have
you.”
The words came out in a whisper, and because he couldn't express his gratitude to her, his pride in her, his joy of her any other way, he sought her lips, held them in a long, passionate kiss.

She gave a languorous sigh when he finally released her. He laughed down at her closed eyes, kissing them, too. She struggled to a sitting position and, with another reluctant sigh, rose determinedly to her feet.

“Yes, Pern will follow you, and your loyal advisers will keep you from making mistakes, but I do hope you've an answer for pop-eyed old Lord Groghe!”

“Answer for Groghe?”

“Yes,” and she gave him a stern look, “though I'm not surprised you've forgotten. He was going to demand that the dragonmen of Pern go directly to the Red Star and put an end to Thread forever.”

F'lar got slowly to his feet.

“I've always said that you solve one problem and five more appear from
between.”

“Well, I think we've contrived to keep Groghe away from you tonight, but we promised to have a joint meeting of Hold and Craft at Benden Weyr tomorrow morning.”

“That's a blessing.”

In the act of opening the door, he hesitated and groaned again.

“Isn't the numbweed helping?”

“Not me. It's Fandarel. Between fire lizards, Threads and T'ron, I can't face him.”

“Oh, him!” Lessa pulled the door open, grinning up at her Weyrmate. “He's already deep in plans to bury, coat or thicken those ungrateful wires. He's planning installations with every Lord Holder and Craft. Wansor's dancing like a suncrazed wherry to get his hands on the distance-viewer, all the time wailing that he needn't've dismantled the first apparatus.” She tucked her arm in his, lengthening her stride to match his. “The man who's really put out is Robinton.”

“Robinton?”

“Yes. He'd composed the most marvelous ballad and teaching songs and now there's no reason to play them.”

Whether Lessa had deliberately saved that until now, F'lar didn't know, but they crossed the courtyard, laughing, though it hurt his side.

Their passage would have been noted anyhow, but their smiling faces subtly reassured the diners seated at the makeshift tables about the yard. And suddenly F'lar felt there was indeed something to celebrate.

 

CHAPTER XI

 

Early Morning at Benden Weyr

 

 

 

“I
WISH
you'd give me fair warning the next time you rearrange the social and political structure of this planet,” F'nor told his half-brother when he strode into the queen's weyr at Benden the next morning. There wasn't, of course, a trace of resentment on his tanned, grinning face. “Who's where now?”

“T'bor is Weyrleader at the High Reaches with Kylara as Weyrwoman . . .”

“Kylara at High Reaches?” F'nor looked dubious but F'lar waved aside his half-born protest.

“Yes, there are disadvantages to that, of course. All but fourteen of the folk at High Reaches Weyr went with T'kul and Merika. Most of the Fort Weyr people wanted to stay . . .”

F'nor chuckled nastily. “Bet that was hard for Mardra to swallow.” He looked expectantly at Lessa, knowing how often his Weyrwoman had mastered resentment and indignation at Mardra's hands. Lessa returned his gaze with polite unconcern.

“So P'zar is acting Weyrleader until a queen rises . . .”

“Any chance of making that an open flight for any bronze?”

“That is my intention,” F'lar replied. “However, I think the biggest of the modern bronzes had better be conspicuous by their absence.”

“Then why have you assigned N'ton there as Wing-second?” demanded Lessa in surprise.

F'lar grinned at his Weyrmate. “Because by the time a Fort queen rises in flight, N'ton will be known and well-liked by the Fort Weyrfolk and they won't mind. He'll be considered a Fort rider, not a Benden replacement.”

Lessa wrinkled her nose.
“He
doesn't have much choice at Fort Weyr.”

“He
is quite capable of taking care of himself,” F'lar replied with a wicked grin.

“Well, you seem to have arranged everything to your satisfaction,” F'nor remarked. “I, however, resent having been yanked out of Southern. I'd spotted a very promising clutch of fire-lizard eggs in a certain Southern cove. Not quite hard enough to move with impunity. If you had held off a few more days, I'd—” He broke off, sliding into the chair Lessa motioned him to. “Say, F'lar, what's the matter with you? You been time
-betweening
or something?”

“No, he's been knifed between his top and bottom,” Lessa answered with a sour glance at her Weyrmate. “And it is with exceptional difficulty that I can keep him in a chair. He belongs in a bed.”

F'lar waved her recriminations aside good-humoredly.

“If you're—” F'nor half-rose, his face concerned.

“If you're—” mocked F'lar, his look indicating a growing irritation with his disability and their protectiveness.

F'nor laughed, reseating himself. “And Brekke said I was a cantankerous patient. Ha! How bad is it? I heard various tales about that duel, well embroidered already, but not that you'd been clipped. Must it always be belt knives—for our Blood? And the other man armed with a wherry-skewer?”

“And dressed in wherhide,” Lessa added.

“Look, F'lar, Brekke has pronounced me fit to fly
between,”
and F'nor flexed his arm, fully but carefully. “I can appreciate your wanting to keep quiet about your injury, so I'll do all your popping about”

F'lar chuckled at his half-brother's eagerness. “Back a-neck and ready to go, huh? Well, resume your responsibilities then, They've changed.”

“Noticeably, O exalted one.”

F'lar frowned at that and brushed his forelock back irritably.

“Not that much. Did you see T'kul when he arrived from High Reaches at Southern?”

“No, nor did I want to. I
heard
him.” F'nor's right hand clenched. “The fighting wings had already gone to join you at Igen for the Threadfall. T'kul ordered everyone, including the wounded, out of Southern in an hour's time. What they couldn't pack and take, he confiscated. He made it clear that the southern continent was his to have and hold. That his sweepriders were challenging any dragon and would flame them down like Thread if they didn't get the proper response. Some of those Oldtimer dragons are stupid enough to do it, too.” F'nor paused. “You know, I've been noticing lately . . .”

“Did the Fort Weyr people arrive?”

“Yes, and Brekke checked T'ron to be sure he'd survived the trip.” F'nor scowled.

“He'll live?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Good. Now, I rather suspected that T'kul would react in that fashion. To be sure we've all of Igen, Ista and Southern Boll as breeding ground for fire lizards, but I want you to get Manora to rig you something for those other lizard eggs you found and bring them back here. We need every one we can find. Where's your little queen? They go back to their first feeding place, you know . . .”

“Grall? She's with Canth, of course. She heard Ramoth grumbling on the Hatching Ground.”

“Hmm, yes. Fortunately, those eggs'll hatch soon.”

“Going to invite all Pern's notables as you did before the Oldtimers got stuffy?”

“Yes,” F'lar replied so emphatically that F'nor pretended alarm. “That courtesy did more good than harm. It'll be standard procedure at all the Weyrs now.”

“And you've talked the Leaders into assigning riders to Hold and Hall?” F'nor's eyes gleamed when F'lar nodded.

“Can you slip through whatever patrol T'kul has mounted in Southern?” F'lar asked.

“No problem. There isn't a bronze there that Canth can't outfly. Which reminds me . . .”

“Good. I've two errands for you. Pick up those fire-lizard eggs and, do you remember the coordinates for the Threadfall in the western swamp?”

“Of course, but I wanted to ask you . . .”

“You saw the grub life in the soil there?”

“Yes . . .”

“Ask Manora for a tightly covered pot I want you to bring me back as many of those grubs as you can. Not a pleasant job, I know, but I can't go myself and I don't want this—ah—project discussed.”

“Grubs? A project?”

Mnementh bellowed a welcome.

“I'll explain later,” F'lar said, gesturing toward the weyr entrance.

F'nor shrugged as he rose. “I'll fly the hazard, O inscrutable one!” Then he laughed as F'lar glared at him in angry reproach. “Sorry. Like the rest of Pern—the north, that is—I trust you.” He gave them both a jaunty salute and left.

“The day F'nor doesn't tease you I'll start to worry,” Lessa said, encircling his neck with her arms. She laid her cheek against his for an instant. “It's T'bor,” she added, moving away just as the new High Reaches Weyrleader strode in.

The man looked as if he hadn't slept enough but he carried his shoulders back and his head high which made the Benden Weyrleader more aware of the worried and wary expression on his face.

“Kylara's—” F'lar began, remembering that she and Meron had been gabbling together all the last night.

“Not Kylara. It's that T'kul who thought himself such a great Weyrleader,” T'bor said with utter disgust. “As soon as we brought our people up from Southern, I had the wings do a sweep check, really more to familiarize themselves with the coordinates than anything else. By the first Egg, I don't like seeing anyone run from dragonmen. Run. And hide!” T'bor sat down, automatically taking the cup of
klah
Lessa handed him. “There wasn't a watch fire or a watchman. But plenty of burn sign. I don't see how that much Thread could have got through. Not even if smokeless weyrlings were riding the sweep. So I dropped down to Tillek Hold and asked to see Lord Oterel.” T'bor gave a low whistle. “That was some greeting I got, I want to tell you. I nearly had an arrow through my belly before I convinced the guard captain that I wasn't T'kul. That I was T'bor and there'd been a change of Leaders at the Weyr.”

T'bor took a deep breath. “It took time to calm Lord Holder Oterel down to the point where I could tell him what had happened. And it seemed to me,” and the Southerner looked nervously first at Lessa and then at F'lar, “that the only way to restore his confidence was to leave him a dragon. So—I left him a bronze and stationed two greens in those minor Holds along the Bay. I also left weyrlings at vantage heights along the Tillek Hold range. Then I asked Lord Oterel to accompany me to Lord Bargen's Hold at High Reaches. I'd a good idea I might not get past
his
guard at all. Now, we'd six eggs left over from that clutch Toric of the Seahold unearthed and so—I gave two each to the Lords and two to the Master-fisherman. It seemed the only thing to do. They'd heard Lord Meron had one—at Nabol Hold.” T'bor straightened his shoulders as if to endure F'lar's opprobrium.

“You did the right thing, T'bor,” F'lar told him heartily. “You did exactly the right thing. You couldn't have done better!”

“To assign riders to a Hold and a Craft?”

“There'll be riders in all Holds and Crafts before the morning's over,” F'lar grinned at him.

“And D'ram and G'narish haven't objected?” T'bor glanced at Lessa, incredulous.

“Well,” Lessa began, and was saved from answering by the arrival of the other Weyrleaders.

D'ram, G'narish and the Wing-second from Telgar Weyr entered first, with P'zar, the acting Weyrleader from Fort, very close behind them. The Telgar Weyr Wing-second introduced himself as M'rek, Zigeth's rider. He was a lanky, mournful-looking man, with sandy hair, about F'lar's age. As they settled themselves at the big table, F'lar tried to read D'ram's mood. He was the crucial one still, the oldest of the remaining Oldtimers and, if he'd cooled down from the stimulus of yesterday's tumultuous events and had changed his mind after sleeping, the proposal F'lar was about to suggest might die a-hatching. F'lar stretched his long legs under the table, trying to make himself comfortable.

“I asked you here early because we had little chance to talk last night, M'rek, how's R'mart?”

“He rests easily at Telgar Hold, thanks to the riders from Ista and Igen.” M'rek nodded gravely to D'ram and G'narish.

“How many at Telgar Weyr wish to go south?”

“About ten, but they're old riders. Do more harm than good, feeding nonsense to the weyrlings. Speaking of nonsense, Bedella came back from Telgar Hold with some mighty confusing stories. About us going to the Red Star and fire lizards and talking wires. I told her to keep quiet. Telgar Weyr's in no shape to listen to that kind of rumor.”

D'ram snorted and F'lar looked at him quickly, but the Istan leader's head was turned toward M'rek. F'lar caught Lessa's eye and nodded imperceptibly.

“There
was
talk about an expedition to the Red Star,” F'lar replied in a casual tone. Apprehension made the Telgar Weyr man's face more mournful than ever. “But there're more immediate undertakings.” F'lar straightened cautiously. He couldn't get comfortable. “And the Lord Holders and other craftsmen will be here soon to discuss them. D'ram, tell me frankly, do you object to placing riders in Holds and Crafthalls while we can't pattern Thread—that is, until we can find another reliable form of quick communication?”

“No, F'lar, I've no objections,” the Istan Weyrleader replied, slowly, not looking at anyone. “After yesterday—” He stopped and, turning his head, looked at F'lar with troubled eyes. “Yesterday, I think I finally realized just how big Pern is and how narrow a man can get, worrying so much about what he ought to have, forgetting what he's got. And what he's got to do. Times have changed. I can't say I like it. Pern had got so big—and we Oldtimers kept trying to make it small again because, I guess, we were a little scared at all that had happened. Remember it took us just four days to come forward four hundred Turns. That's too much time—too much to sink into a man's thinking.” D'ram was nodding his head in unconscious emphasis. “I think we've clung to the old ways because everything we saw, from those great, huge hour-long sweeps of forests to hundreds and hundreds of new Holds and Crafthalls was familiar and yet—so different. T'ron was a good man, F'lar. I don't say I knew him well. None of us ever really got to know each other, you know, keeping to our Weyrs mostly and resting between Threadfalls. But all dragonmen are—are dragonmen. For a dragonman to go to
kill
another one—” D'ram shook his head slowly from side to side. “You could've killed
him.”
D'ram looked F'lar straight in the eye. “You didn't. You fought Thread over Igen Hold. And don't think I didn't know T'ron's knife got you.”

F'lar began to relax.

“Nearly made two of me, in fact.”

D'ram gave another one of his snorts but the slight smile on his face as he leaned back in his chair indicated his approval of F'lar.

Mnementh remarked to his rider that everyone was arriving at once. A bigger ledge was needed. F'lar swore softly to himself. He'd counted on more time. He couldn't jeopardize the fragile new accord with D'ram by springing distasteful innovations on the man.

“I don't believe the Weyrs can remain autonomous these days,” F'lar said, discarding all the ringing, smooth words he'd been rehearsing. “We nearly lost Pern seven Turns ago because dragonmen lost touch with the rest of the world; we've seen what happens when dragonman loses touch with dragonman. We need open mating flights, the exchange of bronzes and queens between Weyrs to strengthen Blood and improve the breed. We need to rotate the wings so riders get to know each other's Weyrs and territories. A man grows stale, careless, riding over ground he knows too well. We need public Impressions . . .”

They could all hear the rumble of greetings and the scuffling of heavy boots in the corridor.