Dragonquest (5 page)

“I'll say this now, Benden,” T'ron continued. “The next time you elect to drag us all out of our Weyrs suddenly, you apply to me first. Fort's the oldest Weyr on Pern. Don't just irresponsibly send messengers out to everyone.”

“I don't see that F'lar acted irresponsibly,” G'narish said, evidently surprised by T'ron's attitude. G'narish was a stocky young man, some Turns F'lar's junior and the youngest of the Weyrleaders to come forward in time. “Any Weyrleader can call a joint meeting if circumstances warrant it. And these do!” G'narish emphasized this with a curt nod, adding when he saw the Fort Weyrleader scowling at him, “Well, they do.”

“Your rider was the aggressor, T'ron,” D'ram said in a stern voice. He was a rangy man, getting stringy with age, but his astonishing shock of red hair was only lightly grizzled at the temples. “F'lar's within his rights.”

“You had the choice of time and place, T'ron,” F'lar pointed out, all deference.

T'ron's scowl deepened.

“Wish Telgar'd get here,” he said in a low, irritated tone.

“Have some wine, F'lar?” T'bor suggested, an almost malicious smile playing on his lips for T'ron ought to have offered immediately. “Of course, it's not Benden Hold wine, but not bad. Not bad.”

F'lar gave T'bor a long warning look as he took the proffered cup. But the Southern Weyrleader was watching to see how T'ron reacted. Benden Hold did not tithe of its famous wines as generously to the other Weyrs as it did to the one which protected its lands.

“When are we going to taste some of those Southern Weyr wines you've been bragging about, T'bor?” G'narish asked, instinctively trying to ease the growing tensions.

“Of course, we're entering our fall season now,” T'bor said, making it seem that Fort was to blame for the chill outside—and inside—the Weyr. “However, we expect to start pressing soon. We'll distribute what we can spare to you northerners.”

“What do you mean? What you can spare?” T'ron asked, staring hard at T'bor.

“Well, Southern plays nurse to every wounded dragonrider. We need sufficient on hand to drown their sorrows adequately. Southern Weyr supports itself, you must remember.”

F'lar stepped on T'bor's booted foot as he turned to D'ram and inquired of the Istan Weyrleader how the last Laying had gone.

“Very well, thanks,” D'ram replied pleasantly, but F'lar knew the older man did not like the mood that was developing. “Fauna's Mirath laid twenty-five and I'll warrant we've half a dozen bronzes in the clutch.”

“Ista's bronzes are the fastest on Pern,” F'lar said gravely. When he heard T'bor stirring restlessly beside him, he reached swiftly to Mnementh with a silent
“Ask Orth to please tell T'bor to speak with great thought for the consequences. D'ram and G'narish must not be antagonized.”
Out loud he said, “A weyr can never have too many good bronzes. If only to keep the queens happy.” He leaned back, watching T'bor out of the corner of his eye to catch his reaction when the dragons completed the message relay. T'bor gave a sudden slight jerk, then shrugged, his glance shifting from D'ram to T'ron and back to F'lar. He looked more rebellious than cooperative. F'lar turned back to D'ram. “If you need some likely prospects for any green dragons, there's a boy . . .”

“D'ram follows tradition, Benden,” T'ron cut in. “Weyrbred is best for dragonkind. Particularly for greens.”

“Oh?” T'bor glared with malicious intent at T'ron.

D'ram cleared his throat hastily and said in a too loud voice, “As it happens, we've a good group of likely boys in our Lower Caverns. The last Impression at G'narish's Weyr left him with a few he has offered to place at Ista Weyr. So I thank you kindly, F'lar. Generous indeed when you've eggs hardening at Benden too. And a queen, I hear?”

D'ram exhibited no trace of envy for another queen egg at Benden Weyr. And Fauna's Mirath hadn't produced a single golden egg since she'd come time
between.

“We all know Benden's generosity,” T'ron said in a sneering tone, his eyes flicking around the room, everywhere but at F'lar. “He extends help everywhere. And interferes when it isn't needed.”

“I don't call what happened at the Smithhall interference,” D'ram said, his face assuming grave lines.

“I thought we were going to wait for T'kul and R'mart,” G'narish said, glancing anxiously up the passageway.

So, F'lar mused, D'ram and G'narish are upset by today's events.

“T'kul's better known for the meetings he misses than the ones he attends,” T'bor remarked.

“R'mart always comes,” G'narish said.

“Well, they're neither of them here. And I'm not waiting on their pleasure any longer,” T'ron announced, rising.

“Then you'd better call in B'naj and T'reb,” D'ram suggested with a heavy sigh.

“They're in no condition to attend a meeting.” T'ron seemed surprised at D'ram's request. “Their dragons only returned from flight at sunset.”

D'ram stared at T'ron. “Then why did you call the meeting for tonight?”

“At F'lar's insistence.”

T'bor rose to protest before F'lar could stop him, but D'ram waved him to be seated and sternly reminded T'ron that the Fort Weyrleader had set the time, not F'lar of Benden.

“Look, we're here now,” T'bor said, banging his fist on the table irritably. “Let's get on with it. It's full night in Southern Weyr. I'd like . . .”

“I conduct the Fort Weyr meetings, Southern,” T'ron said in a loud, firm voice, although the effort of keeping his temper told in the flush of his face and the brightness of his eyes.

“Then conduct it,” T'bor replied. “Tell us why a green rider took his dragon out of your Weyr when she was close to heat.”

“T'reb was not aware she was that close . . .”

“Nonsense,” T'bor cut in, glaring at T'ron. “You keep telling us how much of a traditionalist you are, and how well trained your riders are. Then don't tell me a rider as old as T'reb can't estimate his beast's condition.”

F'lar began to think he didn't need an ally like T'bor.

“A green changes color rather noticeably,” G'narish said, with some reluctance, F'lar noted. “Usually a full day before she wants to fly.”

“Not in the spring,” T'ron pointed out quickly. “Not when she's off her feed from Threadscore. It can happen very quickly. Which it did.” T'ron spoke loudly, as if the volume of his explanation would bear more weight than its logic.

“That is possible,” D'ram admitted slowly, nodding his head up and down before he turned to see what F'lar thought.

“I accept that possibility,” F'lar replied, keeping his voice even. He saw T'bor open his mouth to protest and kicked the man under the table. “However, according to the testimony of Craftmaster Terry, my rider urged T'reb repeatedly to take his dragon away. T'reb persisted in his attempt to—to acquire the belt knife.”

“And you accept the word of a commoner against a rider?” T'ron leaped on F'lar's statement with a great show of surprised indignation and incredulity.

“What would a Craftmaster,” and F'lar emphasized the title, “gain by bringing false witness?”

“Those smithcrafters are the most notorious misers of Pern,” T'ron replied as if this were a personal insult. “The worst of all the crafts when it comes to parting with an honest tithe.”

“A jeweled belt knife is not a tithe item.”

“What difference does that make, Benden?” T'ron demanded.

F'lar stared back at the Fort Weyrleader. So T'ron was trying to set the blame on Terry! Then he knew that his rider had been at fault. Why couldn't he just admit it and discipline the rider? F'lar only wanted to see that there'd be no repetitions of such an incident.

“The difference is that that knife had been crafted for Lord Larad of Telgar as a gift to Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold for his wedding six days from now. The blade was not Terry's to give or withhold. It already belonged to a Lord Holder. Therefore, the rider was . . .”

“Naturally you'd take the part of your rider, Benden,” T'ron cut in with a slight, unpleasant smile on his face. “But for a rider, a Weyrleader, to take the part of a Lord Holder against dragonfolk—” and T'ron turned to D'ram and G'narish with a helpless shrug of dismay.

“If R'mart were here, you'd be—” T'bor began.

D'ram gestured at him to be quiet. “We're not discussing possession but what seems to be a grave breach of Weyr discipline,” he said in a voice that overwhelmed T'bor's protest. “However, F'lar, you do admit that a green, off her feed from Threadscore, can suddenly go into heat without warning?”

F'lar could feel T'bor urging him to deny that possibility. He knew that he had made a mistake in pointing out that the knife had been commissioned for a Lord Holder. Or in taking the part of a Holder not bound to Benden Weyr. If only R'mart had been here to speak in Lord Larad's behalf. As it was, F'lar had prejudiced his case. The incident had disturbed D'ram so much that the man was deliberately closing his eyes to fact and seeking any extenuating circumstance he could. If F'lar forced him to see the event clearly, would he prove anything to a man unwilling to believe that dragonriders could be guilty of error? Would he get D'ram to admit that Craft and Hold had privileges, too?

He took a slow deep breath to control the frustrated anger he felt. “I have to concede that it is possible a green can go into heat without warning under those conditions.” Beside him, T'bor cursed under his breath. “But for exactly that reason, T'reb ought to have known to keep his green in the Weyr.”

“But T'reb's a Fort Weyr rider,” T'bor began heatedly, jumping to his feet. “And I've been told often enough that . . .”

“You're out of order, Southern,” T'ron said in a loud voice, glaring at F'lar, not T'bor. “Can't
you
control your riders, F'lar?”

“That is quite enough, T'ron,” D'ram cried, on his feet.

As the two Oldtimers locked glances, F'lar murmured urgently to T'bor, “Can't you see he's trying to anger us? Don't lose control!”

“We're trying to settle the incident, T'ron,” D'ram continued forcefully, “not complicate it with irrelevant personalities. Since you are involved in this business, perhaps I'd better conduct the meeting. With your permission, of course, Fort.”

To F'lar's mind, that was a tacit admission that D'ram realized, however he might try to evade it, how serious the incident was. The Istan Weyrleader turned to F'lar, his brown eyes dark with concern. F'lar entertained a half hope that D'ram might have seen through T'ron's obstructiveness, but the Oldtimer's next words disabused him. “I do not agree with you, F'lar, that the Crafter acted in good part. No, let me finish. We came to the aid of your troubled time, expecting to be recompensed and supported in proper fashion, but the manner and the amount of tithing rendered the Weyrs from Hold and Craft has left much to be desired. Pern is much more productive than it was four hundred Turns ago and yet that wealth has not been reflected in the tithes. There is four times the population of our Time and much, much more cultivated land. A heavy responsibility for the Weyrs. And—” he cut himself off with a rueful laugh. “I'm digressing, too. Suffice it to say that once it was obvious a dragonrider found the knife to his liking, Terry should have gifted it him. As craftsmen used to, without any question or hesitation.

“Then,” D'ram's face brightened slightly, “T'reb and B'naj would have left before the green went into full heat, your F'nor would not have become involved in a disgraceful public brawl. Yes, it is all too plain,” and D'ram straightened his shoulders from the burden of decision, “that the first error of judgment was on the part of the craftsman.” He looked at each man, as if none of them had control over what a craftsman might do. T'bor refused to meet his eyes and ground a boot-heel noisily into the stone floor.

D'ram took another deep breath. Was he, F'lar wondered bitterly, having trouble digesting that verdict?

“We cannot, of course, permit a repetition of a green in mating heat outside her weyr. Or dragonriders in an armed duel . . .”

“There wasn't any duel!” The words seemed to explode from T'bor. “T'reb
attacked
F'nor without warning and sliced him up. F'nor never even drew his knife. That's no duel. That's an unwarranted attack . . .”

“A man whose green is in heat is unaccountable for his actions,” T'ron said, loud enough to drown T'bor out.

“A green who never should have been out of her weyr in the first place no matter how you dance around the truth, T'ron,” T'bor said, savage with frustration. “The first error in judgment was T'reb's. Not Terry's.”

“Silence!” D'ram's bellow silenced him and Loranth answered irritably from her weyr.

“That does it,” T'ron exclaimed, rising. “I'm not having my senior queen upset. You've had your meeting, Benden, and your—your grievance has been aired. This meeting is adjourned.”

“Adjourned?” G'narish echoed him in surprise. “But—but nothing's been done.” The Igen Weyrleader looked from D'ram to T'ron puzzled, worried. “And F'lar's rider was wounded. If the attack was . . .”

“How badly wounded is the man?” D'ram asked, turning quickly to F'lar.

“Now you ask!” cried T'bor.

“Fortunately,” and F'lar held T'bor's angry eyes in a stern, warning glance before turning to D'ram to answer, “the wound is not serious. He will not lose the use of the arm.”

G'narish sucked his breath in with a whistle. “I thought he'd only been scratched. I think we . . .”