Dragonflight (14 page)

“It is reassuring to know we have Ruatha’s loyalty as well as its full measure,” F’lar assured him. “Roads were clear?”

“Aye, and there’s a funny thing this time of year. Cold, then suddenly warm like the weather couldn’t remember the season. No snow and little rain. But winds! Like you’d never believe. They do say as how the coasts have been hit hard with high water.” He rolled his eyes expressively and then, hunching his shoulders, confidentially added, “They do say Ista’s smoking mountain that does appear and then . . .
phffst . . .
disappears . . . has appeared again.”

F’lar looked properly skeptical, although Lessa did not miss the gleam of excitement in his eyes. The man sounded like one of R’gul’s ambiguous verses.

“You must stay a few days for a good rest,” F’lar invited Tilarek genially, guiding him out past sleeping Ramoth.

“Aye and grateful. Man gets to the Weyr maybe once or twice in his life,” Tilarek was saying absently, craning his neck to keep Ramoth in sight as F’lar led him out. “Never knew queens grew so big.”

“Ramoth is already much larger and stronger than Nemorth,” F’lar assured him as he turned the messenger over to the weyrling waiting to escort him to quarters.

“Read this,” Lessa said, impatiently shoving the skin at the bronze rider as soon as they were again in the Council Room.

“I expected little else,” F’lar remarked, unconcerned, perching on the edge of the great stone table.

“And . . .?” Lessa demanded fiercely.

“Time will tell,” F’lar replied serenely, examining a fruit for spots.

“Tilarek implied that not all the holders echo their Lords’ seditious sentiments,” Lessa commented, trying to reassure herself.

F’lar snorted. “Tilarek says ‘as will please his listeners,’ ” he said in a passable imitation of the man’s speech.

“You’d better know, too,” F’nor said from the doorway, “he doesn’t speak for all his men. There was a good deal of grumbling in the escort.” F’nor accorded Lessa a courteous if absentminded salute. “It was felt that Ruatha has been too long poor to give such a share to the Weyr its first profitable Turn. And I’ll say that Lytol was more generous than he ought to be. We’ll eat well . . . for a while.”

F’lar tossed the messageskin to the brown rider.

“As if we didn’t know that,” F’nor grunted after he had quickly scanned the contents.

“If you know that, what will you do about it?” Lessa spoke up. “The Weyr is in such disrepute that the day is coming when it can’t feed its own.”

She used the phrase deliberately, noticing with satisfaction that it stung the memories of both dragonmen. The look they turned on her was almost savage. Then F’lar chuckled so that F’nor relaxed with a sour laugh.

“Well?” she demanded.

“R’gul and S’lel will undoubtedly get hungry,” F’nor said, shrugging.

“And you two?”

F’lar shrugged, too, and, rising, bowed formally to Lessa. “As Ramoth is deep asleep, Weyrwoman, your permission to withdraw.”

“Get out!” Lessa shouted at them.

They had turned, grinning at each other, when R’gul came storming into the chamber, S’lel, D’nol, T’bor, and K’net close on his heels.

“What is this I hear? That Ruatha alone of the High Reaches sends tithes?”

“True, all too true,” F’lar conceded calmly, tossing the messageskin at R’gul.

The Weyrleader scanned it, mumbling the words under his breath, frowning at its content. He passed it distastefully to S’lel, who held it for all to read.

“We fed the Weyr last year on the tithings of three Holds,” R’gul announced disdainfully.

“
Last
year,” Lessa put in, “but only because there were reserves in the supply caves. Manora has just reported that those reserves are exhausted . . .”

“Ruatha has been very generous,” F’lar put in quickly. “It should make the difference.”

Lessa hesitated a moment, thinking she hadn’t heard him right.

“Not that generous.” She rushed on, ignoring the remanding glare F’lar shot her way.

“The dragonets require more this year, anyway. So there’s only one solution. The Weyr must barter with Telgar and Fort to survive the Cold.”

Her words touched off instant rebellion.

“Barter? Never!”

“The Weyr reduced to bartering? Raid!”

“R’gul, we’ll raid first. Barter never!”

That had stung all the bronze riders to the quick. Even S’lel reacted with indignation. K’net was all but dancing, his eyes sparkling with anticipation of action.

Only F’lar remained aloof, his arms folded across his chest, glaring at her coldly.

“Raid?” R’gul’s voice rose authoritatively above the noise. “There can be no raid!”

Out of conditioned reflex to his commanding tone, they quieted momentarily.

“No raids?” T’bor and D’nol demanded in chorus.

“Why not?” D’nol went on, the veins in his neck standing out.

He was not the one, groaned Lessa to herself, trying to spot S’lar, only to remember that he was out on the training field. Occasionally he and D’nol acted together against R’gul in Council, but D’nol was not strong enough to stand alone.

Lessa glanced hopefully toward F’lar. Why didn’t he speak up now?

“I’m sick of stringy old flesh, of bad bread, of wood-tasting roots,” D’nol was shouting, thoroughly incensed. “Pern prospered this Turn. Let some spill over into the Weyr as it ought!”

T’bor, standing belligerently beside him, growled agreement, his eyes fixing on first one, then another of the silent bronze riders. Lessa caught at the hope that T’bor might act as substitute for S’lar.

“One move from the Weyr at this moment,” R’gul interrupted, his arm raised warningly, “and all the Lords will move—against us.” His arm dropped dramatically.

He stood, squarely facing the two rebels, feet slightly apart, head high, eyes flashing. He towered a head and a half above the stocky, short D’nol and the slender T’bor. The contrast was unfortunate: the tableau was of the stern patriarch reprimanding errant children.

“The roads are clear,” R’gul went on portentously, “with neither rain nor snow to stay an advancing army. The Lords have kept full guards under arms since Fax was killed.” R’gul’s head turned just slightly in F’lar’s direction. “Surely you all remember the scant hospitality we got on Search?” Now R’gul pinned each bronze rider in turn with a significant stare. “You know the temper of the Holds, you saw their strength.” He jerked his chin up. “Are you fools to antagonize them?”

“A good firestoning . . .” D’nol blurted out angrily and stopped. His rash words shocked himself as much as anyone else in the room.

Even Lessa gasped at the idea of deliberately using firestone against man.

“Something has to be done . . .” D’nol blundered on desperately, turning first to F’lar, then, less hopefully, to T’bor.

If R’gul wins, it will be the end, Lessa thought, coldly furious, and reacted, turning her thoughts toward T’bor. At Ruatha it had been easiest to sway angry men. If she could just . . . A dragon trumpeted outside.

An excruciatingly sharp pain lanced from her instep up her leg. Stunned, she staggered backward, unexpectedly falling into F’lar. He caught her arm with fingers like iron bands.

“You dare control . . .” he whispered savagely in her ear and, with false solicitude, all but slammed her down into her chair. His hand grasped her arm with vise-fingered coercion.

Swallowing convulsively against the double assault, she sat rigidly. When she could take in what had happened, she realized the moment of crisis had passed.

“Nothing
can be done at this time,” R’gul was saying forcefully.

“At this time . . .” The words ricocheted in Lessa’s ringing ears.

“The Weyr has young dragons to train. Young men to bring up in the proper Traditions.”

Empty Traditions, Lessa thought numbly, her mind seething with bitterness. And they will empty the very Weyr itself.

She glared with impotent fury at F’lar. His hand tightened warningly on her arm until his fingers pressed tendon to bone and she gasped again with pain. Through the tears that sprang to her eyes, she saw defeat and shame written on K’net’s young face. Hope flared up, renewed.

With an effort she forced herself to relax. Slowly, as if F’lar had really frightened her. Slowly enough for him to believe in her capitulation.

As soon as she could, she would get K’net aside. He was ripe for the idea she had just conceived. He was young, malleable, attracted to her anyway. He would serve her purpose admirably.

“Dragonman, avoid excess,” R’gul was intoning. “Greed will cause the Weyr distress.”

Lessa stared at the man, honestly appalled that he could clothe the Weyr’s moral defeat with hypocritical homily.

Honor those the dragons heed

In thought and favor
,
word and deed.

Worlds are lost or worlds are saved

From the dangers dragon-braved.

“W
HAT’S THE MATTER?
Noble F’lar going against tradition?” Lessa demanded of F’nor as the brown rider appeared with a courteous explanation of the wingleader’s absence.

Lessa no longer bothered to leash her tongue in F’nor’s presence. The brown rider knew it was not directed at himself, so he rarely took offense. Some of his half brother’s reserve had rubbed off on him.

His expression today, however, was not tolerant; it was sternly disapproving.

“He’s tracing K’net,” F’nor said bluntly, his dark eyes troubled. He pushed his heavy hair back from his forehead, another habit picked up from F’lar, which added fuel to Lessa’s grievance with the absent weyrman.

“Oh, is he? He’d do well to imitate him instead,” she snapped.

F’nor’s eyes flashed angrily.

Good, thought Lessa. I’m getting to him, too.

“What you do not realize, Weyrwoman, is that K’net takes your instructions too liberally. A judicious pilfering would raise no protest, but K’net is too young to be circumspect.”

“My instructions?” Lessa repeated innocently. Surely F’nor and F’lar hadn’t a shred of evidence to go on. Not that she cared. “He’s just too fed up with the whole cowardly mess!”

F’nor clamped his teeth down tightly against an angry rebuttal. He shifted his stance, clamped his hands around the wide rider’s belt until his knuckles whitened. He returned Lessa’s gaze coldly.

In that pause Lessa regretted antagonizing F’nor. He had tried to be friendly, pleasant, and had often amused her with anecdotes as she became more and more embittered. As the world turned colder, rations had gotten slimmer at the Weyr in spite of the systematic additions of K’net. Despair drifted through the Weyr on the icy winds.

Since D’nol’s abortive rebellion, all spirit had drained out of the dragonmen. Even the beasts reflected it. Diet alone would not account for the dullness of their hide and their deadened attunement. Apathy could—and did. Lessa wondered that R’gul did not rue the result of his spineless decision.

“Ramoth is not awake,” she told F’nor calmly, “so you do not need to dance attendance on
me.”

F’nor said nothing, and his continued silence began to discomfit Lessa.. She rose, rubbing her palms on her thighs as if she could erase her last hasty words. She paced back and forth, glancing from her sleeping chamber into Ramoth’s, where the golden queen, now larger than any of the bronze dragons, lay in deep slumber.

If only she would wake, Lessa thought. When she’s awake, everything’s all right. As right as it can be, that is. But she’s like a rock.

“So . . .” she began, trying to keep her nervousness out of her voice, “F’lar is at last doing something, even if it is cutting off our one source of supply.”

“Lytol sent in a message this morning,” F’nor said curtly. His anger had subsided, but not his disapproval.

Lessa turned to face him, expectantly.

“Telgar and Fort have conferred with Keroon,” F’nor went on heavily. “They’ve decided the Weyr is behind their losses. Why,” and his anger flared hot again, “if you picked K’net, didn’t you keep a close check on him? He’s too green. C’gan, T’sum,
I
would have . . .”

“You? You don’t sneeze without F’lar’s consent,” she retorted.

F’nor laughed outright at her.

“F’lar did give you more credit than you deserve,” he replied, contemptuous of his own turn. “Haven’t you realized why he must wait?”

“No,” Lessa shouted at him. “I haven’t! Is this something I must divine, by instinct, like the dragons? By the shell of the first Egg, F’nor, no one
explains
anything to me!

“But it is nice to know that he has a reason for waiting. I just hope it’s valid. That it is not too late already. Because I think it is.”

It was too late when he stopped me from reinforcing T’bor, she thought, but refrained from saying. Instead, she added, “It was too late when R’gul was too cowardly to feel the shame of . . .”

F’nor swung on her, his face white with anger. “It took more courage than you’ll ever have to watch that moment slide by.”

“Why?”

F’nor took a half step forward, so menacingly that Lessa steeled herself for a blow. He mastered the impulse, shaking his head violently to control himself.

“It is not R’gul’s fault,” he said finally, his face old and drawn, his eyes troubled and hurt. “It has been hard, hard to watch and to know you
had
to wait.”

“Why?”
Lessa all but shrieked.

F’nor would no longer be goaded. He continued in a quiet voice.

“I
thought you ought to know, but it goes against F’lar’s grain to apologize for one of his own.”

Lessa bit back the sarcastic remark that rose to her lips, lest she interrupt this long-awaited enlightenment.

“R’gul is Weyrleader only by default. He’d be well enough, I suppose, if there hadn’t been such a long Interval. The Records warn of the dangers . . .”

“Records? Dangers? What do you mean by Interval?”

“An Interval occurs when the Red Star does not pass close enough to excite the Threads. The Records indicate it takes about two hundred Turns before the Red Star swings back again. F’lar figures nearly twice that time has elapsed since the last Threads fell.”