Dragonquest (32 page)

“You did as you should, S'goral,” F'lar told him.

“There wasn't anything else I could do,” the man insisted, as if he could not rid himself of some lingering feeling of guilt.

“We were lucky you were there at all,” Lessa said. “We might never have known where Kylara was.”

“What I want to know is what's going to happen to her—now?” A hard vindictiveness replaced the half-shame, half-guilt in the rider's face.

“Isn't loss of a dragon enough?” T'bor roused himself to ask.

“Brekke lost her dragon, too,” S'goral retorted angrily, “and she was doing what she should!”

“Nothing can be decided in heat or hatred, S'goral,” F'lar said, rising to his feet. “We've no precedents—” He broke off, turning to D'ram and G'narish. “Not in our time, at least.”

“Nothing should be decided in heat or hatred,” D'ram echoed, “but there were such incidents in our time.” Unaccountably he flushed “We'd better assign some bronzes here, F'lar. The High Reaches men and beasts may not be fit tomorrow. And with Thread falling every day, no Weyr can be allowed to relax its vigilance. For anything.”

 

CHAPTER XIII

 

Night at Fort Weyr:
Six Days Later

 

 

 

R
OBINTON
was weary, with fatigue of the heart and mind that did not lift to the thrill the Masterharper usually experienced on dragonback. In fact, he almost wished he'd not had to come to Fort Weyr tonight These past six days, with everyone reacting in varying ways to the tragedy at High Reaches, had been very difficult. (Must the High Reaches always push the knottiest problems on Pern?) In a way, Robinton wished that they could have put off this Red Star viewing until minds and eyes had cleared and were ready for this challenge. And yet, perhaps the best solution was to press this proposed expedition to the Red Star as far and as fast as possible—as an anodyne to the depression that had followed the deaths of the two queens. Robinton knew that F'lar wanted to prove to the Lord Holders that the dragonmen were in earnest in their desire to clear the air of Thread, but for once, the Masterharper found himself without a private opinion. He did not know if F'lar was wise in pushing the issue, particularly now. Particularly when the Benden Weyrleader wasn't recovered from T'ron's slash. When no one was sure how T'kul was managing in Southern Weyr or if the man intended to
stay
there. When all Pern was staggered by the battle and deaths of the two queens. The people had enough to rationalize, had enough to do with the vagaries of Threadfall complicating the seasonal mechanics of plowing and seeding. Leave the attack of the Red Star until another time.

Other dragons were arriving at Fort Weyr and the brown on which Robinton rode took his place in the circling pattern. They'd be landing on the Star Stones where Wansor, Fandarel's glassman, had set up the distance-viewer.

“Have you had a chance to look through this device?” Robinton asked the brown's rider.

“Me? Hardly, Masterharper. Everyone else wants to. It'll stay there until I've had my turn, I daresay.”

“Has Wansor mounted it permanently at Fort Weyr?”

“It was discovered at Fort Weyr,” the rider replied, a little defensively. “Fort's the oldest Weyr, you know. P'zar feels it should stay at Fort. And the Mastersmith, he agrees. His man Wansor keeps saying that there may be good reason. Something to do with elevation and angles and the altitude of Fort Weyr mountains. I didn't understand.”

No more do I, Robinton thought. But he intended to. He was in agreement with Fandarel and Terry that there should be an interchange of knowledge between Crafts. Indisputably, Pern had lost many of the bemoaned techniques due to Craft jealousy. Lose a Craftmaster early, before he had transmitted all the Craft secrets, and a vital piece of information was lost forever. Not that Robinton, nor his predecessor, had ever espoused that ridiculous prerogative. There were five senior harpers who knew everything that Robinton did and three promising journeymen studying diligently to increase the safety factor.

It was one matter to keep dangerous secrets privy, quite another to guard Craft skills to extinction.

The brown dragon landed on the ridge height of Fort Weyr and Robinton slid down the soft shoulder. He thanked the beast. The brown rose a half-length from the landing and then seemed to drop off the side of the cliff, down into the Bowl, making room for someone else to land.

Glows had been set on the narrow crown of the height, leading toward the massive Star Stones, their black bulk silhouetted against the lighter night sky. Among those gathered there, Robinton could distinguish the Mastersmith's huge figure, Wansor's pear-shaped and Lessa's slender one.

On the largest and flattest rock of the Star Stones, Robinton saw the tripod arrangement on which the long barrel of the distance-viewer had been mounted. At first glance he was disappointed by its simplicity, a fat, round cylinder, with a smaller pipe attached to its side. Then it amused him. The Smith must be tortured with the yearning to dismantle the instrument and examine the principles of its simple efficiency.

“Robinton, how are you this evening?” Lessa asked, coming toward him, one hand outstretched.

He gripped it, her soft skin smooth under the calluses of his fingers.

“Pondering the elements of efficiency,” he countered, keeping his voice light. But he couldn't keep from asking after Brekke and he felt Lessa's fingers tremble in his.

“She does as well as can be expected. F'nor insisted that we bring her to his weyr. The man's emotionally attached to her—far more than gratitude for any nursing. Between him, Manora and Mirrim, she is never alone.”

“And—Kylara?”

Lessa pulled her hand from his. “She lives!”

Robinton said nothing and, after a moment, Lessa went on. “We don't like losing Brekke as a Weyrwoman—” She paused and added, her voice a little harsher, “And since it is now obvious that a person can Impress more than once, and more than one dragonkind, Brekke will be presented as a candidate when the Benden eggs Hatch. Which should be soon.”

“I perceive,” Robinton said, cautiously choosing his words, “that not everyone favors this departure from custom.”

Although he couldn't see her face in the darkness, he felt her eyes on him.

“This time it's not the Oldtimers. I suppose they're so sure she can't re-Impress, they're indifferent”

“Who then?”

“F'nor and Manora oppose it violently.”

“And Brekke?”

Lessa gave an impatient snort. “Brekke says nothing. She will not even open her eyes. She can't be sleeping all the time. The lizards and the dragons tell us she's awake. You see,” and Lessa's exasperation showed through her tight control for she was more worried about Brekke than she'd admit even to herself, “Brekke can hear any dragon. Like me. She's the only other Weyrwoman who can. And all the dragons listen to her.” Lessa moved restlessly and Robinton could see her slender white hands rubbing against her thighs in unconscious agitation.

“Surely that's an advantage if she's suicidal?”

“Brekke is not—not actively suicidal. She's craftbred, you know,” Lessa said in a flat, disapproving tone of voice.

“No, I didn't know,” Robinton murmured encouragingly after a pause. He was thinking that Lessa wouldn't ever contemplate suicide in a similar circumstance and wondered what Brekke's “breeding” had to do with a suicidal aptitude.

“That's her trouble. She can't actively seek death so she just lies there. I have this incredible urge,” and Lessa bunched her fists, “to beat or pinch or slap her—anything to get some response from the girl. It's not the end of the world, after all. She
can
hear other dragons. She's not bereft of all contact with dragonkind, like Lytol.”

“She must have time to recover from the shock . . .”

“I know, I know,” Lessa said irritably, “but we don't
have
time. We can't get her to realize that it's better to do things . . .”

“Lessa . . .”

“Don't you ‘Lessa' me too, Robinton.” In the reflection of the glow lights, the Weyrwoman's eyes gleamed angrily. “F'nor's as daft as a weyrling, Manora's beside herself with worry for them both, Mirrim spends more of her time weeping which upsets the trio of lizards she's got and
that
sets off all the babes and the weyrlings. And, on top of everything else, F'lar . . .”

“F'lar?” Robinton had bent close to her so that no one else might hear her reply.

“He is feverish. He ought never to have come to High Reaches with that open wound. You know what cold
between
does to wounds!”

“I'd hoped he'd be here tonight”

Lessa's laugh was sour. “I dosed his
klah
when he wasn't looking.”

Robinton chuckled. “And stuffed him with mosstea, I'll bet.”

“Packed the wound with it, too.”

“He's a strong man, Lessa. He'll be all right”

“He'd better be. If only F'nor—” and Lessa broke off. “I sound like a wherry, don't I?” She gave a sigh and smiled up at Robinton.

“Not a bit, my dear Lessa, I assure you. However, it's not as if Benden were inadequately represented,” and he executed a little bow which, if she shrugged it off, at least made her laugh. “In fact,” he went on, “I'm a trifle relieved that F'lar isn't here, railing at anything that keeps him from blotting out any Thread he happens to see in that contraption.”

“True enough.” And Robinton caught the edge to her voice. “I'm not sure . . .”

She didn't finish her sentence and turned so swiftly to mark the landing of another dragon that Robinton was certain she was at odds with F'lar's wishing to push a move against the Red Star.

Suddenly she stiffened, drawing in her breath sharply.

“Meron! What does he think he's doing here?”

“Easy, Lessa. I don't like him around any better than you, but I'd rather keep him in sight, if you know what I mean.”

“But he's got no influence on the other Lords . . .”

Robinton gave a harsh laugh. “My dear Weyrwoman, considering the influence he's been exerting in other areas, he doesn't need the Lords' support.”

Robinton did wonder at the gall of the man, appearing in public anywhere a, scant six days after he'd been involved in the deaths of two queen dragons.

The Lord Holder of Nabol strode insolently to the focal point of the gathering, his bronze fire lizard perched on his forearm, its wings extended as it fought to maintain its balance. The little creature began to hiss as it became aware of the antagonism directed at Meron.

“And this—this innocuous tube is the incredible instrument that will show us the Red Star?” Meron of Nabol asked scathingly.

“Don't touch it, I beg of you.” Wansor jumped forward, intercepting Nabol's hand.

“What did you say?” The lizard's hiss was no less sibilantly menacing than Meron's tone. The Lord's thin features, contorted with indignation, took on an added malevolence from the glow lights.

Fandarel stepped out of the darkness to his craftsman's side. “The instrument is positioned for the viewing. To move it would destroy the careful work of some hours.”

“If it is positioned for viewing, then let us view!” Nabol said and, after staring belligerently around the circle, stepped past Wansor. “Well? What do you do with this thing?”

Wansor glanced questioningly at the big Smith, who made a slight movement of his head, excusing him. Wansor gratefully stepped back and let Fandarel preside. With two gnarled fingers the Smith delicately held the small round protuberance at the of the smaller cylinder.

“This is the eyepiece. Put your best seeing eye to it,” he told Meron.

The lack of any courteous title was not lost on the Nabolese Plainly he wanted to reprimand the Smith. Had Wansor spoken so, he would have hesitated a second, Robinton thought.

Meron's lips slid into a sneer and, with a bit of a swagger he took the final step to the distance-viewer. Bending forward slightly, he laid his eye to the proper place. And jerked his body back hastily, his face wearing a fleeting expression of shock and terror, He laughed uneasily and than took a second, longer look. Far too long a look to Robinton's mind.

“If there is any lack of definition in the image, Lord Meron—” Wansor began tentatively.

“Shut up!” Gesturing him away impatiently, Meron continued his deliberate monopoly of the instrument.

“That will be enough, Meron,” Groghe, Lord of Fort said as the others began to stir restlessly. “You've had more than your turn this round. Move away. Let others see.”

Meron stared insolently at Groghe for a moment and then looked back into the eyepiece.

“Very interesting. Very interesting.” he said, his tone oily with amusement.

That is quite enough, Meron,” Lessa said, striding to the instrument. The man could not be allowed any privilege.

He regarded her as he might a body insect, coldly and mockingly.

“Enough of what—Weyrwoman?” And his tone made the title a vulgar epithet. In fact, his pose exuded such a lewd familiarity that Robinton found he was clenching his fists. He had an insane desire to wipe that look from Meron's face and change the arrangement of the features in the process.

The Mastersmith, however, reacted mere quickly. His two great hands secured Meron's arms to his sides and, in a fluid movement, Fandarel picked the Nabolese Lord up, the man's feet dangling a full dragonfoot above the rock, and carried him as far away from the Star Stones as the ledge permitted. Fandarel then set Meron down so hard that the man gave a startled exclamation of pain and staggered before he gained his balance. The little lizard screeched around his head

“My lady,” the Mastersmith inclined his upper body toward Lessa and gestured with great courtesy for her to take her place.

Lessa had to stand on tiptoe to reach the eyepiece, silently wishing someone had taken into account that not all the viewers this evening were tall. The instant the image of the Red Star reached her brain, such trivial annoyance evaporated. There was the Red Star, seemingly no farther away than her arm could reach. It swam, a many-hued globe, like a child's miggsy, in a lush black background. Odd whitish-pink masses must be clouds. Startling to think that the Red Star could possess clouds—like Pern. Where the cover was pierced, she could see grayish masses, a lively gray with glints and sparkles. The ends of the slightly ovoid planet were completely white, but devoid of the cloud cover. Like the great icecaps of northern regions of Pern. Darker masses punctuated the grays. Land? Or seas?

Involuntarily Lessa moved her head, to glance up at the round mark of redness in the night sky that was this child's toy through the magic of the distance-viewer. Then, before anyone might think she'd relinquished the instrument, she looked back through the eyepiece. Incredible. Unsettling. If the gray was land—how could they possibly rid it of Thread? If the darker masses were land . . .