Dragonsblood (36 page)

up. He made out the shape of the watch drummer, Terilar, silhouetted by

the glows from the Hall.

“What time is it?” he asked, confused. Too much wine, he thought.

“It is three hours past midnight,” Terilar replied.

No, not enough sleep, Zist thought, correcting his previous assessment.

He sat up and rubbed his hair back.

“It’s a message from Harper Kindan,” Terilar said. “He asks if you would

trade him news about the Weyrs.”

The Masterharper of Pern looked up sharply at the drummer, who seemed

nonplussed by his sudden keen look.

Zist rose, turning the glow over beside his bed. “Have someone rouse

Master Jofri, Master Verilan, and Master Kelsa,” Zist ordered. “And please

ask someone to bring us up some
klah,
if there’s any still hot.”

“Very well,” Terilar said, dashing away.

“So, Kindan wants to trade, does he?” Zist muttered to himself, mostly to

hear a voice in the middle of the night. Masterharper Zist appreciated his

ex-apprentice’s choice of words. It was clear from Terilar’s look that the

drummer hadn’t taken any deeper meaning from Kindan’s message, just as

it was clear to Zist that if Kindan “wanted to trade,” he didn’t know what was

going on with the other Weyrs himself. And that meant that the Weyrleaders

were being more close-mouthed than he had thought.

“You woke us up in the middle of the night to tell us that Kindan wants to

trade?” Kelsa demanded as the rest of the harpers gathered in the

Masterharper’s office. Her words ended abruptly in a great yawn. She

glared at the Masterharper, gripped her mug of
klah
tightly, and took a long

drink.

“I’ve got classes to teach in the morning, you know,” she added.

“This
is
morning,” Verilan added with a yawn of his own. He frowned

thoughtfully at the Masterharper. “And you wouldn’t have woken us without a

reason,” he added, “which means that Journeyman Kindan’s message has

more meaning to you than I’m getting from it.” He narrowed his eyes.

“Which is what you wanted to know—whether others could discern that

message.”

“Well, I can’t,” Kelsa said. She glanced at Jofri. “You taught the lad, I

suppose you know.”

“I do,” Jofri agreed, nodding. He looked at the Masterharper for permission,

and explained, “Kindan’s message makes it plain that he doesn’t know

what’s going on with the other Weyrs, at least not in detail.”

Verilan nodded slowly, as comprehension dawned. “The Weyrs aren’t

talking to each other,” he surmised.

“But they can relay messages telepathically from dragon to dragon!” Kelsa

protested.

“It’s not the same as a face-to-face meeting,” Jofri told her. “You’d have to

know exactly what you want to ask.”

“And the questions could easily be misinterpreted,” Verilan said. When

Kelsa looked at him inquiringly, he expanded, “Such as how many dragons

did you lose, which some Weyrleaders might take to be criticism of their

abilities.”

“Exactly,” Master Zist said. “So it’s up to us to find out more.”

“Very well, but what do
I
or Verilan have to do with that?” Kelsa demanded.

“I’m supposed to tell Master Zist what I’ve found in the Archives about sick

dragons or fire-lizards,” Verilan predicted. Master Zist nodded in

agreement. The Master Archivist made a face. “Sadly, I don’t have anything

to report. We’ve searched back over two hundred Turns and have found no

records of illnesses in either fire-lizards or dragons.”

“How about watch-whers?” Master Zist asked.

“We checked for all the related species,” Verilan replied, shaking his head.

“And we’ve found nothing. I have hopes that we can go all the way back to

the Records from the Crossing—most of them are in better shape, I’m sad

to relate, than those from later times.”

“More grist for the mill,” Kelsa said with a laugh. “Turns of work for your

lads, then.”

The Master Archivist shook his head. “They’d much rather be copying your

songs than dusty old Records that mean nothing to them.”

“I suspect that in the days to come, your apprentices—and all the students

at our Hall—will find their interest in preserving our old Records increasing,”

Master Zist said.

Verilan nodded in agreement. “These times do make us appreciate the

need to preserve our history.”

“So we know why
him,
” Kelsa persisted, “but why did you have to wake

me?”

Master Zist looked at her as if the reason was obvious.

“Because he needs you to figure out a song our Weyr harpers can answer

discreetly,” Verilan told her. “So that we can find out how the Weyrs are

doing.”

“That’s assuming that the Weyr harpers haven’t succumbed themselves,”

Jofri pointed out.

“Them, or their dragons?” Kelsa asked.

“It amounts to the same thing,” Master Zist replied. He added, with an

apologetic shrug toward the Master Archivist, “And while our good Archivist

here may have found nothing, I also felt that your expertise in the area of

song might possibly aid us.”

Kelsa responded with a raised eyebrow.

“Master Verilan’s apprentices may well have concentrated their efforts on

written Records,” the Masterharper explained. “But I want you, Kelsa, to

search your memory, and your library, for any songs concerning lost

fire-lizards or dragons.” It was his turn to shrug. “Who knows? Perhaps

there, in our older songs, we might find a clue.”

M’tal had scarcely got in bed when shouts from outside his quarters

disturbed him. Salina murmured in her sleep and moved away from the

noise.

The shouts grew louder as they came closer, and M’tal could make out the

words and the speaker.

“M’tal! What do you think you’re doing?” Tullea shouted as she strode

through the entrance into his quarters, thrusting aside the sleeping curtain

that he had drawn closed just moments before and allowing the dim light of

the hall glows to enter the room.

The shouts could be heard in the Records Room next door. Kindan and

Lorana both looked up, jolted out of their reading.

“What’s going on?” Lorana wondered.

“I don’t know,” Kindan answered, rising from his chair, “but it sounds like

trouble.”

Lorana frowned, then stood up and followed him to the doorway. He

gestured with a hand behind his back, telling her to stay put, as he craned

his head around the corner and cocked an ear to listen.

Tullea glared at the Weyrleader from the doorway, demanding an answer.

“I was planning on getting a good night’s rest,” the Weyrleader responded

irritably. “What have you in mind?”

Tullea stopped, thrust her hands onto her hips, and glared at him,

momentarily at a loss for words.

“You know what I mean,” she continued after a moment, her volume rising.

“You’re trying to kill B’nik! Don’t think you can wriggle out of it.”

Salina had lost her battle for sleep and sat up blearily. “Tullea? What is it?

What’s wrong with B’nik? Who’s trying to kill him?”

Tullea pointed a finger accusingly at M’tal. “He is!” she shouted. “And I’m

sure you’re in on it, too. Or do you mean to tell me that you didn’t know your

precious Weyrleader has ordered B’nik to lead the next Fall?”

Salina furrowed her brow and glanced at M’tal. She rubbed her eyes,

bringing herself more alert.

“Next Fall? B’nik?” she repeated, digesting the news. M’tal nodded in

confirmation. Salina looked up at Tullea and said, “I think that’s a good idea,

don’t you?”

“What?” Tullea cried in disgust. “If he isn’t trying to get B’nik killed, he’s

trying to discredit him in front of the whole Weyr.” She turned her attention

back to M’tal. “You’re supposed to lead the Weyr, Weyrleader.
You
fly the

Fall, do your duty.”

M’tal took a steadying breath.

“It
is
my duty to prepare the Weyr to fight Thread,” he agreed. “It is my duty

to ensure the dragonriders are trained, ready, and able to meet that threat.”

Tullea nodded, a satisfied gleam in her eyes.

M’tal continued, “It is my duty to ensure that our Wingleaders are able to do

their jobs. And it is my duty to train those Wingleaders to fight Thread in any

and all positions expected of them—including leading a Fall themselves.”

Tullea’s nostrils flared angrily. “You will not make B’nik lead the Fall!” she

shouted. “You’re trying to get him killed so that your dragon will fly Minith!”

She drew herself up to her full height. “Well, it’s not going to happen! I’ll not

let it happen, no matter what!” Her eyes darted to Salina. “And you! You’re

part of this, I can tell. Well, you’re not the Senior Weyrwoman anymore. I

want you out of my quarters immediately.”

Kindan swore. “That’s it!” he snarled, darting out of the room. Lorana, who

had not heard as clearly what had been said, followed close behind.

Salina glanced at M’tal, who touched her shoulder gently.

“Salina’s things were moved into my quarters before the last Threadfall,

Tullea,” M’tal said, tamping down his temper. “Mikkala and a crew of

weyrfolk have given it a good cleaning and were just waiting for it to finish

airing before they offered it to you.”

Tullea huffed at the news. “Why wasn’t I informed earlier?”

“I’ve been busy with the injured dragons and riders, Tullea,” Salina said in a

soft voice. “And I thought that you might not want to move in so soon

after”—her voice caught—“after Breth’s death.”

“No one knows how the illness spreads,” Kindan broke in from behind

Tullea.

The Weyrwoman whirled. “You! What are you doing here? This is a private

conversation.”

“Private conversations are not normally conducted by shouting,” Kindan

responded. “We heard you all the way in the Records Room.”

“We?” Tullea looked behind him and spotted Lorana. Her eyes narrowed.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped at Lorana. “Spying?”

“Hardly,” Lorana said. “I was coming to see if anyone needed help.”

Salina grabbed at the statement. “Perhaps some
klah
and a bite of food.”

She glanced at Tullea. “Or maybe some wine.”

“Good idea,” Kindan agreed quickly, turning to Lorana and adding in an

undertone, “Laced with fellis juice.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” Lorana answered, with a wink for Kindan.

Tullea watched her disappear with a sour look on her face. “That girl takes

far too much on herself,” she proclaimed. “When I am Weyrwoman, I’ll

order her to tend to her dragon.”

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted to oblige,” M’tal purred. “When you’re

Weyrwoman—perhaps you’d care to start now and take over the search

through the Records?”

Tullea jerked as the barb went home. “Don’t try to distract me,” she barked.

“I ordered you not to let B’nik lead the next Fall.”

As Lorana raced down the steps, still grappling with the bizarre events

above her, she ran straight into B’nik.

“Have you seen Tullea?”

“She’s up with M’tal,” Lorana answered.

B’nik groaned. “She’s not the one who’s been shouting, is she?”

Lorana could only nod. The rider swore, then gave her an apologetic shrug.

“She’s accused him of trying to get you killed,” Lorana said.

“I
told
her not to!” B’nik growled, starting up the steps. He stopped to look

back at her. “Where are you going?”

“Down to get some food and drinks,” she said.

“Make sure to put some fellis juice in her wine,” he told her, shaking his

head sadly. “When she gets worked up like this, it’s about the only thing that

calms her.”

Lorana frowned. “This has happened before? Is she all right?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” B’nik said in rapid response. Another shout

prompted him to start back up the stairs. “I’d better get going.”

When Lorana returned with a tray, B’nik deftly took the wine glass and

handed it to Tullea, who had grown quieter but no less determined.

“I don’t care,” she said. “You shouldn’t fly this Fall.”

“It’s my duty, Tullea,” B’nik said. “Besides,” he added with a grin, “I
want
to

do it.” He grabbed a mug from the tray Lorana had set down and poured

himself some
klah.

“I know you do,” Tullea snapped. She took a sip of her wine. “It’s just that, if

anything were to happen to you, particularly before Minith rises, I—” She

broke off.

B’nik hastily passed his mug to Kindan and wrapped his arms around

Tullea, drawing her into a tight embrace. The move caught her off guard

and she tipped her glass, spilling some of the wine onto his tunic.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She looked at the others, her eyes moist with

emotion. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“It’s all right, come on,” B’nik said soothingly, leading her from the room.

“It’s late—you’ll feel better in the morning.”

There was an uncomfortable pause as the others listened to their steps as

they walked down the hall back to their weyr.

“Stress does strange things to people,” Salina murmured when their steps

had faded away.

“She wasn’t like this before,” M’tal muttered, looking puzzled.

“She said she’s always tired, always edgy,” Salina commented. She looked

at Kindan. “Could it be something in her diet?”

Kindan shrugged. “K’tan would know best.” He cocked his head toward