“We shall have our charts,” Larad said, forestalling Meron, who had opened his mouth to speak, “we shall have the Dragonmen when the Threads spin. What are these additional measures? And why are they necessary?”
All eyes were on F’lar again.
“We have one Weyr where six once flew.”
“But word is that Ramoth has hatched forty more,” someone in the back of the room declared. “And why did you Search out still more of our young men?”
“Forty as yet unmatured dragons,” F’lar said aloud, privately hoping that this southern venture would still work out. There was real fear in that man’s voice. “They grow well and quickly. Just at present, while the Threads do not strike with great frequency as the Red Star begins its Pass, our Weyr is sufficient…if we have your cooperation on the ground. Tradition is that,” and he nodded tactfully toward Robinton, the dispenser of Traditional usage, “you Holders are responsible for only your dwellings which, of course, are adequately protected by fire pits and raw stone. However, it is spring and our heights have been allowed to grow wild with vegetation. Arable land is blossoming with crops. This presents a vast acreage vulnerable to the Threads which one Weyr, at this time, is not able to patrol without severely draining the vitality of our dragons and riders.”
At this candid admission, a frightened and angry mutter spread rapidly throughout the room.
“Ramoth rises to mate again soon,” F’lar continued, in a matter-of-fact way. “Of course in other times, the queens started producing heavy clutches many Turns before the critical solstice, and more queens. Unfortunately, Jora was ill and old, and Nemorth intractable. The matter…” He was interrupted.
“You dragonmen with your high and mighty airs will bring destruction on us all!”
“You’ve yourselves to blame,” Robinton’s voice stabbed across the ensuing shouts. “Admit it one and all! You’ve paid less honor to the Weyr than you would your watch-wher’s kennel—and that not much! But now the thieves are on the heights and you are screaming because the poor reptile is nigh to death from neglect. Beat him, will you, when you exiled him to his kennel because he tried to warn you, tried to get you to prepare against the invaders? It’s on your conscience, not the Weyrleader’s nor the dragonriders’, who had honestly done their duty these hundreds of Turns in keeping dragonkind alive…against all your protests. How many of you,” and his tone was scathing, “have been generous in thought and favor towards dragonkind? Even since I became Master of my craft, how often have my Harpers told me of being beaten for singing the old songs as is their duty? You earn only the right, good Lords and Craftsmen, to squirm inside your stony Holds and writhe as your crops die aborning.” He rose.
“‘No Threads will fall. It’s a Harper’s winter tale,’” he whined, in faultless imitation of Nessel. “‘These dragonmen leech us of heir and harvest,’” and his voice took on the constricted, insinuating tenor that could only be Meron’s. “And now the truth is as bitter as a brave man’s fear and as difficult as mock-week to swallow. For all the honor you’ve done them, the dragonmen should leave you to be spun on the Threads’ distaff.”
“Bitra, Lemos and I,” spoke up Raid, the wiry Lord of Benden, his blunt chin lifted belligerently, “have always done our duty to the Weyr.”
Robinton swung round to him, his eyes flashing as he gave that speaker a long, slow look.
“Aye, and you have. Of all the Great Holds, you three have been loyal. But you others,” and his voice rose indignantly, “as spokesmen for my Craft, I know, to the last full stop in the score, your opinion of dragonkind. I heard the first whisper of your attempt to ride out against the Weyr.” He laughed harshly and pointed a long finger at Vincet. “Where would you be today, good Lord Vincet, if the Weyr had not sent you packing back, hoping your ladies would be returned you? All of you,” and his accusing finger marked each of the Lords of that abortive effort, “actually rode against the Weyr because…‘there…were…no…more…Threads!’”
He planted his fists on either hip and glared at the assembly. F’lar wanted to cheer. It was easy to see why the man was Masterharper and he thanked circumstances that such a man was the Weyr’s partisan.
“And now, at this critical moment, you actually have the incredible presumption to protest against any measure the Weyr suggests?” Robinton’s supple voice oozed derision and amazement. “Attend what the Weyrleader says and spare him your petty carpings!” He snapped those words out as a father might enjoin an erring child. “You were,” and he switched to the mildest of polite conversational tones as he addressed F’lar, “I believe asking our cooperation, good F’lar? In what capacities?”
F’LAR HASTILY CLEARED his throat.
“I shall require that the Holds police their own fields and woods, during the attacks if possible, definitely once the Threads have passed. All burrows which might land must be found, marked and destroyed. The sooner they are located, the easier it is to be rid of them.”
“There’s no time to dig fire pits through all the lands…we’ll lose half our growing space…” Nessel exclaimed.
“There were other ways, used in olden times, which I believe our Mastersmith might know,” and F’lar gestured politely towards Fandarel, the archetype of his profession if ever such existed.
The Smith Craftmaster was by several inches the tallest man in the Council Room, his massive shoulders and heavily muscled arms pressed against his nearest neighbors, although he had made an effort not to crowd against anyone. He rose, a giant tree-stump of a man, hooking thumbs like beast-horns in the thick belt that spanned his waistless midsection. His voice, by no means sweet after Turns of bellowing above roaring hearths and hammers, was, by comparison to Robinton’s superb delivery, a diluted, unsupported light baritone.
“There were machines, that much is true,” he allowed in deliberate, thoughtful tones. “My father told me of them as a curiosity of the Craft. There may be sketches in the Hall. There may not. Such things do not keep on skins for long,” and he cast an oblique look under beetled brows at the Tanner Craftmaster.
“It is our own hides we must worry about preserving,” F’lar remarked to forestall any inter-craft disputes.
Fandarel grumbled in his throat in such a way that F’lar was not certain whether the sound was the man’s laughter or a guttural agreement.
“I shall consider the matter. So shall all my fellow craftsmen,” Fandarel assured the Weyrleader. “To sear Threads from the ground without damaging the soil may not be so easy. There are, it is true, fluids which burn and sear. We use an acid to etch design on dagger and ornamental metals. We of the Craft call it agenothree. There is also the black heavy-water that lies on the surface of pools in Igen and Boll. It burns hot and long. And, if as you say, the Cold Turn made the Threads break into dust, perhaps ice from the coldest northlands might freeze and break grounded Threads. However, the problem is to bring such to the Threads where they fall since they will not oblige us by falling where we want them…” He screwed up his face in a grimace.
F’lar stared at him, surprised. Did the man realize how humorous he was? No, he was speaking with sincere concern. Now the Mastersmith scratched his head, his tough fingers making audible grating sounds along his coarse hair and heat-toughened scalp.
“A nice problem. A nice problem,” he mused, undaunted. “I shall give it every attention.” He sat down, the heavy bench creaking under his weight.
The Masterfarmer raised his hand tentatively.
“When I became Craftmaster, I recall coming across a reference to the sandworms of Igen. They were once cultivated as a protective…”
“Never heard Igen produced anything useful except heat and sand…” quipped someone.
“We need every suggestion,” F’lar said sharply, trying to identify that heckler. “Please find that reference, Craftmaster. Lord Banger of Igen, find me some of those sandworms!”
Banger, equally surprised that his arid Hold had a hidden asset, nodded v
igorously.
“Until we have more efficient ways of killing Threads, all Holders must be organized on the ground during attacks, to spot and mark burrows, to set firestone to burn in them. I do not wish any man to be scored but we know how quickly Threads burrow deep and no burrow can be left to multiply. You stand to lose more,” and he gestured emphatically at the Holder Lords, “than any others. Guard not just yourselves, for a burrow on one man’s border may grow across to his neighbor’s. Mobilize every man, woman and child, farm and crafthold. Do it now.”
THE COUNCIL ROOM was fraught with tension and stunned reflection until Zurg, the Masterweaver, rose to speak.
“My Craft, too, has something to offer…which is only fair since we deal with thread each day of our lives…in regard to the ancient methods.” Zurg’s voice was light and dry and his eyes, in their creases of spare, lined flesh, were busy, darting from one face in his audience to another. “In Ruath Hold I once saw upon the wall…where the tapestry now resides, who knows?…” and he slyly glanced at Meron of Nabol and then Bargen of the High Reaches who had succeeded to Fax’s title there. “The work was as old as dragonkind and showed, among other things, a man on foot, carrying upon his back a curious contraption. He held within his hand a rounded, sword-long object from which tongues of flame…magnificently woven in the orange-red dyes now lost to us…spouted towards the ground. Above, of course, were dragons in close formation, bronzes predominating…again we’ve lost that true dragon-bronze shade. Consequently I remember the work as much for what we now lack as for its subject matter.”
“A flamethrower?” the Smith rumbled. “A flamethrower,” he repeated with a falling inflection. “A flamethrower,” he murmured thoughtfully, his heavy brows drawn into a titanic scowl. “A thrower of what sort of flame? It requires thought.” He lowered his head and didn’t speak, so engrossed in the required thought that he lost interest in the rest of the discussions.
“Yes, good Zurg, there have been many tricks of every trade lost in recent Turns,” F’lar commented sardonically. “If we wish to continue living, such knowledge must be revived…fast. I would particularly like to recover the tapestry of which Master Zurg speaks.”
F’lar looked significantly at those Hold Lords who had quarreled over Fax’s seven Holds after that usurper’s death in Ruatha’s Great Hall.
“It may save all of you much loss. I suggest that it appear at Ruatha, at Zurg’s or Fandarel’s Crafthall. Whichever is most convenient.”
There was some shuffling of feet but no admission of ownership.
“It might then be returned to Fay’s son who is now Ruatha’s Lord,” F’lar added, wryly amused at such magnanimous justice.
Lytol, Ruatha’s Warder, snorted softly and glowered round the room. F’lar supposed Lytol to be amused and experienced a fleeting regret for the orphaned Gaxom, reared by such a cheerless, if scrupulously honest, guardian.
“If I may, Lord Weyrleader,” Robinton broke in, “we might all benefit, as your maps prove to us, from research in our own records.” He smiled suddenly, an unexpectedly embarrassed smile. “I own I find myself in some disgrace for we Harpers have let slip unpopular ballads and skimped on some of the longer Teaching Sagas…for lack of listeners and, occasionally, in the interest of preserving our skins.”
F’lar stifled a laugh. Robinton was a genius.
“I must see the Ruathan tapestry,” Fandarel suddenly boomed out.
“I’m sure it will be in your hands very soon,” F’lar assured him with more confidence than he dared feel. “My Lords, there is much to be done. Now that you understand what we all face, I leave it in your hands as leaders in your separate Holds and crafts how best to organize your own people. Craftsmen, turn your best minds to our special problems: review all records which might turn up something to our purpose. Lords Telgar, Crom, Ruatha and Nabol, I shall be with you in three days. Nerat, Keroon and Igen, I am at your disposal to help destroy any burrow on your lands. While we have the Masterminer here, tell him your needs. How stands your craft?”
“Happy to be so busy at our trade, Weyrleader,” piped up the Masterminer.
JUST THEN F’LAR caught sight of F’nor, hovering about in the shadows of the hallway, trying to catch his eye. The brown rider wore an exultant grin and it was obvious he was bursting with news.
F’lar wondered how they could have returned so swiftly from the southern continent and then he realized that F’nor—again—was tanned. He gave a jerk of his head, indicating that F’nor take himself off to the sleeping quarters and wait.
“Lords and Craftmasters, a dragonet will be at the disposal of each of you for messages and transportation. Now, good morning.”
He strode out of the Council Room, up the passageway into the queen’s weyr, and parted the still swinging curtains into the sleeping room just as F’nor was pouring himself a cup of wine.
“Success!” F’nor cried as the Weyrleader entered. “Though how you knew to send just thirty-two candidates I’ll never understand. I thought you were insulting our noble Pridith. But thirty-two eggs she laid in four days. It was all I could do to keep from riding out when the first appeared.”
F’lar responded with hearty congratulations, relieved that there would be at least that much benefit from this apparently ill-fated venture. Now, all he had to figure out was how much longer F’nor had stayed south until his frantic visit the night before. For there were no worry lines or strain in F’nor’s grinning, well-tanned face.
“No queen egg?” asked F’lar hopefully. With thirty-two in the one experiment, perhaps they could send a second queen back and try again.
F’nor’s face lengthened. “No, and I was sure there would be. But there are fourteen bronzes, which outmatches Ramoth there,” he added proudly.
“Indeed it does. How goes the Weyr otherwise?”
F’nor frowned, shaking his head against an inner bewilderment. “Kylara’s…well, she’s a problem. Stirs up trouble constantly. T’bor leads a sad time with her and he’s so touchy everyone keeps a distance from him.” F’nor brightened a little. “Young N’ton is shaping up into a fine wingleader and his bronze may outfly T’bor’s Orth when Pridith flies to mate the next time. Not that I’d wish Kylara on N’ton…or anyone.”
“No trouble then with supplies?”
F’nor laughed outright. “If you hadn’t made it so plain we must not communicate with you here, we could supply you with fruits and fresh greens that are superior to anything in the north. We eat the way dragonmen should! Really, F’lar, we must consider a supply Weyr down there. Then we shall never have to worry about tithing trains and…”
“In good time. Get back now. You know you must keep these visits short.”
F’nor grimaced. “Oh, it’s not so bad. I’m not here in this time anyway.”
“True,” F’lar agreed, “but don’t mistake the time and come while you’re still here.”
“Hm-m-m? Oh, yes, that’s right. I forget time is creeping for us and speeding for you. Well, I shan’t be back again till Pridith lays the second clutch.”
With a cheerful good-bye, F’nor strode out of the weyr. F’lar watched him thoughtfully as he slowly retraced his steps to the Council Room. Thirty-two new dragons, fourteen of them bronzes, was no small gain and seemed worth the hazard. Or would the hazard wax greater?
SOMEONE CLEARED HIS throat deliberately. F’lar looked up to see Robinton standing in the archway that led to the Council Room.
“Before I can copy and instruct others about those maps, Weyrleader, I must myself understand them completely. I took the liberty of remaining behind.”
“You make a good champion, Masterharper.”
“You have a noble cause, Weyrleader,” and then Robinton’s eyes glinted maliciously. “I’ve been begging the Egg for an opportunity to speak out to so noble an audience.”
“A cup of wine first?”
“Benden grapes are the envy of Pern.”
“If one has the pala
te for such a delicate bouquet.”
“It is carefully cultivated by the knowledgeable.”
F’lar wondered when the man would stop playing with words. He had more on his mind than studying the time charts.
“I have in mind a ballad which, for lack of explanation, I had set aside when I became the Master of my Crafthall,” he said judiciously after an appreciative savoring of his wine. “It is an uneasy song, both the tune and the words. One develops, as a Harper must, a certain sensitivity for what will be received and what will be rejected…forcefully,” and he winced in retrospect. “I found that this ballad unsettled singer as well as audience and retired it from use. Now, like that tapestry, I think it bears rediscovery.”
AFTER HIS DEATH, C’gan’s instrument had been hung on the Council Room wall till a new Weyrsinger could be chosen. The guitar was very old, its wood thin. Old C’gan had kept it well-tuned and covered. The Masterharper handled it now with reverence, lightly stroking the strings to hear the tone, raising his eyebrows at the fine voice of the instrument.
He plucked a chord, a dissonance. F’lar wondered if the instrument were out of tune or if the Harper had, by some chance, struck the wrong string. But Robinton repeated the odd dischord, then modulated into a weird minor that was somehow more disturbing than the first notes.
“I told you it was an uneasy song. And I wonder if you know the answers to the questions it asks. For I’ve turned the puzzle over in my mind many times of late.”
Then abruptly he shifted from the spoken to the sung tone.
“Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead,
Why have all the weyrfolk fled?
Where have dragons gone together?
The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century Page 61
