Dragon Quest

by Anne McCaffrey

  "Here's proof your timetables didn't include every scrap of information from our Records!"

  "You've never questioned them before, T'ron," F'lar reminded the exercised man, speaking evenly.

  "Don't hedge with me, F'lar. You just sent a messenger with word that Thread was falling out of pattern."

  "And I'd have appreciated knowing that Thread had fallen out of pattern over Tillek and High Crom in the past few days!"

  The look of shock and horror on T'ron's face was too genuine to be faked.

  "You'd do better to listen to what commoners say, T'ron, instead of immuring yourself in the Weyr," F'lar told him. "Asgenar knew of it yet neither T'kul nor R'mar thought to tell the other Weyrs, so we could prepare and keep watch. Just luck I had F'rad ..."

  "You've not been housing dragonmen in the Holds again?"

  "I always send a messenger on ahead the day of a Fall. If I didn't follow the practice, Asgenar's forest lands would be gone by now."

  F'lar regretted that heated reference. It would give T'ron the wedge he needed for another of his diatribes about over forestation. To divert him, F'lar reached for the piece of Record, but T'ron twitched it out of his grasp.

  "You'll have to take my word for it ..."

  "Have I ever questioned your word, T'ron?" Those words, too, were out before F'lar could censor them. He could and did keep his face expressionless, hoping T'ron would not read in it an additional allusion to that meeting. "I can see that the Record's badly eroded, but if you've deciphered it and it bears on this morning's unpredicted shift, we'll all be in your debt."

  "F'lar?" Lessa's voice rang down the corridor. "Where are your manners? The klah's cooling and it is predawn T'ron's time."

  "I'd appreciate a cup," T'ron admitted, as obviously relieved as F'lar by the interruption.

  "I apologize for rousing you ..."

  "I need none, not with this news."

  Unaccountably F'lar was relieved to realize that T'ron had obviously not known of Threadfall. He had come charging in here, delighted at an opportunity to put F'lar and Benden in the wrong. He'd not have been so quick, witness his evasiveness and contradictions over the belt-knife fight, if he'd known.

  When the two men entered the queen's weyr, Lessa was gowned, her hair loosely held by an intricate net, and seated gracefully at the table. Just as if she hadn't ridden hard all morning and been suited five minutes before.

  So Lessa was all set to charm T'ron again, huh? Despite the unsettling events, F'lar was amused. Still, he wasn't certain that this ploy would lessen T'ron's antagonism. He didn't know what truth there was in a rumor that T'ron and Mardra were not on very good terms for a Weyrwoman and Weyrleader.

  "Where's Ramoth?" T'ron asked, as he passed the queen's empty weyr.

  "On the Hatching Ground, of course, slobbering over her latest clutch." Lessa replied with just the right amount of indifference.

  But T'ron frowned, undoubtedly reminded that there was another queen egg on Benden's warm sands and that the Oldtimers' queens laid few gold eggs.

  "I do apologize for starting your day so early," she went on, deftly serving him a neatly sectioned fruit and fixing klah to his taste "Rut we need your advice and help."

  T'ron grunted his thanks, carefully placing the Record hide side down on the table.

  "Threadfall could come when it would if we didn't have all those blasted forests to care for," T'ron said, glaring at F'lar through the steam of the klah as he lifted his mug.

  "What? And do without wood?" Lessa complained, rubbing her hands on the carved chair which Bendarek had made with his consummate artistry. "Those stone chairs may fit you and Mardra," she said in a sweet insinuating voice, "but I had a cold rear end all the time."

  T'ron snorted with amusement, his eyes wandering over the dainty Weyrwoman in such a way that Lessa leaned forward abruptly and tapped the Record.

  "I ought not to take your valuable time with chatter. Have you discovered something here which we missed?"

  F'lar ground his teeth. He hadn't overlooked a single legible word in those moldy Records, so how could she imply negligence so casually?

  He forgave her when T'ron responded by flipping over the hide. "The skin is badly preserved, of course," and he made it sound as if Benden's wardship were at fault, not the depredations of four hundred Turns of abandonment, "but when you sent that weyrling with this news, I happened to remember seeing a reference to a Pass where all previous Records were no help. One reason we never bothered with timetable nonsense."

  F'lar was about to demand why none of the Oldtimers had seen fit to mention that minor fact, when he caught Lessa's stern look. He held his peace.

  "See, this phrase here is partly missing, but if you put 'unpredictable shifts' here, it makes sense."

  Lessa, her gray eyes wide with an expression of unfeigned awe (her dissembling nearly choked F'lar), looked up from the Record at T'ron.

  "He's right, F'lar. That would make sense. See, " and she deftly slipped the Record from T'ron's reluctant fingers and passed it to F'lar. He took it from her.

  "You're right, T'ron. Very right. This is one of the older skins which I had to abandon, unable to decipher them."

  "Of course, it was much more readable when I first studied it four hundred Turns back, before it got so faded." T'ron's smug manner was hard to take, but he could be managed better so than when he was defensive and suspicious.

  "But that doesn't tell us how the shift changes, or how long it lasted," F'lar said.

  "There must be other clues, T'ron," Lessa suggested, bending seductively toward the Fort Weyrleader when he began to bristle at F'lar's words. "Why would Thread fall out of a pattern they've followed to the second for seven mortal Turns this Pass? You yourself told me that you followed a certain rhythm in your Time. Did it vary much then?"

  T'ron frowned down at the blurred lines. "No," he admitted slowly, and then brought his fist down on the offending scrap. "Why have we lost so many techniques? Why have these Records failed us just when we need them most?"

  Mnementh began to bugle from the ledge, with Fidranth adding his note.

  Lessa 'listened,' head cocked.

  "D'ram and G'narish," she said. "I don't think we need expect T'kul, but R'mart is not an arrogant man."

  D'ram of Ista and G'narish of Igen Weyrs entered together. Both men were agitated, sparing no time for amenities.

  "What's this about premature Threadfall?" D'ram demanded. "Where are T'kul and R'mart? You did send for them, didn't you? Were your wings badly torn up? How much Thread burrowed?"

  "None. We arrived at first Fall. And my wings sustained few casualties, but I appreciate your concern, D'ram. We've sent for the others."

  Though Mnementh had given no warning, someone was running down the corridor to the Weyr. Everyone turned, anticipating one of the missing Weyrleaders, but it was a weyrling messenger who came racing in.

  "My duty, sirs," the boy gasped out, "but R'mart's badly hurt and there're so many wounded men and dragons at Telgar Weyr, it's an awful sight. And half the Holds of High Crom are said to be charred."

  The Weyrleaders were all on their feet.

  "I must send some help, " Lessa began, to be halted by the frown on T'ron's face and D'ram's odd expression. She gave a small impatient snort. "You heard the boy, wounded men and dragons, a Weyr demoralized. Help in time of disaster is not interference. That ancient lay about Weyr autonomy can be carried to ridiculous lengths and this is one of them. Not to help Telgar Weyr, indeed!"

  "She's right, you know," G'narish said, and F'lar knew the man was one step closer to gaining a modern perspective.

  Lessa left the chamber, muttering something about personally flying to Telgar Weyr. The weyrling followed her, dismissed by F'lar's nod.

  "T'ron found a reference to unpredictable shifts in this old Record Skin," F'lar said, seizing control. "D'ram, do you have any recollections from your studies of Istan Records four hundred Turns ago?"

  "I w
ish I did," the Istan leader said slowly, then looked toward G'narish who was shaking his head. "Before I came here, I ordered immediate sweepwatches within my Weyr's bounds and I suggest we all do the same."

  "What we need is a Pern-wide guard," F'lar began, carefully choosing his words.

  But T'ron wasn't deceived and banged the table so hard that he set the crockery jumping. "Just waiting for the chance to lodge dragons in Holds and Crafthalls again, huh F'lar? Dragonfolk stick together ..."

  "The way T'kul and R'mart are doing by not warning the rest of us?" asked D'ram in such an acid tone that T'ron subsided.

  "Actually, why should dragonfolk weary themselves when there is so much more manpower available in the Holds now?" asked G'narish in a surprised way. He smiled slightly with nervousness when he saw the others staring at him. "I mean, the individual Holds could easily supply the watchers we'll need."

  "And they've the means, too," F'lar agreed, ignoring T'ron's surprised exclamation. "It's not so very long ago that there were signal fires on every ridge and hill, across the plains, in case Fax began another of his acquisitive marches. In fact, I shouldn't be surprised if most of those beacon fireguards are still in place."

  He was faintly amused by the expressions on the three faces. The Oldtimers never had recovered from the utter sacrilege of a Lord attempting to hold more than one territory. F'lar had no doubt this prompted such conservatives as T'kul and T'ron to impress on the commoners at every opportunity just how dependent they were on dragonfolk; and why they tried to limit and curtail contemporary freedoms and licenses. "Let the Holders light fires when Thread masses on the horizon, a few strategically placed riders could oversee great areas. Use the weyrlings; that'd keep them out of mischief and give 'em good practice. Once we know how the Thread falls now, we'll be able to judge the changes." F'lar forced himself to relax, smiling. "I don't think this is as serious a matter as it first appears. Particularly if shifts have occurred before. Of course, if we could find some reference to how long the shift lasted, if Thread went back to the original pattern, it'd help."

  "It would have helped if T'kul had sent word as you did," D'ram muttered.

  "Well, we all know how T'kul is," F'lar said tolerantly.

  "He'd no right to withhold such vital information from us," T'ron said, again pounding the table. "Weyrs should stick together."

  "The Lord Holders aren't going to like this," G'narish remarked, no doubt thinking of Lord Corman of Keroon, the most difficult one of the Holders bound to his Weyr.

  "Oh," F'lar replied with more diffidence than he felt, "if we tell them we've expected such a shift at about this time in the Pass ..."

  "But, but the timetables they have? They're not fools," T'ron sputtered.

  "We're the dragonfolk, T'ron. What they can't understand, they don't need to know, or worry about," F'lar replied firmly. "It's not their business to demand explanations of us, after all. And they'll get none."

  "That's a change of tune, isn't it, F'lar?" asked D'ram.

  "I never explained myself to them, if you'll think back D'ram I told them what had to be done and they did it."

  "They were scared stupid seven Turns ago," G'narish remarked. "Scared enough to welcome us with wide-open arms and goods."

  "If they want to protect all those forests and croplands, they'll do as we suggest or start charring their profits."

  "Let Lord Oterel of Tillek or that idiot Lord Sangel of Boll start disputing my orders and I'll fire their forests myself," said T'ron, rising.

  "Then we're agreed," said F'lar quickly, before the hypocrisy he was practicing overcame him with disgust. "We mount watches, aided by the Holders, and we keep track of the new shift. We'll soon know how to judge it."

  "What of T'kul?" G'narish asked.

  D'ram looked squarely at T'ron. "We'll explain the situation to him."

  "He respects you two," F'lar agreed. "It might be wiser, though, not to suggest we knew about ..."

  "We can handle T'kul, without your advice, F'lar," D'ram cut him off abruptly, and F'lar knew that the momentary harmony between them was at an end. The Oldtimers were closing ranks against the crime of their contemporary, just as they had at that abortive meeting a few nights ago. He could console himself with the fact that they hadn't been able to escape all the implications of this incident.

  Lessa came back into the weyr just then, her face flushed, her eyes exceedingly bright. Even D'ram bowed low to her in making his farewells.

  "Don't leave, D'ram, T'ron. I've good word from Telgar Weyr," she cried, but catching F'lar's glance, did not try to keep them when they demurred.

  "R'mart's all right?" G'narish asked, trying to smooth over the awkwardness.

  Lessa recovered herself with a smile for the Igen leader.

  "Oh that messenger, he's only a boy, he exaggerated. Ramoth bespoke Solth the senior queen at Telgar Weyr. R'mart is badly scored, yes. Bedella evidently overdosed him with numbweed powder. She hadn't the wit to send word to anyone. And the Wing-second assumed that we'd all been informed because he'd heard R'mart telling Bedella to send messengers, never dreaming she hadn't. When R'mart passed out, she forgot everything." Lessa's shrug indicated her low opinion of Bedella. "The Wing-second says he'd be grateful for your advice."

  "H'ages is Wing-second at Telgar Weyr," G'narish said. "A sound enough rider but he's got no initiative. Say, you're Thread-bared yourself, F'lar."

  "It's nothing."

  "It's bleeding," Lessa contradicted. "And you haven't eaten a thing."

  "I'll stop at Telgar Weyr, F'lar, and talk to H'ages," G'narish said.

  "I'd like to come with you, G'narish, if you've no objections ..."

  "I've objections," Lessa put in. "G'narish's capable of ascertaining the extent of the Fall there and can relay the information to us. I'll see him to the ledge while you start eating." Lessa was so didactic that G'narish chuckled. She tucked her arm in his and started toward the corridor. "I've not made my duty to Gyarmath," she said, smiling sweetly up at G'narish, "and he's a favorite of mine, you know."

  She was flirting so outrageously that F'lar wondered that Ramoth wasn't roaring protest. As if Gyarmath could ever catch Ramoth in flight! Then he heard Mnementh's rumble of humor and was reassured.

  "Eat," his bronze advised him. "Let Lessa flatter G'narish Gyarmath doesn't mind. Nor Ramoth. Nor I."

  "What I do for my Weyr," said Lessa with an exaggerated sigh as she returned a few moments later.

  F'lar gave her a cynical look. "G'narish is more of a modern mind than he knows."

  "Then we'll have to make him conscious of it," Lessa said firmly.

  "Just so long as it is 'we' who make him," F'lar replied with mock severity, catching her hand and pulling her to him.

  She made a token resistance, as she always did, scowling ferociously at him and then relaxed against his shoulder all at once. "Signal fires and sweepriding are not enough, F'lar," she said thoughtfully. "Although I do believe we've worried too much about the change in Threadfall."

  "That nonsense was to fool G'narish and the others, but I thought you'd ..."

  "But don't you see that you were right?"

  F'lar gave her a long incredulous look.

  "By the Egg, Weyrleader, you astonish me. Why can't there be deviations? Because you, F'lar, compiled those Records and to spite the Oldtimers they must remain infallible? Great golden eggs, man, there were such things as Intervals when no Threads fell, as we both know. Why not a change of pace in Threadfall itself during a Pass?"

  "But why? Give me one good reason why."

  "Give me one good reason why not! The same thing that affects the Red Star so that it doesn't always pass close enough to cast Thread on us can pull it enough off course to change Fall! The Red Star is not the only one to rise and set with the seasons. There could be another heavenly body affecting not only us but the Red Star."

  "Where?"

  Lessa shrugged impatiently. "How do I know? I'm not long in the eye li
ke F'rad. But we can try to find out. Or have seven full Turns of certainty and schedule dulled your wits?"

  "Now, see here, Lessa ..."

  Suddenly she pressed herself close to him, full of contrition for her sharp tongue. He held her close, all too aware that she was right. And yet ... There had been that long and lonely wait until he and Mnementh could come into their own. The terrible dichotomy of confidence in his own prophecy that Thread would fall and fear that nothing would rescue the Dragonriders from their lethargy. Then the crushing realization that those all too few dragonmen were all that could save an entire world from destruction; the three days of torture between the initial fall over the impending one at Nerat Hold and Telgar Hold with Lessa who-knew-where. Did he not have a right to relax his vigilance? Some freedom from the weight of responsibility?

  "I've no right to say such things to you," Lessa was whispering in soft remorse.

  "Why not? It's true enough."

  "I ought never to diminish you, and all you've done, to placate a trio of narrow-minded, parochial, conservative ..."

  He stopped her words with a kiss, a teasing kiss that abruptly became passionate. Then he winced as her hands curving sensuously around his neck, rubbed against the Thread-bared skin.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. Here, let me, " and Lessa's apology trailed off as she swiveled her body around to reach for the numbweed jar.

  "I forgive you, dear heart, for all your daily machinations," F'lar assured her sententiously. "It's easier to flatter a man than fight him. I wish I had F'nor here right now!"

  "I still haven't forgiven that old fool T'ron," Lessa said, her eyes narrowing, her lips pursed. "Oh, why didn't F'nor just let T'reb have the knife?"

  "F'nor acted with integrity," F'lar said with stiff disapproval.

  "He could've ducked quicker then. And you're no better." Her touch was gentle but the burns stung.

  "Hmmm. What I have ducked is my responsibility to Our Pern in bringing the Oldtimers forward. We've let ourselves get bogged down on small issues, like whose was the blame in that asinine fight at the Mastersmith's Hall. The real problem is to reconcile the old with the new. And we may just be able to make this new crisis work there to our advantage, Lessa."