“The queen sleeps,” F’lar remarked, indicating the passageway to the Council Room.
Adroit of F’lar, Lessa thought, to be sure the messenger had a long look at Ramoth. Tilarek would spread the word on his return journey, properly elaborated with each retelling, of the queen’s unusual size and fine health. Let Tilarek also broadcast his opinion of the new Weyrwoman.
Lessa waited until she saw F’lar offer the courier wine before she opened the skin. As she deciphered Lytol’s inscription, Lessa realized how glad she was to receive news of Ruatha. But why did Lytol’s first words have to be:
The babe grows strong and is healthy . . .
She cared little for that infant’s prosperity. Ah . . .
Ruatha is green-free, from hill crown to crafthold verge. The harvest has been very good, and the beasts multiply from the new studs. Herewith is the due and proper tithe of Ruath Hold. May it prosper the Weyr which protects us.
Lessa snorted under her breath. Ruatha knew its duty, true, but not even the other three tithing holds had sent proper greetings. Lytol’s message contained ominously:
A word to the wise. With Fax’s death, Telgar has come to the fore in the growing sedition. Meron, so-called Lord of Nabol, is strong and seeks, I feel, to be first: Telgar is too cautious for him. The dissension strengthens and is more widespread than when I last spoke with Bronze Rider F’lar. The Weyr must be doubly on its guard. If Ruatha may serve, send word.
Lessa scowled at the last sentence. It only emphasized the fact that too few Holds served in any way.
“. . . laughed at we were, good F’lar,” Tilarek was saying, moistening his throat with a generous gulp of Weyr-made wine, “for doing as men ought.
“Funny thing, that, for the nearer we got to Benden Range the less laughing we heard. Sometimes it’s hard to make sense of some things, being as how you don’t do ’em much. Like if I were not to keep my sword arm strong and used to the weight of a blade,” and he made vigorous slashes and thrusts with his right arm, “I’d be put to it to defend myself come a long-drawn fight. Some folk, too, believe what the loudest talker says. And some folk because it frightens them not to. However,” he went on briskly, “I’m soldier-bred and it goes hard to take the gibes of mere crafters and holders. But we’d orders to keep our swords sheathed, and we did. Just as well,” he said with a wry grimace, “to talk soft. The Lords have kept full guard since . . . since the Search . . .”
Lessa wondered what he had been about to say, but he went on soberly.
“There are those that’ll be sorry when the Threads fall again on all that green around their doors.”
F’lar refilled the man’s cup, asking casually about the harvests seen on the road here.
“Fine, fat and heavy,” the courier assured him. “They do say this Turn has been the best in memory of living man. Why, the vines in Crom had bunches this big!” He made a wide circle with his two huge hands, and his listeners made proper response. “And I’ve never seen the Telgar grain so full and heavy. Never.”
“Pern prospers,” F’lar remarked dryly.
“Begging your pardon”—Tilarek picked up a wizened piece of fruit from the tray—“I’ve scooped better than this dropped on the road behind a harvest wagon.” He ate the fruit in two bites, wiping his hands on the tunic. Then, realizing what he had said, he added in hasty apology, “Ruatha Hold sent you its best. First fruits as man ought. No ground pickings from us. You may be sure.”
“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.
“What’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 outrigh
t 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.”
Lessa glanced apprehensively eastward. F’nor nodded solemnly.
“Yes, and it’d be rather easy to forget fear and caution in four hundred years. R’gul’s a good fighter and a good wingleader, but he has to see and touch and smell danger before he admits it exists. Oh, he learned the Laws and all the Traditions, but he never understood them in his bones. Not the way F’lar does or the way I have come to,” he added defiantly, seeing the skeptical expression on Lessa’s face. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed an accusing finger at her. “Nor the way you do, only you don’t know why.”
The Dragonriders of Pern Page 12
