The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “D’ram follows tradition, Benden,” T’ron cut in. “Weyrbred is best for dragonkind. Particularly for greens.”

  “Oh?” T’bor glared with malicious intent at T’ron.

  D’ram cleared his throat hastily and said in a too loud voice, “As it happens, we’ve a good group of likely boys in our Lower Caverns. The last Impression at G’narish’s Weyr left him with a few he has offered to place at Ista Weyr. So I thank you kindly, F’lar. Generous indeed when you’ve eggs hardening at Benden too. And a queen, I hear?”

  D’ram exhibited no trace of envy for another queen egg at Benden Weyr. And Fauna’s Mirath hadn’t produced a single golden egg since she’d come time between.

  “We all know Benden’s generosity,” T’ron said in a sneering tone, his eyes flicking around the room, everywhere but at F’lar. “He extends help everywhere. And interferes when it isn’t needed.”

  “I don’t call what happened at the Smithhall interference,” D’ram said, his face assuming grave lines.

  “I thought we were going to wait for T’kul and R’mart,” G’narish said, glancing anxiously up the passageway.

  So, F’lar mused, D’ram and G’narish are upset by today’s events.

  “T’kul’s better known for the meetings he misses than the ones he attends,” T’bor remarked.

  “R’mart always comes,” G’narish said.

  “Well, they’re neither of them here. And I’m not waiting on their pleasure any longer,” T’ron announced, rising.

  “Then you’d better call in B’naj and T’reb,” D’ram suggested with a heavy sigh.

  “They’re in no condition to attend a meeting.” T’ron seemed surprised at D’ram’s request. “Their dragons only returned from flight at sunset.”

  D’ram stared at T’ron. “Then why did you call the meeting for tonight?”

  “At F’lar’s insistence.”

  T’bor rose to protest before F’lar could stop him, but D’ram waved him to be seated and sternly reminded T’ron that the Fort Weyrleader had set the time, not F’lar of Benden.

  “Look, we’re here now,” T’bor said, banging his fist on the table irritably. “Let’s get on with it. It’s full night in Southern Weyr. I’d like . . .”

  “I conduct the Fort Weyr meetings, Southern,” T’ron said in a loud, firm voice, although the effort of keeping his temper told in the flush of his face and the brightness of his eyes.

  “Then conduct it,” T’bor replied. “Tell us why a green rider took his dragon out of your Weyr when she was close to heat.”

  “T’reb was not aware she was that close . . .”

  “Nonsense,” T’bor cut in, glaring at T’ron. “You keep telling us how much of a traditionalist you are, and how well trained your riders are. Then don’t tell me a rider as old as T’reb can’t estimate his beast’s condition.”

  F’lar began to think he didn’t need an ally like T’bor.

  “A green changes color rather noticeably,” G’narish said, with some reluctance, F’lar noted. “Usually a full day before she wants to fly.”

  “Not in the spring,” T’ron pointed out quickly. “Not when she’s off her feed from Threadscore. It can happen very quickly. Which it did.” T’ron spoke loudly, as if the volume of his explanation would bear more weight than its logic.

  “That is possible,” D’ram admitted slowly, nodding his head up and down before he turned to see what F’lar thought.

  “I accept that possibility,” F’lar replied, keeping his voice even. He saw T’bor open his mouth to protest and kicked the man under the table. “However, according to the testimony of Craftmaster Terry, my rider urged T’reb repeatedly to take his dragon away. T’reb persisted in his attempt to—to acquire the belt knife.”

  “And you accept the word of a commoner against a rider?” T’ron leaped on F’lar’s statement with a great show of surprised indignation and incredulity.

  “What would a Craftmaster,” and F’lar emphasized the title, “gain by bringing false witness?”

  “Those smithcrafters are the most notorious misers of Pern,” T’ron replied as if this were a personal insult. “The worst of all the crafts when it comes to parting with an honest tithe.”

  “A jeweled belt knife is not a tithe item.”

  “What difference does that make, Benden?” T’ron demanded.

  F’lar stared back at the Fort Weyrleader. So T’ron was trying to set the blame on Terry! Then he knew that his rider had been at fault. Why couldn’t he just admit it and discipline the rider? F’lar only wanted to see that there’d be no repetitions of such an incident.

  “The difference is that that knife had been crafted for Lord Larad of Telgar as a gift to Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold for his wedding six days from now. The blade was not Terry’s to give or withhold. It already belonged to a Lord Holder. Therefore, the rider was . . .”

  “Naturally you’d take the part of your rider, Benden,” T’ron cut in with a slight, unpleasant smile on his face. “But for a rider, a Weyrleader, to take the part of a Lord Holder against dragonfolk—” and T’ron turned to D’ram and G’narish with a helpless shrug of dismay.

  “If R’mart were here, you’d be—” T’bor began.

  D’ram gestured at him to be quiet. “We’re not discussing possession but what seems to be a grave breach of Weyr discipline,” he said in a voice that overwhelmed T’bor’s protest. “However, F’lar, you do admit that a green, off her feed from Threadscore, can suddenly go into heat without warning?”

  F’lar could feel T’bor urging him to deny that possibility. He knew that he had made a mistake in pointing out that the knife had been commissioned for a Lord Holder. Or in taking the part of a Holder not bound to Benden Weyr. If only R’mart had been here to speak in Lord Larad’s behalf. As it was, F’lar had prejudiced his case. The incident had disturbed D’ram so much that the man was deliberately closing his eyes to fact and seeking any extenuating circumstance he could. If F’lar forced him to see the event clearly, would he prove anything to a man unwilling to believe that dragonriders could be guilty of error? Would he get D’ram to admit that Craft and Hold had privileges, too?

  He took a slow deep breath to control the frustrated anger he felt. “I have to concede that it is possible a green can go into heat without warning under those conditions.” Beside him, T’bor cursed under his breath. “But for exactly that reason, T’reb ought to have known to keep his green in the Weyr.”

  “But T’reb’s a Fort Weyr rider,” T’bor began heatedly, jumping to his feet. “And I’ve been told often enough that . . .”

  “You’re out of order, Southern,” T’ron said in a loud voice, glaring at F’lar, not T’bor. “Can’t you control your riders, F’lar?”

  “That is quite enough, T’ron,” D’ram cried, on his feet.

  As the two Oldtimers locked glances, F’lar murmured urgently to T’bor, “Can’t you see he’s trying to anger us? Don’t lose control!”

  “We’re trying to settle the incident, T’ron,” D’ram continued forcefully, “not complicate it with irrelevant personalities. Since you are involved in this business, perhaps I’d better conduct the meeting. With your permission, of course, Fort.”

  To F’lar’s mind, that was a tacit admission that D’ram realized, however he might try to evade it, how serious the incident was. The Istan Weyrleader turned to F’lar, his brown eyes dark with concern. F’lar entertained a half hope that D’ram might have seen through T’ron’s obstructiveness, but the Oldtimer’s next words disabused him. “I do not agree with you, F’lar, that the Crafter acted in good part. No, let me finish. We came to the aid of your troubled time, expecting to be recompensed and supported in proper fashion, but the manner and the amount of tithing rendered the Weyrs from Hold and Craft has left much to be desired. Pern is much more productive than it was four hundred Turns ago and yet that wealth has not been reflected in the tithes. There is four times the population of our Time and much, much
more cultivated land. A heavy responsibility for the Weyrs. And—” he cut himself off with a rueful laugh. “I’m digressing, too. Suffice it to say that once it was obvious a dragonrider found the knife to his liking, Terry should have gifted it him. As craftsmen used to, without any question or hesitation.

  “Then,” D’ram’s face brightened slightly, “T’reb and B’naj would have left before the green went into full heat, your F’nor would not have become involved in a disgraceful public brawl. Yes, it is all too plain,” and D’ram straightened his shoulders from the burden of decision, “that the first error of judgment was on the part of the craftsman.” He looked at each man, as if none of them had control over what a craftsman might do. T’bor refused to meet his eyes and ground a boot-heel noisily into the stone floor.

  D’ram took another deep breath. Was he, F’lar wondered bitterly, having trouble digesting that verdict?

  “We cannot, of course, permit a repetition of a green in mating heat outside her weyr. Or dragonriders in an armed duel . . .”

  “There wasn’t any duel!” The words seemed to explode from T’bor. “T’reb attacked F’nor without warning and sliced him up. F’nor never even drew his knife. That’s no duel. That’s an unwarranted attack . . .”

  “A man whose green is in heat is unaccountable for his actions,” T’ron said, loud enough to drown T’bor out.

  “A green who never should have been out of her weyr in the first place no matter how you dance around the truth, T’ron,” T’bor said, savage with frustration. “The first error in judgment was T’reb’s. Not Terry’s.”

  “Silence!” D’ram’s bellow silenced him and Loranth answered irritably from her weyr.

  “That does it,” T’ron exclaimed, rising. “I’m not having my senior queen upset. You’ve had your meeting, Benden, and your—your grievance has been aired. This meeting is adjourned.”

  “Adjourned?” G’narish echoed him in surprise. “But—but nothing’s been done.” The Igen Weyrleader looked from D’ram to T’ron puzzled, worried. “And F’lar’s rider was wounded. If the attack was . . .”

  “How badly wounded is the man?” D’ram asked, turning quickly to F’lar.

  “Now you ask!” cried T’bor.

  “Fortunately,” and F’lar held T’bor’s angry eyes in a stern, warning glance before turning to D’ram to answer, “the wound is not serious. He will not lose the use of the arm.”

  G’narish sucked his breath in with a whistle. “I thought he’d only been scratched. I think we . . .”

  “When a rider’s dragon is lustful—” D’ram began, but broke off when he caught sight of the naked fury on T’bor’s face, the set look on F’lar’s. “A dragonrider can never forget his purpose, his responsibility, to his dragon or to his Weyr. This can’t happen again. You’ll speak to T’reb, of course, T’ron?”

  T’ron’s eyes widened slightly at D’ram’s question.

  “Speak to him? You may be sure he’ll hear from me about this. And B’naj, too.”

  “Good,” said D’ram, with the air of a man who has solved a difficult problem equitably. He nodded toward the others. “It would be wise if we Weyrleaders caution all our riders against the possibility of a repetition. Put them all on their guard. Agreed?’ He continued nodding, as if to spare the others the effort. “It is hard enough to work with some of these arrogant Holders and Crafters without giving them any occasion to fault us.” D’ram sighed deeply and scratched his head. “I never have understood how commoners can forget how much they owe dragonriders!”

  “In four hundred Turns, a man can learn many new things,” F’lar replied. “Coming, T’bor?” and his tone was just short of command. “My greetings to your Weyrwomen, riders. Good night.”

  He strode from the Council Room, T’bor pounding right behind him, swearing savagely until they got to the outer passageway to the Weyr ledge.

  “That old fool was in the wrong, F’lar, and you know it!”

  “Obviously.”

  “Then why didn’t you . . .”

  “Rub his nose in it?’ F’lar finished, halting in mid-stride and turning to T’bor in the dark of the passageway.

  “Dragonriders don’t fight. Particularly Weyrleaders.”

  T’bor let out a violent exclamation of utter disgust.

  “How could you let a chance like that go by? When I think of the times he’s criticized you—us—” T’bor broke off. “Never understand how commoners can forget all they owe dragonriders?” and T’bor mimicked D’ram’s pompous intonation, “If they really want to know . . .”

  F’lar gripped T’bor by the shoulder, appreciating the younger man’s sentiments all too deeply.

  “How can you tell a man what he doesn’t want to hear? We couldn’t even get them to admit that T’reb was in the wrong. T’reb, not Terry, and not F’nor. But I don’t think there’ll be another lapse like today’s and that’s what I really worried about.”

  “What?” T’bor stared at F’lar in puzzled confusion.

  “That such an incident could occur worries me far more than who was in the wrong and for what reason.”

  “I can’t follow that logic any more than I can follow T’ron’s.”

  “It’s simple. Dragonmen don’t fight. Weyrleaders can’t. T’ron was hoping I’d be mad enough to lose control. I think he was hoping I’d attack him.”

  “You can’t be serious!” T’bor was plainly shaken.

  “Remember, T’ron considers himself the senior Weyrleader on Pern and therefore infallible.”

  T’bor made a rude noise. Despite himself, F’lar grinned.

  “True,” he continued, “but I’ve never had a reason to challenge him. And don’t forget, the Oldtimers taught us a great deal about Thread fighting we certainly didn’t know.”

  “Why, our dragons can fight circles around the Oldtimers.”

  “That’s not the point, T’bor. You and I, the modern Weyrs, have certain obvious advantages over the Oldtimers—size of dragons, number of queens—that I’m not interested in mentioning because it only makes for bad feeling. Nevertheless, we can’t fight Thread without the Oldtimers. We need the Oldtimers more than they need us.” F’lar gave T’bor a wry, bitter grin. “D’ram was partly right. A dragonman can never forget his purpose, his responsibility. When D’ram said ‘to his dragon, to his Weyr,’ he’s wrong. Our initial and ultimate responsibility is to Pern, to the people we were established to protect.”

  They had proceeded to the ledge and could see their dragons dropping off the height to meet them. Full dark had descended over Fort Weyr now, emphasizing the weariness that engulfed F’lar.

  “If the Oldtimers have become introverted, we, Benden and Southern, cannot. We understand our Turn, our people. And somehow we’ve got to make the Oldtimers understand them, too.”

  “Yes, but T’ron was in the wrong!”

  “Would we have been more right to make him say it?”

  T’bor bit back an angry response and F’lar hoped that the man’s rebellion was dissipating. There was good heart and mind in the Southern Weyrleader. He was a fine dragonrider, a superb fighter, and his Wings followed him without hesitation. He was not as strong out of the skies, however, but with subtle guidance had built Southern Weyr into a productive, self-supporting establishment. He instinctively looked to F’lar and Benden Weyr for direction and companionship. Part of that, F’lar was sure, was because of the difficult and disturbing temperament of the Southern Weyrwoman, Kylara.

  Sometimes F’lar regretted that T’bor proved to be the only bronze rider who could cope with that female. He wondered what subtle deep tie existed between the two riders, because T’bor’s Orth consistently outflew every bronze to mate with Prideth, Kylara’s queen, though it was common knowledge that Kylara took many men to her bed.

  T’bor might be short-tempered and not the most diplomatic adherent, but he was loyal and F’lar was grateful to him. If he’d only held his temper tonight . . .

 
“Well, you usually know what you’re doing, F’lar,” the Southern Weyrleader admitted reluctantly, “but I don’t understand the Oldtimers and lately I’m not sure I care.”

  Mnementh hovered by the ledge, one leg extended. Beyond him, the two men could hear Orth’s wings beating the night air as he held his position.

  “Tell F’nor to take it easy and get well. I know he’s in good hands down at Southern,” F’lar said as he scrambled up Mnementh’s shoulder and urged him out of Orth’s way.

  “We’ll have him well in next to no time. You need him,” replied T’bor.

  Yes, thought F’lar as Mnementh soared up out of the Fort Weyr Bowl, I need him. I could have used his wits beside me tonight. I could have used his thinking on T’ron’s invidious attempts to switch blame.

  Well, if it had been another rider, wounded under the same circumstances, he couldn’t have brought F’nor anyhow. And T’bor with his short temper would still have been present, and played right into T’ron’s hands. He couldn’t honestly blame T’bor. He’d felt the same burning desire to make the Oldtimers see the facts in realistic perspective. But—you can’t take a dragon to a place you’ve never seen. And T’bor’s outbursts had not helped. Strange, T’bor hadn’t been so touchy as a weyrling nor when he was a Benden Weyr Wing-second. Being weyrmate to Kylara had changed him but that woman was enough to unsettle; to unsettle D’ram.

  F’lar entertained the wild mental image of the blonde sensual Kylara seducing the sturdy Oldtimer. Not that she’d even glanced at the Istan Weyrleader. And she certainly wouldn’t have stayed with him. F’lar was glad that they’d eased her out of Benden Weyr. Hadn’t she been found on the same Search as Lessa? Where’d she come from? Oh, yes, Telgar Hold. Come to think of it, she was the present Lord’s full-blooded sister. Just as well Kylara was in Weyrlife. With her proclivity, she’d have had her throat sliced long ago in a Hold or a Crafthall.