“My Craft is weyrbound to Fort, my dear F’lar,” the Craftmaster replied, an odd smile on his lips, “although Weyrleader T’ron does not appear to follow custom in keeping the Master Harper advised of auspicious events. I had no immediate, or privy way to bespeak Benden Weyr.”
F’lar took a deep breath; Robinton confirmed the fact that T’ron had not known. “T’kul saw fit not to inform the other Weyrleaders of the unscheduled Fall in Tillek Hold.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” the Harper murmured cynically.
“We learned only today that R’mart was so badly injured in the Fall at Crom Hold that he couldn’t dispatch any messengers.”
“You mean, that numbwitted Weyrwoman Bedella forgot to,” Lessa interjected.
F’lar nodded and went on. “The first Benden knew of this was when Thread fell in Lemos northeast, midmorning, when the table indicated southwest and evening. Because I always send a rider on ahead to act as messenger for any last moment problems, we were able to reach Lemos before the leading Edge.”
Robinton whistled with appreciation.
“You mean, the timetables are wrong?” Lytol exclaimed. All the color had drained from his swarthy face at the news. “I thought that rumor had to be false.”
F’lar shook his head grimly; he’d been watching for Lytol’s reaction to this news.
“They’re not accurate any more; they don’t apply to this shift,” he said. “Lessa reminded me, as I do you, that there have been deviations in the Red Star’s passage that cause long intervals. We must assume that something can cause a change in the rhythm of the Fall as well. As soon as we can gauge a pattern again, we’ll correct the tables or make new ones.”
Lytol stared at him uncomprehendingly. “But how long will it take you? With three Falls, you ought to have some idea now. I’ve acres of new plantings, forests. How can I protect them when I can’t be sure where Thread will fall?” He controlled himself with an effort. “I apologize but this is—this is terrible news. I don’t know how the other Lord Holders will receive it on top of everything else.” He took a quick drink of wine.
“What do you mean, on top of everything else?” F’lar asked, startled.
“Why, the way the Weyrs are behaving. That disaster in Esvay valley in Nabol, those plantations of Lord Sangel’s.”
“Tell me about the Esvay Valley and Lord Sangel.”
“You hadn’t heard that either?” Robinton asked in real surprise. “Don’t the Weyrs talk to one another?” And he glanced from F’lar to Lessa.
“The Weyrs are autonomous,” F’lar replied. “We don’t interfere . . .”
“You mean, the Oldtimers keep exchanges with us contemporary radicals to a bare minimum,” Lessa finished, her eyes flashing indignantly. “Don’t scowl at me, F’lar. You know it’s true. Though I’m sure D’ram and T’ron were as shocked as we were that T’kul would keep premature Threadfall a secret. Now, what happened at Esvay Vale and in Lord Sangel’s Southern Boll?”
It was Robinton who answered her in an expressionless voice. “Several weeks back, T’kul refused to help Meron of Nabol clear some furrows from wooded slopes above the Esvay valley. Said it was the job of the ground crews and Meron’s men were lazy and inefficient. The whole valley had to be fired in order to stop the burrows’ spreading. Lytol sent help; he knows. I went to see some of the families. They’re holdless now and very bitter about dragonmen.
“A few weeks later, Weyrleader T’ron left Southern Boll Hold without clearing with Lord Sangel’s groundchief. They had to burn down three adult plantations. When Lord Sangel protested to T’ron, he was told that the wings had reported the Fall under control.
“On another level but disturbing in the over-all picture, I’ve heard of any number of girls, snatched on the pretext of Search . . .”
“Girls beg to come to the Weyr,” Lessa put in tartly.
“To Benden Weyr, probably,” Robinton agreed. “But my harpers tell me of unwilling girls, forced from their babes and husbands, ending as drudges to Weyrladies. There is deep hatred building, Lady Lessa. There has always been resentment, envy, because weyrlife is different and the ease with which dragonriders can move across the continent while lesser folk struggle, the special privileges riders enjoy—” The Harper waved his hands. “The Oldtimers really believe in special privilege, and that exacerbates the dangers inherent in such outdated attitudes. As for matters in the Crafthalls, the belt knife incident at Fandarel’s is a very minor item in the list of depredations. The crafts generously tithe of their products, but Weaver Zurg and Tanner Belesden are bitterly disillusioned now by the stiff rate of additional levies.”
“Is that why they were so cool to me when I asked for gown material?” Lessa asked. “But Zurg himself helped me choose.”
“I fancy that no one at Benden Weyr abuses privilege,” Robinton replied. “No one at Benden Weyr. After all,” and he grinned toothily, managing to resemble T’ron as he did so, “Benden is the backsliding Weyr which has forgotten true custom and usage, become lax in their dealings. Why, they permit Holds bound to Benden Weyr to retain dignity, possession and forest. They encourage the Crafts to proliferate, hatching bastard breeds of who-knows-what. But Benden Weyr,” and Robinton was himself again, and angry, “is respected throughout Pern.”
“As a dragonrider, I ought to take offense,” F’lar said, so disturbed by this indictment that he spoke lightly.
“As Benden’s Weyrleader, you ought to take charge,” Robinton retorted, his voice ringing. “When Benden stood alone, seven Turns ago, you said that the Lord Holders and Craftsmen were too parochial in their views to deal effectively with the real problem. They at least learned something from their mistakes. The Oldtimers are not only incurably parochial, but worse—adamantly inflexible. They will not, they cannot adapt to our Turn. Everything we accomplished in the four hundred Turns that separate our thinking is wrong and must be set aside, set back for their ways, their standards. Pern has grown—is growing and changing. They have not. And they are alienating the Lord Holders and Craftsmen so completely that I am sincerely concerned—no, I’m scared—about the reaction to this new crisis.”
“They’ll change their minds when Thread falls unexpectedly,” Lessa said.
“Who will change? The Weyrleaders? The Holders? Don’t count on it, Lady Lessa.”
“I have to agree with Robinton,” Lytol said in a tired voice. “There’s been precious little cooperation from the Weyrs. They’re overbearing, wrongheaded and demanding. I find that I, Lytol, ex-dragonrider, resent any more demands on me as Lytol, Lord Warder. And now it appears they are incapable even of doing their job. What, for instance, can be done right in the present crisis? Are they willing to do anything?”
“There’ll be cooperation from the Weyrs, I can guarantee it,” F’lar told Lytol. He must rouse the man from his dejection. “The Oldtimers were shaken men this morning. Ruatha Hold’s weyrbound to Fort and T’ron’s setting up sweepriders. You’re to man the watch fires on the heights and light them when Thread mass is sighted. You’ll get prompt action the instant a watch fire is seen.”
“I’m to rely on shaken men and fires on the heights?” Lytol demanded, eyes wide with disbelief.
“Fire is not efficient,” Fandarel intoned. “Rain puts it out. Fog hides it.”
“I’ll gladly assign my drummers to you if you think they’d be of help,” Robinton put in.
“F’lar,” Lytol said urgently. “I know Benden Weyr sends messengers ahead to Holds under Threadfall. Won’t the other Weyrleaders agree now to assign riders to the Holds? Just until we know about the shifts and learn to anticipate them? I don’t like most of the Fort Weyr riders, but at least I’d feel secure knowing there was instant communication with the Weyr.”
“As I was saying,” Fandarel boomed in such a portentous voice that they all turned to him a little startled, “there has been a regrettable lack of efficient communication on this planet which I believe my craft can eff
ectually end. That is the news I brought.”
“What?” Lytol was on his feet.
“Why didn’t you speak up sooner, you great lout?” demanded the Harper.
“How long would it take to equip all major Holds and Weyrs?” F’lar’s question drowned the others.
Fandarel looked squarely at the Weyrleader before he answered what had been almost a plea.
“More time, unfortunately, than we apparently have as margin in this emergency. My halls have been overbusy turning out flame throwers. There’s been no time to devote to my little toys.”
“How long?”
“The instruments which send and receive distance writing are easy to assemble, but wire must be laid between them. That process is time-consuming.”
“Man-consuming, too, I warrant,” Lytol added and sat down, deflated.
“No more than watch fires,” Fandarel told him placidly. “If each Lord and Weyr could be made to cooperate and work together. We did once before,” and the Smith paused to look pointedly at F’lar, “when Benden called.”
Lytol’s face brightened and he grabbed F’lar urgently by the arm.
“The Lord Holders would listen to you, F’lar of Benden, because they trust you!”
“F’lar couldn’t approach other Lords, not without antagonizing the Weyrleaders,” Lessa objected, but she too was alert with hope.
“What the other Weyrleaders don’t know—” Robinton suggested slyly, warming to the strategy. “Come, come, F’lar. This is not the time to stick at principles—at least ones which have proved untenable. Look beyond affiliations, man. You did before and we won. Consider Pern, all Pern, not one Weyr,” and he pointed a long callused finger at F’lar, “one Hold,” and he swiveled it to Lytol; “or one Craft,” and he cocked it at Fandarel. “When we five combined our wits seven Turns ago, we got ourselves out of a very difficult position.”
“And I set the stage for this one,” Lessa said with a bitter laugh.
Before F’lar could speak, Robinton was waggling his finger at her. “Silly people waste time assigning or assuming guilt, Lessa. You went back and you brought the Oldtimers forward. To save Pern, Now we have a different problem. You’re not silly. You and F’lar, and all of us, must find other solutions. Now we’ve that so conveniently scheduled wedding at Telgar Hold. There’ll be a bevy of Lords and Craftmasters doing honor to Lemos and Telgar. We are all invited. Let us make very good use of that social occasion, my Lady Lessa, my lord F’lar, and bend them all to Benden’s way of thinking. Let Benden Weyr be a model—and all the other Holds and Crafts will follow those weyrbound to Benden . . .”
He leaned back suddenly, smiling with great anticipation.
F’lar said quietly, “Disaffection is apparently universal. We are going to need more than words and example to change minds.”
“The Crafts will back you, Weyrleader, to the last Hall,” Fandarel said. “You champion Bendarek. F’nor defended Terry, and against dragonmen because they were in the wrong. F’nor is all right, is he not?” The Smith turned questioningly to Lessa.
“He’ll be back in a week or so.”
“We need him now,” Robinton said. “He’d be useful at Telgar Hold, the commoners account him a hero. What do you say, F’lar? We’re yours to command again.”
They all turned to him, Lessa slipping a hand to his knee, her eyes eager. This was what she wanted, all right; for him to assume the responsibility. It was what he knew he had to do, finishing the task he had relinquished, hopefully, to those he thought better qualified than he to protect Pern.
“About that distance-writer of yours, Fandarel, could you rig one to Telgar Hold in time for the marriage?” F’lar asked.
Robinton let out a whoop that reverberated through the chamber, causing Ramoth to grumble from the Hatching Ground. The Smith showed all his stained tusks and clenched his huge fists on the table as if choking any opposition a-borning. The tic in Lytol’s cheek gave a spasmodic leap and stopped.
“Marvelous idea,” Robinton cried. “Hope’s a great encourager. Give the Lords a reliable means of keeping in touch and you’ve undone much of the Weyrs’ isolation policies.”
“Can you do it, Fandarel?” F’lar asked the Smith.
“To Telgar I could lay wire. Yes. It could be done.”
“How is this distance writing done? I don’t understand.”
Fandarel inclined his head toward the Masterharper. “Thanks to Robinton, we have a code that permits us to send long and complicated messages. One must train a man to understand it, to send and receive it. If you could spare an hour of your time . . .”
“I can spare you as much time as you need, Fandarel,” F’lar assured him.
“Let’s go tomorrow. There’s nothing could fall here tomorrow,” Lessa urged, excited.
“Good. I shall arrange a demonstration. I shall put more people to work on the wire.”
“I shall speak to Lord Sangel of Southern Boll and Lord Groghe of Fort Hold,” Lytol said. “Discreetly, of course, but they know Ruatha is not favored by the Weyt” He got to his feet. “I have been a dragonrider, and a craftsman, and now I am a Holder. But Thread makes no distinction. It sears wherever, whatever it touches.”
“Yes, we must remind everyone of that,” Robinton said with an ominous grin.
“I shall, of course, agree to whatever T’ron orders me to do, now I have hopes of a surer deliverance.” Lytol bowed to Lessa. “My duty to you, my lady. I’ll collect Lord Jaxom and beg the favor of a return flight . . .”
“You’ve missed your lunch, stay for our dinner.”
Lytol shook his head regretfully. “There’ll be much to set in motion.”
“In the interests of conserving dragon strength, I’ll ride with Lytol and Jaxom,” Robinton said, swallowing the rest of his wine after a rueful toast to such haste. “That will leave you two beasts to share the burden of Fandarel.”
Fandarel stood up, a tolerantly smiling giant, his massive bulk dwarfing the Harper, who was by no measure a short man. “I sympathize with dragons, forced to endure the envy of frail, small creatures.”
None of them left, however, because neither Jaxom nor Felessan could be located. One of Manora’s women remembered seeing them pilfering vegetables and thought they’d gone to join the boys playing miggsy. On questioning, one of the children, Gandidan, admitted seeing them go toward the back corridors.
“Gandidan,” Manora said sternly, “have you been teasing Felessan about the peekhole again?” The child hung his head and suddenly the others couldn’t look at anyone. “Hmmm,” and she turned to the anxious parents. “I’ve been missing used glows again, F’lar, so I imagine there’ve been some trips to look at the eggs.”
“What?” Lessa exclaimed, as startled as the boys who had turned to guilty statues.
Before she could berate them, F’lar laughed aloud. “That’s where they are, then.”
“Where?”
The boys huddled together, terrified by the coldness in her voice, even if it was directed toward the Weyrleader.
“In the corridor behind the Hatching Ground. Oh, don’t fuss, Lessa. That’s all part of growing up in the Weyr, isn’t it, Lytol? I did it when I was Felessan’s age.”
“You’ve been aware of these excursions, Manora?” Lessa demanded imperiously, ignoring F’lar.
“Certainly, Weyrwoman,” Manora replied unintimidated. “And kept track to be sure they all returned. How long ago did they set out, Gandidan? Did they play with you for a time?”
“No wonder Ramoth’s been so upset, I kept thinking she was only being broody. How could you allow such activities to continue?”
“Come now, Lessa,” F’lar said soothingly. “It’s a matter of adolescent pride,” and F’lar dropped his voice to a whisper and widened his eyes dramatically, “not to shrink from the challenge of dark, dusty corridors; dim, flickering glows. Will the glows last long enough to get us to the peekhole and back? Or will we be lost forever in the blackness
of the Weyr?”
The Harper was grinning, the boys stunned and open-mouthed. Lytol was not amused, however.
“How long ago, Gandidan?” Manora repeated, tipping the boy’s face up. When he seemed unable to speak, she glanced at the scared expressions of the others. “I think we’d better look. It’s easy to take the wrong turning if you have inadequate glows. And they did.”
There was no lack of searchers, and F’lar quickly split them up into sections to explore each corridor segment. Sounds echoed through halls undisturbed for hundreds of Turns. But it was not long before F’lar and Lytol led their group to the guiding light. Once they saw the figures lying in the patch of light, F’lar sent for the others.
“What’s the matter with them?” Lytol demanded, supporting his ward against him, and anxiously feeling for his pulse.
“Blood?” He held up stained fingers, his face bleak, cheek a-twitch.
So, thought F’lar, Lytol’s heart had unfrozen a little. Lessa was wrong to think Lytol too numb to care for the boy. Jaxom was a sensitive boy and children needed affection, but there are many ways of loving.
F’lar gestured for more glows. He turned back the dusty linen of the boy’s shirt, baring the horizontal scratches.
“Doesn’t look to me like more than scrapes. Probably stumbled against the wall in the dark. Who’s got some numbweed on him? Don’t look like that, Lytol. The pulse is strong.”
“But he’s not asleep. He doesn’t wake.” Lytol shook the limp figure, at first gently, then more insistently.
“There isn’t a mark on Felessan,” the Weyrleader said, turning his son in his arms.
Manora and Lessa came running then, kicking up dust in spite of F’lar’s urgent caution. But Manora reassured them that the boys were all right and briskly delegated two men to carry them back to the Weyr proper. Then she turned to the curious crowd that had assembled in the corridor.
“The emergency is over. Everyone back. Dinner’s ready, my lady, my lords. Pick up your feet, Silon. No need to stir up more dust” She glanced at the Weyrleader and the Master-smith. As one, the two men approached the mysterious doorway, Lessa and Lytol joining them.
The Dragonriders of Pern Page 40
