“Days are numbered,” echoed the Harper and put his head down on the table suddenly. Lytol bent toward the man, curiously, almost paternally. He drew back, startled when the Harper began to snore gently.
“Hey, don’t go to sleep. We haven’t finished this bottle.” When Robinton made no response, Lytol shrugged and drained his own cup. Then he seemed to collapse slowly until his head was on the table, too, his snores filling the pause between Robinton’s.
Raid regarded the pair with sour disgust. Then he turned on his heel and walked back to his end of the head table.
“I don’t know but what there isn’t truth in the wine,” Larad of Telgar Hold commented as Raid reseated himself.
Lessa “leaned” quickly against Larad. He was nowhere near as insensitive as Raid. When he shook his head, she desisted and turned her attentions to Sifer. If she could get two of them to agree . . .
“Dragon and his rider both belong in the Weyr,” Raid said. “You don’t change what’s natural for man and beast”
“Well now, take these fire lizards,” Sifer began, nodding toward the two across the table from him, in the arms of the Lord and Lady of Lemos Hold. “They’re dragons of a sort, after all.”
Raid snorted. “We saw today what happens when you go against natural courses. The girl—whatever her name is lost her queen. Well, even the fire lizard warned her off Impressing a new one. The creatures know more than we think they do. Look at all the years people’ve tried to catch ’em . . .”
“Catch ’em now, in nestsful,” Sifer interrupted him. “Pretty things they are. Must say I look forward to mine hatching.”
Somehow their quarreling reminded Lessa of old R’gul and S’lel, her first “teachers” in the Weyr, contradicting themselves endlessly as they purportedly taught her “all she’d need to know to become a Weyrwoman.” It was F’lar who had done that.
“Boy has to stay here with that dragon.”
“The boy in question is a Lord Holder, Raid,” Larad of Telgar reminded him. “And the one thing we don’t need is a contested Hold. It might be different if Lytol had male issue, or if he’d fostered long enough to have a promising candidate. No, Jaxom must remain Lord at Ruatha Hold,” and the Telgar Lord scanned the Bowl in search of the boy. His eyes met Lessa’s and he smiled in absent courtesy.
“I don’t agree, I don’t agree,” Raid said, shaking his head emphatically. “It goes against all custom.”
“Some customs need changing badly,” said Larad, frowning.
“I wonder what the boy wants to do,” interjected Asgenar in his bland way, catching Larad’s eye.
The Telgar Lord threw back his head with a hearty laugh. “Don’t complicate matters, brother. We’ve just decided his fate, will-he, won’t-he.”
“The boy should be asked,” Asgenar said, no longer mildspoken. His glance slid from Larad to the two older Lord Holders. “I saw his face when he came out of the Hatching Ground. He realized what he’d done. He was as white as the little dragon.” Then Asgenar nodded in Lytol’s direction. “Yes, Jaxom’s all too aware of what he’s done.”
Raid harumphed irritably. “You don’t ask youngsters anything. You tell ’em!”
Asgenar turned to his lady, touching her shoulder lightly, but there was no mistaking the warmth of his expression as he asked her to request young Jaxom’s presence. Mindful of her sleepy green lizard, she rose and went on her errand.
“I’ve discovered recently that you find out a great deal by asking people,” Asgenar said, looking after his wife with an odd smile on his face.
“People, yes, but not children!” Raid managed to get a lot of anger into that phrase.
Lessa “leaned” against him. He’d be more susceptible in this state of mind.
“Why doesn’t he just pick the beast up?” the Benden Lord Holder demanded irritably as he watched the stately progress of the Lady of Lemos Hold, the young Lord of Ruatha and the newly hatched white dragon, Ruth.
“I’d say he was establishing the proper relationship,” Asgenar remarked. “It would be easier and faster to carry the little beast, but not wiser. Even a dragon that small has dignity.”
Raid of Benden Hold grunted, whether in acknowledgment or disagreement Lessa couldn’t tell. He began to fidget, rub the back of his head with one hand, so she stopped her “pushing.”
The whir of dragon wings back-beating to land caught her attention. She turned and saw the gleam of a bronze hide in the darkness by the new entrance to the Rooms.
Lioth brings the Masterfarmer, Ramoth told her rider.
Lessa couldn’t imagine why Andemon would be required, nor why N’ton would be bringing him. The Masterfarmerhall had its own beast now. She started to rise.
“D’you realize the trouble you’ve caused, young man?” Raid was asking in a stiff voice.
Lessa swung round, torn between two curiosities. It wasn’t as if Jaxom were without champions in Asgenar and Larad. But she did wonder how the boy would answer Raid.
Jaxom stood straight, his chin up, his eyes bright. Ruth’s head was pressed to his thigh as if the dragonet were aware that they stood on trial.
“Yes, my good Lord Raid, I am fully aware of the consequences of my actions and there may now be a grave problem facing the other Lord Holders.” Without a hint of apology or contrition, Jaxom obliquely reminded Raid that, for all his lack of years, he was a Lord Holder, too.
Old Raid sat straighter, pulling his shoulders back, as if . . .
Lessa stepped past her chair.
“Don’t . . .”
The whisper was so soft that at first Lessa thought she was mistaken. Then she saw the Harper looking at her, his eyes as keen as if he were cold sober. And he, the dissembler, probably was, for all that act he’d pulled earlier.
“Fully aware, are you?” Raid echoed, and suddenly launched himself to his feet. The old Lord Holder had lost inches as he gained Turns, his shoulders now rounding slightly, his belly no longer flat and his legs stringy in the tight hide of his trousers. He looked a caricature confronting the slim proud boy. “D’you know you’ve got to stay at Benden Weyr now you’ve Impressed a dragon? D’you realize that Ruatha’s lordless?”
“With all due respect, sir, you and the other Lords present do not constitute a Conclave since you are not two-thirds of the resident Holders of Pern,” replied Jaxom. “If necessary, I should be glad to come before a duly constituted Conclave and plead my case. It’s obvious, I think, that Ruth is not a proper dragon. I am given to understand that his chances of maturing are slight. Therefore he is of no use to the Weyr which has no space for the useless. Even old dragons no longer able to chew firestone are retired to Southern Weyr—or were.” His slight slip disconcerted Jaxom only until he saw Asgenar’s approving grin. “It’s wiser to consider Ruth more of an overgrown fire lizard than an undersized dragon.” Jaxom smiled with loving apology down at Ruth and caressed the upturned head. It was an action so adult, so beautiful that Lessa felt her throat tightening. “My first obligation is to my Blood, to the Hold which cared for me. Ruth and I would be an embarrassment here in Benden Weyr. We can help Ruatha Hold just as the other fire lizards do.”
“Well said, young Lord of Ruatha, well said,” cried Asgenar of Lemos, and his applause started his lizard shrieking.
Larad of Telgar Hold nodded solemnly in accord.
“Humph. Shade too flip an answer for me,” Raid grumbled. “All you youngsters act before you think these days.”
“I’m certainly guilty of that, Lord Raid,” Jaxom said candidly. “But I had to act fast today—to save the life of a dragon. We’re taught to honor dragonkind, I more than most.” Jaxom gestured toward Lytol. His hand remained poised and a look of profound sorrow came over his face.
Whether Jaxom’s voice had roused him or the position of his head was too uncomfortable was debatable, but the Lord Warder of Ruatha Hold was no longer asleep. He rose, gripping the table, then pushing himself away from its support. With slow st
eps, as if he were forced to concentrate on each movement, Lytol walked the length of the table until he reached his ward. Lytol placed an arm lightly across Jaxom’s shoulders. As though he drew strength from that contact, he straightened and turned to Raid of Benden Hold. His expression was proud and his manner more haughty than Lord Groghe at his worst.
“Lord Jaxom of Ruatha Hold is not to blame for today’s events. As his guardian, I am responsible—if it is an offense to save a life. If I chose to stress reverence for dragonkind in his education, I had good reason!”
Lord Raid looked uneasily away from Lytol’s direct gaze.
“If” and Lytol stressed the word as though he felt the possibility was remote, “the Lords decide to act in Conclave, I shall strongly urge that no man fault Lord Jaxom’s conduct today. He acted in honor and at the promptings of his training. He best serves Pern, however, by returning to his Hold. At Ruatha, young Ruth will be cared for and honored—for as long as he is with us.”
There was no doubt that Larad and Asgenar were of Lytol’s mind. Old Sifer sat pulling at his lip, unwilling to look toward Raid.
“I still think dragonfolk belong in Weyrs!” Raid muttered, glum and resentful.
That problem apparently settled, Lessa turned to leave and nearly fell into F’nor’s arms.
He steadied her. “A weyr is where a dragon is,” he said in a low voice rippling with amusement. The strain of the past week still showed in his face but his eyes were clear and his lips no longer thin with tension. Brekke’s resolution was evidently all in his favor.
“She’s asleep,” he said. “I told you she wouldn’t Impress.”
Lessa made an impatient gesture. “At least the experience snapped her out of that shock.”
“Yes,” and there was a wealth of relief in the man’s soft affirmative.
“So, you’d better come with me to the Rooms. I want to find out why Masterfarmer Andemon has just flown in. And it’s about time you got back to work!”
F’nor chuckled. “It is, if someone else has been doing my work. Did anyone bring F’lar his Threads?” There was a note in his voice that told Lessa he was concerned.
“N’ton did!”
“I thought he was riding Wing-second to P’zar at Fort Weyr!”
“As you remarked the other morning, whenever you’re not here to keep him under control, F’lar rearranges matters.” She saw his stricken look and caught his arm, smiling up at him reassuringly; he wasn’t up to teasing yet. “No one could take your place with F’lar—or me. Canth and Brekke needed you more for a while.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “But that doesn’t mean things haven’t been happening and you’d better catch up. N’ton’s been included in our affairs because F’lar had a sudden glimpse of his mortality when he was sick and decided to stop being secretive. Or it might be another four hundred Turns or so before we control Thread.”
She gathered her skirt so she could move more rapidly over the sandy floor.
“Can I come, too?” asked the Harper.
“You? Sober enough to walk that far?”
Robinton chuckled, smoothing his rumpled hair back into place at his neck. “Lytol couldn’t drink me drunk, my dear Lady Lessa. Only the Smith has the—ah—capacity.”
There was no doubt that he was steady on his feet as the three walked toward the glow-marked entrance to the Rooms. The stars were brilliant in the soft black spring sky, and the glows on the lower levels threw bright circles of light on the sands. Above, on weyr ledges, dragons watched with gleaming opalescent eyes, occasionally humming with pleasure. High up, Lessa saw three dragon silhouettes by the Star Stones: Ramoth and Mnementh were perched to the right of the watchdragon, their wings overlapping. They were both smug tonight; she’d heard Ramoth’s tenor often that evening. It was such a relief to have her in an agreeable mood for a while. Lessa rather hoped there’d be a long interval before the queen felt the urge to mate again.
When they entered the Rooms, the spare figure of the Masterfarmer was bending over the largest of the tubs, turning the leaves of the fellis sapling. F’lar watched him with a wary expression while N’ton was grinning, unable to observe the solemnity of the moment.
As soon as F’lar caught sight of F’nor, he smiled broadly and quickly crossed the room to clasp his half-brother’s arm.
“Manora said Brekke had snapped out of shock. It’s twice a relief, believe me. I’d have been happier still if she’d brought herself to re-Impress . . .”
“That would have served no purpose,” F’nor said, so flatly contradictory that F’lar’s grin faded a little.
He recovered and drew F’nor to the tubs.
“N’ton was able to get Thread and we infected three of the big tubs,” F’lar told him, speaking in a low undertone as if he didn’t wish to disturb the Masterfarmer’s investigations. “The grubs devoured every filament. And where the Thread pierced the leaves of that fellis tree, the char marks are already healing. I’m hoping Master Andemon can tell us how or why.”
Andemon straightened his body but his lantern jaw remained sunk to his chest as he frowned at the tub. He blinked rapidly and pursed his thin lips, his heavy, thick-knuckled hands twitching slightly in the folds of a dirt-stained tunic. He had come as he was when the Weyr messenger summoned him from the fields.
“I don’t know how or why, Good Weyrleader. And if what you have told me is the truth,” he paused, finally raising his eyes to F’lar, “I am scared.”
“Why, man?” And F’lar spoke on the end of a surprised laugh. “Don’t you realize what this means? If the grubs can adapt to northern soil and climate, and perform as we—all of us here,” his gesture took in the Harper and his Wing-second as well as Lessa, “have seen them, Pern does not need to fear Thread ever again.”
Andemon took a deep breath, throwing his shoulders back, but whether resisting the revolutionary concept or preparing to espouse it was not apparent. He looked toward the Harper as if he could trust this man’s opinion above the others.
“You saw the Thread devoured by these grubs?”
The Harper nodded.
“And that was five days ago?”
The Harper confirmed this.
A shudder rippled the cloth of the Masterfarmer’s tunic. He looked down at the tubs with the reluctance of fear. Stepping forward resolutely, he peered again at the young fellis tree. Inhaling and holding that deep breath, he poised one gnarled hand for a moment before plunging it into the dirt. His eyes were closed. He brought up a moist handful of earth and, opening his eyes, turned the glob over, exposing a cluster of wriggling grubs. His eyes widened and, with an exclamation of disgust, he flung the dirt from him as if he’d been burned. The grubs writhed impotently against the stone floor.
“What’s the matter? There can’t be Thread!”
“Those are parasites!” Andemon replied, glaring at F’lar, badly disillusioned and angry. “We’ve been trying to rid the southern parts of this peninsula of these larvae for centuries.” He grimaced with distaste as he watched F’lar carefully pick up the grubs and deposit them back into the nearest tub. “They’re as pernicious and indestructible as Igen sandworms and not half as useful. Why, let them get into a field and every plant begins to droop and die.”
“There’s not an unhealthy plant here,” F’lar protested, gesturing at the burgeoning growths all around.
Andemon stared at him. F’lar moved, grabbing a handful of soil from each tub as he circled, showing the grubs as proof.
“It’s impossible,” Andemon insisted, the shadow of his earlier fear returning.
“Don’t you recall, F’lar,” Lessa said, “when we first brought the grubs here, the plants did seem to droop?”
“They recovered. All they needed was water!”
“They couldn’t!” Andemon forgot his revulsion enough to dig into another tub as if to prove to himself that F’lar was wrong. “There’re no grubs in this one!” he said in triumph.
“That’s never had any. I
used it to check the others. And I must say, the plants don’t look as green or healthy as the other tubs.”
Andemon stared around. “Those grubs are pests. We’ve been trying to rid ourselves of them for hundreds of Turns.”
“Then I suspect, good Master Andemon,” F’lar said with a gentle, rueful smile, “that farmers have been working against Pern’s best interests.”
The Masterfarmer exploded into indignant denials of that charge. It took all Robinton’s diplomacy to calm him down long enough for F’lar to explain.
“And you mean to tell me that those larvae, those grubs, were developed and spread on purpose?” Andemon demanded of the Harper who was the only one in the room he seemed inclined to trust now. “They were meant to spread, bred by the same ancestors who bred the dragons?”
“That’s what we believe,” Robinton said. “Oh, I can appreciate your incredulity. I had to sleep on the notion for several nights. However, if we check the Records, we find that, while there is no mention that dragonmen will attack the Red Star and clear it of Thread, there is the strong, recurring belief that Thread will one day not be the menace it is now. F’lar is reasonably . . .”
“Not reasonably, Robinton; completely sure,” F’lar interrupted. “N’ton’s been going back to Southern—jumping between time, as far back as seven Turns, to check on Threadfalls in the southern continent. Wherever he’s probed, there’re grubs in the soil which rise when Thread falls and devour it. That’s why there have never been any burrows in Southern. The land itself is inimical to Thread.”
In the silence, Andemon stared at the tips of his muddy boots.
“In the Farmercrafthall Records, they mention specifically that we are to watch for these grubs.” He lifted troubled eyes to the others. “We always have. It was our plain duty. Plants wither wherever grub appears.” He shrugged in helpless confusion. “We’ve always rooted them out, destroyed the larval sacks with—” and he sighed, “flame and agenothree. That’s the only way to stop the infestations.
“Watch for the grubs, the Records say,” Andemon repeated and then suddenly his shoulders began to shake, his whole torso became involved. Lessa caught F’lar’s eyes, concerned for the man. But he was laughing, if only at the cruel irony. “Watch for the grubs, the Records say. They do not, they do not say destroy the grubs. They say most emphatically ‘watch for the grubs.’ So we watched. Aye, we have watched.”
The Dragonriders of Pern Page 61
