“Is that why you were dragged so far from Southern?” F’lar asked, gesturing at the newcomers to seat themselves at the round table set in the corner of the big room.
“So I’m informed,” said Robinton, grimacing over the long lectures he’d received on current, tide, drift and wind. He knew more than he’d take care ever to need about those aspects of the seaman’s craft.
Lessa laughed at his droll tone and poured wine.
“Do you realize,” he asked, twirling the glass in his fingers, “that there wasn’t a drop of wine on board?”
“Oh, no!” Lessa cried in a comic dismay. F’lar’s laughter joined hers. “What deprivation!”
Robinton then got down to the purpose of this visit. “It was, however, a felicitous accident. There is, my dear Weyrleaders, considerably more of the Southern Continent than we’d ever thought.” He glanced at Toric, who produced the map he’d hastily copied from the larger one in his Hold. F’lar and Lessa obligingly held the corners to flatten the stiff hide. The Northern Continent was detailed as was the known portion of the Southern Continent. Robinton pointed to the thumb of the Southern peninsula which contained the Southern Weyr and Toric’s Hold, then gestured to the right and left of that landmark where the coastline and a good part of the interior, marked off by two rivers, had been topographically detailed. “Toric has not been idle. You can see how much he has extended knowledge of the terrain beyond what F’nor was able to do during his journey south.”
“I asked permission of T’ron to continue the exploration,” the Southerner’s expression mirrored contempt and dislike, “but he barely heard me out and said I could do as I liked just as long as the Weyr was properly supplied with game and fresh fruit.”
“Supplied?” exclaimed F’lar. “They’d only to walk a few dragon lengths from the Weyrs and pick what they needed.”
“Sometimes they do. Mostly I find it easier to have my holders supply their demands. They don’t bother us then.”
“Bother you?” Lessa’s voice was indignant.
“That’s what I said, Weyrleader,” Toric replied, a steely note in his voice; he turned back to the map. “My holders have been able to penetrate this far into the interior. Very difficult going. Tough jungle growth that dulls the keenest chopping blade in an hour. Never seen such vegetation! We know there are hills here and a mountain range farther back,” he tapped the relevant area on the map, “but I’d not fancy carving my way there length by length. So we scouted along the shoreline, found these two rivers and proceeded up them as far as we could. The western river ends in a flat marshy lake, the southeastern one at a falls, six-seven dragon lengths high.” Toric straightened, regarding the small portion of explored land with mild disgust. “I’d hazard the guess that even if the land went no farther south than that range, it’s twice the size of South Boll or Tillek!”
“And the Oldtimers are not interested in examining what they have?” F’lar found that attitude unpalatable, Robinton realized.
“No, Weyrleader, they are not! And frankly, without some easier way to penetrate that vegetation,” Toric tapped the hide, “I don’t have the men, much less the energy, to bother. I’ve all the land I can hold right now and still be sure my people are safe from Thread.” He paused. Although Robinton had a fair idea what he was hesitating about, the Harper wanted the Weyrleaders to know firsthand what this energetic Southerner thought. “Most of the time the dragonmen don’t bother on that score, either.”
“What?” Lessa exploded, but F’lar touched her shoulder.
“I’d wondered about that, Toric.”
“How dare they?” Lessa continued, her gray eyes flashing. Ramoth stirred on her couch.
“They dare, all right,” Toric said, looking nervously at the queen.
However, Robinton could see that Lessa’s appalled reaction to the Oldtimers’ delinquency gratified the man.
“But . . . but . . .” Lessa spluttered with indignation.
“Are you able to manage, Toric?” F’lar asked, calming his weyrmate with a firm hand.
“I’ve learned,” he said. “We’ve plenty of flame-throwers, F’nor made sure they were left in my care. We maintain our holds grass-free and keep the beasts in the stone stables during Fall.” He gave a diffident shrug, then grinned slightly at the indignant expression of the Weyrwoman. “They don’t do us any harm, Lessa, even if they don’t do us any good. Don’t worry. We can handle them.”
“That isn’t the point,” Lessa said angrily. “They are dragonmen, sworn to protect—”
“You sent them south because they weren’t,” Toric reminded her. “So they couldn’t injure people here.”
“That still doesn’t give them any right to—”
“I told you, Lessa, they’re not harming us. We manage fine without them!”
A sort of challenge in Toric’s tone made Robinton hold his breath. Lessa had a quick temper.
“Is there anything you need from the North?” asked F’lar, in oblique apology.
“I was hoping you’d ask,” the Southerner said, grinning. “I know you can’t break your honor by interfering with the Oldtimers in the South. Not that I mind . . .” he added quickly as he saw Lessa about to protest again. “But we are running out of some things, like properly forged metal for my Craftsmith, and parts for the flamethrowers that he says only Fandarel can make.”
“I’ll see that you get them.”
“And I’d like a young sister of mine, Sharra, to study with that healer the Harper was telling me about, a Master Oldive. We’ve some odd sorts of fevers and curious infections.”
“Naturally she’s welcome,” Lessa said quickly. “And our Manora is adept in herb-brews.”
“And . . .” Toric hesitated a moment, glancing at Robinton, who quickly reassured him with a smile and an encouraging gesture, “if there were some adventurous men and women who’d be willing to make do at my Hold, I think I could absorb them without the Oldtimers’ knowing. Just a few, mind, because though we’ve all the space in the world, some people become unsettled when there aren’t dragons in the sky during Threadfall!”
“Why, yes,” F’lar said with a nonchalance that caused Robinton to stifle a laugh, “I believe there are a few hardy souls who would be interested in joining you.”
“Good. If I’ve enough to Hold properly, then I can see my way clear to extending beyond the rivers next cool season.” Toric’s relief was visible.
“I thought you said it was impossible . . .” F’lar began.
“Not impossible. Just difficult,” Toric replied, adding with a smile, “I’ve some men keen to continue despite the odds, and I’d like to know what’s out there.”
“So would we,” Lessa said. “The Oldtimers won’t last forever.”
“That fact often consoles me,” Toric replied. “One thing, though . . .” He paused, looking through narrowed eyes at the two Benden Weyrleaders.
So far, Toric’s audacity had delighted Robinton. The Harper was very pleased at how he’d managed to prime the man into requesting the very thing that the North needed the most—a place to send the independent and capable men who had no chance of attaining holds in the North. The big Southerner’s manner was quite a change for the Benden Weyrleaders: neither subservient and apologetic nor aggressive and demanding. Toric had become independent as a result of having no one, dragonmen, Craftmasters or Lord Holders, to fall back on. Because he had survived, he was self-confident and he knew what he wanted, and how to get it. Therefore he was addressing Lessa and F’lar as equals.
“One small matter,” he continued, “which I’d like clarified?”
“Yes?” F’lar prompted him.
“What happens to Southern, to my holders, to me, when the last of those Oldtimers is gone?”
“I’d say that you will have more than earned the right to Hold,” F’lar said slowly, with an unmistakable accent on the final word, “what you have managed to carve out of that jungle for yourself!”
“Good!” Toric gave a decisive nod of his head, his eyes never leaving F’lar’s. Then, suddenly, his tanned face dissolved into a smile. “I’d forgotten what you Northerners can be like. Send me some more—”
“Will they hold what they have carved?” Robinton asked quickly.
“What they hold, they have,” Toric replied in a grave manner. “But don’t flood me with people. I’ve got to sneak them in when the Oldtimers aren’t looking.”
“How many can you sneak in . . . comfortably?” asked F’lar.
“Oh, six, eight, the first time. Then when we’ve got holds, the same again.” He grinned. “The first ones build for themselves before the new ones come. But there’s lots of room in the South.”
“That’s comforting because I’ve plans for the South myself,” said F’lar. “That reminds me, Robinton, how far to the east did you and Menolly go?”
“I wish I could answer you. I know where we got to, when the storm finally blew out. The most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, a perfect semicircle of a white sanded beach, with this huge cone-shaped mountain far, far in the distance, right in the center of the cove . . .”
“But you came back along the shore, didn’t you?” F’lar was impatient. “What was it like?”
“It was there,” Robinton said uninformatively. “That’s all I can say . . .” He glared at Toric, who was chuckling at his discomfiture. “We had a choice of sailing very close to land which Menolly said was impossible as we didn’t know the bottom, or with sufficient searoom to keep beyond the Western Current which would evidently have brought us right back to the cove. It is, as I’ve said, a very beautiful spot, but I was glad to leave it for a while. Consequently, while land was there, it was not close enough for any inspection by me.”
“That’s too bad.” F’lar looked very unhappy.
“Yes and no,” replied Robinton. “It took us nine days to sail back along that coast. That’s a lot of land for Toric to explore.”
“I’m willing, and I’ll be ready if I get the supplies I need . . .”
“How do we get shipments to you, Toric?” F’lar asked. “Don’t dare send them on dragonback, though that would be easiest and best from my point of view.”
Robinton chuckled and gave a broad wink to the others. “As to that, if another ship should by chance be blown off course, south from Ista Hold . . . I had a word or two with Master Idarolan recently and he mentioned how bad the storms have been this Turn.”
“Is that how you chanced to be South in the first place?” asked Lessa.
“How else?” Robinton said, assuming a very innocent expression. “Menolly was attempting to teach me to sail, a storm came up unexpectedly and blew us straight into Toric’s harbor. Didn’t it, Toric?”
“If you say so, Harper!”
CHAPTER III
Morning at Ruatha Hold, and
Smithcrafthall at Telgar Hold,
Present Pass, 15.5.9
WITH A FORCE that set all the cups and plates bouncing, Jaxom brought down both fists on the heavy wooden table.
“That is enough,” he said into the stunned silence. He was on his feet, jerking his broad, bony shoulders back because his arms had been jarred by the blows. “That is quite enough!”
He didn’t shout, he was oddly pleased to recall later, but his voice was deepened by this explosion of long suppressed anger and carried clearly to the edge of the Hall. The drudge who was bringing in another pitcher of hot klah paused in confusion.
“I am the Lord of this Hold,” Jaxom went on, staring first at Dorse, his milkbrother. “I am Ruth’s rider. He is unmistakably a dragon.” Jaxom now bent his gaze on Brand, the head steward whose jaw had dropped in surprise. “He is, as usual,” and Jaxom’s glance flickered across Lytol’s blankly puzzled face, “in the very good health he has enjoyed since his Hatching.” Jaxom passed over the four fosterlings who were all too new at Ruatha Hold to have started jibing at him. “And yes,” he said directly to Deelan, his milkmother whose lower lip was quivering at her nursling’s startling behavior, “this is the day when I go to the Smithcrafthall where, as you all well know, I shall be served with the food and courtesy adequate to my needs and station. Therefore,” and his glance swept the faces around the table, “the subjects of this morning’s conversation do not need to be aired again in my presence. Have I made myself clear?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but strode purposefully from the Hall, elated at having finally said something and half-guilty because he had lost control of his temper. He heard Lytol call his name but for once that summons did not exact obedience.
This time it would not be Jaxom, however young a Lord of Ruatha Hold he still was, who apologized for his behavior. The enormous backlog of similar incidents, manfully swallowed or overlooked for any number of logical reasons, swept aside every consideration except to put as much distance between himself and his invidious position, his too reasonable and conscientious guardian and the obnoxious group of people who mistook daily intimacy for license.
Ruth, picking up his rider’s distress, came charging out of the old stable which made his weyr at Ruatha Hold. The white dragon’s fragile-seeming wings were half-spread as he rushed to give whatever aid his mate needed.
With a breath that was half a sob, Jaxom vaulted to Ruth’s back and urged him up out of the courtyard just as Lytol appeared at the massive Hold doors. Jaxom averted his face so that later he’d be able to say truthfully that he hadn’t seen Lytol waving.
Ruth beat strongly upward, his lighter mass launched more readily than that of the regular-sized dragons.
“You’re twice the dragon the others are. Twice! You’re better at everything! Everything!” Jaxom’s thought was so turbulent that Ruth trumpeted defiance.
The startled brown watchdragon queried them from the fire-heights and the entire Hold population of fire-lizards materialized around Ruth, dipping and swooping, chirping in echoed agitation.
Ruth cleared the fire-heights and then winked into between, unerringly going to the high mountain lake above the Hold which had become their special retreat.
The penetrating cold of between, brief passage though it was, reduced Jaxom’s temper. He began shivering, since he wore only his sleeveless tunic, as Ruth glided down effortlessly to the water’s edge.
“It’s completely and utterly unfair!” he said, slamming his right fist into his thigh so hard that Ruth grunted with the impact.
What is troubling you today? the dragon asked as he landed daintily on the lake verge.
“Everything! Nothing!”
Which? Ruth reasonably wanted to know and turned his head to gaze at his rider.
Jaxom slid from the soft-skinned white back and encircled the dragon’s neck with his arms, pulling the wedge-shaped head against him, for comforting.
Why do you let them upset you? Ruth asked, his eyes whirling with love and affection for his weyrmate.
“A very good question,” Jaxom replied after a full moment’s consideration. “But they know exactly how.” Then he laughed. “This is where all that objectivity Robinton talks about ought to operate . . . and doesn’t.”
The Masterharper is honored for his wisdom. Ruth sounded uncertain, and his tone made Jaxom smile.
He was always being told that dragons had no ability to understand abstract concepts or complex relationships. Too often Ruth surprised him by remarks that cast doubt on the theory. Dragons, particularly Ruth in Jaxom’s biased opinion, obviously perceived far more than others credited to them. Even Weyrleaders like F’lar or Lessa and even N’ton. Thinking about the Fort Weyrleader reminded Jaxom that he now had a particular reason for going to the Mastersmithhall this morning. N’ton, who would be there to hear Wansor, was the only rider Jaxom felt would be likely to help him.
“Shells!” Jaxom kicked rebelliously at a stone, watching the ripples it caused when it skittered across the surface of the lake and finally sank.
Robinton had often used the ripple eff
ect to demonstrate how a tiny action produced multiple reactions. Jaxom let out a snort, wondering how many ripples he’d caused this morning by storming out of the Hall. And just why had this morning bothered him so much? It had begun like other mornings, with Dorse’s trite comments about oversized fire-lizards, with Lytol’s habitual query about Ruth’s health—as if the dragon were likely to deteriorate overnight—and with Deelan snidely repeating that sickeningly old hoot about visitors starving at the Smithcrafthall. To be sure, Deelan’s mothering had lately begun to irritate Jaxom, especially when the dear soul invariably fondled him in front of her seething natural son, Dorse. All the time-honored, worn-out nonsense that started a day, every day, at Ruatha Hold. Why, today, should it jerk him to his feet in a fury and drive him from the Hall he was Lord of, fleeing from people over whom, in theory, he had all control and right?
And there was nothing wrong with Ruth. Nothing.
No. I am fine, Ruth said, then added in a plaintive tone, except that I didn’t have time for my swim.
Jaxom stroked the soft eye ridges, smiling indulgently. “Sorry to spoil your morning, too.”
You haven’t. I’ll swim in the lake. Quieter here, Ruth said and nuzzled Jaxom. It’s better here for you, too.
“I hope so.” Anger was foreign to Jaxom and he resented the violence of his inner feelings and those who had driven him to such a point of fury. “Better swim. We’ve got to go on to the Smithcrafthall, you know.”
Ruth had no sooner spread his wings than a clutch of fire-lizards appeared in the air above him, wildly chittering and loudly broadcasting thoughts of smug satisfaction at their cleverness in finding him. One winked out immediately and Jaxom felt another stab of resentment. Keeping track of him, huh? That’d be one more order from him when he got back to the Hold. Who did they think he was, an unbreeched child or an Oldtimer?
The White Dragon Page 5