The Skies of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Handsome, too.”

  She shot him a glance. “He needs a good wife.”

  “He’ll have no trouble.” F’lar poked at the contents of the basket before selecting a triangular pastry and popping it in his mouth. “Not bad.”

  She found another of the same shape. “No, it isn’t.” She licked her lips.

  He sipped his wine, regarding her from the corner of his eye. “Do you favor Janissian for the Holdership at Southern Boll? That’s another issue for the next Council to decide.”

  “Boll has an historical precedent for Lady Holders, you know.”

  He nodded, waiting for her to continue.

  “Certainly Lady Marella has been directing the Hold unofficially for a long time, saving Sangel’s face. She got Janissian educated at Landing, too.”

  “Groghe likes the girl. Old enough to take Hold. Well respected.”

  Lessa shrugged. “Jaxom says she’s as organized as Sharra is. He’d be glad to step down from the position of youngest Lord Holder.”

  F’lar stretched out his right leg, grimacing as the tendon resisted full extension. He gave a sigh.

  He’s all right, Mnementh told Lessa privately, waking from his nap.

  All that dancing he tried to tell me he didn’t enjoy, Lessa replied.

  “We need younger minds dealing with all the changes,” she said aloud.

  He turned his amber eyes on her, amused and slightly condescending. “Young heads can be as certain that they are right as the old ones. And no experience to draw on.” He ate another pastry, licking his fingers as the juice within leaked. “Idarolan’s been studying astronomy with that journeyman of Wansor’s. He got Morilton to make him some special mirrors for a telescope to set up on that bridge of his down at Nerat’s Ankle.”

  “For all that I like Curran as Masterfishman, I’ll miss Idarolan’s sly wit in the Council.” She took another tidbit and then a sigh escaped her lips after she swallowed. “I shall miss them. I’ll miss them all.”

  F’lar reached over the table to cover her thin, small, but remarkably capable hand, squeezing her fingers.

  “We both shall, love.” He picked up his glass. “To absent friends.”

  She raised hers, the glasses touched, and they finished off their wine.

  Simultaneously they rose. F’lar slipped his arm about her slender shoulders, drawing her against his body as they walked in step to the sleeping room.

  Lessa didn’t think she’d gotten to sleep before they were both roused by angry dragon trumpeting.

  Southern Hold—1.1.31

  Toric was recovering from too much wine consumed the night before. The red had definitely been too young to be potable, even if it had come from his own vineyard and therefore was handy and cost him nothing. Except this morning’s headache. Well, it took time to establish vines and, considering the cost of the starts from Benden, he had been eager to see some return on the investment. MasterVintner Welliner’s estimate of how much wine he would be bottling from the hillsides under cultivation was inaccurate, too. If this year’s press was not up to what he’d been led to believe he could expect, he’d have a long chat with Welliner. Toric slowly opened dry eyes in his aching skull.

  “You’re getting old, Father,” Besic said. He handed Toric a steaming mug. “Mother’s compliments.”

  Toric stifled a groan as he took the mug. Though he knew from experience that Ramala’s morning-after cure was efficacious, the steam was slightly nauseating and he averted his head before attempting the first gulp.

  Besic settled himself in the sling chair, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles, thumbs hooked in his belt as he regarded his father with a bland expression.

  “Hosbon’s here. Sailed in from Largo last night. Got here at dawn.”

  Toric nearly dribbled the potion down his chin at the unwelcome news. Had Besic timed that remark until he had the cup to his lips? The two men tolerated each other warily, not because of Blood ties but out of begrudged respect. Toric grunted and drank as fast as the heat, and the taste, allowed.

  “I told him that you were busy.”

  “I am,” Toric said. The liquid made him belch and left a vile taste in his mouth. He stood, balancing himself on his bare feet, to prove that he was capable of overcoming the previous night’s excesses as easily as ever.

  He strode to where Ramala had laid out fresh clothes and stepped into the new short trousers and matching loose shirt that would be comfortable during the heat of the day. He growled as he had to sort the rank cords against his right shoulder. Nuisancy things. As if everyone didn’t recognize the Lord Holder of Southern. That caused him to snort, as any reminder did of how he had been gulled by the Weyrleaders. From the corner of his eye he saw the smirk on Besic’s face, as if he read his sire’s thought.

  “Didn’t you think to bring in—”

  Besic interrupted him by pointing to the breakfast tray on the table.

  Despite the fact that the pounding in his head was easing, Toric was still in a foul humor. “What’s on Hosbon’s mind? He’s always at me for some concession or other.”

  “He’s a good holder,” Besic said, knowing not only that his approval counted for nothing in Toric’s opinion but also that, by being scrupulously fair, he could sometimes irritate his sire.

  Toric waved his hands dramatically. “Is the man never satisfied? First it was a drum tower, then a pier, and a sloop and a crew.”

  “He gets results.”

  “So—what does he want this time? A hold dragonrider?” Though there was always a dragonrider available to Lord Toric, the relocation of Southern Weyr still rankled. It was irksome, too, that the Weyrleader, K’van—the impertinent scut—so punctiliously performed his duties to the Hold that Toric never had grounds to fault him. He had managed to swallow that mortification, since he really did prefer not to have the constant traffic of dragons overflying the harbor, but perhaps he should not have taken issue with K’van over the matter of Weyr support to subdue the rebels and that sharding Denol on Ierne Island.

  “Why, he wants to celebrate the end of Turnover with his Lord Holder,” Besic said, getting to his feet. “Dutifully listen to whatever harper reads the Report. And, quite likely, to see what other craftsfolk he can lure to his hold.”

  “Hasn’t he got enough?” Toric demanded, seething.

  “Some can’t get enough,” Besic murmured, reaching the door as he delivered that parting shot.

  “Get out! Get out!” And Toric lunged, aiming a kick at his son. Besic didn’t so much as look back over his shoulder. So Toric kicked again at the heavy yellow wood door, which slammed satisfactorily, echoing down the stone hall. Besic knew his father too well!

  Limping because he’d caught his bare toes on the wooden edge, Toric wheeled and attacked the food on his tray. The tonic had cleared his head and now his stomach grumbled, as much with hunger as with irritation.

  Where would Hosbon put more craftsfolk? He’d already enticed some of the best-trained people from Landing once the Great Bang had been accomplished, supposedly ridding the planet of Threadfall forever. Toric was not at all convinced that Aivas had known what it was doing: imagine blowing a whole planet off its course with the stuff left in long-dead engines! Still, in sixteen Turns—or was it seventeen in this Pass?—the end of Thread meant he could proceed with his plans to develop the small portion of the southern continent that he had been able to wrest from the sharding Benden Weyrleaders. That inequity would always infuriate him.

  He made an effort to calm himself. Ramala was certain his indigestion came from stress. He should take his meals calmly and eat slowly. He was, after all, Lord of an important Hold, no matter how much larger it should have been.

  His Lady Ramala was already chatting with Hosbon, seated in the main hall. She rose when Toric entered. “Perhaps you would both like more klah. There’s still time before Harper Sintary makes his report. Is your wife here?”

  Hosbon gave an almost impercept
ible wince. She was here, and if they’d arrived by dawn, she’d have had plenty of time to spread marks about, Toric thought, his humor revived by Hosbon’s discomfort.

  “Yes, join us for klah, Hosbon. Come outside. It’s a fine day for our first one of this Turn!”

  Toric clapped the man heartily on the shoulder.

  “I’ll just bring fresh klah,” Ramala called after them.

  Toric indicated the way to the smaller of the two tables that were situated on either side of the Hold’s entrance. A small awning shaded it from the bright sunlight. He took his usual chair, arranged so that anyone sitting opposite him had the sun glaring into his face. “Now, what’s on your mind, Hosbon?”

  The man was no fool, but he settled himself, elbows on the table, and leaned forward. There was little danger of being overheard, slightly above and well back from the entrance to the Hold.

  “I am wondering if you know what the subjects of today’s Report will be?”

  “Of course I know, and what’s to be voted on,” Toric replied with some heat. “I had to sit in on the sharding meeting, didn’t I? Boring trivia, with the Council insisting that the ‘original intent’ of the Charter be followed.”

  Toric did not approve of the publicity regarding the Charter: a document so old that it should be regarded as an artifact, rather than guidance for this planet’s needs—not twenty-five hundred Turns after it had been promulgated. And harpers were holding “discussion groups” to be sure children and drudges could recite it by rote. There were a few provisions that he would like to see quietly annulled and the clauses that named the perquisites of major landholders extended. He would live to see the last day of this Pass, and he certainly intended to exert his not-so-small influence when the Charter was reviewed—After—and suitably altered once dragonriders were no longer needed. Toric had endured many boring hours to be sure no one in the Council slipped in any more surprises on him. He was developing a few surprises of his own.

  “Is that all?” Hosbon was plainly disappointed.

  “Oh, there’ll be the usual reports from Landing, premises and promises.” Toric dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “The availability of printed texts for those wishing to improve themselves.” He snorted. “I—” Then he stopped himself. “And you know that any ‘improvement’ will stay here, in Southern and in Largo.” He inclined his head tactfully at Hosbon as he recalled Besic’s reason for Hosbon’s visit. “You have such a growing number of craftsfolk there. We wouldn’t want to lose any of them. Did you find any new recruits this Turnover?”

  “None that I would dare tempt from here, Lord Toric,” Hobson said with oily deference. “Not,” he added quickly, “that we don’t always need more.”

  Toric merely nodded. Generally he approved of Hosbon. The man came of a Bloodline that had produced many sensible holders who knew how to get the most out of their workers. Looked like a much younger version of his sire, Bargen, even to the pale eyes in a deeply tanned face and a body that had sweated off excess flesh. Anyway, Hosbon had older brothers, and now that he’d had a taste of holding in a decent climate, he’d not want to return to frigid High Reaches.

  “So I will bring back news of this meeting and the Report for my holders.” Hosbon’s lips twitched slyly.

  “As well you do,” Toric replied, allowing his eyelids to close briefly in acknowledgment of the tacit understanding. Just then Ramala emerged from the Hold entrance carrying a tray of refreshments, so he added, “We will discuss it later.”

  They had time to finish the klah and most of the little spiced rolls before the big bass Harper Drum boomed to announce the imminence of the public meeting. The deep sound echoed off the cliffs, reverberating to the ships at anchor in the deep harbor, vibrating along the stones of the Hold and, it felt, into one’s very foot bones.

  As Toric rose and strode up the wide shallow stairs carved out of the rock path that led to the cleared space on the height, he glanced down to the other levels of the Hold complex. In small groups, holders were surging up from the wharves where numerous small craft bobbed beside buoys or were tied to the pilings. He moved through the crowd, toward the platform on the southern edge of the Gather area where a single Harper sat, holding the traditional scroll that contained the Report he would shortly read. Toric looked from right to left, occasionally awarding a brief smile to those who deserved his favor. Since he had taken over Southern thirty-one Turns ago, twenty-four self-sufficient holds had been established under his direction and tithed to him. He could see representatives of each holding—significantly fewer from the more distant ones—and identified the shoulder knots of many journeymen of various crafts. With an all-too-fleeting moment of satisfaction, he took the six steps to the platform, two at a time, defying anyone—especially Besic—to assume that he had been the worse for wear earlier that morning. The Harper, Sintary, had been suggested by Robinton himself as suitable for the position of Master Harper for Southern. Robinton had been one of the few northerners whom Toric had respected, so he had not appealed the appointment. But he had come to regret that decision, for Sintary was a subtle and stubborn man who took his position as Harper so seriously that he had agreed to no changes even when Toric had suggested several minor alterations to the traditional teaching. The old Harper was very popular, with a dry sense of humor and an ability to improvise lyrics about local incidents that made him a very difficult man to discredit. Toric had tried; he kept hoping that an opportunity might yet arise and he could indisputably be able to send Sintary away.

  With a curt nod at his intransigent Harper, Toric turned to face the audience. Holding up his hands, he brought conversations and laughter to a halt. Even fire-lizards stopped their flitting about and disappeared into the forest curving about the space.

  “Master Sintary needs no introduction,” Toric said, lifting a voice that had once carried above storms. “I see you have a scroll to read us today, Master Harper.”

  Master Sintary rose, giving Toric a bland stare for such a terse introduction. Toric enjoyed giving subtle jabs, especially to harpers and dragonriders. And where were the dragonriders who should be here? Toric glared out across the tanned faces, looking for the Weyrleader. If K’van hadn’t come … Then Toric located him on the left, where trees and the ferny shrubs of this highland formed a bordering park. He counted at least fifteen dragonriders and the three queen riders! Shards! He could make no complaint that they had been delinquent in performing this Weyr duty.

  Sintary had taken two steps forward, an easy gesture of his hand waving Toric to the other chair on the platform. Deftly unrolling the traditional scroll with his right hand, he proceeded to read, winding it up with the skill of long practice.

  Toric took the chair, crossing his arms on his chest. He was almost as annoyed now as he had been this morning when he’d awakened. The dragonriders were in attendance. They—and far too many other people—would eat of the feast a Lord Holder was required to produce. And how could Sintary make himself heard so effortlessly? He hadn’t even raised his voice, just intensified it with some harper trick.

  To occupy the time it would take Sintary to get through that thick scroll, Toric surveyed the polite faces below him. Spotting his brother, Mastersmith Hamian, Toric uncrossed his arms, because Hamian had assumed a similar stance. Hamian and his new Plastics Hall. Plastic indeed, when he should be working metals: especially that lode of—what was it called? box-something—that produced very lightweight and malleable ore. Toric hadn’t encouraged his young brother to pursue his Mastery in the Smithcraft only to have him fritter his skills away on some Aivas nonsense. The summarily exiled MasterGlass-smith Norist had been right to call the artificial intelligence an Abomination.

  The sun was now midheaven, and even in his loose clothing, Toric was beginning to feel the heat. Packed rather tightly together, the crowd was becoming restless, fanning themselves and shifting weight from foot to foot. Those who had no one to leave their children with were beginning to sidle to th
e edge of the crowd, taking the fretful whingeing brats away.

  Was the Harper speeding up the tempo of his recital? Well, why not? The scroll would be displayed on the notice board when the reading was over. He caught the change of pace and heard Sintary’s concluding remarks.

  “Now, I can start taking your private petitions, which, I assure you, will be scrupulously dealt with.”

  Sharding Harper Hall, meddling with what was Hold business. His holders had no right to complain. They worked hard and they got what they deserved.

  Toric quickly scanned the assembled to see if any petitions were being removed from belt pouches or dress pockets.

  Sintary finished reading. Cheers, loud calls, whistles, and other raucous noise welled up, and that combined with the heat brought back Toric’s headache. While the bloody Harper descended the steps, Toric went down the back way, into the cool shade. He needed to find Dorse. The man had said he would be back by now from his latest trip north.

  His public duty completed, Sintary stepped off the platform, aware that Toric had scooted off as soon as he could. Just as well. The Harper could collect petitions without Toric’s interference. He whipped open the sack he’d brought for the purpose and, securing the scroll of the Report under his belt, took the petitions shoved at him as soon as he reached the bottom of the steps.

  “They’ll be read, I assure you. Harper’s word on it. Thank you. Yes, the Council will see this. Thank you. It will take time but this will be read.” He repeated these phrases as he made his way through the crowd to post the Report. “Yes, yes, this will be read.” It became a litany. “They’ll be read’s” to the left, a “harper’s word on it” to the right, and “let me through, thank you” as he made his way forward until he reached the notice board. He handed the scroll to the apprentice in harper blue and held it flat to be tacked up.

  The days of laborious copying by cramp-fingered apprentices were now well gone. Council reports were printed by Masterprinter Tagetarl’s speedy presses on some of the new heavy paper, made in rolls and then plastic-coated so the notice could not be easily defaced. Copies had been sent to every major and minor hold to be read on this day of Turnover. Even Toric would have to let it remain displayed, at least until the Turnover crowd had all departed to their holds. Which, knowing Toric’s ways, would be as soon as possible. However, judging by the number of small craft, it would be the work of two days, at least, to clear the harbor.