The Skies of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Just before Shankolin reached Loscar port, he washed both himself and his stinking clothes in a stream. In the port, it was easy to buy good secondhand clothing, suitable for a sea voyage. He found the captain Toric had recommended and presented him with the first of the hastily scribbled notes Toric had provided. He gave his name as Glasstol from Crom and no one challenged it. He spent most of the journey either asleep or eating. One of the more sociable crewmen explained how much the Flood had improved the Loscar harbor, and was answered by an uncivil grunt. So no one tried again to enter conversations with a passenger who clearly wished to keep to himself.

  On his arrival at Monaco Bay, Shankolin was struck by the repairs already made; even its shipbuilding facilities were back in place. He had heard that the area had been inundated by five major tsunami waves and significant smaller ones to extend the sea inland as far as a man could walk in a day. That the wharf was new—and the reek of its wood preservative dominated even the smell of fish—was inescapable. A weathered metal pylon with a bell at its apex had been erected. The captain pointed out the new floats on the seaward side where shipfish would come when the bell was rung. Sometimes, the shipfish would summon the Port-master. Shankolin had been raised inland and doubted this unlikely story.

  As he had once before, he found a carter who was taking supplies from the harbor to Landing and, for a half mark, allowed him to climb into one of the wagons. It was slow. He helped with the burden beasts pulling the heavy loads and the carter, not a curious man by nature, spoke more to them than to his passenger.

  By the time Shankolin was left off by the carter at the edge of the widely expanded Landing, he was glad of the map Toric had given him so he could make contact with the Southern Holder’s contact in Landing: a man called Esselin who could be found in the Archives. He also owed Lord Toric favors, which was why Esselin would oblige Shankolin by escorting him into the Admin Building and the Aivas chamber.

  Shankolin found Master Esselin about to leave the main Archive Building, which had far too many windows. Perhaps that design shed light into the room and the shelving on which masses of books were visible, but all that glass would splinter so easily and destroy the contents. Shankolin began to assess how much explosives he would need. Perhaps Lord Toric knew of a man who could supply him.

  Master Esselin was not happy to see the handwriting on the envelope Lord Toric addressed to him. He was even unhappier when he read the message: his sallow complexion turning paler and his fat face showing how irritated he was.

  “Lord Toric felt that only you,” and Shankolin knew how to flatter subtly, “would be able to grant my deep and abiding desire to see where the Aivas was housed.”

  That sentiment had the ring of truth and Shankolin infused his tone with reverent respect and awe.

  “Just the briefest look would fulfill my life’s ambition,” Shankolin went on.

  “Well, well, it is Lord Toric,” Esselin said, as he tore the message into the smallest parts his thick fingers could manage.

  At this hour, when most would be going to their homes for the evening, there were few on the neatly kept paths. However, Esselin made absolutely certain that no one else was nearby as he kicked a small hole in the nearest garden bed. The pieces of paper fluttered from his fingers into the hole and he stamped hard, looking all about him as he did so. One last look at his feet and he could see that not even a white corner was visible.

  “Follow me,” he said, straightening the lapels of his coat. “A brief look is all. I have work awaiting me in my quarters. As always.” Esselin’s tone was long-suffering as he waddled as quickly as he could pump his fat legs in the direction of the Admin Building.

  Shankolin jumped as the lights illuminating the pathway blinked on in the twilight. He felt sullied by so much abomination around him. The sooner he could demolish all this, the better. There was, however, far more to Landing now than he had anticipated. It would make his ambition to destroy all the Abomination’s work much harder but there should be a way. He might have to recruit more helpers. He wondered how deeply indebted the fat little man was to Southern’s Lord Holder.

  He was surprised when he saw that Esselin was leading him, not around the bulky building to the front door, but to a back entrance. Shankolin saw the guard seated inside, saw a look of dislike cross his features as he recognized the little Master, but he rose immediately to let them in.

  “We’ll just come through this way and go out the front door,” Esselin said, waving Shankolin to follow him.

  The guard stepped back to allow the portly man to pass. His expression was totally blank as if he was just as happy to avoid any conversation with Esselin and scarcely looked at Shankolin.

  They continued down the corridor, and doors closed on either side. Probably he could peer in through the windows once he was again outside on the path. Perhaps. Then they reached the wider hallway that Shankolin remembered, part of the entrance he had used before. No one of those talking among themselves did more than glance at Esselin and quickly look away.

  The rooms to the left would have to be inspected. Perhaps burning pitch from an outside window? No, an explosive would be needed to achieve the most destruction. Fire would never damage enough.

  Then, there, at the end of the hall, was the softly lit Aivas Chamber. Shankolin felt no reverence at all, but an intense thrill of pleasure. He had never thought he could gain entrance to the facility so easily.

  When he had planned Batim’s raid on the main Healer Hall they’d thought it would be much harder to enter. Unfortunately for that expedition, it had been much harder to leave.

  Should he prevail on Master Esselin to accompany him on his next visit here? The fat man’s clothes would hide more than his excess weight. But first, he must get to the actual chamber. And take a quick look at what was in the room to the left. Light spilled out into the hallway and, by the sounds he could hear, a lot of machinery was being used and quite a few people were at work.

  Suddenly a big man stepped from that room, frowned when he recognized Esselin, and gave Shankolin the briefest glance.

  “Promised him just a look, Tunge,” Esselin said, flapping his left hand to dismiss the man.

  Tunge started to protest but by then Esselin stopped at the threshold to the chamber. He turned to beckon Shankolin to hurry along.

  “There isn’t much to see now, of course, since Aivas terminated …”

  Shankolin ignored him. He was savoring this moment, heart pounding in anticipation as it had on that previous occasion. He stiffened with remembered fear of the awful noise that had deafened him. But Aivas had terminated itself. Impatient to view the site that he would soon see in rubble, Shankolin shouldered a startled Esselin aside and strode purposefully over the threshold.

  That was as far as Shankolin got. From the opposite wall of the chamber two narrow shafts of light struck him on the chest at heart height. He was dead before he fell backward.

  Master Esselin collapsed in hysterics, trying to scramble as far from the corpse as he could. Tunge yelled for help and then peered down at the dead man, scratching his head in perplexity. When he pushed back the cap and saw the scarred face, he bent down and picked up the left hand. The tip of the first finger was missing. Tunge dashed to the main hall, rummaging through the top drawer of the desk until he found the harper sketch that he remembered seeing. Master Stinar was now in the hall, to find out who was screaming hysterically and why.

  Stinar immediately summoned a healer to attend to the Master Archivist. When Tunge showed him the harper sketch, Stinar then got in touch with D’ram and Lytol at Cove Hold and dismissed everyone in the Admin who was not essential, with the exception of the rear door guard who was mystified and kept repeating that he had never thought to question Master Esselin. The man was in and out of Admin all the time, wasn’t he? When D’ram and Lytol arrived, Stinar escorted them to the body and requested Tunge to tell them exactly what he had seen.

  “Like I’ve already told Mast
er Stinar, I saw beams of light come out of two spots high on the back wall.” He pointed to the two places, not wishing to cross the threshold right now though he had done so many times to dust and keep the place tidy. “Far’s I ever heard, nothing inside has been operational since Aivas and Master Robinton died in there.”

  Both Lytol and D’ram looked down at the dead man for a long time before they looked at each other.

  “He got this far once before, you know,” Lytol said in his slow sad voice. “When he and two others attacked Aivas. On that occasion, what Aivas called a sonic barrage deafened the intruders. Aivas said that he had been provided with self-defense units.”

  Surprised, Stinar turned from one to the other. “But that must have been twelve Turns ago.”

  “Thirteen, give or take a sevenday or two,” Lytol replied. “Once a person entered that chamber, Aivas would know him or her again.”

  “You mean that Aivas’s self-defense system is still operational?” Stinar asked in awe.

  Lytol regarded him kindly. “I would hazard the opinion that some internal circuitry was never turned off. A system as sophisticated as Aivas’s would have recognized this man as a previous intruder. Computers, as you should know, Master Stinar, have long as well as accurate memory files.”

  The Harper Hall was informed by fire-lizard message, and Pinch, who was the only person who had ever seen the Abominator leader, was conveyed to Landing to confirm the identification.

  “No idea who he was, Master Mekelroy?” Lytol asked.

  Pinch shook his head slowly. “Fifth” was only a convenient designation. He’d been called “Glass” at Crom Minehold 23, but that was no more the man’s rightful name than Fifth. Pinch hoped it took a long while before Lord Toric realized that Fifth, too, was no longer available. Now, if he could just find Fourth and neutralize her, they might forget about Abominators.

  Esselin did not recover from the shock he had received and died a few days later of a hemorrhage in the brain. Or so the Healer at Landing said. The incident was forgotten as quickly as possible and Tunge soon resumed his duty of keeping the Aivas Chamber neat and tidy.

  Honshu Weyrhold—3.21.31

  Once he started swimming daily, F’lessan improved in vigor, was able to concentrate, and asked for astronomy texts so he and Tai could study. He even sent someone up to the observatory office to examine the prints they had taken to show at the Dragonriders’ meeting; that now seemed another lifetime ago. Perhaps it was—the notion passed F’lessan’s mind briefly—but Tai saw a streak and they had to check that. Then a blur caught their attention and, although that print was marked as a time exposure and it took them all morning to update the orbit, it turned out to be an asteroid among the minor planets; nothing significant. The studying passed a morning and gave both of them practice in configuring orbits. Tai suggested that they could help Erragon by asking for more of the latest prints from Cove Hold. The Star Master might not have time to review prints with all he had to do supervising three new observatories—no name had been chosen yet for the Western Continent installation—and classes that Cove Hold had undertaken.

  Golanth walked, limping at first but gradually with more confidence until he was pacing briskly up and down the length of the terrace. He kept trying to extend the damaged wing but it moved awkwardly, despite all the massage and smelly unguents. Sagassy’s holdermate, arriving with fresh food, watched him for a long moment.

  “Think we can do something about that. Not too far to the ground on the step side.”

  “Golanth couldn’t manage the hold steps,” F’lessan said. “He’s too long.”

  “Ramp’d work. Double it, make it wide,” Jubb said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Got the wood. Make it strong. How much does your dragon weigh?”

  F’lessan and Tai exchanged glances, and F’lessan burst into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “He weighs as much as he thinks he does,” F’lessan managed to say and that set Tai laughing.

  Jubb looked from him to Sagassy to Keita and the others and shrugged.

  “No one ever weighed a dragon before? We weigh herdbeasts’n’everything all the time.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Well, thought it might help.”

  “It does, it does, it does.” F’lessan caught Jubb by the arm, reassuring him and controlling his amusement. “I’m not laughing at the idea, Jubb. It’s an excellent one. Golanth is tired of being stuck up here on the terrace.” F’lessan’s face lost all merriment. “He can’t just take off.”

  “You are good to suggest it, Jubb,” Tai said, coming to his rescue. “How long would it take?”

  Jubb gave them a long speculative look. “About as long as you got folk handy enough to build it.” Then he grinned.

  It took three days, with dragons flying in timber, their riders, and folk who just “heard” that carpentry was needed, including the three dragons who flew in from Telgar Weyr with casks of nails, screws, new hammers, and saws, and brought whatever other equipment might be needed from the SmithCraftHall. Jubb; his workmates, Sparling and Riller; two Smithcrafters, and three of Lord Asgenar’s best timber men designed a switchback ramp, with much discussion about the angle of incline, the size and bracing of the structure, the width and depth of the flooring, while men and women sawed and cut, and others hunted or flew in enough food to feed the volunteers. One thing F’lessan made clear: even for his dragon he would not mar the superb façade of Honshu Hold.

  More important, F’lessan was immediately involved in the activity, taking time off only to swim, toning the muscles of his bad leg and his shoulder, regaining his tan. He also insisted on taking over as much of Golanth’s treatment as possible and trusted no one else, not even Tai, with lubricating the eyelids. He seemed to ignore his own injuries: using a slower, more deliberate step to disguise his limp as he moved around with the cane. He was more his old self, though he didn’t smile or laugh quite as easily. If she caught a darkness in his eye now and then, she knew it was all for his dragon, not himself. Several times, she saw F’lessan eyeing the drop from the ledge, measuring it, wondering if perhaps Golanth could indeed fall off its edge and manage a strong enough downward stroke with one wing to become airborne.

  Once news of the project spread, Lessa and F’lar came to visit. While F’lar was looking over the plans with Jubb, the Smiths, and the Woodsmen, Lessa told them what was happening at Western—for lack of a better name that had stuck—and Master Erragon’s resurrection of the telescopes from the Catherine Caves.

  “Before he gets too involved with that,” F’lessan said firmly, “we need him to rig a remote control console for the scope here on the main level. There’s a room on the north face that would suit.” He paused briefly, his eyes flickering. “There must be a way to trigger the dome mechanism, too. That spiral stair is ridiculous. Why did Kenjo hide everything away?”

  “Who knows why the Ancients did what they did?” Lessa said, shrugging. “Have you asked Jancis and Piemur to help you? Didn’t you persuade them to do the initial restoration of the observatory? Erragon’s already grateful you’re reducing his backlog of prints. I don’t know how he fits everything in.”

  “He swears he needs only four hours of sleep a night,” Tai remarked, incredulous.

  “Neither of you can match him yet,” Lessa said at her driest, “at your stage of convalescence, but as I understand it, there’s more to sky-watching than lying on your back and looking at ’em. He says he needs references from Honshu.” Pausing, she looked out over the valley. “It is very pleasant here, you know, but we can’t stay long today.”

  She and F’lar left shortly afterward, saying they’d be back when the ramp was finished.

  They were. It was wide enough for Ramoth, the largest dragon on Pern, who demonstrated by walking down and up it without brushing folded wings against the cliff face. Bravely, Golanth set all four feet on it, F’lessan beside him.

  “Now, put your weight down, Golly,” F’les
san said, grinning broadly and cocking his head at the slight sound as the timbers gave a little under him. “Don’t knock me off.”

  The spectators cheered dragon and rider as they proceeded down. Ramoth’s eyes whirled as she watched from the upper terrace, Zaranth and Mnementh to one side on the cliff face, all three dragons alert. Gradually Golanth moved with assurance, able to lift his tail slightly, which was another improvement in his mobility. The first landing was more than wide enough for him to make the turn. When he and F’lessan reached ground level, he extended his head upward to bugle his pleasure and began to stamp round on the soft dirt. That was when the bronze dragon saw the door to the beasthold, the landing above and to one side of it.

  I could weyr in this place, he told his rider. It is wide and high enough for me to enter.

  F’lessan, who knew every plane and dimension of Honshu, now saw that the doorway was wider than it had been. Over the general hammering, sawing, and planing, he would not have heard the noise of masons making the enlargement. He knew—because he had mucked out the dirt that had accumulated over the centuries—that the interior of the beasthold was larger than Golanth’s weyr at Benden. The ramp now gave him access to it and would certainly protect him from the winter rains.

  “Rain,” F’lessan thought and had to reach for one of the supports until the dizziness that had abruptly overcome him passed.

  “What’s wrong, F’lessan?” Tai asked, coming to see what had attracted Golanth’s interest. Her expression altered when she realized that he had had some kind of shock.

  Rain! The silver fall of Thread was like rain! Golanth would never be able to fly Thread again. In fact, when Thread next fell over Honshu, Golanth would have to be shut into the beasthold, to keep him from trying to fly: the most powerful instinct of dragons was to fly when Thread was in the sky. Was that why the ramp had been completed so quickly? F’lessan tried to remember the sequence of Fall in this part of the south. He couldn’t think. The realization that his days as Wingleader were over was too much to assimilate. He must have known it at some level. And denied it as he denied that Golanth was blind in one eye and too joint-stiff to work the left wing. As he had diverted such thoughts by plunging into Erragon’s backlog of images. And Tai had encouraged him. Encouraged him to swim. To do other things! He wanted to think that she had been deceiving him but deceit was not a facet of Tai’s personality.