“We’re going to have to do something about that third queen.”
Mnementh rumbled about that. Ramoth disliked sharing the bronze dragons of her Weyr with too many queens, in spite of the fact that she would mate only with Mnementh. Many queens were the mark of virility in a bronze and it was natural for Mnementh to want to flaunt his prowess. Benden Weyr had to maintain more than one golden queen to placate the rest of the bronzes and to improve the breed in general, but three?
After the meeting the other night at Fort Weyr, F’lar hesitated to suggest to any of the other Weyrleaders that he’d be glad of a home for the new queen: They’d probably contrive it to be bad management of Ramoth or coddling of Lessa. Still, Benden queens were bigger than Oldtime queens, just as modern bronzes were bigger, too. Maybe R’mart at Telgar Weyr wouldn’t take offense. Or G’narish? F’lar couldn’t think how many queens G’narish had at Igen. Weyr. He grinned to himself, thinking of the expression of T’ron’s face when he heard Benden was giving away a queen dragon.
“Benden’s known for its generosity, but what’s behind such a maneuver?” T’ron would say. “It’s not traditional.”
But it was. There were precedents. F’lar would far rather cope with T’ron’s snide remarks than Ramoth’s temper. He glanced down, sighting the gleaming triangle of the queens’ wing, with Ramoth easily sweeping along, the younger beasts working hard to keep up with her.
Threads dropping out of pattern! F’lar gritted his teeth. Worse, out of a pattern which he’d so painstakingly researched from hundreds of disintegrating Record skins in his efforts seven Turns ago to prepare his ill-protected planet. Patterns, F’lar thought bitterly, which the Oldtimers had enthusiastically acclaimed and used—though that was scarcely traditional. Just useful.
Now how could Thread, which had no mind, no intelligence at all, deviate from patterns it had followed to the split second for over seven Turns? How could it change time and place overnight? The last Fall in Benden Weyr’s jurisdiction had been on time and over upper Benden Hold as expected.
Could he possibly have misread the timetables? F’lar thought back, but the carefully drawn maps were clear in his mind and, if he had made an error, Lessa would have caught it.
He’d check, double check, as soon as he returned to the Weyr. In the meantime, he’d better make sure they had cleared the Fall from Edge to Edge. He directed Mnementh to find Asgenar, Lord Holder of Lemos.
Mnementh obediently turned out of the leisurely glide and dropped swiftly. F’lar could thank good fortune that it was Lord Asgenar of Lemos to whom he must explain, rather than Lord Sifer of Bitra Hold or Lord Raid of Benden Hold. The former would rant against the injustice and the latter would contrive to make a premature arrival of Thread a personal insult to him by dragonmen. Sometimes the Lords Raid and Sifer tried F’lar’s patience. True, those three Holds, Benden, Bitra and Lemos, had conscientiously tithed to support Benden Weyr when it was the sole dragonweyr of Pern. But Lord Raid and Lord Sifer had an unpleasant habit of reminding Benden Weyr riders of their loyalty at every opportunity. Gratitude is an ill-fitting tunic that can chafe and smell if worn too long.
Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold, on the other hand, was young and had been confirmed in his honors by the Lord Holders’ Conclave only five Turns ago. His attitude toward the Weyr which protected his Holdlands from Thread was refreshingly untainted by invidious reminders of past services.
Mnementh glided toward the expanse of the Great Lake which separated Lemos Hold from upper Telgar Hold. The Threads’ advance edge had just missed the verdant softwoods that surrounded the northern shores. Mnementh circled down, causing F’lar to lean into the great neck, grasping the fighting straps firmly. Despite his weariness and worry, he felt the sharp surge of elation which always gripped him when he flew the huge bronze dragon; that curious merging of himself with the beast, against air and wind, so that he was not only F’lar, Weyrleader of Benden, but somehow Mnementh, immensely powerful, magnificently free.
On a rise overlooking the broad meadow that swept down to the Great Lake, F’lar spotted the green dragon. Lemos’ Lord Holder, Asgenar, would be near her. F’lar smiled sardonically at the sight. Let the Oldtimers disapprove, let them mutter uneasily when F’lar put non-weyrfolk on dragonback, but if F’lar had not, Thread would have fallen unseen over those hardwoods.
Trees! Another bone of contention between Weyr and Hold, with F’lar staunchly upholding the Lords’ position. Four hundred Turns ago, such timber stands had not existed, were not permitted to grow. Too much living green to protect. Well, the Oldtimers were eager enough to own products of wood, overloading Fandarel’s woodcraftsman, Bendarek, with their demands. On the other hand, they wouldn’t permit the formation of a new Crafthall under Bendarek. Probably because, F’lar thought bitterly, Bendarek wanted to stay near the hardwoods of Lemos, and that would give Benden Weyr a Crafthall in its jurisdiction. By the Egg, the Oldtimers were almost more trouble than they were worth!
Mnementh landed with sweeping backstrokes that flattened the thick meadow grass. F’lar slid down the bronze’s neck to join Lord Asgenar while Mnementh trumpeted approval to the green dragon and F’rad, his rider.
F’rad wants to warn you that Asgenar . . .
“Not much gets through Benden’s wings,” Asgenar was saying by way of greeting so that Mnementh didn’t finish his thought. The young man was wiping soot and sweat from his face for he was one Lord who directed his ground crews personally instead of staying comfortably in his main Hold. “Even if Threads have begun to deviate. How do you account for all these recent variations?”
“Variations?” F’lar repeated the word, feeling stupid because he somehow realized that Asgenar was not referring just to this day’s unusual occurrence.
“Yes! And here we thought your timetables were the last word. To be relied on forever, especially since they were checked and approved by the Oldtimers.” Asgenar gave F’lar a sly look. “Oh, I’m not faulting you, F’lar. You’ve always been open in our dealings. I count myself lucky to be weyrbound to you. A man knows where he stands with Benden Weyr. My brother-in-law elect, Lord Larad, has had problems with T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr, you know. And since those premature falls at Tillek and Upper Crom, he’s got a thorough watch system set up.” Asgenar paused, suddenly aware of F’lar’s tense silence. “I do not presume to criticize weyrfolk, F’lar,” he said in a more formal tone, “but rumor can outfly a dragon and naturally I heard about the others. I can appreciate the Weyrs not wishing to alarm commoners but—well—a little forewarning would be only courteous.”
“There was no way of predicting today’s fall,” F’lar said slowly, but his mind was turning so rapidly that he felt sick. Why had nothing been said to him? R’mart of Telgar Weyr hadn’t been at the meeting about T’reb’s transgressions. Could R’mart have been busy fighting Thread at that time? As for T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr imparting any information, particularly news that might show him in a bad light, that one wouldn’t give coordinates to save a rider’s life.
No, they’d have had good reason not to mention premature falls to F’lar that night. If T’kul had confided in anyone. But why hadn’t R’mart let them know?
“But Benden Weyr’s not caught sleeping. Once is all we’d need in those forests, huh, F’lar?” Asgenar was saying, his eyes scanning the spongewoods possessively.
“Yes. All we’d need. What’s the report from the leading Edge of this Fall? Have you runners in yet?”
“Your queens’ wing reported it safe two hours past.” Asgenar grinned and rocked back and forth on his heels, his confidence not a bit jarred by today’s unpredicted event. F’lar envied him.
Again the bronze rider thanked good fortune that he had Lord Asgenar to deal with this morning instead of punctilious Raid or suspicious Lord Sifer. He devoutly hoped that the young Lord Holder would not find his trust misplaced. But the question haunted him: how could Threads change so?
Both Weyrlead
er and Lord Holder froze as they watched a blue dragon hover attentively above a stand of trees to the northeast. When the beast flew on, Asgenar turned to F’lar with troubled eyes.
“Do you think these odd falls will mean that those forests must be razed?”
“You know my views on wood, Asgenar. It’s too valuable a commodity, too versatile, to sacrifice needlessly.”
“But it takes every dragon to protect . . .”
“Are you for or against?” F’lar asked with mild amusement. He gripped Asgenar’s shoulder. “Instruct your foresters to keep constant watch. Their vigilance is essential.”
“Then you don’t know the pattern in the Thread shifts?”
F’lar shook his head slowly, unwilling to perjure himself to this man. “I’ll leave the long-eyed F’rad with you.”
A wide smile broke the thin troubled face of the Lord Holder.
“I couldn’t ask, but it’s a relief. I shan’t abuse the privilege.”
F’lar glanced at him sharply. “Why should you?”
Asgenar gave him a wry smile. “That’s what the Oldtimers carp about, isn’t it? And instant transportation to any place on Pern is a temptation.”
F’lar laughed, remembering that Asgenar, Lord of Lemos, was to take Famira, the youngest sister of Larad, Lord of Telgar Hold, to wife. While the Telgar lands marched the boundaries of Lemos, the Holds were separated by deep forest and several ranges of steep rocky mountains.
Three dragons appeared and circled above them, wingriders reporting on the ground activities. Nine infestations had been sighted and controlled with minimum loss of property. Sweepriders had reported that the mid-Fall area was clear. F’lar dismissed them. A runner came loping up the meadow to his Lord Holder, carefully keeping several dragonlengths between himself and the two beasts. For all that every Pernese knew the dragons would harm no human, many would never lose their fearfulness. Dragons were confused by this distrust so that F’lar strolled casually to his bronze and scratched the left eye ridge affectionately until Mnementh allowed one lid to droop in pleasure over the gleaming opalescent eye.
The runner had come from afar, managing to gasp out his reassuring message before he collapsed on the ground, his chest heaving with the effort to fill his starved lungs. Asgenar stripped off his tunic and covered the man to prevent his chilling and made the runner drink from his own flask.
“The two infestations on the south slope are char!” Asgenar reported to the Weyrleader as he rejoined him. “That means the hardwood stands are safe.” Asgenar’s relief was so great that he took a swig on the bottle himself. Then hastily offered it to the dragonrider. When F’lar politely refused, he went on, “We may have another hard winter and my people will need that wood. Cromcoal costs!”
F’lar nodded. Free provision of fuelwood meant a tremendous saving to the average holder, though not every Lord saw it in this aspect. Lord Meron of Nabol Hold, for instance, refused to let his commoners chop fuelwood, forcing them to pay the high rates for Cromcoal, increasing his profit at their expense.
“That runner came from the south slope? He’s fast.”
“My forest men are the best in all Pern. Meron of Nabol has twice tried to lure that man from me.”
“And?”
Lord Asgenar chuckled. “Who trusts Meron? My man had heard tales of how that Lord treats his people.” He seemed about to add another thought but cleared his throat instead, glancing nervously away as if catching a glimpse of something in the woods.
“What all Pern needs is an efficient means of communication,” remarked the dragonman, his eyes on the gasping runner.
“Efficient?” and Asgenar laughed aloud. “Is all Pern infected with Fandarel’s disease?”
“Pern benefits by such an illness.” F’lar must contact the Mastersmith the moment he got back to the Weyr. Pern needed the genius of the giant Fandarel now more than ever.
“Yes, but will we recover from the feverish urge for perfection?” Asgenar’s smile faded as he added, in a deceptively casual fashion. “Have you heard whether a decision has been reached about Bendarek’s guild?”
“None yet.”
“I do not insist that a Craftmaster’s Hall be sited in Lemos—” Asgenar began, urgent and serious.
F’lar held up his hand. “Nor I, though I have trouble convincing others of my sincerity. Lemos Hold has the biggest stands of wood, Bendarek needs to be near his best source of supply, and he comes of Lemos!”
“Every single objection raised has been ridiculous,” Asgenar replied, his gray eyes sparkling with anger. “You know as well as I that a Craftmaster owes no allegiance to a Lord Holder. Bendarek’s as unprejudiced as Fandarel as far as loyalty to anything but his craft is concerned. All the man thinks of is wood and pulp and those new leaves or sheets or what-you-ma-callums he’s mucking about with.”
“I know. I know, Asgenar. Larad of Telgar Hold and Corman of Keroon Hold side with you or so they’ve assured me.”
“When the Lord Holders meet in Conclave at Telgar Hold, I’m going to speak out. Lord Raid and Sifer will back me, if only because we’re weyrbound.”
“It isn’t the Lords or Weyrleaders who must make this decision,” F’lar reminded the resolute young Lord. “It’s the other Craftmasters. That’s been my thought since Fandarel first proposed a new craft designation.”
“Then what’s holding matters up? All the Mastercraftsmen will be at the wedding at Telgar Hold. Let’s settle it once and for all and let Bendarek alone.” Asgenar threw his arms wide with frustration. “We need Bendarek settled, we need what he’s been producing and he can’t keep his mind on important work with all this shifting and shouting.”
“Any proposal that smacks of change right now,” (especially now, F’lar added to himself, thinking of this Threadfall,) “is going to alarm certain Weyrleaders and Lord Holders. Sometimes I think that only the Crafts constantly look for change, are interested and flexible enough to judge what is improvement or progressive. The Lord Holders and the—” F’lar broke off.
Fortunately another runner was approaching from the north, his legs pumping strongly. He came straight past the green dragon, right up to his Lord.
“Sir, the northern section is clear. Three burrows have been burned out. All is secure.”
“Good man. Well run.”
The man, flushed with praise and effort, saluted the Weyrleader and his Lord. Then, breathing deeply but without labor, he strode over to the prone messenger and began massaging his legs.
Asgenar smiled at F’lar. “There’s no point in our rehearsing arguments. We are basically in agreement. If we could just make those others see!”
Mnementh rumbled that the wings were reporting an all-clear. He so pointedly extended his foreleg that Asgenar laughed.
“That does it,” he said. “Any idea how soon before we have another Fall?”
F’lar shook his head. “F’rad is here. You ought to have seven days free. You’ll hear from me as soon as we’ve definite news.”
“You’ll be at Telgar in six days, won’t you?”
“Or Lessa will have my ears!”
“My regards to your lady.”
Mnementh bore him upward in an elliptical course that allowed them to make one final check of the forest lands. Wisps of smoke curled to the north and farther to the east, but Mnementh seemed unconcerned. F’lar told him to go between. The utter cold of that dimension painfully irritated the Thread-scores on his face. Then they were above Benden Weyr. Mnementh trumpeted his return and hung, all but motionless, until he heard the booming response of Ramoth. At that instant, Lessa appeared on the ledge of the weyr, her slight stature diminished still further by distance. As Mnementh glided in, she descended the long flight of stairs in much the same headlong fashion for which they criticized their weyrling son, Felessan.
Reprimands were not likely to break Lessa of that habit either, thought F’lar. Then he noticed what Lessa had in her hands and rounded angrily on Mnementh. �
�I’m barely touched and you babble on me like a weyrling!”
Mnementh was not the least bit abashed as he backwinged to land lightly by the Feeding Ground. Thread hurts.
“I don’t want Lessa upset over nothing!”
I don’t want Ramoth angry over anything!
F’lar slid from the bronze’s neck, concealing the twinges he felt as the gritty wind from the Feeding Grounds aggravated the cold-seared lacerations. This was one of those times when the double bond between riders and dragons became a serious disadvantage. Particularly when Mnementh took the initiative, not generally a draconic characteristic.
Mnementh gave an awkward half-jump upward, clearing the way for Lessa. She hadn’t changed from wherhide riding clothes and looked younger than any Weyrwoman ought as she ran towards them, her plaited hair bouncing behind her. Although neither motherhood nor seven Turns of security had added flesh to her small-boned body, there was a subtle roundness to breast and hip, and that certain look in her great gray eyes that F’lar knew was for him alone.
“And you complain about the timing of other riders,” she said, gasping, as she came to an abrupt stop at his side. Before he could protest the insignificance of his injuries, she was smearing numbweed on the burns. “I’ll have to wash them once the feeling’s gone. Can’t you duck ash yet? Virianth will be all right but Sorenth and Relth took awful lacings. I do wish that glass craftsman of Fandarel’s—Wansor’s his name, isn’t it?—would complete those eyeguards he’s been blathering about. Manora thinks she can save P’ratan’s good looks but we’ll have to wait and see about his eye.” She paused to take a deep breath. “Which is just as well because if he doesn’t stop raiding Holds for new lovers, we won’t be able to foster all the babies. Those holdbred girls are convinced it’s evil to abort.” She stopped short, set her lips in the thin line which F’lar had finally catalogued as Lessa veering away from a painful subject.
“Lessa! No, don’t look away.” He forced her head up so she had to meet his eyes. She who couldn’t conceive must find it hard, too, to help terminate unwanted pregnancies. Would she never stop yearning for another child? How could she forget she had nearly died with Felessan? He’d been relieved that she had never quickened again. The thought of losing Lessa was not even to be considered. “Riding between so much makes it impossible for a Weyrwoman to carry to term.”
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